#consider the fact that he's been hoping for thousands of years and aziraphale rejecting him and leaving for heaven means he'll no longer

[p4nishers]

devotion as a chest wound

[justdecadentcollectiondestiny]

Every Day: On Aziraphale

Obviously MAJOR spoilers ahead! Click keep reading at your own risk.

Let's get the elephant in the room out of the way first. I am not angry at Aziraphale for his decision. I don't agree with it, obviously, but I understand why he made the choice he did.

In Aziraphale's mind, there could not be a better course of events than them both returning to Heaven as angels. It would solve pretty much every problem and worry (Aziraphale feels) they had ever had. They would both have their jobs back, both be working for the Good Guys, he would be able to use his new position of power to fix the flaws in Heaven, and, most importantly, they would be together, without any of the fear that had been looming over them for the past six thousand years.

Aziraphale is perfectly aware that they are also being offered safety. With Aziraphale as Supreme Archangel and Crowley as his second in command, they could be freely and openly together and in love for the first time in their entire relationship. Which is why he tries so desperately to convince him to go with him, being the most upfront and honest about his feelings for him than he has ever been before. "We can be together!" "I need you!" He believed so much that he could change Crowley's mind for the sake of them being together that he wouldn't accept that Crowley's answer was "no" until Crowley was out the door, until it was too late.

Additionally, we now know that Crowley and Aziraphale did know each other before Crowley Fell, and this adds a whole new layer to Aziraphale's decision. He remembers the angel Crowley used to be, the angel full of joy and smiles, who loved creating beautiful things, who absolutely adored being an angel. Aziraphale loves Crowley, and he would love to see him that happy again. That coupled with the fact that Aziraphale can probably, like us, tell that Crowley misses being an angel leads him to believe that going back to Heaven would be a no-brainer for Crowley. So he is not prepared in the least for Crowley to want absolutely nothing to do with the idea. He can't fathom why anyone would willingly stay on the "bad" side when they had a choice. The question Aziraphale asks of Crowley is "Why would you choose to be Evil when you could be Good?" But what Aziraphale doesn't understand is that that's not the choice Crowley is making here. He's not choosing Evil over Good. He's choosing himself over the whole system, the system that Aziraphale still has hope can be fixed.

And that's where the Metatron comes in. I fully believe that the Metatron manipulated Aziraphale to get him to agree to come with him. We don't get to see all of his conversation with Aziraphale, but we can see that he brings Aziraphale a coffee (trying to get his foot in the door), reassures him that "I've ingested things in my time," that his humanly habit of consuming Earthly food and drink is nothing to be ashamed of (again trying to get his foot in the door by keeping Aziraphale comfortable around him as well as likening himself to him), and pays him compliments that are frankly out of character considering Heaven has regarded Aziraphale as a traitor since the averted Armageddon. But, most damning of all, in my opinion, is the Metatron telling Aziraphale that he could restore Crowley to angelic status. Before this point, Aziraphale was not keen on the idea, even saying point-blank that he doesn't want to go back to Heaven. But the Metatron (like pretty much everybody at this point) knows that Aziraphale is in love with Crowley. He knows Crowley is his perfect leverage, especially since, I believe, he knows that Crowley would never agree to come back to Heaven and he would never have suggested it if he didn't know that Crowley would reject it. His glare at Crowley on his way out the door is enough for us to see his contempt for him, his asking Aziraphale "how did he take it?" seems like strange wording to me (Not "what did he say?" or "what does he think?" Normally you "take" something you don't want to hear, implying the Metatron anticipated Crowley's reaction), and his remark after Crowley leaves that he was "always asking damn fool questions" shows us more of that contempt as well as an attempt to convince Aziraphale that "screw him he's stupid anyway you don't need him." So there you go. The Metatron uses Crowley to get Aziraphale to agree to come back to Heaven, sits back and watches as they both break each other's hearts, swoops back in to pick up the pieces, and now has an angel feeling very vulnerable and alone ready to be escorted back up to Heaven.

I would honestly compare Aziraphale to a cult victim. He's essentially been brainwashed. For countless millennia he has been conditioned to see Heaven as the one and only Good Side, and the angels as the end-all-be-all Good Guys. After everything that's happened over the last six thousand years (the last few years especially), Aziraphale now obviously knows that's not entirely true, but even so, he still has the mindset of two sides, Heaven Good and Hell Evil. And so to be welcomed back to the Good Side with open arms when he's at such a low, to be entrusted with power and recognition by the Voice of God undoubtedly feels reassuring, even though I am positive something small deep inside him is whispering to him that something about this is not right.

More than anything, Aziraphale believes in Goodness. It's quite literally the very core of his being. He wholeheartedly believes that the system is capable of being fixed and that he can be the one to fix it. And not only that he can, that, if he has the chance to, he has to. It's his duty as a being of Good.

Brokenhearted Aziraphale is too stubborn convicted in his values to turn down the chance to change Heaven for the better, and with the bookshop being entrusted to Muriel and, most importantly, without Crowley, he doesn't have much keeping him on Earth anymore.

In the end, it's a combination of Aziraphale's steadfast values and principles, his genuine and unwavering desire to do Good, and Heaven's indoctrination and manipulation of him that leads Aziraphale to leave Earth and Crowley behind and return to Heaven.

Exactly to what end the Metatron wants Aziraphale as Supreme Archangel, I don't know. That's for Season Three to tell us. We'll just have to wait and see.

[heavens-bookshop]

merry christmas

(This is mostly just an excuse for me to project my own issues with family and the holidays. I wanted to write at least one thing for @drawlight​‘s Ineffable Advent Calendar event but I didn’t end up having much time in December. “Love” seemed like a good theme for this. Excuse the sloppiness.)

It was strange being back in Tadfield. Neither of them had been for a visit since they’d averted Armageddon and had largely intended to avoid setting foot there ever again. However, Aziraphale insisted it would be rather rude to turn down an invitation to Christmas dinner, and while Crowley couldn’t have given a toss about bad manners, he was somewhat lacking in willpower when it came to Aziraphale. So, after a quick jaunt down the M40 in the Bentley, they found themselves approaching the doorstep of Jasmine Cottage holding the fanciest bottle of wine Aziraphale was willing to part with. There’d been some initial awkwardness stirred up by the damned horseshoe hanging above the threshold - Aziraphale had been entirely unwilling to allow Crowley to enter the house until Anathema had assured him that it had no power over invited guests (demon or otherwise). But it didn't take long after that for things to settle into something resembling pleasantness.

Everyone from the airfield was there. The Them were in full attendance alongside their parents, who all seemed terribly confused by the strange assortment of people their children had befriended but nodded along politely as they were regaled with tales of vanquishing War and Death. Sergeant Shadwell was talking Newt's ear off in the corner while Anathema fled to the kitchen under the pretense of needing to check on the roast. Madame Tracy sidled up to Crowley's elbow, beaming as she congratulated the pair of them.

"Oh, you should have heard the thoughts that went through his head when you turned up in your car!" she said with a cheeky grin. Crowley bit down his laughter as Aziraphale's face turned a few shades shy of the red wine in his glass.

"I think I'll go check on our lovely host in the kitchen," he said tightly, turning on his heel. Crowley watched in silent amusement as he disappeared through a cheerfully decorated doorway, while Madame Tracy continued chattering away about what a handsome pair they made.

A few drinks later, Crowley found he was in fact having a what could be described as A Good Time. It wasn't until he'd finished successfully convincing Anathema, Adam and Pepper that the Earth is shaped like a tetrahedron that he realised he hadn't seen Aziraphale in a while. He excused himself from the living room and started wandering through the corridor, following the faint trail of angelic energy to the back of the house. Through a window, Crowley spotted a pale figure with a crown of platinum blonde curls sitting on a bench at the bottom of the garden. He slipped through the back door and picked his way across the garden path, feet moving silently over the flagstones. When he got a few steps from the bench, he heard Aziraphale sniffle and sigh heavily.

"Aziraphale?"

The angel startled and quickly dragged his hands down his face.

"Oh, my dear, I didn't see you there," Aziraphale said in a watery voice.

Crowley settled himself down next to him on the bench. When he could finally get a look at Aziraphale, it ripped his heart open a little. His face was flushed and blotchy, and - despite his best efforts to wipe away the evidence - his cheeks were damp.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, gently laying a hand on top of the angel's knee.

Aziraphale smiled half-heartedly and nodded his head. “Yes, of course, it’s nothing really.”

That was obviously a lie. Even without the thousands of years of practise, Crowley could have spotted it. Aziraphale had never been good at lying. But Crowley understood how difficult it still was for him to not just default to hiding his feelings. He understood how difficult it was to avoid falling back on the old habits that used to keep them both safe. So he sat in patient silence, stroking the side of his knee with the pad of his thumb. Finally, Aziraphale heaved a tired sigh.

“I suppose I just wasn’t prepared for how difficult Christmas would be," he said quietly. "It was always a busy time, you know. I used to get far more assignments around Christmas. Possibly the one time of year I felt that I was actually doing some good."

Aziraphale turned his gaze up to the sky, his profile outlined in silver moonlight. Not that long ago, Crowley would have been falling over himself to commit the view to memory, save it for a lonely night.

"I know it's silly," he said, not quite able to hide the quiver in his voice. "I'm much happier without any of them, I can actually enjoy my life now. But it still feels like I've lost something. It… somehow feels like I'm the one who's done something terribly wrong."

There was a blunt ache in Crowley's chest, a burnt out hole left by the grace that had been torn from him millennia ago - the dull pain of a phantom limb. He'd never wanted Aziraphale to feel anything close to it.

"It's not silly," he replied, squeezing his knee.

Aziraphale covered his hand with his own, soft and warm and wonderfully familiar now. There was a fragile smile on his face, and it lanced Crowley right in the heart.

"It feels silly."

Crowley wanted desperately to take away his pain, to draw the venom out of the wound. He remembered the little surprise he'd prepared, tucked next to his chest. It was something he’d meant to give him later, something he’d hoped might look like a sweeping romantic gesture, but this seemed like the right time for it.

"I've got something for you," he said.

He withdrew his hand from the warmth of Aziraphale's palm, reached into the inside of his jacket and produced a small wooden box. The angel plucked it from Crowley's fingers, turning it over a few times and inspecting the design made of inlays of mother-of-pearl. A small heart embraced by two wings.

"I thought we said we weren't going to bother with getting each other gifts." 

"I've had it for a long time, doesn't really count," Crowley replied, waving off the protests. "I'm just passing it along."

