#crowley is a pine tree without glasses

[metalmiez]

Dancing at the Ritz

Their eyes met; the angel grinned, and the demon’s face went all pink and flustered. Aziraphale laughed, from the bottom of her heart, let herself fall backward, because she knew Crowley would never drop her. His left arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly. He bowed into her motion, his warm breath caressing her neck. Out of breath, she let herself pull back up, still giggling and noticed the most beautiful smile on Crowley’s face, more genuine than ever before. He enjoyed that dance a lot. Their faces were so close now that their noses almost touched, chest to chest, both breathing hard. She couldn’t recall when she had been working out this physically before. Her face felt like it was on fire, warmth crept though her whole corporation and Aziraphale had the indistinct feeling that she should float. She felt so happy.   Her arm was wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders, and he held her tightly. He was such a beautiful thing, and this smile made him look even more stunning, starfire burning in these gorgeous golden eyes.

Title: Dancing at the Ritz

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

London, 1945. The war is over. Humanity rejoyces. There is a big party at the Ritz. And Crowley got his infernal hands on two tickets. It is time for a date clandestine meeting. Aziraphale waits with a surprise of his own...

Whew. Welcome back! It has been a good 9 months since I posted my oneshot "Hat Swap" (which I highly recomment you to read before you start this one <3). It has been a while. But this story never left me.

There was something to it I can't describe. I just loooove them in the 1940s. Actually, shortly after I posted Hat Swap in June 2024, I started to write this "little" sequel (she laughs, while she looks at the 10k words). It had A LOT of time to simmer. And I already have an idea for a Part 3. So it has become an official Series now <3 I hope you love this fic and this drawing as much as I do <3

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “An Enchanted Gift” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Anathema gives Aziraphale and Crowley a special gift - a homemade bottle of a holiday drink with some very peculiar side effects. (2299 words)

Notes: Written for the wonderful @theantichristmaszine  :) Warning for sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Crowley’s flat is positively a picture, fit for printing on a Christmas card.

Fire roaring on the hearth.

Garland and tinsel draped over anything that doesn’t move.

Fairy lights brightening the dark corners, wound around the rubber tree and the Chinese Evergreen, weeding through the leaves of the dieffenbachia.

A host of red velvet, gold taffeta, and white satin ribbon hanging from the ceiling till no white marble can be seen.

And at the center of it all, a tree - an honest-to-Satan floor-to-ceiling pine that Crowley had tromped into the forest and tore out of the ground himself with his own two hands. An ax would have been simpler. Heck, he could have snapped the thing back to his flat, trimmed and mounted, ready for decorating. But his method seemed so much more festive considering he’d been bellowing holiday carols the entire time.

He let angel take the lead decorating. Aziraphale had a merry time covering the thing in frosted globes, glass candy canes (since the real ones didn’t last long enough to hang), gingerbread men (only slightly nibbled), reindeer, clove oranges, crocheted white-lace snowflakes, and other ornaments of the like, purchased from artisans all around London.  

Crowley had gone so far as to include a manger scene for the benefit of his angel-in-residence. However, instead of hanging the Archangel Gabriel using the provided hook, he hung him over the birthplace of the Lord by a noose. Aziraphale giggled when he saw it but recommended fixing it - to ward off bad karma or something along those lines. Not wanting to sully his spirits listening to a lecture about tempting fate (which is all Crowley does), Crowley remedied it.

He replaced Gabriel with a vintage Troll doll key chain Pepper accidentally forgot at Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“There! Top notch replacement, if I do say so meself! Looks just like ‘im!” Crowley declared, gesturing to the absurd trinket with its vibrant purple hair.

“And which part, might I ask, looks just like him?” Aziraphale had asked.

“The head! It’s huge!”

Demons aren’t much for celebrating. But this year, with everything Crowley had to be grateful for, he honestly couldn’t help himself. At its root, Christmas is about love.

Family.

Birth.

A chance to shed the skin of past sins and start anew.

This year, Crowley couldn’t see letting Christmas pass unacknowledged.

“You know, I may not be a connoisseur of holiday shindigs,” Crowley says, leaning back on the floor and gazing up at the spectacle that is their cheerfully burdened tree, “but I would say tonight has come pretty close to perfect. Wouldn’t you?” He rolls onto his hip, beaming at Aziraphale seated not too far from him, a loopy grin nudging his mouth up at the corners.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale lifts his bottle of Burgundy, prepared to propose a toast. It comes up off the floor far too quickly, an indicator the thing has been drained dry.

“Looks like we finished that one.” Crowley looks left and right in search of another, but doesn’t see one. “Augh! Don’t tell me we went through them all! I’m sure I had another three at least!”

“Don’t fret, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “I may have just the thing.” He crawls over to the tree on hands and knees and rummages underneath. A second later he crawls back out, accompanied by a rustic-looking green glass bottle and a triumphant little, ‘A-ha!’ “This comes courtesy of dear, sweet Anathema.” He presents the bottle to his demon for approval. “She said she made it with love.”

“Really?” Crowley snorts while Aziraphale uncorks the bottle. “And what ingredient is that then? Wolfsbane? Mandrake root?”

“Honey, I think.” Aziraphale gives the mouth of the bottle a sniff. “Maybe blackberries?”

“The important question is - is it alcohol?”

Aziraphale brings the bottle to his lips and knocks back a gulp, coughing at the finish. “That it is.”

“Give it here then. I’d like to partake of some love, too.” Crowley indulges, tilting his head back and taking a huge swig. He smacks his tongue, then licks his lips, shivering when a wave of heat enters his bloodstream and works its way down his spine. “Wow. That’s tasty.”

“Isn’t it? If being a witch doesn’t work out for her, she should definitely take up a career distilling.”

“Love, you say?” Crowley peers into the bottle, pondering the ingredients as the drink settles onto his taste buds. “Do you think that’s something she orders by the pound, or gathers under the full moon?”

“To be honest, I have no idea---oof!” Aziraphale sways, planting a hand flat on the floor and locking his elbow to keep from toppling over.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley snickers. “Having a bit of trouble holding your drink?” His forehead wrinkles with concern when Aziraphale doesn’t recover right away. “That’s not normally like you---”

Crowley’s teasing cuts off when Aziraphale’s mouth crashes into his - hot, demanding, tasting of mulling spices, apples, sour plum, and brandy. It takes Crowley a moment to realize Aziraphale is kissing him.

Then another for him to start kissing back.

This isn’t just any kiss. It’s the kiss he’s been longing for. The kiss he’d feel on his lips every time Aziraphale looked his way and smiled. It’s the kiss he thought about the century he slept. And even though there have been many kisses between them, Crowley ranks this as the first.

Because it’s the kiss of dreams.

Aziraphale inhales sharply and backs away. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, my dear! I don’t know what came over me!”

Crowley looks him over curiously, waiting for an explanation, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have one. Aziraphale loves kissing, but he doesn’t go about it this way - doesn’t rush in, doesn’t take what he hasn’t asked for. “Turn about’s fair play, I’d wager.”

“What do you …?”

Without another word, Crowley sneaks a hand behind Aziraphale’s head and kisses him back.

Another kiss follows. Then another. With each one, the room becomes inhospitable - too warm, too stuffy, too difficult to stay in wearing all their blasted clothes! Aziraphale tries to relieve the pressure at his neck, but he can’t seem to manage his buttons, so Crowley helps him undo those. Likewise Crowley’s zipper becomes uncooperative, so Aziraphale tasks himself with unzipping it. Article by article they tear through until the two become too frustrated to care about the inevitable paperwork and snap off the rest.

Crowley kneels behind his angel, completely naked, kissing every spot he can get his lips on. And God, how it tingles! No. How it burns - each touch of his lips to Aziraphale’s flesh sending surges of razor sharp and magma hot straight from Crowley’s mouth to his groin.

And he wants more.

He wants it everywhere.

He wants it scalding his throat, searing his lungs, consuming him from the inside out. Let it dissolve him into ashes that blow away on the wind, let him die in an orgasm of violence and fire and angelic light.

As long as it comes with Aziraphale.

What a way to go.

“I have to have you, angel,” he moans. “Now. Right now.”

“Are you … are you sure? We’ve always said that we wouldn’t allow alcohol to make us amorous.”

“I don’t feel drunk. Do you?”

Aziraphale focuses inward, taking stock of his corporation. “No,” he says, surprised considering the bottles of wine they’d polished off before they started in on Anathema’s gift. “I don’t. Not at all.” Aziraphale locates an empty bottle and concentrates, tries to push the alcohol of the night from his system, but nothing appears. Not a single drop. “Far from it, it would seem.”

“That’s right. We’re not drunk. We’re completely in our right minds.”

“I wouldn’t say …”

“I want this, angel!” Crowley pleads with a sense of urgency. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. More than ever,” Aziraphale admits.

“What do you want me to do?” Crowley whispers, voice husky with a lust he has inspired in others but has never once felt himself. “Tell me.”

“Make love to me?”

“How?”

Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder, grinning at his demon chomping at the bit. “You seem to be in the perfect position. I suggest you start there.”

Aziraphale expects Crowley to mock his snark, but he doesn’t, diving immediately back into the task of kissing across Aziraphale’s shoulders, lingering over the joint where his wings would connect if he let them out. Crowley swirls over it with his tongue, painting overlapping circles, and Aziraphale sees stars. They’ve made love in this position before, and Crowley has kissed every inch of his back, but he’s never spent so much time on this particular area.

The decadence of this sensation should be criminal.

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands on his body everywhere at once - massaging his muscles, fondling his cock, scissoring him open. Could Crowley be using magic to pleasure him? That’s not something they’ve ever done before due to the implications of Hell finding out. But seeing as Hell is no longer a concern, that puts every card at their disposal.

And thank God because this they need to do again!

“Aziraphale,” Crowley utters as he enters him, his angel’s name like sugar in his bitter mouth, and fuck!

There it is.

When he enters him completely.

The fire.

Inside his angel.

And Crowley has become its fuel.

“Oh, Crowley …” Aziraphale shifts his weight onto his palms and leans forward, raising his rear in the air. “Oh, yes. Just like that, my dear …”

“Like this, angel?” Crowley pulls back, then thrusts hard - harder than he would normally, sending Aziraphale swiftly to the verge. With Aziraphale’s grunts of ecstasy mirroring the rhythm of Crowley’s hips, Crowley knows that regardless of anything, this he cannot stop.

It would be unforgivable.

“Yes!” Aziraphale whimpers, bracing against the marble floor with knuckles white. “Yes! Crowley, yes!”

“Yes …” Crowley echoes beneath his breath, a lightness settling inside his mind, siphoning his ability to think. He’s done too much thinking already. Now is not the time for thinking. Now is the time for serving. The time for feeling. And what he feels is soft beneath his hands, tight around his cock, a quest for satisfaction, for completion, wrapped in a braided rope of love, love, and more love. So much love it fills his flat from corner to ceiling, leaves its mark on the walls and on the doors.

And on the marble beneath them when Aziraphale, spiraling out of control, comes unannounced on Crowley’s living room floor.

“Oh,” he squeaks with embarrassment though he knows Crowley would say he shouldn’t be. “I apologize, my love, but I seem to have sullied your floor.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and cleaning the mess as he shudders through his own orgasm, which had snuck up inside him and granted him release less like an accomplishment and more like a reward for what he had done for his angel.

“Well,” Aziraphale manages even though he’s breathless, which isn’t a bother for him. “That was … interesting.”

“Just interesting?”

Aziraphale blushes. “More than interesting. But I would hate to think that was all because of the drink.”

“I wouldn’t say it was. I think the brew just sort of lowered out inhibitions. Enhanced the experience.”

“Do you think that was meant to happen? I find it difficult to believe that Anathema of all people gave us some sort of love potion as a Christmas present.”

“Not sure. Could be a side-effect of being witch made. Probably affects us more because we’re occult.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue Crowley’s word usage. “Or … what if it’s something worse?”

“Worse?” Crowley arches an eyebrow. “What worse?”

“What if it did what it was meant to, but it was supposed to be a present for her young gentleman?”

“Ugh! Aziraphale! Don’t!” Crowley groans, wrapping his arms around his angel and holding him tight. “You’re going to put me off!”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale chuckles, hugging Crowley’s arms about his waist. Locked in the cozy cocoon of Crowley’s embrace, a thought pricks Aziraphale’s brain.

There is a secret third possibility.

A week or two ago, Aziraphale went to Tracy Shadwell’s place for tea and rum cake. While he was there, he’d confided in both Tracy and Anathema that as much as he loved his sex life with his husband, physical intimacy had become somewhat of a chore. Not because he didn’t love it, which he did, but because Crowley seemed stuck on every love making session between them being more romantic than the last. First came the champagne, then the candlelight (so much candlelight …), massages with complicated names, and, as of late, dramatic musical choices. It’s nice, the care Crowley puts into being his lover, but it also puts a tremendous amount of pressure on Aziraphale to keep up appearances.

Makes the whole ordeal feel like a performance.

Some nights, by the time they get to the good stuff, Aziraphale is ready to hit the hay. Seeing as he despises sleep, that’s awfully telling.

Aziraphale has come to the conclusion that, often times, he’s just … how did the youths say it … down to fuck.

So this drink may have done exactly what it was meant to, and he and Crowley may have rightfully been its intended targets.

But Aziraphale isn’t about to tell Crowley that.

“What should we do now? Should we lock it away or …?”

“Seems to me there’s only one thing we can do …” Crowley looks the bottle over, gauging the level of the liquid still inside. He grins, the firelight flickering in his eyes, making him look more wicked than Aziraphale has seen him in decades.

And he takes a hefty swallow.

[oywiththefanfics]

The Merriest of Winchesters

** Rating - PG-13 Characters- Dean and Sam Winchester, You, Castiel

Let me know if you guys would want a part two! 

Dean stretched after climbing out of his Impala. His back, his knees, everything ached as if he hadn’t moved in days. He was looking forward to getting inside of Bobby’s old house and plopping himself down on a comfy bed. 

He glanced up at the house, as he always did before entering. It felt strange to be here when Bobby wasn’t. He and his brother, Sam, made a pact to never meet here again after they burned Bobby’s body. But Sam was insistent that they return for Christmas every year.

“Is it my turn to put up the tree this year?” Sam asked, unfolding himself from the front seat and grabbing his bag out of the back. 

Dean shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, “dunno.” before he walked up to the door and unlocked it with the key. 

Inside smelled... clean. It was as if it hadn’t been sitting empty for the last couple of months. Dean paused, trying to remember the last time that he or Sam had stopped by to gather supplies--or sleep. It had to have been back in August, back when he had that Washington demon case. 