Aziraphale pried open the box and gingerly dropped the contents into his hand - a small, very weathered coin.

"Is that… an old sixpence? What on Earth are you doing with one of these still on you?"

The coin winked at them from the middle of his palm as it glinted in the light spilling out from the cottage.

"I don't expect you'd remember, but it was one of the times we were at The Globe, watching our old mate Will put together the debut of Hamlet. We were figuring out who was going to draw the short straw and hike all the way up to Edinburgh."

Aziraphale chuckled softly and swiped his thumb over the surface of the coin.

"And we tossed for it," he said, smiling. "Of course I remember, darling. You kept this for four hundred years?"

Crowley gently nudged the angel with his shoulder.

"I did. Every time I found it in my pocket, I thought of you." He reached out with slender hands to close Aziraphale's fingers around the coin. "And it reminded me that no matter how alone I felt, how rejected by Heaven or hated by Hell I was, there was someone in the universe that cared about me. There was someone on my side."

Aziraphale smiled at him - a smile that put crinkles at the corners of his eyes and shifted a few tears loose.

"Oh, Crowley."

He wrapped his arms around the demon's neck to pull him in for a kiss, enveloping the both of them in a golden haze of tender affection. When they parted, they settled into each other's arms, with Aziraphale's head nestled in the crook of Crowley's neck. Blonde curls tickled at his jaw, and Crowley buried his face into them, into the familiar scent of sandalwood and rosewater. They sat like that for some time, listening to the muted voices floating down the garden from the house alongside the soft rush of the motorway somewhere close by. Aziraphale leaned his weight a little further into Crowley's shoulder and began turning the coin over between his manicured fingers.

"I can't believe you kept this," he said with a chuckle.

Crowley craned his neck to get closer to the angel's ear and smirked.

"And I can't believe you never even considered I'd cheat at the coin toss."

Aziraphale sat straight up and threw him a look of mock outrage, the cheeky spark that Crowley loved dearly dancing in his eyes.

"You wily old snake," he said with a grin.

Crowley pulled him back in against his chest, their noses almost touching.

"You did always think the best of me," he said, tilting his head to kiss him. "Even if it was entirely undeserved."

The warmth of Aziraphale's hand caressed his cheek.

"I love you, Crowley."

It had been months now, but the words still made his heart backflip inside his rib cage.

"Love you too, angel."

After one more kiss, Aziraphale stood up, straightening out his waistcoat with a few sharp tugs.

"I think I'm ready to go back inside," he said with a gentle smile.

Crowley rose to his feet as well, taking the time to enjoy the way the light of the waning moon caught the tips of his curls. He took the angel's hand in his and they walked back up the garden path together, towards the kindness and laughter of their gathered friends, towards a houseful of people Crowley knew loved his angel the way he always should have been.

[spootiliousrps]

The Fall [Ineffable Husbands]

Stranger: [2am] I need you to come over. A

You: I'm sleeping, Angel. C I'll come over later. C

Stranger: Crowley. A // Now. A // You will sleep later. This is urgent. A

You: [Delayed] Be there in 5. C

Stranger: /Thank you./ A

You: The world better be ending. C

Stranger: You’re closer than you think. A // Well, it’s—not so much the world as—me. A

You: What?! C It was only a few more seconds before the Bentley screeched to a halt outside the small bookshop. Crowley barely managed to shift it into park before he was sliding from the driver's seat and storming towards the building. The doors flew open with enough force to cause them to smack loudly against the wall as the Demon entered. "Angel, if this is some sort of joke, I'm not laughing." He called loudly, a few of the words more of a hiss than an actual syllable.

Stranger: Aziraphale was in the back room of his bookshop. His wings were out, cramping in the small room. They were smoldering just a bit, at the very edges—in darkened patches along the snowy white expanse of them. He walked out to greet the demon, a low, dreading look on his face. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, obviously in an extreme amount of pain. “It’s—not a joke.” He assured him, stretching out his wings some, once he had more room. “—I am terribly sorry I woke you, dear boy. I do hope you know I wouldn’t have if it truly wasn’t something urgent.”

You: Crowley's yellow gaze, hidden beneath his glasses caught on the Angel as soon as he appeared and it was obvious he was about to make some smart remark when the words died on his lips. The stench of burned flesh and feathers filled the shop as he stared at the outstretched wings, Aziraphale's words not even registering. For a moment he wasn't sure what to do... how to react. His mind rejected the sight before him. In the next moment he was moving before he even realized it, bursting into a run as he hurried to Aziraphale's side. "No...." He mumbled softly. "No, no, no... This can't be happening." He found himself practically praying as he moved to take most of the Angel's weight onto himself. "Shit, shit shit." He waved a hand in the air and the furniture squeeled against the floor as it was tossed out of the way, a small padded mat appearing on the floor as Crowley began to lower the other man.

Stranger: Aziraphale always knew, eventually, that he’d Fall. Ever since he gave away his sword, lied to God right to Her face, and befriended a /demon/ of all things. He knew this was inevitable. And, if he were to think about it, he wouldn’t want it to happen any other way. Crowley was here, lowering him down slowly. The only regret he truly had was about—about how /upset,/ how /afraid/ Crowley looked for him. “It’s—It’s alright, love.” He reaches upwards with what strength he still had, cupping the side of the demon’s face in attempt to comfort him. He brushed his thumb over his cheekbone, letting out a shaky sigh. The fire spread on his wings further, causing him to wince, squirm a bit. He was shaking. “How—How long will it take?” He felt himself asking, terrified for the answer.

You: "It's not alright, Angel!" Crowley argued, the sight of a droplet of water that seemed to stain Aziraphale's vest catching his eye. His gaze lifted upward looking for a source before he realized it was him. Tears streamed down his cheeks. When was the last time he had cried? The fall? The crucification? He couldn't remember. Still, there were more important things to concern himself with at the moment. He tried to focus on Aziraphale's words, shaking his head. "Its different for everyone... It could take hours... Sometimes Days." He hesitated, shifting so that Aziraphale's wings weren't touching anything in particular. "You've been an Angel longer than any Demon... It might take even longer for it to .... To... all burn away." He managed. His gaze was frantic as if moved about the room, almost as if searching for something... anything to help... to stop this. "What can I do? How can we stop this? There has to be a way, angel... I won't let this happen."

Stranger: “There’s no stopping it, dear.” Aziraphale whispered, brushing away some of the demons tears with his thumb. He winced at the words, even if he did try and hide that fact. Days, possibly weeks. It made sense. Most demons hadn’t been angels for very long before they Fell, but—Aziraphale had thousands upon thousands of years as an angel under his belt. “Just—Would you stay with me, dear? I’m not—not sure I can—get through this without you by my side.” He curled in a bit, obviously wanting to be closer to the demon. All shame was out the window by this point. “—Hold me?”

You: "Of course, angel." Crowley replied with a shake of his head, shifting to hold him closer. "I wouldn't even dream of leaving." He reassured, pressing his face into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, arms wrapping a bit more firmly around him. "They'd have to pry me off with a stick and even then they wouldn't survive long enough for it to last." He teased weakly, obviously trying to make the Angel feel a bit better. His voice cracked slightly, ruining the effort as he lifted his gaze to the small glowing embers eating away at the white downey.

Stranger: “Y-You’re sweet.” Aziraphale whispered, nuzzling against Crowley’s neck a bit, holding his face there when a particularly sensitive part of his wings began to burn. He shuddered, holding onto him tightly, every bit of him aching. “You—Haven’t asked why this happened.” He almost whispered. “You—You know, don’t you? I thought you—might’ve known. Realized why. You knew this would happen, didn’t you, love?”

You: If Crowley's heart hadn't broken at the sight, it would have in that moment. He knew, at least he thought he knew. How could he not? He buried his face once more, not wanting to face it, hoping if he ignored it it would go away. "Its all my fault... I'm so sorry." He breathed, shaking slightly as he fought against his own tears. "I should have stayed away. They would have never found out we were friends... I shouldn't have given in to my own temptation. If I could... If I could fall again... I would line up for it, a million times over to keep this from happening, angel... I was a fool and now you have to pay the price." He held him tighter.

Stranger: Aziraphale shook his head, frowning. “No, no—my love. You’re not—thinking about this how you should be.” He reasoned, nuzzling just under his chin, needing to stay close. He needed to bury his face against him, focus on anything but the scent of burning flesh surrounding them. He focused on Crowley’s familiar smell, which honestly helped a lot. It eased his nerves, mind off the pain for a few moments. He looked up at him, still cupping his cheek. “I’ve fallen for you.” He whispered. “In every sense. And I’d—do it over again. A million times, if need be, if this is—what it takes to—be with you.”

You: Crowley pulled back just fare enough to peer down at him, eyes wide with pain and shock. He studied the Angel's features, trying to read something there, obviously confused by it all. For a moment he was silent, the gears turning in his head before he shook his head almost violently. "You... you... foolish Angel!" He huffed, almost angry. "Thats the stupidest thing anyone has ever done! Why would you fall in love with a Demon! /The/ Demon!" He argued, the tears doubling. "Damn it Aziraphale!" He cursed, his emotional state all the more obvious with the use of the Angel's name. With the sudden outburst however, he seemed to soften, brows furrowing. "Damn it..." He breathed once more this time more of a whisper. "How could I be mad at you when I would do the same?" He asked, offering a small unsure smile.

Stranger: The yelling was almost comforting. Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough to know that—he did this when he /cared./ That’s when he yelled and behaved this way. And then he softened and—yeah. There were tears forming in the angel’s eyes now, slipping down his plump cheeks, sniffling as he looked up at the demon. He caressed his cheek again. “I—I love you, dear. You know that, don’t you? Even if—the words were never said. You knew how I felt?”

You: Crowley hesitated. This wasn't exactly the ideal situation to have this particular discussion but he supposed that there was no real reason not to. In fact, it was perhaps now or never. "I... Well, I had hoped." Crowley admitted his own hand lifting to cover Aziraphale's. "I... have waited a very long time to here you say it though... I was actually beginning to think that... Well, that it was all in my head. Not that that would change anything. I've just...." The word was hard to get out. "I've loved you for so long." He managed, voice cracking once more.

Stranger: Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, willing those tears away. A rather large area on his right wing caught flame, and he was panting. Shaking. Grabbing at Crowley, holding onto him for dear life. “H-How long?” He felt himself asking, wanting to know how long Crowley had felt that way. Mostly he just wanted to try and distract himself from the pain.