Dean raised his hand to motion to his brother, his other hand reaching for his gun that he kept in his belt. Something wasn’t right. 

Sam stopped and dropped his bag, reaching for his own gun as Dean motioned for him to run around back and check out the place. Dean would take on the inside, the closed off spaces, so Sam would have a chance to get away if possible. 

Last time he set food inside, the place smelled of rain and mud, seeing as they almost never mopped the floors before leaving. The smell of roses and lavender filled his nose the further into the house he stepped. 

The lamp that sat on Bobby’s desk was on, shining bright as if somebody placed a new bulb in it recently. Something really wasn’t right. Somebody broke into this house, somebody was cleaning. Demons wouldn’t clean. Neither would a vampire or a werewolf--unless they were claiming the house for themselves... 

Dean kept his eyes wide as he slowly scouted the place, looking in every room downstairs before heading up, careful to miss that noisy stair close to the top. 

“Hello?” Dean called out, knowing that he was wasting time trying to be quiet. Whoever was in this house, it was most likely human. Someone wanting to squat for a little while, someone needing a place while the snow outside slowed down. 

No answer.

He kicked open the door to the old room that he and Sam shared once. Aiming his gun inside, he froze when his eyes landed on a small figure standing there, holding up a gun of her own, a messy bun on top of her head, and in an oversized Christmas sweater. 

“Whoa!” Dean didn’t know if he should drop his gun and hold up his hands or keep it aimed at her. She was so small, so fragile looking, he was afraid of hurting her. “Who are you??”

“Who are you?” She narrowed her eyes at him, her glasses sitting at the edge of her nose as if she had just jumped up and didn’t have enough time to push them back up. 

“I asked you first.” Dean grumbled. “Did you know Bobby?”

“I knew him.” She said confidently, holding her chin up high. “He took me in after my parents died.” 

Feeling a little better, Dean lowered his gun but still kept his grip on it. “Dean Winchester. Are you a hunter?” 

“Winchester...” Her eyes widened as if she knew that name. The handgun she was holding fell at her side, though she kept her finger on the trigger as well. Son of a bitch. You sure do get around.” 

He tilted his head to the side, unsure of what she meant by that comment.

“[Your name]. I only started hunting after the devil killed my parents.” She said, almost proudly. A little too proudly. 

It clicked after she said her name, though. He had heard of that name before. Lucifer had mentioned it, Bobby had mentioned it. It was common knowledge amongst hunters that the [your name]’s had once stood in the way of Lucifer and had died, though most hunters thought the child died as well. 

She smirked, knowing that Dean was standing there, trying to figure out the real story in his head. He was confused, he was wondering why Bobby never told him or Sam of the girl. 

“Yeah, that’s the reaction I get a lot.” She tossed her gun on the bed and glided over to the standing closet. She pulled a pair of leggings off a hanger. “I was supposed to die that night. He thought he killed me, too. Poor Luci was too cocky to check his own work and I made it out of there alive. Not without a few scars, though. Bobby found me, patched me up, explained to me what I had just been through, and I asked him to train me, I wanted to find and hunt the devil down.” 

Realizing he was still holding his gun, Dean quickly put it back in the holster and crossed his arms, watching the beautiful creature in front of him pull on the pair of leggings carefully, doing her best not to show off her goods in the process. He turned his head, letting her have some privacy. “And then we locked him in the cage.” Dean stated, wanting to know more of the story.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice carried from down the stairs. 

“Up here! It’s okay, Sam. Just a girl. Get your ass up here!” Dean called down.

She raised an eyebrow. “Both Winchester’s in one place? Last I heard, you two parted ways.”

“Yeah. well, things change.” Dean uncrossed his arms and made room for his brother, who appeared at his side, gun put away. He was panting, as if he ran miles. 

“Who...”

“We’ll catch you up over coffee. Who wants some?” She glided over to the door, motioning for the brothers to part.

++++++++++++++

Dean sipped on his black coffee, the warmth making his insides feel better after the scare from earlier. He was still concerned on why Bobby never told them about this girl, about how he adopted another child and trained her. Bobby didn’t like to train, he didn’t like kids. Then again, he did take in a young Sam and Dean.

She poured herself a second cup of coffee before sitting with her legs crossed on a foot stool by the fire that Sam had put on for everyone. “After you two caged Luci, I felt like I had no purpose anymore. I went to Bobby and asked if I could stay here, help him around the place and go on hunts with him, but he didn’t think I should put myself in danger anymore. He begged me to stop, but I couldn’t It’s who I was after that.” 

“I get that.” Dean commented, licking his lips and thinking back to all those times he tried to quit. For Lisa, for Ben, for Sam. Hell, it was the hardest thing to do.

“I had a big target on my back for a while, too. I turned my anger on the king of hell, Crowley. He was nothing compared to Lucifer, but he knew how to slip away.” 

“He does that.” Sam agreed. “But... Why are you here? Now? Why haven’t we ever seen you before?”

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve only ever actively gone to one other hunter before. His name was Rufus, and that was because Bobby told me they were best buds. Rufus helped me out with a few cases before he left me one night. After that and Bobby’s death, I just decided that it wasn’t any good to befriend a hunter.” She shrugged her shoulders. 

Again, Dean nodded his head in agreement with her. 

“I’ve always wanted to meet you two.” She sat her empty cup down and looked between both of them. “After seeing baby photos of the two of you around the house and all the stories. Bobby was so fond of you.”

Dean and Sam found themselves smiling at that thought. Dean always considered Bobby another father figure in his life. Probably more so than his own father. 

“I just... wanted something to be happy about this Christmas.” She sighed.

“Yeah...” Dean nodded. “Us too.”

“We have more to celebrate now.” Sam smiled. “There’s going to be four of us this year.” 

“Four?” She tilted her head.

“Castiel.” Sam jabbed his finger towards Dean. “Dean’s guardian.” 

“He ain’t no guardian.” Dean grumbled. “Just a friend.”

“Ohh.” She smirked. “The angel.”

++++++++++

Dean claimed the couch over the next couple of nights, seeing as she had the bedroom, Sam opted in for Bobby’s room, and there were no other beds in the house--except for the one down in the panic room. He wasn’t too keen on staying in there. 

It wasn’t so bad having a girl around. Dean liked listening to her hum classic rock and Christmas songs as she did tasks and hung up Christmas decorations. He loved to watch her struggle to get something done--like putting dishes on the top shelf. It always gave him a chuckle because she was just too short but refused to let him help her. 

Things between him and Sam hadn’t been too great this year, but with the extra company between them, Dean was starting to feel the tension lift. It didn’t feel like a chore to speak to him anymore. He didn’t like when things were like that, he wanted a relationship with his brother. They were all each other has. 

“When is Castiel showing up?” She asked one evening as they were putting up the Christmas tree. 

“He shows up whenever.” Dean shrugged his shoulders and put one of the many fishing baits on the tree. “He’s on some top secret mission we weren’t allowed to talk about.” Dean said a little mockingly. 

She giggled. Dean loved the sound. It was like little bells ringing through the air, giving him goosebumps. 

She stood up on her tip toes and placed a tree shaped air freshener on one of the branches. “Next year, I want a real Christmas tree. Like, a real one. I want to smell the pine cones and sweep up the needles every day...” 

“It would be nice to have my own house to put a tree up in.” Dean sighed, not meaning to say that out loud. He didn’t dare let anyone know how badly he wanted a normal life, how bad he wanted a white picket fence and his very own bed. 

“Someone to cuddle by the fire and watch Christmas movies with...” She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. 

Dean looked up at her from the floor, which he was sitting on to finish the lower branches. She was so cute standing there in an oversized flannel and tight jeans ripped at the knees. The tank top she wore underneath tight around her waist, showing off her curves. “You know, we have a fire.” 

“And no one to hold me. Who am I gonna ask? The angel?” She rolled her eyes.

Dean felt a tinge of jealousy at the thought of Cas holding her. “I volunteer.” He said teasingly, just incase she found it offensive. 

“Ah,” she smirked. “I should have known I’d get an offer from Dean Winchester. I’ve heard those stories.”

“Stories?” Dean was genuinely confused.

She sat down on the arm of one of the chairs and shrugged. “From other hunters, even some demons. How you pull women in, seduce them, keep them for a night, and throw them away like they are nothing to you.” 

“Hey,” Dean stood up, his face growing hot at the thought of her rejecting him. No, it wasn’t the rejection. He realized it was the way she thought about him. “First of all, I don’t throw girls away. I make sure they’re okay with something short term.”

“Oh?” She rolled her eyes up at the ceiling and sat back, exposing a little bit of her stomach as the flannel fell on either side of her. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not like we can have anything normal anyway. There’s too much moving around... I tried dating a hunter a few years back, after Bobby died. He comforted me, told me he’d keep me safe. He got too attached and wanted to quit, start a family.”

“Wish we could some times.” 

“Be nice.”

Dean watched her for a second. “You know, my offer still stands about the fire.”

[manatehispants]

Merry Christmas, Angel

Christmas! It’s without a doubt Aziraphale’s favorite holiday. Sure the humans have dates, times, and much of the true history behind the holiday wrong, but oh how the angel still loves this time of the year! The way the holiday lights lit up every corner, all the people smiling as they passed by different shops trying to decide on gifts for their loved ones. The treats and new meal ideas that came out each year. New flavors of hot chocolate was always a highlight for Aziraphale. Oh and the Christmas music! The way fresh snow sparkled in the early morning hours before humans had a chance to walk around in it. There was just so much to love about this time of the year, but what they loved the most was love and compassion that came out of human kind during this time. Everywhere they turned Aziraphale could see humans helping one another in some way. It was so beautiful. It was the day before Christmas now and all month......Yes, you heard right......Month Aziraphale had been driving Crowley up the walls with what the demon felt to be stupidness.

Every year it felt as if Aziraphale found a way new way to be even more obnoxious about one of the most meaningless holidays to ever exist. What in the name of Satan was so wonderful about Christmas? How could the angel not see that all this time of year is, is an excuse for people to buy some cheap gifts and pretend to give a damn so that they can feel good the rest of the year about not caring at all? All is Christmas is, is a show of who can present the most fake face of compassion to the world. The weather is too cold and everything has a disgusting smell of peppermint, cinnamon, pumpkin spice, or pine needle to it. Seriously, why did humans have to put these sickening flavors into everything? It showed a real lack of creativity when it came to food and drink if you asked Crowley. Not that anybody has asked their opinion on this in years now.

Aziraphale was putting some final Christmas touches on their bookshop and once again redecorating the tree they had set up in the back of the shop. They had a piping mug of hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon in it on an end table near his white as snow loveseat. It’s a loveseat that still looks almost new, but they have had it for well over sixty years now. The tree was a stunning almost seven foot tall tree. It was an impossibly beautiful green with unnatural white tips at the end that made it appear as if fresh snow sat upon the tree. It was decorated in a way that Martha Stewart herself would have been jealous of and would easily put Macy’s displays to shame. A smile played on their face as they yet again rearranged some lights on the tree as classic Christmas played throughout the store. Their mood was so uplifted by this all that they had almost forgotten Crowley was refusing to stop by tonight for a gift exchange. Not unusual for them at all. Crowley was a known Grinch around this time of the year. Well, any time fo the year really. They are a demon and it can’t always be helped. This was something Aziraphale had to constantly remind themselves of and avoid taking any of it personally.

The Serpent of Eden wasn’t as far off from Aziraphale was one might think they would be tonight. They weren’t off on Ring Nebula like they had sarcastically told the angel they would be. This had earned Crowley an annoying side comment from Aziraphale about how they should take their attitude and go off to Crab Nebula instead. Not at all funny though Aziraphale thought it to be a real “stitch”. But, no, Crowley wasn’t off on some Nebula. They were still very much on Earth. In fact, they were only kiddie corner away from the bookshop at a small pub attempting to drink as much of the bar as possible. They felt oddly......bad (and not the good kind of bad!) about raining their misery down on the Angel’s stupid parade of cheer of Christmas by refusing to be part of it. They shouldn’t feel bad about it. Aziraphale and Crowley have known each other for over six thousand years and every year its the same when it comes to Christmas. Why should this year be so bloody different? What because they saved the world together and finally established that they are......”friends” Crowley is expected to stop being a demon and give a damn about a holiday that only reminds them of how much they lost in their fall?

Christmas and all the praise to Heaven felt like an ice cold slap to their face every year. Why Aziraphale didn’t understand this frustrated Crowley to no end then again could they really blame the Angel for not understanding something that has never been told to them?

“You never open up about your feelings.” That was one Aziraphale’s new complaints now that the two had saved the world and no longer worried about being on one side of the another of a Holy War. Again, Crowley wasn’t quite sure what it was Heaven’s most ineffable angel expected. What made them think that Crowley was going to change their behavior of over six thousands basically over night? And why should they talk about their feelings? Both had been doing just fine before the whole end of the world thing without talking about them. Why was Aziraphale trying to fix something that wasn’t broken and why was Crowley sitting at the bar feeling guilt for it? The silver tongued demon downed their......who even knew what number whiskey as they slouched almost comically low in their chair.

“I don’t feel bad. They should feel bad. Their the one shoving this crap down my throat! I’m only trying to some drinks and cause some mild chaos. That’s all.”

The now rather intoxicated demon said to the empty chairs at their table. The ever present sunglasses fell down the bridge of Crowley’s nose. Taking their index finger they pushed them back. They clamped one hand on the back of their chair and slid themselves back up into a straight sitting position. Somehow their glass of whiskey was once again full. They stared at the glass had they refilled that through their powers or had the bartender stopped by and refilled it? It was that stage of the night that Crowley had now become so intoxicated they weren’t sure what the answer to this was. Whatever. It didn’t matter. It only mattered that it was full and that they definitely did not feel bad leaving the Angel alone on Christmas Eve. Crowley picked up the glass, putting it to their lips they downed the liquor rather enjoying the way it burned down their throat and warmed their insides.

“They only asked me to join to be polite ya know? They don’t really want me there. Their happier on their own......Spending Christmas Eve......Alone......”

Crowley trailed off. The mental image of someone who so dearly loved the company of people they cared being alone on a holiday they considered so important bothered the demon. It made  their whole itch and their skin crawl. Crowley’s face scrunched up as if they had bit into the world’s most sour lemon. They already knew they would be getting no peace of mind no matter how drunk they attempted to get. No, the only way they were getting any sort of peace tonight was by doing the one thing they swore they didn’t want to do......Spending the night with Aziraphale and letting the Angel have their stupid oh so pointless holiday cheer. Crowley pushes their chair away from the table. They purposely scrapped the chair hard against the floor while doing this making sure the whole place could see, hear and feel how much they despised what they were about to go do. Letting out a dramatic groan Crowley rose to their feet. They didn’t walk out of the bar, but rather did an almost stumble like dance out of there.