You: The flame's caught the Demon's attention and he tensed, his own distress increasing. For a brief moment he considered water but the thought died as quickly as it came. He had tried it on himself when he had fallen... It only made it that much worse. As Aziraphale clawed at him, however, his attention turned back to the Angel. He knew the man was trying to distract himself... To keep his mind off the pain. "How long..." Crowley repeated. "The Garden, I suppose." He admitted. "When you gave away that bloody sword... I was doomed."

Stranger: Aziraphale’s eyes shot open. “/What?/ Surely you couldn’t—you haven’t felt that way the /entire time we’ve known each other,/ have you?” His eyes were wide, obviously shocked. It did drag his mind off the pain for a few moments, at least.

You: "Nah..." Crowley shook his head, scrunching his nose as he drew at the word. "There was about five minutes from when you introduced yourself to when it really hit." He offered, a bit teasingly. He sighed softly at that, offering another small smile. "To be honest... I had been watching you for sometime while you guarded the East Gate... Watched how you interacted with Adam and Eve... The animals... I suppose it really started then... I knew you were different... Kinder than the rest... But... It wasn't until the sword that everything clicked."

[sherry-smith]

We’ll Forget The Tears We Cried

Written for @ineffablehusbandsweek!

Day 4: Senses; Touch/Sight/Hearing/Taste/Smell

Summary: It's a matter of balance, after all.Four times Aziraphale and Crowley question their relationship across the 20th century and one time they actually find the answer

On AO3

Mayfair, 5 November 1918

He’s not quite sure why he keeps staring out of the window, instead of going back to bed.

The first time he woke up was May 31st, 1915; it’s not easy to sleep while bombs explode all around you, no matter how many miracles you’d previously cast to protect your house against anything that could possibly happen. He didn’t exactly expect a war to happen, nor raids in the middle of London. Crowley used to believe that he could miss even a century and almost nothing would’ve changed; now he knows that this is a brand new world, in which suddenly even so little as 53 years can make a difference. This is called, apparently, “progress”, and whoever invented it didn’t really do a good job.

Going back to sleep in 1915 was out of question. So he’d popped across the Channel, tempted soldiers into disobeying orders and desert, forged reports and documents, instilled fear in generals’ and colonels’ hearts, anything to make those silly humans go home and end this stupid war.

(Had Aziraphale been there, he would’ve sworn that Crowley was just making up excuses to save as many lives as possible. But Aziraphale was in London, helping civilians, which spared the demon the embarrassment of being called nice.)

Now, three years later, he’s back in his flat, in his favourite pyjamas, frustrated. When he closes his eyes he sees death and destruction, trenches and explosions, horribly disfigured bodies and amputated limbs and intestines sprawled all over the place. He feel like he’s going to puke any moment now.

It’s not like he’s never seen such things, he’s a demon after all, he’s fought in so many battles, both among humans and celestial beings. Except this war is different, somehow. He’s not sure why, he just feels it. Maybe it’s the fact that humans keep finding better ways to kill each others, to the point where he should consider retiring for good on another planet, since his job had been stolen by puny mortals centuries ago. Yet, he stays.

He’s not quite sure why he keep staring out of the window, instead of going back to bed. It may, or may not, be related to that guy who died a month ago in the flat on the other side of the road. Or rather, to the figure on the pavement who is staring mournfully at said flat.

Robbie Ross. That’s the dead guy’s name. He’s made researches, while dealing with insomnia. What was so special about him remained a mystery; Ross’ story was one of sorrow, persecution and lost love, as many other men’s. And yet, once in a while, an angel would discreetly miracle some flowers on his doorstep. That was, most likely, due to the fact that these days it’s complicated to get to Paris, where the guy’s buried, side by side with a certain Oscar Wilde, apparently a famous writer.

(Had Crowley been awake, he would’ve probably enjoyed Wilde and his friends’ company. It seemed an unlikely company for Aziraphale, though, so he’d tried reading some of the author’s works to understand. One novel and five short stories later he was still confused, although The Nightingale and the Rose sounded vaguely yet inexplicably familiar. Maybe one day Aziraphale himself would explain it to him, but not now, and not in a long time.)

The angel turns his head and Crowley quickly hides behind the curtain. Through the thin fabric, he sees a face he barely recognises. There’s no softness in those eyes, no joy, no hope; just grief, as deep as the deepest ocean, as dark as the darkest pit. Aziraphale stares longingly at his window. On one side of the road lies the friend who’ll never walk the Earth again; on the other side lies the friend who’ll never walk the Earth again by his side, or so he fears.

“Do you miss me, angel?” Crowley thinks, trying to read his mind and heart, trying to find the old, cheerful Aziraphale behind this mask of sorrow and loss and despair.

“Would you greet me like an old friend or smite the enemy you were never supposed to fraternise with?”

Deep down he knows Aziraphale misses him as much as he misses him, but the rejection still burns on the surface and he feels vulnerable, too vulnerable to be seen. So he keep staring, and Aziraphale keeps staring too, both afraid to make the first step.

“Smile, my angel.” he finds himself thinking “Smile and I’ll know everything’s okay and we can fix this mess and forget about the last 53 years. Smile and I’ll come running to you right now, through the scandal and the bombs. Please.”

But he doesn’t smile. Instead, he blinks away the tears and heads back to Soho.

The world has changed and turned a depressing shade of grey. Quietly, in their own ways, Crowley and Aziraphale have changed too.

London Underground, 26 February 1944

He wonders how long his eardrums can resist. Not that he needs them, strictly speaking.

The awful whistle of the bombs is painfully familiar; it reminds him of 1915, a disrupted nap, trenches and bullets and screams that echo through the years. Someone decided that that hadn’t been enough, so here it is, the brand new rerun, with brand new weapons and tortures and horrors. It had took him a whole year, back in 1918, to finally go back to sleep and, as soon as his head hit the pillow, 1939 was there and farewell bed! He didn’t feel rested at all, but one’s gotta do what one’s gotta do, so he joined the Secret Services. No playing with soldiers this time round; he was aiming higher. Strike where it matters, where you have to operate so subtly that neither of the two sides are undoubtedly sure you are working for them. Not Nazis and Allies, not Heaven and Hell. The line between good and evil is so blurred in this new kind of war that it’s incredibly easy for someone like Crowley to do whatever he likes without any higher authority complaining. He’d always craved freedom; this is not the kind he’d hoped for, but it’s something, and that’s a start.

These days, London is disturbingly similar to Hell, except when it’s not. At this point, Crowley’s not sure what he likes best. Lost souls wander, desperately trying to carry on a somewhat normal life, and failing. Children cry, adults weep, sirens wail, bombs explode, all around, all the time. He sometimes suspects that German pilots don’t actually need to see the lights to recognise London, they just have to hush for a bit and follow the broadcast of misery.

And when you think the noise will never stop, it suddenly does. As soon as the raid ends and the last explosion fades into the darkness, Crowley is the first living being to emerge on the surface. He examines the crumpled buildings by the light of the few fires that are yet to be extinguished. He walks the empty streets that can’t belong to London, not the fierce city he’s so proud to be living in. And the silence is somehow louder than any other sound. It’s a delicate moment in which Death walks beside Crowley, collecting dust that used to be alive mere seconds ago, before people come out of the ground and press play once again in the game of survival.

It’s not always easy, but he’s usually able to detach himself. He thinks about the Ineffable Plan and convinces himself that there is a greater good, there has to be, otherwise it means that nothing, nothing matters, and that prospect is far too frightening to be worth being considered. Funny how when he used to be an angel he always doubted divine plans while now, after almost six thousand years on Earth, he desperately wants to believe in them. That’s called “faith”, possibly, in some dark and twisted way.

One night, amidst the deafening silence, he found a teddy bear in the ruins. He showed weakness, for the first and last time during the war. Besides, there was just Death to witness. He knelt and picked it up and cried, the only sound to be heard for miles and miles. He would’ve even prayed, if only he’d remembered how to do it. Truly dark years, if even demons resort to prayers.

He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale standing behind him, piercing him with wet eyes and unasked questions. He had ignored him, too lost in his own grief. Neither of them has mentioned that night so far, and probably neither of them ever will. Besides, they rarely talk these days.

Contrary to the last war, this time he didn’t wait for an angel’s smile; he ran into a church and claimed that blessed smile at the risk of being discorporated. It was worth it, obviously.

Now he’s looking at Aziraphale, who is too busy concentrating to be paying any attention to him, and wonders what exactly is the nature of their relationship. He’s thinking about a song, the most beautiful celestial harmony he can recall, but soon discards it. It’s not really what he’s looking for. It’s something that starts unexpectedly with a loud bang, and then gets quieter, and grows louder and louder until the orchestra tumbles and silence falls. Like the silence that scares him in the streets of London.

He wants to ask, because he truly has no idea wether it’s the town’s noise or the angel’s silence that is driving him mad.

«Crowley… Help…» he whispers, and he snaps out of his pensive trance. He gently takes the weight of the Underground’s ceiling off Aziraphale’s shoulders and on his own. They’ve been doing this for four years, like Atlas in their little world. Activate the sirens. Take people to the shelter. Divert the bombs. Make sure the ceiling doesn’t collapse. Let people go home. Repeat. Again, and again, and again.

When the raid is over, they part their ways without even saying goodbye. Perhaps one day he’ll hear the angel’s merry voice again. Perhaps one day their sweet music will start playing again.

Soho, 6 October 1961

He immediately senses that something’s wrong.

For starts, the bookshop is closed. It’s not that unusual, truth be told; the opening hours have always been erratic, to discourage potential clients. What’s unusual is that it’s been closed for four years now. On top of it, Aziraphale is not there most of the time, and that’s definitely weird. However, when they do see each other, everything seems fine, so he never voices whatever doubt he might have.

It’s well past midnight and Crowley produces a key he’s owned since 1800 (“You know, just in case”

“In case of what?”

Aziraphale had never elaborated further, for some reason.)

There was a time when the bookshop had been the most familiar place in all of London, even more than his own apartment. He would know by heart the entire catalogue and the location of each and every book. He knew the place like the palm of his hand. There was a tricky step by the entrance, so subtle that every single person who set foot in the shop would trip over it; Crowley was rather proud of that addiction of his. The bookshop had been a sort of home for him for nearly 62 years. When he came back, 79 years later, things had changed, but so had Aziraphale and so had Crowley, so he told himself he just needed to get used to it again. Easier said than done.

However, certain things never change, or so he believes. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, there’s always been this lingering, undefinable scent that lured you rather than drive you away. It was a delicate mixture of old books and incense, difficult to describe but undoubtedly fascinating. He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s also not there anymore, lost in almost a century full of history.

After the Blitz, Crowley and Aziraphale stopped meeting each other in the Underground, in favour of St. James Park. It took some time to regain the intimacy they used to have, and yet there’s still the feeling that they are not quite there yet. This means that the last time Crowley stepped into the bookshop was exactly one hundred years ago. He’s not prepared to what is waiting for him.

Being a snake, he’s more sensitive to smells than humans. His tongue flickers in the blink on an eye and he realises that something is wrong, really wrong: there are no odours at all. The shop feels cold and aseptic, making him feel deeply uncomfortable. He sits by the desk and leafs through the nearest volume, not really interested in it, wondering what could’ve possibly happened. And waits.

It’s well past midnight when the bell on the door rings and someone trips over the faulty step. He helps Aziraphale up and notices two dreadful things. One: he’s drunk, and that’s shocking; Crowley has never seen him drunk, not once, not ever. Two: he smells like whiskey, and sweat, and something else he can’t define, but it’s definitely awful.

«Where the hell have you been? What happened?»

Aziraphale is only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Not a good sign.

«Just a… reg… regu… normal Sunday night.»

«It’s Thursday. Well, technically, it was Thursday, must be Friday by now.»

«Whatever.» He falls on the sofa and closes his eyes.

This is far worse than Crowley expected. He can’t cope with a drunken Aziraphale, so he snaps his fingers to sober him up. The smell of alcohol is still in the air.

The angel covers his eyes with a hand and sighs. «What are you doing here?»

«Oh, no, you don’t get to ask question. I’m the one asking, you sit there and answer me, understood?»

He peeks through his fingers. This is new. And bizarre.

«Where have you been?»

«What do you care?»

«I said, where have you been?»

«You’re not my mother. Mind your own business!»

It clicks. It’s the early sixties, it’s Soho, he’s male-presenting. Of course, he’s been to a gay pub. Wait, what?

He recalls the whole business of the guy who died in Mayfair in 1918; it had something to do with gross indecency and a scandal.

Whatever happened in the late 19th century, it had deeply broken Aziraphale, possibly beyond repair. He cursed himself under his breath for not having been there. From what he’s gathered, it’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen; deep down, he still hopes his conclusions are wrong.

He’s not sure what to say. He feels like he’s walking on thin ice. «The bookshop’s different.» he tries.

«Must be the change of management. Asher Fell doesn’t own it anymore, I’m afraid. Nor Ishmael. Or Remiel.» His voice breaks upon mentioning that last name. Crowley doesn’t push it; instead, he makes a mental note to investigate further in the future.

«Asher?»

«Asher Ziv Fell. The letters on the sign do mean something.»

«Do they? I’ve always wondered who’s behind Co.»

«Not sure. What was your grandfather’s name?»

«Really? Do I look like I own a bookshop?»

«Appearance can be deceptive.»

He’s secretly pleased, though he won’t admit it. After all, this is kind of his place too.

«So, who owns it now?»

«Ezra J. Fell. He’s Asher’s great-grandson, or great-great-grandson, I don’t remember which one is it. It hardly matters, doesn’t it?»

«Yeah. Wait, what does the J. stands for?»

«It’s just a J.» Aziraphale is staring at him, and it’s impossible to decipher his gaze. It’s making Crowley uncomfortable as much as the lack of smell.

«Right.»

An unbearable silence settles, during which the demon hopes to come up with something clever to say. He doesn’t.

«Crowley, why are you here?»

“Because I missed you, I missed you so much and I hate this whole situation. I’m sorry for what I did, I didn’t mean to screw up, I only wanted holy water because it’s the only thing that will get rid off any demon who dares to put himself between us.”

He comes up with a watered down truth instead. «Have you considered moving to Mayfair?»

Aziraphale frowns.

«I mean, living in Soho now is not like a century ago. The place is full of… bad influences. Sinners. Might be dangerous for an angel.»

He tries to read between the lines and fails. «Aren’t sinners the ones who need angelic influences the most? Besides, these people are not dangerous at all. They’re my people.»

He doesn’t like the implications at all. He groans, frustrated. «At least, be careful. Getting drunk won’t have angelic influences on anyone. And try to be a woman, if you really must have relationships with men, for somebody’s sake.»

«Why? - Aziraphale pretends to be confused, but he obviously isn’t. He’s not as naive as he used to be - It wasn’t necessary among the Greeks. Or the Romans.»

«Yes, but you didn’t have outlawed sexual intercourses with the Romans, angel, that’s the bloody difference!»

Aziraphale’s silence speaks volumes.

«No. You didn’t really… Have you gone mad?»

«I must kindly ask you to leave.»

«But…»

«Get out, demon!»

Crowley is too stunned to properly react, so he doesn’t oppose resistance when he’s pushed out of the bookshop.

That was meant to be a hyperbole, not the truth. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. This is not Aziraphale. This is a fallen angel who has not fallen, surprisingly. This is someone who has suffered a great deal and is licking his wounds in the most inappropriate way.

Is it possible for angels to suffer from depression? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that blaming himself is easier than blaming him. “Where were you when your angel needed you the most?”

The smell of whiskey haunts him. There is no way out of this mess.

Hyde Park, 6 July 1996

By 1967, Aziraphale is back to being his usual self, the one who used to watch Shakespearean comedies by Crowley’s side or take him to lunch in Paris during the Reign of Terror. He even gave the demon a flask of holy water, trusting him a great deal; the most awful chapter of their lives is finally over.

It’s lunch time, they’re sitting on a blanket on the grass in Hyde Park, a basket and a bottle of champagne between them. Crowley can’t help but feeling grateful. “Perhaps we can go for a picnic, someday.” had said Aziraphale that night. And here they are, having a nice picnic. Progress is slow, but it doesn’t matter; after all, they have all the time in the world.

«Remind me, why do we keep coming here every year since 1972?» he asks playfully.

There’s a new unspoken rule now, both in Heaven and on Earth, that says that Aziraphale is the guardian angel of the - as it has now been renamed - the LGBT community. Crowley’s fine with it. He justifies himself by claiming that people coming out spread hate among families; of course he doesn’t like to put it that way, but Hell does, so it’s sort of alright.

He’s glad that things have changed, that finally Aziraphale is happy and safe. He no longer risks to fall because of a hedonistic, highly immoral lifestyle. He doesn’t even interact with humans that much these days; he helps them, befriend them, but nothing more. The worst that could happen to him is to be mistaken for Crowley’s partner by random people on the streets. Crowley doesn’t mind it at all; actually, he secretly likes it. He wonders if Aziraphale doesn’t mind it too. Probably not, judging by the way his fingers brush the other’s for far too long when taking the glass of champagne handed to him.

«My dear boy, you know perfectly well why. Cheers!»

The glasses clink against each others.

People march past them, thousands of people, waving colourful banners, laughing, singing, kissing.

«I just love all this love! Look at them, how happy they are! Look at how they glow when they are unafraid to be who they are. It’s beautiful.»

Aziraphale glows too, Crowley thinks. His hair is golden under the gleaming sun, his eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. He tries not to stare too long at his rosy cheeks, or else he might tempt himself into caressing them; more than that, he tries to avoid his lips.

He’s been thinking about it for quite a long time - 29 years, to be precise. He’s always been aware of the feelings he harbours for him, despite not daring to say it out loud, or even admitting them for several millennia. But now things seem to be different, easier, maybe, apart from the small detail of him being a demon and he an angel. He hopes that’s something they can sort out. Now things seem to be different because he suspects those feelings are mutual. He wants to ask, but doesn’t want to risk; so he keeps hoping, and staring, and longing for his touch.

«Is everything alright, dear? You are unusually quiet.»

«Am I? Nah, don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m fine. Just thinking.»

«About what?»

“About that couple over there. You see them? How softly they’re hugging? How one of them is shielding the other with a flag? That could be us, if we forget about Heaven and Hell for a second. Can we?”

«About London Pride. Is it one of ours or one of yours?»

Aziraphale smiles fondly. «I can’t recall.»

Of course he does, they both do. It’s one of those things human invented themselves. Doesn’t mean they didn’t both put a hand in it; in the end, they both earned a commendation from the respective sides.

«That reminds me of that time a friend of mine was accused of being the leader of an underground organisation composed by 47,000 gay men here in London. Of course it’s ridiculous, but we found the idea rather amusing. I wish he was here now; I bet he would’ve loved it.»

Aziraphale’s smile fades. Crowley knows exactly who he’s talking about, even though he’s not supposed to. One day he’ll find the courage to ask, but right now his priority is cheering his friend up.

He puts the glass down and gets up. The basket, the bottle and the glasses disappear as he extends his hand.

«Do angels dance?»

Aziraphale looks puzzled. «No, they don’t. Do demons?»

«Not really. Once in a disco in the 70s a guy mocked my moves. Let’s say it was an eventful night.»

Aziraphale hand is delicate and impeccably manicured, his skin smooth and soft, and his fingers fit perfectly against Crowley’s.

They move around quite awkwardly. Neither of them really knows how to dance; neither of them cares.

Aziraphale’s head ends up on Crowley’s shoulder, who suspects his body is going to spontaneously combust. He’s never been so intimately close to him, or at least not in a long time. He thinks it would be a lovely yet weird way to die.

«Crowley?» he calls, uncertain.

«Yes, angel?»

«Can you feel it? All this love, I mean. It’s so strong that even you might be able to sense it.»

Crowley is grateful to Someone that Aziraphale can’t see his stupid, blissful grin.

“Oh, I do, my angel. I do”

Berkeley Square, 2 June 2024

He wouldn’t call it a date, despite it actually being one. It’s more of an anniversary anyway, though he wouldn’t use that word either, because it would imply that there is something more than friendship in their relationship; there is, but it’s not official, so he ignores the voice in the back of his head that keeps calling this a date.

Actually, they don’t go to the Ritz that often. When they eat together, they prefer to explore little restaurants. “We must support local businesses” had declared Aziraphale, or something like that.

(«Besides, isn’t it more interesting than dining at the same old place every day?»

«But they have the most expensive wine, I like good wine.»

«You do realise those are not synonyms, don’t you?»)

They’ve been building this new habit slowly and without much thought. It started with occasional take-away sushi late at night at the bookshop, then weekly outings, depending on what they felt like eating on the appointed Saturday night. Now Crowley’s fridge is always full and they end up having lunch at his place every day, like it’s some kind of ritual.