Now, had the demon been a tad less drunk it would have crossed their mind to do what they always do when too drunk and make themselves instantly sober up. Instead they remained drunk as a duck and just barely managed to make their way to Aziraphale’s shop without falling down. Through the shop windows and door Crowley can see the soft glow of lights. The outside is covered with different arrangements of Christmas decorations and the demon can already smell that sickening Christmas scent they so hate. It’s making them wish they had stayed back at the bar. In fact, Crowley even looks over at their shoulder and back to the bar almost longingly. It would be so easy to go back there. Easier thing in the world Crowley tells themself, but then that pesky image of Aziraphale alone for yet another Christmas comes to their mind. They scowl.

“Aziraphale should be fine! They have hot chocolate and a tree. I know they do. They called me five times to tell me about it!”

Crowley said out loud looking at the sky as if they were attempting to be plea their argument to God. Beg the All Mighty to take their guilt away and let them go back to the bar in peace. Yeah, right. Like that was ever going to happen. Crowley lets out a sigh of defeat and opens the door to the bookshop. Aziraphale always leaves it unlocked when they are there though Crowley had warned them time and again to lock it after hours. Damn Angel was way too trusting of humans following the rules and not entering their place of business because “The sign says closed”. You’d think they would have learned better by now. Crowley shakes their head as they entered shop. They have to hold onto different counter tops and shelves for balance as they walk towards the back.

“Angel! You left the door unlocked and now you got a demon in your shop!”

The cold breeze and sound of the bell above the door had been dead give aways somebody had entered the shop. Aziraphale was curled up on their loveseat reading their latest find. A rare book that dated back to the seventeenth century it was writing entirely in Latin. Looking up from their book Aziraphale was going to call out that the shop was closed when they heard a voice they knew all too well. A smile came over the Angel’s face as they placed their book down and got up. It was obvious from the way Crowley’s words had been slurred the demon was drunk, but oh!! That doesn’t matter at all! Not one bit! What matters is that they had cared enough to show!

“Okay, deep breath, Aziraphle. Don’t make a big deal over this. Mustn’t point out that this was kind of them.”

Aziraphale whispered to themselves trying to contain their excitement. They knew how much Crowley hated it when they point out the demon did something that was good. The last thing Aziraphale wanted to do tonight was make Crowley cross with them. But still! This was a big moment. It’s the first time in over six thousand years of knowing each other that Crowley has agreed to spend Christmas Eve with them.

“ANGEL! Did ya hear me? Don’t tell me you ate yourself into a food coma with all the sweets you’ve been baking up.”

It wouldn’t be shocking if the latter had happened. Aziraphale was infamous for their love of human treats and this time of the year they always had a habit of overdoing it. Since the start of December every time Crowley entered the shop there was some new assortment of Christmas treats laying out and along with a new recipe for hot chocolate. Although Gabriel was an insufferable jerk they may have a had a point about Aziraphale overindulging with human food. The smell of pine needles, fresh baked good and Christmas cheer was making the demon already feel annoyed. But then came Aziraphale from the back of their shop. The angel had the biggest dumb grin on their face as they walked towards Crowley arms wide open.

Crowley had a hand on the nearest bookshelf for support as they watched their life long friend. It was a struggle to maintain a grump exterior seeing the one being who Crowley Gabe a damn about so happy and knowing they were in part the reason for the happiness. It felt dare they say good? A chill ran down their spine. Nope! Demons don’t feel good! It most definitely did not feel good and wasn’t nice to see! Now, normally a small smile and nod of their head would have been plenty greeting from Aziraphale to Crowley. But today the angel was caught up in the holiday spirit and the kindness of Crowley being here. They did something they have never done before and usually wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. They wrapped their arms tightly around the ancient serpent and hugged them tightly. The gesture immediately had a sobering affect on Crowley. People didn’t hug them and especially not Aziraphale! Their whole body went stiff. A million and one thoughts raced through their head. What are they supposed to do? An angel hugging a demon......That can’t be good. They should shove Aziraphale away and earn the Angel never ever to do this again. After that the two should definitely never again speak of this moment. They will agree that during the holiday season they will now both stay far away as possible from each other and Crowley really will start spending the holidays on Ring Nebula!

But, the hug it feels so warm and damn it to Hell......They like this. How long has it been since Crowley allowed anyone at all near them? Have they ever allowed someone to be near them in this way? Crowley tried to think back and recall, but they can’t. Crowley swallows hard and slowly they wrap their own arms around Aziraphale. Their hands lightly pat the angel’s back. It’s an awkward pat and obvious that Crowley has never done this before or hasn’t in a long time. Now this is without a doubt the best possible gift Aziraphale could have got. They had fully expected for Crowley to pull away from them and complain about the hug. Aziraphale had even been preparing an apology mentally. There is a simple beauty in what is happening. Aziraphale gently pulls Crowley closer in. Crowley feels their body melt against Aziraphale. It’s the alcohol. They drank too much and weren’t thinking clearly. Once they sobered back up this would be one of those things the two never spoke of it at least that is what Crowley planned on. Against better judgement and everything being a demon tells them they lean into the hug. Their chin ends up resting on top of Aziraphale’s shoulder as they inhale deeply. Sugar cookies, pine needles and chocolate with a faint hint of sandalwood. All scents that Crowley claims to hate and now? They couldn’t get enough of it. Their nails dig into the absolutely hideous Christmas sweater Aziraphale is wearing. Crowley’s lips are almost against the Angel’s ear.

“Tell anyone about this and I am burning the shop to the bloody ground.”

Any other time the threat might have concerned Aziraphale, but they know Crowley would never do this. It’s a threat that is almost endearing because all it does is show that the demon trusts them. Crowley is letting them get close in a way they had never let anyone else get to them before. All the threat did was show this and show that Crowley also understood how much the shop means to Aziraphale. Slowly the blond haired angel lets go their dear friend. There is almost a sound of protest from the wily serpent, but pride manages to override their intoxicated state and they keep it in. Knowing someone for as long as these two have known one another you learn to read their unspoken words and you become aware of the movements they not only will make, but the ones they want to make. Aziraphale is all too aware that Crowley wants more and they be lying to say they didn’t too. However, now wasn’t the time.

“You’re drunker than I’ve seen you in years and you know very well if you did that I would never speak with you again.”

Aziraphale said with what was nearly a hint of amusement. There was no hint of the start of a lecture in their tone of voice. That was what Crowley had come to expect from Aziraphale in moments such as these. Crowley lets out a laugh. They can’t even try to deny what has been said. Straightening up their sweater Aziraphale puts their hands on Crowley’s shoulders. Their bright blues eyes really are beautiful Crowley thinks themself. The eyes remind them of the oceans just off the coast of Greece. The water there has the same sapphire blue to them. They should really get back there sometime.

“Either sober yourself up or go sleep this off in the back.”

“What are you my mother now? I don’t need to sober up and demons don’t sleep. Not at all. I’ve been plenty more drunk than this before.”

Aziraphale doesn’t argue back. They only nod towards the back room. Crowley rolls their eyes, but listens and stumbles their way. Immediately the demon is sprawling themself out across the loveseat that only moments ago had been occupied by Aziraphale. Waiting till Crowley closed their eyes before they turned and headed back out front. Keep their eyes closed Crowley spoke up.

“Angel where are you going?”

“To lock up the shop so that you don’t give me more grief about it later on.”

Lazily raising their right hand in the air Crowley snapped their fingers. After doing this their hand dropped down to arm rest. Aziraphale didn’t even need to ask. They already knew what Crowley did. They had locked the door. Usually Aziraphale would have told Crowley that they are capable of doing something their self. Instead they only shook their head.

“Well, thank you. I suppose I’ll finish my hot chocolate and book now while you......Lay there and sober yourself up.”

“Angel.”

Crowley half mumbled and half slurred. The demon patted their lap. Aziraphale raised a single brow. They were tempted to miracle the demon back to sobriety at this point.

“Come here.”

The angel face turned bright red. They were glad Crowley still had their eyes shut and they couldn’t see the reaction Aziraphale was having.

“Absolutely not! You’re....INTOXICATED!”

Aziraphale said they last part as if they were one of the most scandalous thing in the universe. It earns them a drunken chuckle from Crowley. Something is frustrating and somehow also endearing. The angel moved over by Crowley to grab their mug before they can pick it up the demon had reached an arm out and wrapped it around Aziraphale. They pulled the other being onto their lap causing a fresh wave of warmth to come over Aziraphale’s face. Much to Crowley’s shock they didn’t pull away or fight this. Really, how could Aziraphale fight this? They’ve wanted to be closer to Crowley for many years now, but for one reason or another they both always pulled back.

“For Heaven’s sake, Crowley!”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer to him and the most protest the angel could muster up was a roll of their baby blue eyes. They could feel Crowley chuckling against their body. It was strange how shockingly well......Nice this felt. It shouldn’t feel nice. Aziraphale is an angel sitting on the lap of a demon! Nothing about this should feel good! But Aziraphale is realizing this is where they want to be more than any other place in the universe. Right here on Crowley’s lap.

“Promise to sleep this off if you stay put.”

Clicking their tongue to the roof of their mouth Aziraphale put on a fake what could almost be described as a pout. They lean back against the one being they should never be so close to and yet feel so right being near.

“You just said demons don’t sleep.”

“Demons also lie a lot. I’ll go to sleep.”

There are a thousand arguments and lectures which Aziraphale could come up, but instead they go silent. They find their head is now leaning against Crowley’s chest and they swear they can FEEL the ancient snake of Eden smirking.

“Very well, but only if you actually sleep.”

Another small laugh from Crowley. They pull Aziraphale closer. Both are cursing themselves for how right something so forbidden feels, but they aren’t only cursing themselves for that. They are also cursing themselves for not acting on this soon; for time lost and wasted.

“I need to tell you something.”

Aziraphale finds that their throat feels dry. Their nervous that at any moment Crowley is going to come back to their senses, push them off and leave the shop. Maybe this will be the thing that finally pushes their dear friend away for good. They don’t want to answer the demon. They are scared for the first time in a very long time that they may say the wrong thing. It takes effort on their part to make the words come out.

“Yes?”

“Merry Fucking Christmas, Angel.”

Blinking a few times Aziraphale opens their mouth to lecture Crowley on the language and instead they find themselves laughing out loud. They very lightly elbow the demon who’s lap they now occupy. Crowley let out a playful groan. One that sounds suspiciously more pleasure filled than playfully pain filled. Nope! Aziraphale was absolutely not going to think on that!

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.”

With this being said Crowley kept their word to their good friend. They immediately forced them self into a state of mimicked sleep. Aziraphale smiled as they felt Crowley’s breathing slow down into a peaceful rhythm. Like demons, angels too require no sleep and still, Aziraphale finds them self closing their eyes and dozing off too already knowing this will be the best Christmas they have ever had when they awake.

[mygalfriday]

basically: crowley has tattoos and every few centuries, aziraphale discovers a new one. features pining crowley and oblivious aziraphale ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

{ao3}

i can’t say the words, so i wrote you into my verse

i. chest; greece, 615.

Aziraphale has a particular fondness for the Greeks - most especially for their liberal use of ingredients like honey and olive oil. In a little room he’d rented for the night right in the heart of Athens, he sighs happily to himself as he gazes down at the simple, delicious spread on the table before him. Dolmadakia stuffed with ground lamb and rice, vegetable soup seasoned with vinegar and herbs, and feta wrapped in phyllo pastry, drizzled with honey.

Breathing in deeply the rich smells of his meal, he whispers a prayer of thanks and reaches eagerly for his plate. A spoonful of grape skin, lamb, and rice halfway to his mouth, he startles at a succession of rapid knocks at the door. With no one around to see, he allows himself a moment to visibly deflate as he slowly lowers the spoon back to his plate.

“Bugger,” he mutters, casting a mournful glance at the steam still rising from his food. He flinches at the sound of a palm slapping impatiently against his door and musters his patience. “One moment, please!”

A low, familiar voice replies dryly from the corridor. “Take your time, angel.”

Aziraphale stands so quickly his chair scrapes across the floor. “Crowley?”

He hasn’t seen Crowley since they shared oysters in Rome nearly a century ago and Aziraphale can’t deny the idea of seeing him again is more than a little pleasing. He pauses briefly before he opens the door, struggling to rein in the delighted smile on his face. There aren’t exactly guidelines for the sort of relationship he has with Crowley but Aziraphale is fairly certain he shouldn’t be so happy to see his natural enemy.

Honestly, he chides himself. Imagine if Gabriel saw you.

Even with that sobering thought in mind, he can barely keep his facial expression in check as he swings open the door. Crowley stands draped against the doorframe like he’s forgotten he has bones to hold him up. Suppressing an unexpected wave of fondness, Aziraphale forces a scowl.

“What are you doing-” He pauses, taking in the droop of Crowley’s short hair, the sweat beading on his brow, the way he hasn’t bothered to adjust the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Just as he’s about to reprimand him for showing up already drunk, Aziraphale spots the bright red stain darkening the shoulder of his linen tunic. He breathes out, horrified. “Crowley, you’re bleeding.”

Wearily, Crowley arches an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Get in here.”

Crowley puts up only a token protest as Aziraphale ushers him inside and shuts the door, sinking into the vacated seat at the table and propping his injured arm up beside the abandoned plate. As Aziraphale hovers anxiously behind him, Crowley leans in and sniffs curiously. “What, no apple?”

Watching blood seep into the tablecloth, Aziraphale stifles a noise of concern behind pursed lips. “They’re out of season.” He snaps his fingers and a bundle of medical supplies appears on the table. “Let me see, please.”

Crowley sighs, as though terribly inconvenienced, and shrugs out of his tunic. “S’just a scratch.”

If that were true, he wouldn’t have shown up out of the blue, weakened and in pain, to knock relentlessly on Aziraphale’s door. Rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, Aziraphale pauses as his eyes skitter from the supplies spread out on the table to Crowley’s exposed chest. To his shame, the first thing he notices is not the deep gash cutting a bold line across Crowley’s shoulder and bicep but rather the black ink scrawled down his left pectoral.

Aziraphale blinks as it slowly dawns on him exactly what he’s looking at. Crowley has a tattoo. Well, another one anyway. Unlike the small serpent curled just beneath his temple, this one takes up far more space. It’s a sword, strikingly similar to the one Aziraphale used to carry before he gave it away all those years ago. Instead of flames enveloping the blade, however, a snake curls sinuously around the weapon like a lover. A slender, forked tongue brushes the hilt of the sword.

All of this takes mere seconds of study but Aziraphale flicks his gaze away guiltily anyway. Swallowing, he redirects his attention to the gash on Crowley’s shoulder and hopes the demon hadn’t noticed his stare. Luckily for him, Crowley is far too preoccupied with commandeering the wine Aziraphale had left out.

Leaning close to study the ragged cut seeping blood onto the tablecloth, Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly. “What happened?”

Crowley shrugs. “Wrong place, wrong time. Bloody Thessalonica.” He grimaces, watching Aziraphale reach for the antiseptic. “Can’t you just-” He waggles his fingers, clearly attempting to convey an angelic miracle.

“Not before I clean it.” Aziraphale frowns, prodding at the wound and ignoring Crowley’s answering hiss. “If it’s already infected, closing the cut won’t do you any favors.” Without looking up, he pushes the wine toward Crowley. “Drink up.”

As Crowley drinks deeply from the bottle, Aziraphale takes his arm and makes more noises of disapproval over the wound but it’s mostly for show. A weak attempt to distract himself from the warmth of Crowley’s skin beneath his palm and the mystery of his strange new tattoo. Even as he cleans the gash thoroughly, his gaze wanders curiously back to Crowley’s chest. The snake, wrapped seductively around the sword, seems to be staring back at him.

He clears his throat. “Couldn’t you simply heal yourself?”

“If I could, I’d have done it, wouldn’t I?” Glaring into the middle distance, Crowley mutters something under his breath about stupid kids getting themselves into trouble and would have looked bad on the paperwork. Catching sight of Aziraphale’s soft expression, he scowls. “Oh, just shut up and work your magic, angel.”

Smothering a fond smile - mostly because he has a feeling it would only irritate Crowley to see it - Aziraphale sets aside the bloodied cloth and presses a gentle hand over the wound. Crowley stiffens at his touch and as Aziraphale begins to will muscle and skin to knit itself back together again, he grimaces. In an effort to distract him from the sting, Aziraphale finally address the elephant in the room. “So…that’s new.”

“Hmm?” Looking dazed, Crowley follows his gaze to the tattoo prominently displayed on his chest and grunts. “Oh. S’a tribute.”

Aziraphale hums, watching Crowley’s skin heal over. The gash disappears and with a little nudge, so does the scar left behind. Shiny, unblemished skin is all that remains. Unable to help himself, he strokes a fingertip over his handiwork and feels Crowley shudder beneath his touch. He pulls away as if burned, suitably chastised. “A tribute?” He asks, hoping Crowley doesn’t notice the flush of his cheeks. “To what?”

With an evasive shrug, Crowley leans back in his chair to examine his healed shoulder and says, “My origins, of course.” Before Aziraphale can prod any further, he nods his thanks and reaches for the wine once more. “Are you going to share that bloody pastry or what?”

ii. ribcage; versailles, 1785.

Strolling the gardens of the Trianon Palace, a copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther tucked under his arm, Aziraphale breathes in the warm summer air and allows himself a stolen moment to miss the Garden. Standing in the twilight, surrounded on all sides by trees and sweet-smelling wildflowers, the sound of a trickling waterfall in the distance, he can almost imagine he’s back there again. Standing guard over the Almighty’s beloved humans and doing his best not to laugh at any of the serpent’s jokes.

Speaking of the devil himself…

He freezes, grip tightening briefly around the spine of his book, as he spots Crowley wading out of the stream just ahead of him. He isn’t surprised to see him, of course. They’ve both been guests of the Queen for the past several weeks, dining on roast duck and swilling champagne, skirting the edges of her extravagant revelries and catching each other’s eyes from across the room.

While Aziraphale had come to Versailles in hopes of softening the violence of the revolution he can smell coming, Crowley had insisted he was only there for the parties. Aziraphale isn’t entirely convinced but he doesn’t press the issue. It’s rather nice to have a familiar face around.

So no, it isn’t surprise he feels as he watches Crowley emerge bare and dripping out of the stream and onto dry ground. The setting sun casts him in warm shades of red and orange, setting his copper hair alight and doing something rather spectacular to his eyes; turning them a molten shade of amber that’s almost luminescent. Droplets of water glisten on his chest, catching the sun just enough to appear like glowing drops of light. Unmoving, his traitorous human heart seemingly lodged in his throat, Aziraphale fancies for a moment he might be looking at Crowley before he Fell - ethereal and beautiful, bathed in the light of heaven.

Not surprise at all, he thinks, wrenching his gaze away. Something else entirely; something he has not the courage to examine properly.

Aziraphale unclenches his fingers around the binding of his von Goethe, letting out a slow, uneven breath. Pasting on a smile, he forces his numb legs to move in the direction of Crowley rummaging on the ground for his clothes. His old friend hasn’t noticed him yet, fastening his trousers and running a slender hand through his damp hair. He scans the ground, clearly looking for something, and mutters aha when he finds his tunic drooping from the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree.

As Crowley lifts an arm to snatch his tunic from the clutches of a wych elm, Aziraphale’s gaze catches and holds on the sight of black lettering inked down his ribcage. A few more quiet steps and he’s just close enough to make out what it says:

doubt that the stars are fire

doubt that the sun doth move

doubt truth be a liar

Hamlet had written those very words to Ophelia. Crowley pulls his tunic over his head, effectively hiding the tattoo from Aziraphale’s curious gaze but not before he notices the final verse is missing. But never doubt I love. He might have wondered why Crowley omitted that particular line but on reflection, it’s easy enough to understand. Love is hardly a demon’s territory but doubt? Aziraphale imagines Crowley must be old friends with the concept by now.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, not even glancing at him. As if he’d known he was there all along. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have waited.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, fighting back a blush at having been caught staring. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Crouching to fetch his boots from a patch of wild lavender, Crowley glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Tempting an angel to skinny dip? Would have gotten a commendation for that one.”

Grateful to the ever-fading light for hiding his pink cheeks, Aziraphale scowls. “Very funny.”

Crowley snorts, sinking gracefully into the grass to pull on his shoes. “There’s a masquerade tonight,” he says, brushing a smudge of dirt from the supple leather of his boot. “You going?”

Eyeing him uncertainly, Aziraphale admits, “I hadn’t decided. Why? Up to no good again?”

“Oi, I can’t help it the whole ‘let them eat cake’ thing was taken out of context like that. The humans did that without any help from me.” Crowley lifts his head, his gaze softened and imploring without his dark glasses to hide his eyes. Aziraphale wonders if he knows he’s very nearly pouting. “Come on, it’ll be boring without you. Just standing about fending off Lamballe and watching Her Majesty make eyes at von Fersen the Younger all night.”

Shifting uneasily, Aziraphale darts his gaze out over the trickling stream and the forest beyond it, unwilling to let on that he had decided to go the moment Crowley had asked it of him. It just wouldn’t do to reveal how eager he is to spend time with the demon. “And you’ll behave yourself?”

“Merely a spectator.” Crowley eyes him soberly, placing a lofty hand over his heart. “On Satan’s honor.”

With a huff, Aziraphale relents, “Oh, fine. But only because they’ll be serving those scrumptious little tarts with the raspberry filling.”

It isn’t technically a lie. He does have quite a soft spot for Marie’s decadent taste in pastries.

Crowley grins at him and busies himself with pulling on his other boot, looking as pleased as though he’d accomplished some sort of temptation. As if Aziraphale had ever been tempted to do anything but what he’d asked in the first place. Aziraphale doesn’t mind. Letting him believe he’s getting away with something is far better than the alternative.

Hovering over his shoulder, Aziraphale lets his gaze linger briefly on the loose-fitting tunic Crowley wears, damp and clinging to his skin in some places - hiding another of those tattoos he seems so fond of. He bites his lip. “I thought you preferred the funny ones.”

In the middle of tucking his trouser leg into his boot, Crowley stills. His jaw clenches so tightly a muscle in his cheek twitches. He looks away, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s bewildered stare. For a long moment, he almost believes Crowley isn’t going to say anything at all but after a tense beat in which Aziraphale wants to shove his foot into his mouth, he finally replies. “Still do.”

He offers no other explanation and Aziraphale hasn’t the nerve to question him further, watching in silence as Crowley climbs to his feet and brushes the grass from his clothes. He runs his fingers through his hair one more time and turns on his heel, striding away. Aziraphale stares after him, wondering if perhaps Crowley had changed his mind about the masquerade after all.

Silently admonishing himself for opening his mouth in the first place, he almost misses the way Crowley pauses and inclines his head. “Come on, angel,” he calls over his shoulder. “Before they run out of those tarts.”

iii. ankle; soho, 1956.

Dante’s Inferno is in the wrong place. Someone - possibly a customer, or possibly (probably) Crowley - had moved it into the non-fiction section. Balancing a stack of wayward poetry in one hand, Aziraphale reaches for the slim little volume, intending to stick it back where it belongs, when the ruckus nearby reaches a level verging on unholy.

Well you said you was high-classed, well that was just a lie…

He sighs, leaving Inferno where it is and dropping the rest of the poetry as well. Concentrating on inventory when one has a demon only one room away, warbling drunkenly along with the music playing on the telly is quite simply impossible. Dusting off his hands, Aziraphale abandons the task altogether and moves toward the source of the noise.

Crowley had shown up this afternoon with a bottle of wine and some of those indecently expensive chocolate biscuits from Waitrose that Aziraphale likes so much, using them as bribery to slink inside and commandeer the sofa. From what Aziraphale can discern by the sheer noise, Crowley had also taken the initiative to move the small television - kept mainly for his use anyway - downstairs from Aziraphale’s tiny flat.

Ducking his head into the back room only confirms his suspicions. Sprawled across the sofa as though he has no control over his own limbs, Crowley lounges with a bottle of wine dangling from his fingertips as he stares at the television and croons along with the man on the screen. His bare feet wiggle on the coffee table, as though he can’t keep them still. He isn’t the only one, apparently. The audience on the telly is going wild. A few of the young ladies seem to be having some sort of fit.

Aziraphale really can’t see what all the fuss is about. Though as he watches the dark-haired young man onscreen gyrate his hips to scandalized applause, he has to wonder if he and Crowley had ever met. “Must you listen to that racket quite so loudly?”

Looking well past tipsy and on his way to belligerent, Crowley glances up with a frown. He shifts to look at Aziraphale properly and one trouser leg shifts just enough to reveal a flash of his ankle. And another tattoo. A feather of all things, glittering white and silver as it curves and curls delicately over the fine bones of Crowley’s ankle.

Aziraphale stares at it, momentarily hypnotized.

“Oi, he’s the next big thing, I’ll have you know.” Crowley grins broadly, sudden and sharp. “I’ve made sure of it.”

Aziraphale scoffs, forcing his eyes away from the tattoo. “This newfangled…bebop you’re so terribly fond of is nothing more than a flash in the pan, my dear.” He steps around the coffee table and takes the bottle from Crowley’s slack fingers, miracling a pair of glasses instead. He pours them both a generous measure, pointedly refusing to ask the question he wants to ask.

Why a white feather? Why not black?

He can only assume it must be another tribute - perhaps to who he was before he Fell - and bringing it up might spoil Crowley’s lazy good humor. As curious as he is, Aziraphale isn’t willing to risk it. As disruptive as Crowley’s visits tend to be, he prefers them infinitely to the ringing silence when he leaves.

The flash of delicate white at Crowley’s slender ankle lingers in the corner of his eye but he does not give in to the temptation to look at it again. Instead, he settles on the armchair across from the sofa and sips primly at his wine. Gaze fixed determinedly on the television screen, he says, “Mark my words, Crowley. In ten years, no one will even remember this Presley fellow’s name.”

Crowley squawks, laughter in his voice as he sits up to argue with him. His trouser leg shifts again, hiding his ankle - and the feather - from view once more. Aziraphale, caught up in the easy familiarity of bickering with Crowley, forgets all about it. Really.

iv. lower back; dowling estate, 2013

Mrs. Dowling’s plants look nothing like the ones in Crowley’s flat, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts. He pokes at a lackluster Russian Sage and tries to remember the tips Crowley had given him, carefully ignoring the more ominous ones such as don’t show the little bastards any weakness. As far as he can tell, he’s doing all the things he’s supposed to do but it isn’t quite enough.

Aziraphale sighs mournfully. He hadn’t been very good at looking after the last garden he was in charge of so he has no idea what made Crowley think the role of gardener would suit him. Luckily for the roses, he isn’t above a miracle or two to keep them from wilting. “Not to worry,” he murmurs to a particularly ill-looking bloom. He presses a fingertip to the drooping petals, watching as the color brightens. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

“You can’t make me!”

Less startled than he should be by the childish outburst, Aziraphale glances wearily across the yard as Warlock hurdles past at speed. He glances over his shoulder, as if to make sure his nanny is still following, before he takes off around the side of the guest house and disappears. Sure enough, Nanny Ashtoreth isn’t far behind. Aziraphale smothers a grimace the moment he spots Crowley stalking across the grounds.

Their little charge has been particularly…hellish today and Aziraphale suspects Crowley of harboring illicit fantasies of luring the boy out to the pool and pushing him in. Normally perfectly composed and impeccably dressed - not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her jacket - Nanny Ashtoreth looks a bit rattled this afternoon. Hair askew and curls going limp, she looks quite simply murderous. Jacket long since abandoned, her expensive blouse has come untucked and the normally starched collar is rumpled beyond hope.

Hissing irritably about little boys who refuse to take a sodding nap, Nanny Ashtoreth pauses to scoop up a Loki action figure left abandoned in the middle of the yard. The rumpled blouse slips momentarily up her back and that’s when Aziraphale spots it. Just there, at the small of Crowley’s back - a little dove with its wings spread in flight.

Hidden behind the roses, Aziraphale allows himself a moment to stare.

What does a demon possibly need with a dove tattoo? A symbol of peace and hope is hardly Crowley’s forte. It is a lovely depiction, though. The bird is plump and pure white, completely perfect. It reminds Aziraphale of the ones he so often liked to use in his magic tricks when he practiced. Crowley had always rolled his eyes but he’d never said no to a demonstration. Perhaps he had a soft spot for the creatures after all.

And then Nanny straightens, toy clutched in an angry fist, and the tattoo disappears beneath fine silk once more. Aziraphale blinks, feeling his cheeks heat as he glances away a moment too late. She spots him lurking behind the roses and stifles a smirk. “Brother Francis,” she mutters, giving a stiff nod. “How’s the garden?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, too rattled to bother with the accent. “Just…pipping.”