If someone had told Crowley a decade ago that someday he would’ve had lunch every day, he wouldn’t have believed them. He didn’t need food, so it seemed a pointless waste of time. And anyway his sense of taste is more similar to that of snakes than humans’, meaning he doesn’t have taste buds; he tried to explain it to Aziraphale once, but the angel struggled to grasp the concept.

(«What do you mean you don’t have taste buds?»

«It’s a snake-biology thingy. I just, you know, flick my tongue and smell. It’s like taste, really. Don’t see why you have to separate the two senses, they’re basically the same!»

«No, they’re not!»

«Well, they are to me.»)

He still doesn’t eat much, but he does eat. Although, even more unexpectedly, he realised a couple of years ago that he prefers cooking. So the habit goes like this, Crowley cooks and Aziraphale eats. There’s a certain intimacy in it, a sense of domestic life that shouldn’t be possible for angels or demons. It’s not perfect, not yet, but it’s enough to make Crowley wonder what would it be like to live under the same roof, to properly share a house. He tries not to think about it, as he tries not to label lunches as dates; he fails most of the time.

They don’t go to the Ritz that often, but they go there once a year, on June 2nd. It’s another habit they’ve been building in the past five years, to readjust their lives after having lost their respective sides for good. It’s about tiny details that make them both feel grounded, like they still belong to somewhere. Except somewhere is not a place, but rather each other’s presence.

After lunch, they sit on a bench in Berkeley Square and silently watch passers-by. Kids pretending to be fearless pirates, teenagers snogging not-so-discretely, young couples strolling pushchairs and old couples walking hand in hand.

«It’s wonderful, isn’t it? - says Aziraphale, licking his ice-cream - And to think all of this might have been swept away! I’m so glad the Apocalypse has been averted.»

«Yeah, me too.»

There’s a stain of chocolate on Aziraphale’s cheek, which makes Crowley smile fondly. Day after day, the angel is more and more human, and probably he, too, is less and less of a demon. “It’s not bad, once you get used to it.” he thinks.

«Crowley?»

«Mh?»

«I’ve been thinking. It’s been five years now, maybe… don’t you think it’s time for a change?»

He’s confused. Time to change what, exactly? Things are fine - they are fine - why change anything?

«You remember Anathema and Newt’s wedding last year, don’t you? It was lovely. So, I was thinking, is it possible - I mean, if you want to, of course - could we… be like them?»

«You mean married?»

«I mean, living together. Leave London. Buy a cottage somewhere. We are retired, after all.»

Crowley frowns. He’s not sure whether he’s imagining it or it’s happening for real. He’s not sure what to say, either, so he settles for a neutral statement. «What about the bookshop?»

«I’d be satisfied with a library. Actually, it seems to be the best option. I’m running out of excuses to drive away costumers.»

«And you’d be happy? In the middle of nowhere, with… me?»

Neither of them dares to look at the other. Crowley’s eyes wander from person to person, from tree to tree. Aziraphale is staring at his ice-cream with so much intensity, as if his own life depends on it.

«Wouldn’t you?»

Something snaps inside Crowley’s mind. Here it is, the promise of the perfect future, within reach. Only a fool would turn that down.

«Do you… love me?»

«Oh, my dear, - he whispers adoringly - wasn’t that obvious?»

Carefully, Crowley turns his head to find Aziraphale looking expectantly at him. Carefully, he learns towards him; it’s the angel who fills the gap.

As they kiss, every piece falls into place. This is where they truly belong. “ ‘till Death do us part. Or the next Armageddon. Or whatever.”

Crowley’s overwhelmed, so much that he feels the urge to breath, despite not technically needing it.

Aziraphale laughs. «You have chocolate on your lips, my dear.»

«Oh, angel, I’ve just tasted something far better.»

[olivianeesan]

Good Choices [Good Omens]

TITLE: Good Choices LENGTH: 2,998 words RATING: G SUMMARY: To answer a long-standing and important question: yes, God is omniscient-- most religions have got that bit right, more or less. There is, of course, a catch: She hasn't always been omniscient.

Crowley and Aziraphale and a lesson for us all. Written as I was speculating about the various themes of the book. Can be ship or not as reader prefers; canon compliant but primarily TV series-inspired (specifically ep3). Not subtle at all. Haven't written a fic in years but Good Omens is deliriously inspiring.

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To answer a long-standing and important question: yes, God is omniscient— most religions have got that bit right, more or less. There is, of course, a catch: She hasn't always been omniscient.

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Eastern Gate, Garden of Eden, 4004 BC

The first thunder booms; a demon instinctively leans into an angel, who extends a protective wing. They stand together, side by side for the first time, and watch humans begin their great journey, unaware that they stand on the precipice of their own.

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In the Time Before There Was Time, She lacked just one key learning, one vital piece of information, which in fairness left Her still pretty brilliant as all-encompassing deities go.

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Noah's Ark, Mesopotamia, 3004 BC

Left to his own devices, as he usually is, Crawley rationalizes. His interest in his angelic counterpart on Earth can easily be explained by two facts:

One, the existence of a fallen angel consists of nothing so much as being outside of God's love. But there's a warmth in Aziraphale's presence that Crawley feels is vaguely reminiscent of that divine passion; it's only natural he should be drawn to it. On some level he can even find his way to thinking that he's found a clever loophole, exploited a bug in the system.

Two, no one else lives very long anyway.*

[* And this was during the era of Methuselah, who was in fact 313 years old around this time.]

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Oh, God knew the Fundamental Truth of Life well enough, and She knew if there was to be a universe— and She knew there was —She knew she had to build it around this truth.

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Crucifixion of Jesus, Golgotha, 33 AD

Left to his own devices, as he usually is, Aziraphale rationalizes. He hoped he'd never have to admit it to anyone else, but this Crawley— now Crowley —speaks plainly the same doubts that Aziraphale hides deep in the most secret pockets of his metaphorical heart. Every act of hatred the angel witnesses chips away, just a bit, at Aziraphale's confidence in the Great Plan, and it is some small comfort, hearing another immortal express his own secret feelings.

Besides which, Aziraphale thought it was short-sighted and perhaps even rude to disregard the death of God's only son on Earth, and Crowley was the only other non-human with the decency to show up, demon or not.*

[* They were also both present at the birth, though each was too caught up by the pleasure-or-pain of the event's massive holiness to notice the other at the time, rendering this fact completely immaterial to you, the reader. But it is nonetheless true.]

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The Fundamental Truth of Life, She knew, is love.

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Titus' Tavern, Rome, 41 AD

The ease with which they begin to slip into camaraderie makes them both uneasy, ironically, though only Crowley tries to hide it with his usual insouciance. Having finished their drink at the tavern and allowed the alcohol to carry out its pleasantly relaxing effects, the pair make their way to Petronius' restaurant and do, in fact, try out the oysters, along with several more rounds of drinks.

It is the first time in four thousand years on Earth that the pair loosen up enough to really talk, and not just about work— which of course they do discuss, as members of the same industry as it were —but mostly sharing stories of their interactions with humans and bonding over the other species' propensity for trouble.*

When Crowley proposes a toast "to the first supper," Aziraphale quips a hope that it "won't be the last supper," and Crowley bursts into a fit of intoxicating laughter, throwing his head back and with such open delight that it quashes any shame Aziraphale might have felt about the not-all-THAT-blasphemous joke.**

It is not their last supper.

[* These are the sorts of stories that don't make their way into histories or epics; like the time Aziraphale got caught in a compromising position with a drunk monk who wanted to wrestle, or when Crowley inadvertently inspired the placement of series of enormous stones in a field of what would one day be England which caused much trouble then and ever since, or the time they both scurried around Hammurabi's palace influencing his new system of Law, each completely unaware of the other until the laws had already been formally codified.

And that's how you get such a brilliant idea as telling people what is expected of them but also ongoing stupidity about treating people differently based on their gender or wealth, which to be fair has never not been a problem for these ridiculous humans, Aziraphale and Crowley agree.]

[** Aziraphale almost invents a joke 1,950 years too early by following up with "Too soon?" but wisely refrains.]

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So She created beings whose fundamental core is love: angels, in several different varieties because just one would be dull and She's going to have them for all eternity.

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A Battlefield, Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD

For six hundred years they've enjoyed meeting socially often but haphazardly, but it is on a battlefield that Crowley first has an Idea that eventually becomes an Arrangement.

He thinks the inspiration comes to him of necessity, because the armor is pinching him in the armpit, the chain mail is heavy, he's utterly stifled wearing all that in the damp air of Wessex, and to top it all off all his efforts are just being countered by his heavenly adversary.

But in fact, some part of him that he doesn't acknowledge just wants to meet Aziraphale more regularly, and if they start to share duties, well, they'd have to meet more regularly, wouldn't they?

He is disappointed but not surprised when Aziraphale rejects his offer out of hand, he knows the angel will take some convincing, and besides, silver armor must not get as hot as black armor.

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But it became clear rather quickly— after the equivalent of a hundred million Earth years, roughly —that these creatures, lovely as they were, rather missed the point.

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The Globe Theatre, London, 1601 AD

"Yeah, all right. I'll do that one. My treat."

It's not the first time Crowley has done something nice for Aziraphale*, but it might be the first time Aziraphale had thought to hope, or even expect, for him to do so. Who would have guessed that "puppy eyes" could be effective on a demon?

For Crowley, though, it was definitely a bartered exchange; not for the puppy eyes, but for the frisson of pleasure he had felt when Aziraphale expressed concern for Crowley should their arrangement be discovered. No one else ever bothered being concerned for him.

Though he couldn't help but wonder...

[* The very first time that Crowley did something nice for Aziraphale— intentionally —was in fact shortly after the humans were expelled from the Garden, but what it was, he has never told anyone, even Aziraphale himself, leaving us unable to share it with you, dear reader. But we are given to understand that this secret act of kindness was both "epic" and "badass".]

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It was at this point that God had Her own Epiphany, becoming well and truly omniscient. Then Her work really began.

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The Bastille, Paris, 1793 AD

Aziraphale was not, by nature, a suspicious person, but when Crowley came to his rescue at the Bastille he wondered whether there was more going on than he knew.

There absolutely was, but not in the way Aziraphale imagines.**

It had taken Aziraphale over 5,000 years to consider the idea that Crowley might be a bad influence on him on purpose rather than on accident— that perhaps he was running a "long con" in an effort to drag another angel to Hell, though there had been no more Falling since God made the Earth.

On the other hand, maybe the demon just didn't want to lose someone who covered for him at work.

It was neither of these things, of course; it simply never occurred to Crowley not to help his one and only friend out of a jam when he could.