Eyeing a drooping azalea Aziraphale had missed in his earlier miracling, Nanny Ashtoreth adjusts her sunglasses and fluffs her hair. With a dainty sniff, she leans in close and purses carefully painted lips against soft pink petals. Aziraphale stares, bewildered. And then her lips curl back in a vicious snarl and she hisses ferociously. The azalea trembles and quakes. Aziraphale imagines if it had a mouth, it would have shrieked.

“Crowl - Nanny Ashtoreth, please!” Aziraphale shoos her away, patting the flower with consoling fingertips and refusing to admit that the petals do seem to have perked up a bit. “I refuse to garden with fear.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself, Brother Francis.”

With one last warning glower at the azaleas over the rim of her glasses, she turns on her heel and marches away after the missing Antichrist. Aziraphale turns away from her retreating back, forcefully shoving thoughts of doves and nannies far from his mind. “Hush now,” he says, crooning at the quivering flora around him. “The wily old serpent is gone, I promise.”

v. hipbone; mayfair, 2019

Despite the certainty that he would never admit even to the Almighty that he had ever imagined such things in the first place, Aziraphale quietly admits to himself that actually being with Crowley is not quite what he’d thought it would be. It’s far, far better.

Even in his fondest imaginings -  succumbed to only when alone and well into his cups - he had been sure any encounter would leave him feeling at once deliciously fulfilled and vaguely guilty about falling into temptation. And the first part is certainly true. Everything about falling into bed with Crowley had been delicious; more than any delicacy he’s ever dined on. But Aziraphale is quite relieved to discover not a smidgen of guilt. With Crowley’s arms around him and the soft, sweet sound of his even breathing, what on earth and in heaven is there to feel guilty about?

Head on Crowley’s stomach, Aziraphale hums a few bars of Moonlight Serenade and tries to come up with some other way to celebrate their first night of freedom from Above and Below. Happily, nothing else at all comes to mind. Nothing else could possibly compare. He turns his head, nuzzling Crowley’s belly.

Above him, Crowley hisses out a content sigh.

Aziraphale bites back a smile, opening his eyes and blinking at the ink etched neatly into Crowley’s hipbone. A series of numbers and decimal points listed seemingly at random. He lifts a hand and traces a fingertip over it cautiously. Quietly delighting in the knowledge that after years of turning away and clenching his hands, he can reach out and touch whenever he likes.

At this point in the evening, there isn’t truly a bit of Crowley that he hasn’t touched yet but he’d been careful so far not to pay particular attention to any of his tattoos despite his fascination with them. It had always seemed to be a subject Crowley broached with reluctance in the past and he hadn’t wanted to be the cause of Crowley pulling away from him.

Now, he feels Crowley tense beneath him as he finally musters the courage to ask, “What’s this?”

“S’a tattoo.”

Aziraphale holds in a sigh. “Yes, dear. I can see that. But of what?”

“Coordinates.”

“You’re being terribly enigmatic.” Aziraphale prods a fingertip into Crowley’s bony hip and hides a smile when Crowley swats at him weakly. “Coordinates to what? Or where, rather?”

Crowley heaves a put-upon sigh and avoids his gaze, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “Home.”

Realizing he won’t be getting any more hints from Crowley, Aziraphale begins to mentally review every location he can think of. Hell? Definitely not. Eden had never really been a home to either of them. His flat here in Mayfair is hardly lived-in. If he thinks back far enough, he can remember a little villa in Spain that Crowley had been relatively fond of…

“Oh, for someone’s sake - I can hear you thinking.” Crowley groans, shifting beneath him. “Don’t make me say it, angel.”

Keeping his hand curled over the tattoo on Crowley’s hip, Aziraphale lifts his head with a baffled frown. “Say what?”

Crowley clenches his jaw so tightly Aziraphale can almost hear his teeth grinding together. A high spot of color appears on his cheekbones and he breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring. Just when Aziraphale is about to apologize for prying and attempt a go at kissing him back into good humor, Crowley growls softly and admits, “The bookshop, all right? It’s coordinates to the bloody bookshop.”

Home.

Aziraphale stares at him, utterly poleaxed. “You-” A sudden thought occurs to him, even as warmth floods his veins like heavenly sunlight. “The sword and the snake-”

Crowley sighs. “You. Me. Our beginning.”

“The Hamlet verse-”

“You liked that one.” Crowley sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and admits with a mumble to the ceiling, “Liked me for making it a hit.”

“I liked you anyway.” Aziraphale hesitates, thirsty for answers. “The dove?”

Crowley huffs and mutters, “You and your bloody magic tricks.”

Burying a smile in the warmth of Crowley’s flat belly, Aziraphale murmurs, “Knew you liked them.”

“Don’t.” Crowley snarls vehemently, then confesses softly, “Like you though.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to suspect.” Aziraphale tilts his head up just in time to see Crowley roll his eyes. “And…the feather on your ankle?”

Peering down at him in exasperation, Crowley asks, “You really don’t know?”

Aziraphale gazes back at him, feeling inexplicably bashful. “A tribute?”

A smirk curls Crowley’s tempting mouth. “Something like that.”

Swallowing tightly, Aziraphale ducks his head and stares with stinging eyes at the coordinates etched into Crowley’s lovely skin. All these years - centuries - of silent yearning, sure that a demon couldn’t possibly be capable of love, let alone with an angel - and Crowley has been harboring his own affections in plain sight. He has burned right alongside Aziraphale and instead of being a coward like him and saying nothing or saying words he thought might scare Aziraphale away, he’d made his body a love letter written in permanent ink. A monument to a longing never to be acknowledged, nor erased.

“Crowley,” he breathes, overwhelmed. So in love he wonders how this earthly vessel can bear it. “You soft-hearted serpent.”

Lifting his head from his pillow just enough to glower, Crowley threatens, “I will push you right out of this bed, Aziraphale. Don’t think I won’t.”

Aziraphale beams, lowering his mouth to the bookshop coordinates and sealing them with a kiss. Peering at Crowley through his lashes and pleased to find his annoyed expression utterly soft once more, he admits, “I love you awfully, you know.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sighs, dropping his head back to his pillow. His fingers begin to sift through his white-blonde hair and Aziraphale leans into the gentle touch with all the eagerness of six thousand years. “I know.”

vi. hands; south downs, 2025

The scent of freshly brewed Earl Grey and warm scones fills the breakfast nook as Aziraphale settles into the chair across from Crowley. With the windows open, the fragrance of Crowley’s prize begonias wafts through on the morning breeze, along with the sound of little Liam James down the road romping about with his new puppy.

Across the table, Crowley appears half-asleep as he scrolls through his mobile. Still in his black silk pajamas and his hair sleep-rumpled, he doesn’t appear to notice Aziraphale’s fond study of the pillow crease on his flushed cheek. “Any plans for the day, my dear?”

Crowley reaches for a scone slathered in cream. “Just threatening the wisteria.”

“Go easy on the poor things - it isn’t their fault we’ve had so much rain recently.” Aziraphale sniffs when Crowley only eyes him balefully, unmoved. “At least try being nice first.”

“And reward their bad behavior?” Crowley scoffs, stirring his tea. “I don’t think so.”

In the middle of reaching for another scone, Aziraphale doesn’t reply, distracted by the brand new ink on his ring finger. It still startles him every time he catches a glimpse of black out of the corner of his eye but in the best possible way. Like browsing his bookshelves and finding a splendid first edition he’d forgotten he had. He bites his lip, twisting his hand this way and that to admire it. “Are you certain it suits me?”

Crowley pauses mid-sip of Earl Grey and the smug glint in his eye is entirely indecent. “Like nothing else, angel.”

He smiles, his heart fluttering like a mad thing in his chest as Crowley strokes his bare foot over Aziraphale’s calf beneath the table. “And yours, my dear,” he says, gazing tenderly at the matching eternity symbol winding its way elegantly around Crowley’s ring finger. “I do believe it’s my favorite so far.”

“Yeah?” Crowley leans back in his chair, teacup cradled in his palm and his foot making a scandalous path up Aziraphale’s leg. The morning sun slanting through the open window makes his eyes glow amber. A slow, wide grin curls his mouth and Aziraphale thinks fleetingly, joyfully: husband.  “Mine too.”

[edda-blattfe]

Holiday Headcanons

(A.k.a. Writing warm up, cause lord knows I need to get back in the game.)

- Night Raven, a bleak, desolate institution dedicated to the mastery of magic in all forms. Only the strong of spirit can see past the dismal stone walls, into the beating wealth of knowledge it truly possesses. It is not place for the feint of heart....that is, until winter comes around.

- The holiday season gives our beloved headmaster, Crowley, a chance to “warm up” the dreary castle-turned-school with cheerful tinsel, Yule trees, lights, candles, and many more delightful decorations. The hallways are no longer dreadfully dull places where the dearly departed and horrific wonders lurk, but sparkling pine scented pathways. Classrooms no longer seem like prisons to students and all the fields as far as the eye can see is dusted with shimmering snow. Fireplaces are constantly being fed logs, offering everyone some relief from the cold. Yes, Night Raven college looks splendid this time of year.

- No one knows who, or even why they do it, but every morning throughout December a copious amount of festive cookies and pastries are set out in the cafeteria. The cooks swear it’s not them, and the school records support their claims. Students have tried to catch the culprit for decades now, with no success. There are several theories flying around. Some say it’s the ghost of the first cook at Night Raven coming back to help cheer on the students for finals; others believe that it’s Crowley himself wanting to give his students a helping hand. In any case, the food is always phenomenal and greatly appreciated.

- Each dormitory is responsible for their own decorations and function organization. It’s become a sort of competition between Pomefiore, Scarabia, and Heartslabyul. You can probably guess how these dormitories do their thing, so let’s talk about why the others don’t partake.

- Savanaclaw has a long history of not caring if their holiday spirit is visible or not. If someone wants a tree they’ll put it up and pull out the old ornaments, but that’s as far as it goes unless someone wants to volunteer. There is a punching bag dressed as Santa Clause that Leona actually takes the effort to pull out of the closet himself. He gets a kick out of seeing the first year’s reaction to it.

- Ignihyde isn’t the most competitive when it comes to holiday stuff. Most of their decorations are led lights and sticks to a blue, white and silver color pallet. If Idia is feeling a little festive he’ll stick a pair of antlers on his drones with a red light where their “nose” would be.

- Octavinelle is waaay too busy with the holiday rushes at the cafe and contract signings to care about competition. Though, they’d have a good chance of winning if they did! The restruant looks like the holidays stuffed into a single glass ornament for the entire month. Tinsel and holly is literally everywhere! You’re gonna want to watch your step, there’s a few sticks of mistletoe hanging in the mess of cheer.

- Diasomnia tried to join in...but unlike the school, there is no way of dispelling the natural eerie atmosphere that hangs over this dorm. It’s like there’s a spell over the place that turns even the cheeriest of decorations into horrific, macabre pieces straight out of the Victorian era. The dorm members have abandoned all hope of trying to compete and have come to embrace their dark holiday vibe. Besides, they always win the Halloween competitions. It’s only fair that the others get a chance of winning something!

- Vil, Kalim, and Riddle are all hell-bent on winning this year’s competition....it’s a little frightening, to be honest.

- Pomefiore always gears towards a crystal and snowy wonderland theme that matches their dorm’s atmosphere beautifully! In the morning, light streams through the windows and floods the common rooms with glittering crystal rainbows more enchanting than the snowy wonderland outside.

- Scarabia focuses less on theme and more on “how many lights can we put up without violating Crowley’s regulations on light pollution.” EVERYTHING is covered in lights. It’s so strong that dorm members will wear sunglasses at night to avoid ruining their eyes. Jamil makes sure they all get shut off by around 9pm for the sake of sleep.

- Heartslabyul takes a more traditional homey approach. They have trees decked out in glistening ball ornaments and whatever the members had picked up from Sam’s. Golden tinsel is everywhere, as are bells and seasonal tea cups. Red, green and gold are the go to colors here, with occasional wonky pink flamingo wearing a Santa hat or multicolored hedgehog breaking the consistency. Decorative present boxes are everywhere and are typically stuffed with candy (cause Riddle expects to find something in them, he ain’t having any of that empty box nonsense!) for all the members.

- Azul’s favorite part of the holiday season is definitely the music. Say what you will about carols, this man will be seated at his glorious piano, tickling the ivories to whatever holiday diddy is stuck in his head at the time. Karaoke for the month is dedicated to holiday music and nobody misses a night, not even Vil.

- The trouble trio (Lilia, Kalim, and Ace) use this opportunity to sing things like Alvin and the Chipmunk’s “Christmas Don’t Be Late” and “Jingle Bell Rock”. Their rendition of “Santa Baby” remains their best work up to date.

- Vil, Rook, and Epel prefer to sing the “darker” Christmas hymns, like “What child is this?”, “O come, O come, Emmanuel”, and “Carol of the Bells”. It’s a hauntingly beautiful display that earns their audiences’ full attention. (Vil probably gets the whole dorm to do the Carol of the bells, now that I think about it)

- Lilia has a love/hate relationship with this season. On one hand, you have tons of sugary sweet treats literally hanging off tree branches. On the other, elf jokes. Silver gave him elf pajamas as a joke once; it wasn’t pretty. (Lil gremlin went feral on his ass so fast... *imagines Silv video taping Lilia opening his present and seeing the exact moment he realizes what it is before tackling the camera head on...all you see are furious red eyes and fangs before the footage cuts out*)

- Ruggie isn’t a fan of the holidays, but he’s there for all the food!

- Believe it or not, Jade and Floyd actually takes it easy on late payments this time of year, Azul is also more prone to giving extensions. They’ve all seen or read “A Christmas Carol” and know first hand that ghosts are, in fact, very real. They ain’t gonna make Scrooge’s mistake!

- Jamil can leave or take the holiday season, he really doesn’t care that much about it. Nevertheless, he still puts in a lot of effort to make the holidays special for Kalim, who loves it with a childish passion.

- Ortho hasn’t had many Holidays, so he’s still very much in awe of everything.

- Mozus actually really likes the holiday season...at home with Lucious and a book in his armchair placed before a roaring fire, enjoying the peace and quiet.

I’m leaving off there for now, but if you’d like more holiday headcanons shoot me an ask! Gtg work on other stuff. Hope y’all enjoyed!

[ladyoutlier]

Nothing too original but: Some first date / first kiss would be lovely! Oh and also Crowley in cute panic mode when Aziraphale finally catches up to him romantically.

Read on AO3

It had been seventeen hours and 42 minutes since Aziraphale had told Crowley that he loved him. The demon would have the time memorized down to the second, but he had been too stunned by the returned declaration of love that the second, and quite a few more, had passed before he had regained his composure.

And after that moment, time had slipped away. Ooey gooey, mind-melting, light-headedness of having 6000 years worth of pining finally pay off would do that even to Satan himself. Y’know, if Satan ever found himself in that position—which was far from likely, although no one really knew who the Antichrist’s mother was. Crowley was exceptionally vulnerable to it, but Aziraphale did that to him. Made him lose his composure, even if it usually was only internally.

At some point the sun had risen, and a night full of talking about things Crowley never thought he would say out loud had passed. At roughly eight sharp, Aziraphale had suggested that Crowley go off to water his plants and meet him back here at his bookshop at three. Perhaps they would spend the afternoon somewhere. Perhaps Hyde Park. He didn’t say first date directly, but they both knew that’s what it was. They had their own wordless way of speaking that only a millennium or two of frequent interactions could create.

Crowley did not water his plants at his flat. There was so much more to do. Planning. Oh so much planning. How did dates even work? He had his fair share of seduction jobs in the past, but those didn’t really follow up with an ongoing relationship. Dates were practically as foreign to him as Heaven itself. You dress up for them, yeah? But a park was hardly a place to sport a penguin suit. Bring flowers? That’s a thing. There’s a whole language to that though. Certain flowers mean specific things, and as big of a plant enthusiast as Crowley was, he had no idea what meant what. Ask a flower person? Botanists? No, they were called florists. There had to be one of those nearby. Did he have time for that? Surely. Worst case, he’d miracle himself some more.

Would it be too cheesy for him to play “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” on the ride? Yeah, probably. He really should’ve thought this out more. Well, he did. Quite a lot over the centuries. But all those thoughts found themselves submerged deep within himself to face tortures worse than the most vile punishments of Hell. He could vow for that.

If he had known that he actually had a shot with Aziraphale—that one day they’d be actually be going on a date together—maybe he would’ve let those thoughts play out a bit more. If he had properly started preparing for this as early as the Wall of Eden, he’d probably be a whole lot more confident and a whole lot more calm right now. He couldn’t stop pacing around.

Maybe flowers were too cliche. Too puppy love teenager mushy rubbish. But a gift was necessary. That’s what these things were all about. A thank you for giving a horrible demon a chance. A symbol of love. Yeah, that was still weird. Aziraphale really did love him. Wow. Isn’t that something? Might as well have dumped a bucket of holy water on him because that thought alone melts him into a pool on the linoleum.

He could always steal that book back from that American girl with the glasses. Aziraphale had really liked that thing, although he probably wouldn’t be all that happy with him immorally acquiring it. AH! If his heart could calm down for just three seconds, he could think a bit clearer. Maybe he’d just get rid of it. Not like he needed it after all. But that wouldn’t be very nice. Not that he wanted to be nice. Just he wouldn’t even be here without that infernal organ.

He could pull a Van Gogh but instead of an ear just give Aziraphale his whole heart. Two problems solved: the irritating beating and the present. Problem with that was that Aziraphale already had his heart.

He needed something with weight to it. Something that showed Aziraphale both how long and how much he loved him. Something one of a kind, but not flashy or showy. Aziraphale wasn’t one for things like that.

He had to have something that fit those qualifications. He kept quite a few souvenirs over the centuries. But did any of them—oh. Oh, he had the perfect thing.

*

“Hey boy where do you get it from

Hey boy where did you go?

I learned my passion in the good old fashioned school of loverboys”

“Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” did end up playing on the drive although Crowley swore the disc he picked wasn’t a Queen album. The demon was really glad that he had red hair because that certainly helped hide the pink tinge the tips of his ears had taken.

Aziraphale had been silent regarding the song except for a brief “Lovely tune, isn’t it?” before going back to talking about all sorts of things Crowley could listen to all day. The angel could be talking absolute bollocks, and he would still hang on every word.

Although Hyde Park wasn’t nearly as lovely as St. James’s Park, the change of scenery was very much appreciated. Plus, a new location very much fit with the theme of them being on a new level of their relationship. Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves on a nice bench in front of the river. An enormous tree rested in the middle of the path beside them. It seemed that instead of disrupting the giant, the humans had simply built around it. One of the rare examples of their environmental consciousness.

Of course, no appropriate first date at the park would be complete without a picnic lunch, and Aziraphale had thought of just that. He ruffled through his basket, which Crowley had called grandmotherly, and pulled out a few cucumber sandwiches. It was a light lunch, but for one, they didn’t actually need to eat, and two, they were likely to find themselves at some place for dinner in only a handful of hours.

Whether or not Crowley was one for eating was no one else’s business. It was also no one’s business how he ate if he did. As such, whether or not he actually ate the cucumber sandwich and how in that case it was devoured, remains a mystery. All that is known is that said sandwich was gone before Aziraphale had gotten halfway through his which wasn’t that surprising considering that the angel is a horribly slow eater.

“You know, this river’s called The Serpentine,” Aziraphale said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Thought you would find that amusing.”

Crowley leaned onto the back of the bench and scoffed. “That why you wanted to go here?”

“Maybe.”

Crowley grinned. The mood was playful. The atmosphere was calming. They had a nice lunch. There wasn’t a human in sight. Everything was grand. If now wasn’t the time, when was?

“Got you something, angel.”

The demon reached into his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in a silky black (for what other color would it be?) cloth. Aziraphale eyed him with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he took the gift. As he unwrapped it, Crowley turned to look out over the oddly named river. Still, thanks to his sunglasses, his eyes were on Aziraphale.

As the last of the fabric fell away, what was left behind was a small display box. Like one a person would use for a scientific sample of a raw gemstone. Through the see-through lid of the box, the angel could see a chunk of white stone. It wasn’t natural or glittery in nature. No, it looked man-made as if it once belonged in the entrance of a grand bank.

“Thank you, dear.” He turned the box over in his hand. “Although I do think I’d be a bit more appreciative if I, um, knew exactly what it was.”

“‘S part of the Eastern Gate.” Crowley stretched out on the bench. The more relaxed his posture was, the more he could pretend this was an everyday occurrence.

“Oh, Crowley. You don’t mean Eden’s Eastern Gate?”

“Course I do. Was where I met you. Place was collapsing after Adam and Eve got evicted.”

“Do think that was your fault, love.”

“I merely offered them an alternative. Entirely their fault they chose it. But anyways, figured God didn’t care much for the upkeep of the place considering that the wall could hardly be serving a purpose crumbled down, so I took a brick.”

“And you’ve managed to carry it around for quite literally all of time?”

“Well, not on my person but yes. It’s a good memory. Part with you I mean. The rest was pretty bland.”

“And you’re just giving it to me?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I? Don’t need it anymore now that I got you.”

Someone else might have not been able to tell whether Crowley’s remark was meant as a compliment or not, but to Aziraphale, who knew the demon’s tendency to give nuanced comments of admiration, it was dreadfully obvious what he meant. One does not simply have something for 6000 years and just give it up like it’s nothing. Aziraphale doubted there even was anything else left of the Wall of Eden besides this piece. Centuries of weathering and erosion would have ensured that. This was more than a time capsule. It was all that was left of the beginning. The only thing that could bring them back to their first moments together. And Crowley had given it to him just like that. The angel only regretted that he had nothing to give the demon in return.

“I’m at a loss for words. This is so sweet, Crowley. I really just can’t believe you’ve been holding on to it for all this time.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Aziraphale found himself doing something he very much wanted to but didn’t actually tell himself to do. He leaned over to the demon, still cupping the box in his hands, and kissed him right on the cheek. “Thank you.”

If Crowley thought his pink ears in the car was bad, he should’ve had a mirror for this moment. His complexion rivaled that of Satan’s in the red department. Somehow his sunglasses found themselves slid down the bridge of his nose. He was quite literally petrified. Maybe not as much as last night when his relationship with Aziraphale had started, but it was a close second.

“Too much?” Aziraphale asked, hesitantly.

“Do—do it again,” Crowley fumbled out as his mouth began to work once more.

“Gladly.”

The angel pulled him into another kiss, but this time, instead of landing on the cheek, it met with his lips. One would think that after 6 millennia of longing, nothing could live up to that desire. One would be very wrong. 

They held each other in a kiss that went on and on. Hands became involved, and they bound together as if they were always meant to be one. A shard of Eden was the only thing between them. And what happened next? Well, that’s their own personal business.

[moveslikebuckywrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub (Good Omens), Dagon (Good Omens), Hastur (Good Omens), Gabriel (Good Omens), Uriel (Good Omens), Disposable Demon (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Fluff, Bodyswap, Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Aziraphale loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens) ---

Back at it again with the Gift Fics!  this one for @apple-duty​ whom I love so very much, I hope you like it <3

The song prompt Apple gave me was I’ll Be Your Mirror by The Velvet Underground, so of course I wrote a body swap fic xD

You can read it on AO3 or the full fic is under the cut (but you’ll miss the very lovely poster; that's only on AO3)

---

The first thing Aziraphale is aware of is the stench.  Like rotting eggs mixed with bile mixed with month old trash with just a hint of lilac.  As if someone decided to pin all of their hopes and dreams on a multipack of Poundland air fresheners.

Also it’s wet.  The air feels damp; his clothes feel damp.  He can hear dripping coming from somewhere.  That constant trickle of a faucet drip, but one that never quite keeps to a pattern.  The kind where you expect the drip, but then it’s just a millisecond off course and grates on your nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

It’s a veritable assault on his senses.  After all, Aziraphale has standards.  He also has a throbbing pain in his head that he doesn’t quite remember where it came from.  He keeps his eyes screwed shut, trying to will the pain out of his head.

Think back, try to remember.  He’d been in the park with Crowley.  He’d had ice cream.  He liked ice cream.  No, focus back.  Angels; a kidnapping.  The Sound of Music?  Still sick of that one.  Then a crowbar.  Tickety-boo.  But it’s all backwards because…

Aziraphale finally opens his eyes.  Everything is dark, impossibly dark.  Sunglasses, of course.  Oh dear, that’s right, they’ve swapped faces.  He’s in Hell wearing Crowley’s face; laid out on a concrete slab in what appears to be a prison cell.

He sits up and takes stock of his surroundings: four concrete walls with no visible door, the concrete slab, and a poster on the wall.  The poster has a kitten hanging from a tree branch, it says “Hang in There!” at the top.  Underneath, in a scrawl, it says “The Worst Is Yet to Come” with a crude approximation of a smiley face1.  It’s unsettling at best, completely idiotic at worst.

He lies back down on the slab.  It’s uncomfortable, but far from the worst place he’s ever rested.  There’s nothing for it now, all he can do is wait.  Whatever denizens of Hell have been charged with capturing him will come back for him soon enough.

After all, “the worst is yet to come”.

He has to focus, he has to become Crowley.  This won’t be difficult, he’s known Crowley so long.  Aziraphale has memorized nearly everything there is to know about the demon - for thwarting purposes, obviously.

He knows the kinds of quips Crowley would make in the face of adversity.  How he carries himself around perceived authority.  How he walks like he’s not sure what exactly ‘hip bones’ are supposed to be.  

But he also knows Crowley’s kind heart and his clever mind.  He knows Crowley’s loyalty.  And it is loyalty, isn’t it?  He never went to Alpha-Centauri.  He never would have, not without Aziraphale along for the ride.

He knows how the lines around Crowley’s eyes crinkle differently when a smile is genuine.  How he stammers when he’s overwhelmed or embarrassed.  How when he’s had just a bit too much red he starts to hiss at the end of his words.  How he can captivate a room, hold it in the palm of his hand like an apple on offering.  How when he laughs, he laughs deep and full and melodic.

He knows so much about Crowley; the being in the world he holds most dear in this life.

He’ll have to channel all of that to keep Crowley safe, and he knows that right now Crowley is doing the same for him in Heaven.  They’ll survive this, they have to.  Aziraphale can reflect everything Crowley is right at them and win Crowley his freedom.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and a razor sharp memory comes back to him unbidden.  A church in 1941, the burning remains of a house of God that signalled the beginning of Aziraphale’s own awareness.  He’d been falling for a long time, but not from Grace.

He’d seen it, in Crowley’s flat the night before.  The eagle lectern from the church.  Sentimental old serpent.

When this is over, if they survive, there’s no need to hide any longer.  Their sides are perfectly aware of their “fraternizing”.  

If they get out of this, Aziraphale resolves to tell Crowley what he’s known for so long, in the deepest recesses of his angel’s heart.  He loves Crowley, with every fiber of his being that shouldn’t.  And when this is over, he’s going to tell him just that.

---

Ozone.  Overwhelming, nostril burning, ozone.  Like an overactive air conditioner.  And pine, but that particular artificial pine.  Cleaning solution.  Hovering over the surface like someone dumped an undiluted jug of it on the floor and just walked away.

And the light, it’s so harsh.  Hell is supposed to be harsh, but this is on another level.  He can’t see anything else for how bright the light is, these eyes that are not his are taking their sweet time adjusting.  He strains his wrists against the rope restraining him.  It’s rough and itchy, obviously imbued with some kind of celestial energy since he can’t will it away.

The room feels cold, like an unbearable chill.  But he can still feel himself sweating.  Like the worst waiting room in the known universe.  No temperature regulation to be had.  It’s ironic, he thinks, if this is supposed to be where you want to end up.  The chair that creaks every time he moves is not helping.  It’s so uncomfortable he wants to scream.  

He can’t, of course.  He’s bound and gagged.  By angels, of all things.  Figured his lot would go in for that before Heaven did.  Hell has several agents with those kinds of things as their purview (for pain and for pleasure, and for that weird place they intersect.)

Ah well, focus on something else.

The windows are a nice touch - floor to ceiling polished glass.  He can see all the wonders of the world from here, and even Crowley has to admit the view from the top is nice.  But it’s so empty.  A vast hall with no life in it whatsoever.  Where are they keeping all those alleged pure souls?  Not here, obviously.

It’s lonely, he realizes, with a twinge of affection for a certain ineffable being.  One that he’s currently wearing the face of.

No wonder the angel surrounds himself with books and food and the finer things.  There’s nothing here.  Nothing but overly bright and overly clean.

Aziraphale belongs in a dusty bookshop.  He belongs on Earth with the humdrum monotony of human life and the ever-changing majesty of human invention.  Not in this place.

This place that belittles him, makes fun of his hobbies, of his corporation, of his soft heart, of his do-gooder nature.  Everything that makes Aziraphale, well, Aziraphale.

This place never deserved him.  Never deserved an angel that cared about every being he came across, even so much as to cover a lowly demon with his wing in the rain; or who cares so much about humanity he’ll swan dive away and straight back down to Earth for an infinitesimal chance to save them all.

They’ve never deserved the one angel who truly is a being of pure love.  They were never his angel’s home.  Home doesn’t treat you like that; home is supposed to be a place of love.