Just as well; if it had occurred to him Crowley would have had to admit that he was rubbish as a demon, really.

[* To be fair, there being more going on than he knew about is a normal state of affairs for Aziraphale. Not that the angel is stupid; in fact, he's quite smart when he puts his mind to it. He just gets so distracted.]

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She created the universe, putting Her loving angels to work crafting galaxies and animals and magic (an iffy idea) and physics (a worse one) while She Herself put the finishing touches on humanity.

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St. James' Park, London, 1862 AD

"Out of the question." Aziraphale's clipped tones cuts Crowley to the quick. Wasn't Aziraphale himself the one who had brought up the possibility of getting caught a couple of centuries ago? And aren't they friends? What's a little holy water between friends?

If giving pain were a sport, Aziraphale might have won some kind of award for this particular act, because in addition to Crowley's hurt there is the angel's own. Here it is, he thinks, exactly as he dreaded: Crowley has been buttering him up for this, none of his previous kindness towards Aziraphale was real, the demon probably didn't even really like him, probably thinks he's a big fat joke and laughs about him in secret.*

The pair parts on the worst terms they'd been on for ages, or perhaps ever. Crowley elects to spend the rest of the century sleeping, which doesn't help his relationship with the home office one bit.

[* Aziraphale agonizes over this failed interaction for decades**, eventually realizing that it's not like Crowley could have some truly nefarious purpose for the holy water— it can't be used against angels or humans. And furthermore, that nearly 6,000 years is a long time to set up a scheme and Crowley doesn't really do that kind of slow roll, moves too fast if anything. It's quite wrong of him to assume the worst of Crowley just because he's a demon, especially when said demon has honestly given him no cause for that kind of doubt. And in any case...and so on and so on. In short, the angel talks himself out of his fit of self-doubt.]

[** Crowley just sleeps through all the agonizing.]

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Then she gave it all a gentle push.

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St. Luke's Church, London, 1941 AD

Oh.

Aziraphale holds the hefty satchel full of books aloft and stares after Crowley. It feels like a lightbulb has turned on inside his head, and it won't be turned back off no matter how many times he pulls at the metaphorical string.

He'd missed Crowley.

He'd missed the demon's humor and style and random acts of kindness. Or not so random, since they are often directed at Aziraphale himself. The angel knows an apology when he sees one, recognizes it implicit in Crowley's appearance at the church, is deeply touched that Crowley went through all that physical and spiritual discomfort to save Aziraphale's stupid face.

But the books...the books aren't apology. They are gift. They are thoughtful, in the very literal sense that Crowley had spent what could have been his last moment before a painful discorporation thinking about what Aziraphale cared about and going to extra trouble making it happen.

Oh, thinks Aziraphale.

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Most humans understand that their species is taking a crash course to learn to choose Good of their own free will, whether they believe it to be divine ordinance or simple moral imperative.

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A Bentley outside the Drinking Donkey Pub, 1967 AD

Crowley knows an apology when he sees one, and the thermos he gingerly takes from Aziraphale is certainly that. It's the trust that really gets him, though. Aziraphale isn't just giving him a deadly weapon, he's saying as blatantly as if he'd written the words on a poster board and hung it in the window of his stupid bookshop: I TRUST YOU, CROWLEY.

An angel, trusting a demon?

Must be a sign of the apocalypse.

He's not surprised when the angel rejects his offer of a ride, but he is surprised that it still stings, even breaking through the rush of warmth Crowley feels at Aziraphale's gesture with the holy water. The pain ebbs slightly as Aziraphale offers consolation in the form of a picnic, or perhaps in dining at the Ritz. (The Ritz? he wonders. Why The Ritz?)

It isn't until many years later that he hears a cover of a cover of a cover of a romantic old jazz standard and thinks: Oh.*

[* "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" was written and performed in 1939, then performed again and again for almost the entire rest of forever. The version Crowley first hears used on a science fiction TV programme in 2007— one year before the birth of the Anti-Christ —is heavily inspired by the Frank Sinatra, Glenn Miller, and of course Vera Lynn versions of the song, all of which the demon consumes non-stop for nearly a week.]

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No humans, and very few non-humans, know that the angel species is auditing the same course.

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A.Z. Fell Booksellers, London, 2019 AD

"Don't dawdle," booms Metatron, the Voice of God, and Aziraphale doesn't.

He's made a decision, and has made it so swiftly and instinctively that he hardly realizes it yet, let alone understands the importance of it.

If God and/or the angelic host won't hear him out, there's only one being in the entire universe that he knows will, and he wishes he'd trusted Crowley with this from the start and saved them all a lot of time, but he didn't, and now he has to hurry.

Aziraphale dials a number he knows by heart.

"Hey."

"Hello. I know where the Anti—"

"This is Anthony Crowley."

"I know who you are, you idiot, I telephoned you! Listen—"

"You know what to do. Do it with style."

Voicemail. Lord, he hoped Crowley wasn't already on his way to Alpha Centauri.

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Most angels— or former angels —would never even consider this possibility. In fact, exactly two angels have ever suspected that God slipped them a dose of free will, perhaps eons ago.

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The Enterprise Pub, London, 2019 AD

"TADFIELD. Air base!"

"I heard that, it was the 'wiggle on'..." but Aziraphale's ghostly presence was gone.

Crowley had said he wasn't going to go there, had even considered whether the vision was some hellish trick, until the "wiggle on".

But really, he knew he'd been lying, knew he'd go wherever Aziraphale said to, as long as the angel promised to be there too, which he had.

You see, Crowley had made a decision too, though longer ago, perhaps at the bandstand the day before, or when he'd stopped at a phone booth to make a call in 2008, or when he'd heard a sappy love song a year before that, or maybe it was at the Globe Theatre in 1601 or the fields of Wessex in 537 or at the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden in four-thousand-fucking-four BC.

Like Aziraphale, he doesn't fully realize he'd made a decision, which is why he rather doesn't know when he'd made it.

Crowley gets in the Bentley and drives to Aziraphale, as fast as he can.

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Because the epiphany that God had all those eons ago, in the World Before There Was a World, was that love is a choice.

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A Bench at Berkeley Square, London, 2019 AD

"For my money, the really big one will be all of us against all of them."

"What? You mean heaven and hell against...humanity?"

Neither of them says it out loud; there are no gestures, no glances up or down or askew, but as they lock eyes they both feel the weight of the decision they've made, deep inside, to change their definition of "us".

And despite all the doubts and questions of their long lives, they both know that they've made the right choice.

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To answer a long-standing and important question: yes, God is omniscient— most religions have got that bit right, more or less. There is, of course, a catch: She hasn't always been omniscient.

In the Time Before There Was Time, She lacked just one key piece of information, which in fairness left Her still pretty brilliant as all-encompassing deities go.

Oh, God knew the Fundamental Truth of Life well enough, and She knew if there was to be a universe— and She knew there was —She knew she had to build it around this truth.

The Fundamental Truth of Life as she knew it, is love.

So She created beings whose fundamental core was love: angels, in several different flavors because one would be dull.

But it became clear rather quickly— after the equivalent of a hundred million Earth years, roughly —that these creatures, lovely as they were, rather missed the point.

It was at this point that God had Her own Epiphany, becoming truly omniscient. Then Her work really began.

She created the universe, putting Her loving angels to work crafting galaxies and animals and magic (likely a bad idea) and physics (definitely a bad idea) while She Herself put the finishing touches on humanity.

Then she gave it all a gentle push.

Most humans understand that humans as a species are taking a crash course to learn to choose Good of their own free will, whether they believe it to be the command of a deity or pantheon, or a simple moral imperative.

No humans, and very few non-humans, know that the angel species is auditing the same course.

Most angels would never even consider this possibility; exactly two— or rather, one angel and one fallen angel —have begun to even suspect that God secretly slipped them free will absolute eons ago.

Because the epiphany that God had all those eons ago, in the World Before There Was a World, was that love is a choice.

=============================================================

As noted in the summary, I've been mulling over Good Omens-- the book and the show, both of which have been re-read/re-watched --the differences between the two, the themes, the lessons, all that good stuff, and somehow this fic was born. I wrote the "God"/in-between bits first, in their entirety, with the vague idea that if I were the one to write a Good Omens sequel they would exist between its chapters.

I'm NOT the one to write a sequel though. But when I realized I had 13 paragraphs it felt like I needed to do something with it, so I decided to run through Crowley and Aziraphale's history. I think I've got the timeline and locations all correct (thank god for the script book!), except the tavern in Rome which I made up a name for, but bear with me if I missed anything. ;)

I wasn't sure I was going to post it, even though I set up an account to, but having heard about the devastating and deadly arson committed against anime studio Kyoto Animation in Tokyo, I thought it was important to get a little more love out into the world. I hope you enjoyed the fic, but even if you didn't, let's all try to love each other more.

[not-a-space-alien]

In Sickness, Part 8: Cotton Candy

Art by @kogla

The finale!!!  Thanks to everyone for reading and leaving comments!!

Warnings for this chapter:  Tooth rotting fluff and demons in pajamas 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Series masterpost

On AO3

All that was left of the archdemon Maltha was a small flickering of life in her chest, which Crowley kept stoked with the healing power flowing through his hands.  Aziraphale helped dress the wounds at his direction.

It took about an hour for her heartbeat to start back up.  Crowley was sweating and shaking from the constant exertion by then, but his face broke into a huge grin when it happened.  Her chest began to rise and fall shortly afterwards, slowly and shallowly. “Ah, there we go.”

They worked together to haul her up onto the couch, then, which was no easy task given their relative sizes.

She remained comatose. Crowley worked on her intermittently over the span of a few days.  Aziraphale made sure he took breaks, watching over the archdemon while he slept and ate so she wouldn’t wake up and get the jump on them.  He watched the gradually strengthening aura with understandable unease, but Crowley reassured him she would be very weak when she woke up and it would take a lot more healing before she could use her powers again.

They bickered about the intended level of recovery, and even though he tried a few times Aziraphale could not convince Crowley to simply let her die despite the toll she had taken on him.

One day when Aziraphale was keeping watch, he saw her hand begin to twitch.  He immediately fetched Crowley from the kitchen where he had been eating.

“All right, this is it,” said Crowley.  “Go in the bedroom where she can’t see you until I tell you to come out.”

“All right.”

He was relieved that Aziraphale actually listened to him this time.

When Crowley came into the living room, Maltha had levered herself upright and was prodding muzzily at the spot where the wound had been, which was now a mass of scar tissue.  The lesser demon watched her with a certain amount of trepidation from the doorway.