He shakes his head.  Gotta play the part, he thinks.  He knows Aziraphale better than he knows himself.  Aziraphale has a few nervous tics, but underneath is a soldier.  A guardian charged with protecting the first of humanity.  A protector who has watched over the Earth and its inhabitants for longer than anyone or anything else (save for two).  

A being of so much immeasurable ethereal power that a mortal being could never comprehend his true form.  A being of so much love that it overwhelms even a demon who shouldn’t be able to sense that anymore.  A being who cares about things like crepes and Shakespeare and nonsense first editions of books no one even remembers anymore.

A being who cares about him.  Who cares about Crowley.  And is right now in Hell wearing his face and being strong for him.  

Crowley can do the same.  He can be a mirror image of Aziraphale, in every way.  He has to.

And when he gets out of here, the first thing he’s gonna do is finally, finally kiss his angel senseless.  Let him know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he is wanted, that he is loved, and that he is home.  Crowley will be there - for as long as Aziraphale would have him - to show him how wonderful he is, how beautiful he is, and how absolutely loved he is.

Even love from something wretched is better than the falsehood of this place.  Crowley had learned that the hard way in the early days.

But when this is over, he’ll be there to hold Aziraphale together, to be the light on the door that leads him home.

---

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub sneered, “I sentence you to extinction via holy water.  Have you anything to say?”

This trial had been a farce at best.  Just evidence and an execution sentence.  But they had been prepared for this.  

“Well, yes,” ‘Crowley’ says after a bit of contemplation.  “This is a new jacket and I’d hate to ruin it.  Would you mind if I took it off?”

Beelzebub rolls their eyes and Dagon groans.  He hears Hastur mutter something about “flash bastards” under his breath.  Aziraphale turns and takes off the jacket, folding it neatly over a metal chair in the corner.

He spares a couple of passing glances to the tub full of holy water next to him, saying a silent prayer to no one that this works.  He can feel the residual energy radiating off of the water and he suppresses a shudder as he strips down to just Crowley’s socks and underwear.

He’s wearing his demon’s face and facing down the very thing he’s feared for so long would be Crowley’s undoing.  How long has he been terrified of this?  Ever since that horrid argument in 1862 he’s feared for the demon where holy water is concerned.  

The lengths Crowley had gone to to get it has scared him, but it had been worth it in the end.  Aziraphale can’t imagine a life without Crowley in it, and hopefully after this he won’t have to.

He moves to the tub, stands staring into the water.  It feels a bit like things coming full circle, at this point.  “Any time now, traitor,” Hastur calls to him, “We don’t have all day.”

He turns around, takes a deep breath, and falls in backwards with a dramatic splash.  Aziraphale is gripped by a momentary panic as he hears the tell tale pops and sizzles of holy water-induced destruction.  It soon becomes apparent that this is just the residual demonic energy on the floors and walls, sizzling away into the ether when it mingles with the splashed water.

Oh, that means this is going to be fun.  He can’t resist, tossing a bit of water towards the window of the demons staring at him.  Watching them scream and recoil.  He smirks in a way that he hopes fits on Crowley’s face.

“I don’t suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell there’s such a thing as a rubber duck?”  Aziraphale asks to the room in general, finally turning to his supposed ‘jury of peers’.  He has to suppress a laugh.  Dagon is cowering behind Beelzebub, who looks like they just witnessed Gabriel trying to dance the salsa.  

“No?” he asks with an obvious lilt to his voice. When they don’t answer he goes back to his humming and splashing, being as ‘flash’ as he can possibly be.  

“He’s gone native,” Beelzebub croaks out while Dagon cowers behind them, “He isn’t one of us anymore.”

“So you’re probably thinking,” Aziraphale says with a flourish, draping himself over the edge of the tub as though he doesn’t know what bones are, “‘If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?’”

He watches their faces, sees the fear underneath.  Angels can sense love, that’s true.  But they can sense other things, too.  Fear, in particular.  They’re meant to assuage fears, to calm and reassure.  But Aziraphale has been playing both sides for long enough in the Arrangement that he knows how to nurture that fear as well.

He stares Beelzebub right in their beady eyes, “And very, very soon, you’re all going to get the chance to find out.”

“He’s bluffing, we can take him,” Hastur says, a bit too quickly to be casual, “One demon against the rest of Hell?  What’s he going to do?”  Aziraphale pays him no mind, Dukes of Hell are beneath Principalities anyway.  And none of the demons in Hell are fit to even look at Crowley’s face, as far as he’s concerned.

“Shut it!  Get him out of here, this’ll cause a riot,” Beelzebub shouts while rushing to block the window to the peanut gallery; Aziraphale honest-to-someone giggles.  Beelzebub keeps shouting, “What are you all looking at?  Nothing to see!  Nothing to see here!”

There are footsteps and a flickering of fluorescent lighting, and Aziraphale turns to see Michael, prim and proper as always, strolling down the hallway without a care.

“I came to bring back the - oh, Lord.”

Aziraphale almost wishes he had a camera phone, just so he could preserve the shocked look on the archangel’s face.  For days when he needs a good laugh

“Michael! Dude. Do us a quick miracle, will you?” He says, hand outstretched, not wanting to waste an opportunity and feeling emboldened by wearing Crowley’s face, “I need a bath towel.”

Michael hands him one in an instant, still looking shocked as anything.  The confidence that comes from being Crowley is exhilarating.  The more he gets away with, the bolder he is.  Aziraphale decides right then and there, he’s going to make sure they never, ever threaten Crowley again.  

“I think it would be better for everyone,” he puts on his best angelic fury voice, preying further on that seeping feeling of fear, “if I were to be left alone in the future.  Don’t you?”

He stares each of them down in turn, holding eye contact and glaring into their very souls.  He waits for each to nod in turn before deciding he’s satisfied.

“Right,” he says with a smirk and a wiggle (he is still him after all, even wearing Crowley’s face), before getting out of the tub and doing his best saunter towards the exit.

He heads for the elevator, stands still as a statue as he waits for it. He’s in such a hurry to leave he nearly runs into one of the Erics on his way in.  As soon as the doors close, he sinks against the elevator wall and sobs.   Aziraphale cries as he feels the worry wash away from him, the worry that’s plagued him for centuries now.  Crowley is finally free, and Aziraphale couldn’t be more relieved.

---

“Can I hit him?  I’ve always wanted to hit an angel.”

Of course Eric would want to take advantage of an opportunity.  Idiot that he is,

Sandalphon grins, gold tooth glinting in the harsh lighting.  “Go for it,” he says with contempt.  Aziraphale had told Crowley about earlier the day before, when the Archangels had cornered him in an alleyway.  Now it seemed they didn’t want to get their hands dirtier than necessary.

Eric stands in front of him, reeling his fist back like he’s gonna be able to do anything.  Lowly disposable demons, always wanna be above their station.  Crowley can’t break character, but he isn’t gonna let this asshole get a punch in.  

He stares coldly into Eric’s face, pouring every but of contempt he can without breaking the facade.  He can’t let them see him crack.  He can’t let them see Aziraphale crack.

He screws his angel’s face into what he knows Aziraphale to be.  Brave and steadfast, even in the face of adversity.  Never truly backing down when he’s up against the wall.  And he lets out one, teeny, tiny little smirk.  Just enough that only Eric would be able to see it.

“I...should be getting back,” Eric stammers, fear radiating in waves,”I’ll come and pick up the Hellfire in, what, an hour?”

“Barbecue will be over by then,” Uriel says with all of the enthusiasm of a uni student with a 5 AM math class.

Uriel makes her way over to him and unties the ropes on his wrists in one movement, “Up.”

And he does jump up, because that’s what Aziraphale would do.  He adjusts his clothing - waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - same way Aziraphale has always done.  The nervous tic that’s been his calling card for millennia.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?” Crowley knows the angel would make one last attempt, one last gesture to give them the opportunity to do the right thing.  “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Well for Heaven’s sake,” Gabriel says with his corporate smile, “we make an example out of traitors.  So...into the flame.”

Crowley stares at the pillar of hellfire for a beat, more than a little concerned with if their plan will work or not.  He thinks of his angel, burning in hellfire, burning out of existence.

He thinks of a bookshop.  Of a Queen record melting to a gramophone.  Of linen pages and leather binding going up in smoke.  Of himself, on the floor, soaked to the bone, screaming to no one and nothing.  Of an angel shaped hole in his life.

Crowley thinks of how relieved he was, sitting there drunk on Taliskers, when Aziraphale had materialized in front of him.  Not himself again, not yet, but safe.  Where are you, wherever it is, I’ll come find you.  He’d meant it, and Crowley had found his angel again at the end of the world.

He’d screamed through fire, he’d drove through fire, and now he’d walk through fire.  All for his angel.

“Right, well, lovely knowing you all,” Crowley says, knowing Aziraphale would be kind, even to the last.  “May we meet again on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” the smile that Gabriel gives him now makes him want to vomit; it’s so callous and fake.  He stares Gabriel right in the eyes as he steps forward.  The heat from the pillar is warm and comforting; he’s a demon, after all, he was born anew in Hellfire after the fall.

Crowley takes a deep breath and walks in, letting his body adjust to the heat.  It’s comforting, in a twisted sort of way.  Like a nice screaming hot bath at the end of a particularly difficult day.

Crowley sighs and rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck a couple times for good measure.  Hellfire is surprisingly good for the joints, when it doesn’t kill you instantly.  Gabriel and the other archangels are staring at him, stupid gaping looks on their faces.

What’s a field trip to heaven without a little bit of fun at the expense of some right bastards?

He breathes Hellfire right in their faces, laughing as they scamper back liked spooked rats.  He thinks to himself that it’s a shame that the Hellfire didn’t hit any of them.

Sandalphon looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin.  Uriel is shivering.  Gabriel is wearing his fake corporate smile again, trying to find a way to salvage the situation.

“It may be worse than we thought,” he stammers out, Sandalphon hiding behind him like a scared little kid.

“What...is he?” Uriel asks, the only one with a level head in this situation.

“You see,” Crowley says in a multi-layered version of Aziraphale’s voice, “I don’t think you want to know what I am. Because the less you know, the less danger you’ll be in.”

Crowley weaves his hand in front of him, almost like an orchestral conductor, swirling the Hellfire between his fingers.  Shaping it into little spheres and then banishing them back to the rest of it, acting for all the world like he doesn’t care.

“Gabriel, we need to go to damage control,” Uriel says, tugging on Gabriel’s sleeve, “If word gets out about this.”

“You’re right, yes, of course,” Gabriel stammers, rubbing his temples with one hand, “It’ll start riots, I know.  Fine, Aziraphale, just...get out of the fire.”

“Oh are you sure?  I’m just working on my tan a bit, it’s ever so dreary in my bookshop, I don’t get much sun you know.”

“Just leave, Aziraphale!” Gabriel shouts, face red and perfectly done hair falling out of place.  That alone was worth the trip, to break the composure of the Archangel Fucking Gabriel (what a prick).

“Ah, right then, I’ll just…” he steps gingerly out of the fire, adjusts his clothing again (waistcoat, bowtie, cuffs - every single time), and worries his hands together as he heads for the exit.

He gets in the elevator that will take him back to the lobby, where he’ll hurry to the prearranged rendezvous point as fast as he can.  As soon as the door closes, he collapses against the wall and laughs.  Big, full, gargantuan laughs.  Soon enough his sides is hurting and he hadn’t even known their corporations were capable of that.  

Aziraphale is free now, and Crowley has never been happier.

---

Aziraphale fidgets anxiously on the park bench.  Crowley should’ve been back by now, he’s sure of it.  He’d been half expecting to meet him in the elevator or the lobby, if he’s honest.  Then again, Heaven does like to drag things out.

It’s all he can do to keep from jumping from the bench when he sees his own usual corporeal form heading towards him.  They did it, they survived.  They averted the apocalypse and tricked both Heaven and Hell.  And now they can spend the rest of their days on their own side; together.

A place that Aziraphale has wanted to be for a very long time.  He settles himself as Crowley sits next to him on the bench.

“So,” Crowley says in the angel’s voice, but sounding so very much like himself anyway, “D’you think they’ll leave us alone now?”

“At a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened.”  Aziraphale is practically vibrating off the park bench.  He’d made his promise to himself, he’s going to tell him.  Just, not while he’s wearing his dear demon’s face.  “Anyone looking?”

Crowley presses fingers to his temples and scans the area, Aziraphale fidgets with a ring that doesn’t exist and shoots a look skyward despite knowing he doesn’t need to any longer.

“No,” Crowley says, sounding a little distracted in his own right, as he extends a hand, “swap back then?”

They link hands and Aziraphale feels the atoms on the outer edges of his corporeal form rearrange themselves back to his usual soft and stuffy self.  He shakes out the kinks just a little while Crowley cracks his neck next to him.

Aziraphale looks over at him, noting that he seems stiffer than usual.  Must be the swap.  Even if it was just outward appearances, it’s still rather taxing.  Crowley catches him staring and reaches up to change the collar on his jacket back to red.

“A tartan collar, really?”

“Tartan is stylish!”

Crowley just rolls his eyes at him, and Aziraphale decides it’s now or never.

“Crowley, I have something I really must tell you,” he’s glad to have his own visage back, if only so the ring exists again for him to fidget with.  This should be easy, but what if he’s wrong?

“Whatsit then, angel?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow, and oh suddenly it is so very, very easy.

“I’m sure you must already know, I don’t see how you wouldn’t, I’ve never been good at hiding it, but Crowley,” Aziraphale can feel the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes.  He’s heard of happy crying before, but never experienced it himself, but this feeling of release so close to saying those three simple words must be what that’s like.  “Crowley, I lo-”

He doesn’t get to finish.

---

Crowley is, at best of times, a bundle of anxiety and nerves.  Today was no exception.

He hadn’t been sure when the time would be to make his move, but then Aziraphale had looked at him like that and every bit of resolve he might’ve had holding him back faded away.  

Aziraphale had been saying something, Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention, but suddenly it didn’t matter.  All that mattered were those lips and his lips and the tears in the corners of his angel’s eyes and making them go away.

His hands were on Aziraphale’s face before he could tell them not to be, and their lips were crashing together soon after.

So now here they sit - on a park bench, lips locked together.  Aziraphale is frozen stiff as a statue and suddenly Crowley has a very sharp and very real fear that he’s gone to fast again.

He breaks off and hides his face in his hands, sunglasses pushed up into his hairline, “Christ, fuck, ‘m sorry angel, shouldn’t have done that.”

“Crowley, my dear-”

“Won’t happen again, promise you that,” he just can’t stop stammering.  “I mean, now you know, so if you want time or something or for me to fuck off just say the word.”