Finally, she looked up at him.  “Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“That wound should have been fatal.  Only a real healer could have saved me.”

He lifted his hand and gave a sheepish wave.

She just looked at him.

“It was me.”

Her eyes roved his face, searching, and then her expression collapsed, eyes brimming over with tears. “My healer?  Is it really you?  After all this time?”

He nodded.

Her memories of Heaven and all the love she had held in her heart began to flood back into her at the sight of those golden eyes that had looked at her in Heaven all those years ago.  

She clambered off the couch unsteadily and stumbled over to him, engulfing him in an embrace, which he returned uneasily.

“I had given up on ever finding you,” she said into his hair, sniffling.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t even recognize you.  I’m so sorry. My poor healer.  After all this time.  I’m so sorry.”

Crowley allowed her to squeeze him and sob over him.  After a few minutes he managed to break her grip.  “Come on, sit back down.”

She did so, wiping her face with her palm.  “How could I have forgotten?” she said.  “How could I think love was a bad thing?”

Crowley sat next to her and took her other hand tentatively.  “You know Maltha,” he began cautiously, “this whole time you kept saying how it’s not proper for demons to feel love.  How it’s harmful and needs to be stamped out.  And I can’t help but wonder if it was me you were talking about, or about yourself.”

She let out a fresh stream of tears.  “They all hate me so much, Crowley.  I fell for them and they all hate me now. They didn’t even think twice about rejecting me. They would rather see me kill than be gentle with anyone.  I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.  It would be better to feel nothing at all. I haven’t done a single thing right in my entire existence.  They all hate me.  Even the underlings in my clinic.  And now I’ve finally found my healer, and even he hates me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Really?  But I…I tried to take away all that…the cars and the fountains with the electric lights…and the cotton candy sky….”

He patted her hand. “No, I don’t hate you.  Because I know, deep down, you were trying to help me. Because you didn’t want me to suffer…the same way you were suffering.”

She crushed him in a hug again, sobbing, and Crowley felt her aura softening around him.

When he finally managed to pry her off again, he held out his hand for a handshake.  “Maltha, I would like to be friends.  Would you like that?”

She looked at his hand.

“No one has ever asked you that before, have they?”

“Friends.  All right.  Yes, I would like that very much.”

Her talons swallowed his hand as she took it.

“All right,” said Crowley, getting up and moving towards the bedroom.  “Since we’re friends, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”

“All right,” said Maltha unsurely.

“When, er…Marko from your clinic…”

“Him,” said Maltha distastefully.

“Right,” said Crowley. “Well, he, er…gave me something I had a reaction to and—”

“I knew it,” growled Maltha. “I’ll skin him.”

“Well, I had a reaction, but someone came and took care of me while I was sick.”

Maltha looked at him warily. “It’s not that angel, is it?”

Crowley waved to the bedroom, and Aziraphale came out.

“That angel does not love you,” snarled Maltha, removing herself from the couch and gripping Crowley, eying Aziraphale like she was a child threatened with the removal of her favourite toy.  “Angels hurt demons.  He attacked me.”

“Wait, just listen!” Crowley yelled.

She looked down at him and saw the fear there, and it broke what heart had been developing inside her chest.  She let go of his arm.

He stepped forwards and took Aziraphale’s hand.  “He only attacked you because he was trying to keep me safe.  Aziraphale’s already had the chance to hurt me many times over, but he’s never taken it.  We’ve known each other for six thousand years.  And when I was completely helpless, he nursed me back to health and made sure I got something to eat.”

She looked at Aziraphale with watery eyes.  “But he’s an angel.  He just let you fall and did nothing about it.”

“Maltha,” said Crowley. “It’s been six thousand years.  What could he have done, really?  The past doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t have to matter.  What matters is what’s happening here and now.  Aziraphale is my friend.  He took care of me when I was hurt.  He loves me.”

Maltha looked at the angel uncertainly.  Care for the sick was the fastest way straight to her heart.  She couldn’t deny him credit.

“I suppose he must love you, then,” she finally conceded.  It was at that moment that she realized she had still been feeling love all along no matter how hard she had tried to push it down.  That love was what had gotten her kicked out of Heaven, and she would gladly fall all over again if it meant holding onto it.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, squeezing Crowley’s hand.

“Crowley, I’d like you to come work in my clinic,” said Maltha.  “You’re the only other one who could actually do this job.”

“Ahm,” said Crowley. “I…”

Maltha’s eyes shifted from his face down to some spot on the floor.  “Of course.  I forgot. The Earth.  You love it, and you want to be up here.  Though I cannot imagine why.”

He suspected that, had she been at full power, the request and subsequent reaction to his rejection might have been more forceful.

She hauled herself up. “Then I suppose in the end I’m alone all the same.  Thank you, Crowley.  I suppose I should get going now.”

Crowley bit his lip. “Maltha, I…Well, I’m not going to work in the clinic, but I did have something else in mind.  Why don’t you let us show you?”

“Show me what?”

“Why we love the Earth.”

Aziraphale was mostly better by then, so he volunteered to be the one to go to the store.  He didn’t have a good feeling about leaving Crowley and Maltha alone, but upon his return, he found the two of them in pajamas and swaddled in blankets, absolutely engrossed in You Only Live Twice.  They had just finished with what Crowley considered to be foremost among earthly pleasures: sleep.  All three of them had gotten a solid nine hours.  And now it was time for breakfast.

Aziraphale had been told he made “mean” omelets before, and although he wasn’t familiar with some of the terminology Crowley picked up from humans, he was familiar with the way Crowley flip-flopped certain phrases like for goodness’ sake for dramatic effect, so he took it as a compliment.  He also took it to mean he should be the one to cook, since Crowley was usually too lazy to cook at all and would probably mess it up.

He figured that someone Maltha’s size would need more food, so he piled fried eggs, mounds of bacon, and several pieces of toast onto her plate before giving Crowley a serving half the size as hers.  She clearly enjoyed it, although she didn’t seem to be grasping the significance of it quite like they’d hoped.  

After breakfast, Aziraphale and Crowley dithered on trying to decide what activity the three of them should undertake next.  Maltha, same as most archdemons, rarely left Hell except for important matters up on Earth. In fact, she tended to leave a bit more often than most, since she occasionally had to subdue patients that got out of hand to bring them down, but even still she had never spent much time on Earth and it had all been for business.  She would hardly be familiar with anything.

Aziraphale suggested they take her to a restaurant, but Crowley pointed out she probably wouldn’t find that very impressive since she was used to being waited on in Hell. Crowley suggested instead that they take her shopping and let her try on some nice clothes, with a pointed look at her blood-stained doctor’s coat.  But Aziraphale said, with as much tact as he could manage, that he didn’t think any of the department stores nearby would have anything in her size.

Neither was sure exactly what series of thoughts led them to the outcome, but they eventually settled on going to an amusement park.

They had to convince her to change her shape into something a bit more human-like, and in the end she looked passible as a human except for the fact that she had a crop of black feathers instead of hair.  But it looked all the same from a distance, and Crowley couldn’t very well chastise her when he had never managed to change his eyes, so they figured it was good enough. Passersby also would probably not be able to tell what gender she was, but they figured that was something humans needed to learn to stop being unsettled by anyway, and headed out.

Even in her new form, Maltha was so huge that she barely fit in the Bentley, but she seemed to enjoy the car ride over.  She watched with interest but without comprehension as Crowley paid for their entry and a worker stamped her hand.

“And what’s this?” she said, examining the mark on her hand.  “It appears they’ve put a shape on me in ink.”

“That lets everyone know you’re allowed to be here,” said Crowley.

“It does not appear to have any supernatural hold on me.”

“It’s not a sigil. It’s just so everyone knows you paid to get in.”

“No one can deny me entry to where I choose to go.”

“All right,” said Crowley tentatively, “I mean, I suppose if that’s how you want to look at it.  But it’s worth it to do it the human way at least some of the time.  It’s more enjoyable that way.”

She did not seem to fully believe him, but she soon dropped the issue and became engrossed in the sights. They had to prompt her to keep walking several times as she stopped in the middle of the walkway to simply peer up at the tall rides.  

“They did all this without miracles?” she said, astonished.

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“They’re very clever.”

Her eyes roved around, clearly impressed, seeming to understand a little bit more now.

Aziraphale looked on in horror as Crowley strong-armed Maltha into riding the carousel, but he was surprised to hear her giggling with delight as the horses teetered up and down. She stayed on when the ride slowed to a stop and only got off when Crowley prompted her that the ride was over.

She did not seem quite as fond of the roller coasters, though, and they avoided them altogether after the first experience with them, which resulted in an unfortunate accident to the poor teenager who was operating the thing.

They made their way to the food court after that, and Crowley made a beeline for a human spinning a candy-colored web in a whirling machine.

He returned with two globules and shoved a pink cloud at her.  “Here.”

She took it.  “Cotton candy.  You said this is what clouds look like at the sunset.”

Crowley was already cheek deep in a wad of blue sugar, and nodded as it dissolved in his mouth.

She picked it cautiously apart and consumed it slowly.  Aziraphale indulged in a funnel cake, which he shared with the two demons when Maltha had finished her cotton candy and began to peer at him curiously.

“We should go back to America some time,” Crowley said.  “I’ve heard they deep fry Oreos over there now.”

“What?” said Aziraphale. “That sounds disgusting.”

“America?” said Maltha.

“Mmm,” said Crowley. “Across the pond.”

“The pond?”

“The Atlantic Ocean. Angel, let’s go try that sideshow game next.”

They went over and Crowley procured a ball from the counter, handing it to Maltha.

She took it and eyed the bottles in the booth skeptically.  “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Knock down the bottles.”

“I could knock those bottles down from over here with my powers.”

“Ah, but that’d be cheating.”

“So?”

“So,” said Crowley, giving the carnival worker and apologetic glance, “if you do it without cheating, they’ll give you a prize.”

“What prize?”

“One of those.”

Maltha looked up at the stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling.  Her eyes fell to a goofy stuffed snake.

She knocked down the bottles with a bit too much vigor and ended up breaking one, but in the end she got what she wanted and walked away from the booth with the snake in her hands. She draped it around Crowley’s shoulders, and he rolled his eyes.

They decided it was time to leave when Maltha began to stare at the clowns with a hawkish, unsettled gaze. They went to the liquor store on the way home, then back to Crowley’s flat to assemble a picnic basket to take to the park.

It was a nice day; suspiciously nice, in fact, since the weather was rarely this bright and sunny. St. James was conveniently empty, letting them have their privacy.  They secured a spot by the duck pond and laid a blanket out.  Crowley kicked his shoes off and spread his scaly toes out on the grass, and Maltha followed suit.

They shared their meal with the ducks that were brave enough to get close.  Crowley found a duck sadly waddling around with a broken, half-healed wing.  He healed the bird and set it back in the water, where it quacked appreciatively and paddled away.

They sipped wine slowly. The sun slid downwards, streaking the powder blue sky with deep pink, and Maltha said cotton candy quietly under her breath.

They were slightly tipsy from the wine, which was all gone now, and now that it was past dark they were out of excuses for remaining sober. They went back to the liquor store to load up, then headed back to Crowley’s flat.  And they engaged in Maltha in the kinds of conversation Aziraphale and Crowley had always had in back rooms of bookshops and bars and flats and private and public places where people get drunk, the extended discussions that started out serious but eventually dissolved into hysterical laughter into the wee hours of the morning.  The conversations that had always kept them close to each other and to the Earth.  

Aziraphale told her about the library of Alexandria and the printing press and his esoterica of books in his shop.  Crowley told her about the invention of the Model T and the proliferation of automobiles. They were astonished to find that she had no idea humans had invented machines for flying through the air, and her eyes sparkled as she said she had no idea humans were so clever and inventive.

They told her about Da Vinci and Bosch and Michelangelo and and Shakespeare and every clever human they had ever crossed paths with. They told her about the Spanish Inquisition and Pompeii and every great tragedy they had been present for.  They told her about the great fluctuation and onward march of human history, the rising and falling of Rome and Spain and Britain and America, and they told her about the Great War and World War II and Apartheid and how humans fought each other endlessly and were endlessly cruel despite their cleverness. And they told her about the humans who showed the goodness of human nature during those tragedies, the helpers and heroes and bleeding hearts who save thousands of lives when the need arises.

They told her about their own failed attempt to avert the apocalypse, which by now was far enough in the past to safely laugh about, and she covered her mouth to try and be polite, but her cheeks were flushed drunken red and she obviously found it very funny.

They then blacked out from drinking too much.  Aziraphale and Crowley had been matching Maltha’s pace, but her higher body weight meant she needed more to get drunk.  Neither had given it much thought because they were used to being able to hold their own in drinking contests, and they had driven right off the edge of that cliff into unconsciousness.

Maltha sat in the easy chair, swirling her glass of wine, eyeing the drunken angel and demon on the couch across from her.  Both of them were snoring with their mouths cracked open.

She was thinking.  She was thinking very hard.  Until a small sound behind her betrayed that they were no longer alone.

“Be quiet, please.”  She stood and turned around, drew her wings out, and flourished.  “Don’t wake them.”

Marko from her clinic stood there, still swathed in bandages, with Duke Hastur by his side. Both were looking at her unsurely.

“My lord,” said Marko. “Are you drunk?”

It took her a few tries to figure out how to do it, but she miracled the alcohol out of her bloodstream. “Of course not, Marko.  Don’t be absurd.”

“My lord—”

“I said don’t wake them,” she rumbled.  “They’re both still recovering.  They need their rest.  Let’s move into the kitchen.”

Demonic feet scrabbled on the tile, and Marko said with an irritated whisper, “My lord, you were supposed to be gone for a matter of hours, and when you didn’t reappear we became concerned about what had happened to you.  This demon showed up wanting to know about the progress of his friend, but I couldn’t tell him anything, so we came up to find you.”

“I’m fine,” said Maltha. “I’ve been spending some time up here on Earth.  No cause for alarm.”

Marko looked past her into the living room to the two sleeping figures there.  “He’s still not better.  Still with that angel...”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s fine.”

“He’s not fine,” said Hastur.  “He bloody well doesn’t behave like a demon should!”

“Keep your voice down,” she commanded for the third time.

Hastur looked supremely irritated at the request, but he obeyed nonetheless.  “He needs something, lord, he’s still not—”

“I have decided he does not need any further treatment,” said Maltha.  “That’s my final decision.”

“No!” growled Hastur. “You said you would—that snake deserves whatever you give him after what he did!”

Maltha looked at Hastur, the gears in her head turning in a way they had never thought to for the last 6,000 years, and she finally, finally realized:

“You think my care is a punishment, don’t you, Hastur?”

Hastur’s eyes went wide. “Of course not, lord!”

“How dare you?” she hissed, her eyes dilated like a predatory bird about to strike.  “I’ve never done anything but try to help, and this is how you treat my love?”

“Love?” said Marko, alarmed. “Demons don’t—”

“Who exactly made you the judge of what demons do and don’t?” she said.  “You’re fired, Marko.”

“You can’t fire me for expressing a concern about—”

“I’m firing you because you forcefully overdosed a patient and put his life in danger. And I had to find this out from him instead of you, because it didn’t occur to you to report it to me, somehow.  Don’t set foot in my clinic again.”

“Now hold on,” said Hastur. “You can’t just—”

“I can do whatever I like. If I catch either of you bothering these two again, you’ll regret it.  Now, both of you, get out, and don’t come back.”

They looked at each other dismally.

“Now.”

They both thought it wise to make themselves scarce quickly.

Maltha gave a sigh and trudged back into the living room.  Aziraphale and Crowley were still dead to the world; Aziraphale was sprawled out with his head tilted back, and Crowley was lying with his head resting on one of Aziraphale’s thighs.

She smiled at them despite herself, and inserted herself onto the couch with them, transferring Crowley’s head to her own lap and leaning Aziraphale’s head onto her shoulder, putting her arms around them and closing her eyes until she also fell asleep.

“Thank you for showing me the Earth.  I think I’m starting to see what you mean.”

It was another beautiful day; the delicious breeze whipped at Maltha’s feathers and the sundress she had put on, and she held a wide-brimmed hat onto her head with one hand to stop it from blowing away.

“I’m glad,” said Crowley.

She strode forwards and gave him a kiss on the forehead.  “My healer.”

Crowley smiled awkwardly, not sure what to say.

“I’m glad you ended up here, Crowley.  You belong on Earth, not in Hell.  I’ve only just realized that love really only blossoms on Earth.”

“What are you going to do now?” Aziraphale asked.

Maltha turned from them and looked off into the distant blue sky.  “You’ve made me realize I’ve spent far too much time sitting around in Hell. I’m going to go off and see the world and everything that’s in it, no matter how long it takes.  You’ve got me at a few millennia of disadvantage.  I have quite a steep learning curve to catch up with you.  Take care, Crowley, Aziraphale. The next time you see me, I will be learned in the ways of Earth to approach you as equals.  I look forward to it.  Maybe then I can finally have some genuine companionship.”

She began to stride away. “You sure you don’t want a ride?” said Crowley.

“I think I’ll walk,” Maltha called back to them, waving her hand vaguely.

“Have a nice trip!” said Aziraphale.

They stared at her vanishing figure.

“Does she know that we usually…um…take vehicles for long distances?” said Aziraphale.

“I…I don’t know,” said Crowley.  “Looks like she intends to just walk in a straight line till she finds something interesting.”

Her figure grew fainter and fainter in the distance.

“Are you sure letting her go off like this is a good idea?” said Aziraphale.

“Not at all,” said Crowley.

Her billowing white dress finally became indistinguishable among the landscape.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale and said, “Ah, well, now that that’s finally over, angel…”

“Yes?”

Crowley put a pair of sunglasses on his face, and grinned at his companion.  “We’re going to the auto body shop, and you’re going to get a new coat of paint put on the Bentley.”

“Me?!  Whatever for?”

“Because as I recall, there’s an enormous scratch on her side, and I know exactly who put it there.  Did you bring your wallet?”

Aziraphale gave an exasperated sigh.  “I did, as a matter of fact.  All right, let’s go then, if it bothers you that much.”

They headed back towards Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale took the demon’s hand as they walked.  “So…you’re a healer, hmm?  I’ve often wondered your job had been in Heaven.”

Crowley flushed. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Nothing at all,” said Aziraphale.  “I think it’s…cute.”

“Cute?  How is it cute?“

Aziraphale let go of his hand to wrap an arm around his shoulder instead.  “The big bad demon!  He’s actually quite nice if you ask him for a Band-Aid.”

“All right, all right.”

“Oh, that whole thing about the Caduceus—that must have been you, then?”

“A bit of a joke, really. Just trying to tempt some Israelites into idol worship with the whole ‘look at the healing snake!’ part. Graven images and all that.”

“Backfired a little, did it?”

“All right,” said Crowley crankily.  “If you’re just going to tease me about it, I can use my staff to smack you upside the head instead of give you a Band-Aid, you know.”

“Ooh, you have a staff?  Kidding—don’t give me that look.  Oh hey!  Let’s stop by my bookshop.  I have a plant of yours that I saved from the dumpster.  Two, actually.”

“Really?  Angel, you shouldn’t have!”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand.  “Well, what are friends for, if not to watch out for you, in sickness and in health.”

Thank you for reading!!!  If you’re interested, the next story in this series is actually already posted and you can read it here!  I am going to take a small break from posting to give people time to read it (or read it again) if they like, and then I’ll be back with Part 3 some time in March!

[showmeahero-a]

‘ you are in my bones , wherever i go , know — i take you with me ’ ( aziraphale to crowley )

poetry starters [ x ]@letterlxiv

            “whaa?” things have been different between them since the apocawasn’t, less secretive. they no longer have to worry about whether heaven or hell is watching ; they can go to lunch together, or to the concert hall, or to the museum. they no longer have to deny that they’re friends. for the first time in six thousand years, they are safe. yes, they can do it all -- & yet, still, crowley cannot bring himself to utter the three words that have been hanging on the end of his tongue since the Beginning. since eden. since he’d slithered onto the eastern wall & fallen head over heels for the only angel in heaven bold enough to lie to God’s face. he can’t tell him, can’t risk ruining things, now that they’re finally free. can’t bear the rejection that he’s sure would come of it. 

              but now, in answer to the angel’s words, he gapes open-mouthed, eyes blown comically wide behind his tinted shades. they’ve been drinking. he thinks that might’ve explained it, were it not for the fact that aziraphale is usually less coherent when he’s drunk. certainly, he’s never said anything like that before. “’sss that poetry, angel? who’sss it by?” he tries to sound nonchalant, tries to appear as though his heart isn’t damn near beating through his chest. he can’t be too hopeful. it’ll hurt more when he’s wrong. & besides, all things considered, it’s not necessarily a romantic remark, is it? but it is familiar. he could very well have said the same of aziraphale.