“Crowley,” Azirpahale says louder this time, gingerly touching Crowley’s wrists, “dear would you please put down your hands.”

Aziraphale wraps his fingers around Crowley’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face.  Everything is a bit blurry and Crowley realizes he’s crying.

He blinks the tears away and sees Aziraphale, smiling that bright and wonderful smile that Crowley doesn’t always get to see.  

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb along Crowley’s cheek to wipe away a tear that dared to escape it’s confines.

“Stop it,” Crowley says, trying to look away but finding himself unable, “don’t give me that look.”

“What look would that be?”

“You’re looking at me like you...you…”

“Love you?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley could swear the angel’s eyes sparkle.

“Yeah, that,” Crowley says softly as Aziraphale continues stroking his cheek, “you can’t love me.  I’m a demon, twisted and unkind that’s me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says cupping the demon’s cheek, “you couldn’t be more wrong about that if you tried.”

And then, miracle of miracles, Aziraphale leans in and kisses him.  Aziraphale is actually kissing him.  And he’s kissing Aziraphale back.  And Aziraphale is kissing him back again and what a revelation that is.

There’s no telling how long they sit there, it’s not like either of them have to breathe.  When they finally break apart, Aziraphale’s voice is barely a breath against his lips.

“I love you, Crowley, I’ve loved you for so very, very long.”  Aziraphale tilts his forehead against Crowley’s and for some reason the intimacy of that is more overwhelming than the kiss they just shared.  “Wily old serpent, light to my darkness, my darling, my dearest.”.  

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says reverently and wistfully, drunk on love and belonging, “Aziraphale, you never belonged there, you’re so much better than them.  I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that to you, if you’ll let me.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, kissing him again, “I’d like nothing better.”

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says, peppering kisses all over Aziraphale’s face, getting to hear that laugh that sounds like daybreak, “let me tempt you to lunch.”

Aziraphale laughs, full of hope and full of love, the way Crowley thinks he should always be able to laugh.  “I do believe, my darling,” he says as he kisses Crowley on the nose, and it should not be as adorable or endearing as it is, “a table for two at the Ritz has just miraculously opened up.”

As they stroll through the park, hand in hand for all the world and Heaven and Hell to see, Aziraphale feels like he’s home for the first time.  Here, with Crowley, finally allowing himself to bask in the glow of a love unconditional and patient.  And finally Crowley can feel the love that’s been his all along; the unyielding adoration of his angel.  Faintly in the distance, they can hear a nightingale singing in Berkley Square.

[isauntervaguelydownwards]

I will be there at your side

Title: I will be there at your side Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Wordcount: 2843 Square filled: O2 - “One shouldn’t miss the forest for the trees” Rating: T Warnings: Lotsa pining bc they’re just Like That A/N: Title is from Queen’s Love of My Life. This was a fkn trip and a half to write lemme tell u. Link (if posted to AO3): I will be there at your side 

@as-the-saying-goes-bingo 

Aziraphale accepted the note from Crowley, and it took a second for the two words - written in the demon’s familiar scrawl - to actually register with him. It was as through an observer’s eyes he experienced the rest of the conversation, a sinking feeling swooping through him. 

It was first when Aziraphale faced even the mere possibility of something permanently hurting Crowley that he realised what he’d been feeling for so long.

Aziraphale was an angel in love with a demon, which wouldn’t hurt so much if it weren’t for the fact that he could, quite literally, sense love - and he had never sensed any love from Crowley aimed at him.

When Aziraphale storms away from the demon, he’s unaware he won’t see him again for nigh on 80 years. Unbeknownst to the angel, Crowley decides a nap is in order and accidentally sleeps for 75 years. 

Aziraphale thinks that maybe - and the thought is more than unbearable, it’s unimaginable, but he can’t help but think… what if Crowley got ahold of that water, despite Aziraphale refusing to help him? What if something went wrong and Crowley’s - gone? Worse, what if something went right, according to Crowley, and he’s gone?

When the thought strikes him, Aziraphale - for the first time ever on his own - gets absolutely souzed. He drinks himself into oblivion, because the thought of a world without Crowley is the thought of a world not worth living in. 

Time goes on, as is its wont, and every year that passes without Aziraphale even hearing word about Crowley is a year where he breaks down further, entirely certain the demon is gone forever. He may have just recently realised it, but he’s loved Crowley for a very long time, and even if the feeling isn’t returned - won’t ever be returned, for that matter - at least he had his friendship. 

The sheer relief of seeing Crowley hot-footing it into the church almost makes Aziraphale faint - only the fact that there are also three nazis in the church keeps him upright. The realisation of how much it hurts, well, that creates a seed of false hope in Aziraphale’s heart.

Then he saves the books and if Aziraphale wasn’t in love before he absolutely is now, and the seed grows roots, tiny tiny tendrils of hope.

When Crowley offers him a lift home, when he doesn’t even hint about their conversation in the park - when Crowley talks about his car, Aziraphale feels a tendril of love shoot through the demon’s aura.

The seed sprouts.

Despite himself, despite his misgivings about it, when he hears about Crowley planning a caper, of all things, just to get the holy water, well. Aziraphale gets on with blessing. Now, an angelic prayer isn’t all that much more powerful than a human prayer, but an angelic blessing performed out of love?

Nothing holier.

What took the longest, however, was finding a tartan thermos. He could have miracled one, of course, but that would have made it all feel cheap, somehow. Then again, the tartan thermos flask wasn’t expensive, but the effort he had to go to to find one made it feel… more, somehow.

Handing it over feels almost like signing his own death warrant, rather than signing Crowley’s - but somehow, it feels almost like it’d be better if it’s holy water Aziraphale himself has blessed, instead of holy water from a church. Who knows how badly blessed it’d be, anyway?

No, better he die by love, if he necessarily had to. 

Aziraphale had a hope that he’d know when Crowley used the water, if it was his own - and Aziraphale had access to hellfire, if necessary.

A world without Crowley was not a world worth living in. That, Aziraphale felt, was an undeniable truth.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” he said, having given the demon the flask that could spell both their ends. Between one blink of an eye and the next, Aziraphale is gone from the car. He had felt a sense of wonder from Crowley in the moment he was handed the tartan flask, a feeling that renewed the little seed that sprouted over two decades earlier.

That sprout is a tiny sapling of desperate hope, nourished by every angel Crowley utters. 

All of it - the ridiculous hope, thoughts of what might happen, all of it - takes a backseat when Crowley calls, and all of a sudden time is at a premium. Eleven years. That hopeful sprout honestly takes the backseat in a car fifty cars back in a mile long queue.

Aziraphale didn’t have a single clue what on God’s green earth made him agree to raising the Antichrist, but something did. What possesses him to be the gardener is even more inexplicable.

Crowley adores Warlock, despite himself - Aziraphale can feel the love Warlock feels being mirrored, amplified, returned by the demon. The sprout moves a few cars closer. If Crowley can love the Antichrist, can love what seems a human child, thinks Aziraphale, mayhaps he could…

Aziraphale isn’t ashamed to admit (if the right entity asks) that the years he spent as Brother Francis are the best of his existence - not because it was rewarding (it was, raising a child and all) but because he gets to spend so much time almost close to Crowley. They’ve spent the ages orbiting one another, and during the Dowling estate years their orbits come close enough to be almost one and the same.

Warlock had asked, in the innocently curious way of children everywhere, if he was in love with ‘Nanny Ashtoreth’. Aziraphale found he couldn’t lie, not about that. As an angel he shouldn’t be lying, period, but - sometimes, white lies were better than the truth. He tried to deny it, of course he did but he loved Crowley too much to ever say the opposite, even in the guise of a gardener and a nanny.

“Why don’t you marry Nanny, Brother Francis?” Warlock asked, and Aziraphale choked on nothing. “If you love her, shouldn’t you marry her? That’s what mummy and daddy did.” Aziraphale, very carefully, didn’t let his thoughts about Mr. and Mrs. Dowling’s loving (or lack thereof) marriage show on his face.

“B’cause, m’dear boy,” Aziraphale said, voice thick with unshed tears, “while I adore Nanny most ardently, she doesn’t return the feeling.”

In return, Warlock had only given him a long look, mannerism older than his years, and shook his head before dropping the subject. Aziraphale didn’t know quite what to make of that, so he put it out of his mind in favour of showing Warlock where a sparrow had her nest.

Armageddon came ever closer, all of it culminating when the hell hound didn’t show up. They had officially lost the Antichrist (and probably traumatised another child, all for nothing). Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it, however; he’d been allowed, almost encouraged even, to spend a lot of time in close quarters with Crowley - what was there to regret?

What Aziraphale did regret was that he didn’t have time to tell Crowley where the Antichrist was - and therefore where Armageddon was happening - before he was discorporated. Thankfully he didn’t meet any of the higher up angels while indisposed, so making his way back to Earth worked out quite well, despite it all.

Crowley, dear, beloved, unbelievable Crowley. Aziraphale was for the first time happy he can’t see the demon. He could hear him, and that was enough. Crowley was drunk enough that had he been human he’d be dead by alcohol poisoning, and he sounded wrecked. Aziraphale didn’t know who the friend was, but Crowley was clearly torn up about it happening. Yet, the demon had managed to save the book, the only book that actually mattered in the long run.

Then, Armageddon. The sheer relief Aziraphale felt, seeing the blazing inferno that had once been an immaculate Bentley driving up to the army base - nothing had ever come close. 

In the middle of a battle for the rest of the world, an angel threatened a demon, and time stopped. When time started again, humanity had two occult beings and the Antichrist on their side - and not even the Great Plan could beat that. It was simply ineffable.

Going on advice from a seer 400 years dead might seem, well, inadvisable, but that was all they had, so they did. Hell was awful, and Aziraphale swore to himself he’d do anything in his power to prevent Crowley from going back. By the looks on the faces of the assembled demons, he’d pretty much managed, too.

When everything is said and done, faces swapped back and the world toasted, they go back to the bookshop that is miraculously standing, as is their wont. Aziraphale resists the urge to catalogue the contents in favour of corking up a beautiful bottle of ‘97 Napa cabernet sauvignon. 

They’re well into their fourth bottle by the time Aziraphale brings it up.

“I am sorry, dear boy, about your friend,” he says, not noticing Crowley’s eyes widening behind his glasses. He does notice when the demon chokes on the mouthful of wine he’d just taken, though. “Whatever is the matter, Crowley?”

“My friend? What on earth are you talking about, angel?” Crowley’s too shocked to manage the scorn he was going for, ending up somewhere around worried instead.

“You said you lost your best friend, and you were grieving and,” the angel in question says, a bit too drunk to care about how worked up he’s getting over a being he doesn’t even know. “And then I had to interrupt your grieving and, well.”

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. Raises a finger as if to say first of all, but changes it to whipping his sunglasses off, tucking them into a pocket and rubbing at his eyes with the other hand. He picks up the glass of Bordeaux that burns like tequila going down.

“Are you daft? You really are the stupidest clever person I’ve ever even seen,” Crowley finally says, serpentine eyes focusing (with difficulty) on the angel on the other side of the table. Aziraphale feels like he should be offended, but he’s a bit too drunk to actually manage the effort for feeling anything but relief. “It was you, angel. I’d lost you. The bookshop was burning and I couldn’t feel you anywhere, and I genuinely thought I was too late.”

Aziraphale’s glass of pinot noir turns into a rather surprised tumbler of whiskey without him noticing. A sprout, smothered by the events of the past eleven years, turns green again. He sternly tells that useless hope to quiet down, please, nothing for you here.

“I’m sorry, dear boy, what - me?” If Aziraphale knew anything about computers, he’d liken his current mental state to the infamous blue screen of death.

“Of course you, who else would it be?” Crowley put his glasses back on. Aziraphale mourns the hiding of his absolutely beautiful eyes.

“You said - on the phone - old friend?” Aziraphale feels at a loss for words, a first while in the company of Crowley. 

“Hastur and Ligur - well, only Hastur by then, I’d melted Ligur,” Crowley says, waving it off as if he hasn’t rocked Aziraphale’s world to its foundations in only a short conversation. 

“But - even though I said all those - I was mean, Crowley!” He knows he’s more or less working himself into a fit, swallows the Bordeaux-turned-whiskey in one go, not that that’s likely to help. “I shouldn’t be a - a priority! Especially not in the middle of Armageddon!”

They’re both really drunk by now, which is probably the only reason Crowley says what he does.

“Well, I’ve been in love with you for six thousand years, angel, a little spat isn’t gonna change that, is it?” It takes a minute for it to dawn on them what he just said, Crowley a second quicker on the uptake and therefore a second quicker to sober up. When Aziraphale’s sober again, Crowley is halfway to the door.

“Crowley! Crowley, stay!” he says, not half as loud as he tried but apparently loud enough. The demon stops, defeat in the slump of his shoulders. Aziraphale crosses the shop floor quickly enough not even he is certain whether he used a miracle to do it or not. He reaches out to touch Crowley, but the demon flinches away before he makes contact, turning around and drawing himself up. Aziraphale gets the feeling he’s trying to make himself larger, more intimidating - less likely to be hurt.

“What, Aziraphale?” he hisses, glaring - not that Aziraphale can see that, but he knows him. Knows how he will be glaring behind the glasses, knows that he’s hurting simply by the way he’s hissing on every word. Knows that Aziraphale loves Crowley and - Crowley loves Aziraphale? “You don’t feel the same so let me go home to lick my wounds in peace and then we can have dinner in - a year or something, when I’m past the embarrassment.”

“No, dear, I just never thought…” he trails off, raising a hand to hover uncertainly between them.

“What? Because I’m a demon, and I can’t feel love?” Crowley takes a step back, and Aziraphale lets the hand drop. 

“Of course you can feel love! You love the Bentley, you loved Warlock, you even love feeding the ducks!” His tone is strident, he has to make Crowley understand. “I have felt your love for one thing after another for centuries, Crowley, so your ability to love was never the question!”

“Then what! What is so surprising about the fact that I love you, have loved you and will continue to love you until She sees fit to remake the universe, and I can’t guarantee that will make me stop loving you?!” Crowley says, taking several steps forward until Aziraphale is forced to back up or be walked into. It’s the same as when they were at the former convent, not even a week ago, yet the air is charged in a way it wasn’t then.

“Because I never thought you could feel the same for me as I feel for you, dearest.” The words bring Crowley to a halt.

“...what?” 

“I love you too, Crowley. Have for a very long time.” Again, Aziraphale brings his hand up, this time Crowley doesn’t flinch back, so he puts his hand to his cheek. “I never felt an inkling from you, that you would feel the same - never did I dare hope.”

Crowley turns his cheek into Aziraphale’s hand, brings his own up to hold it, to keep it there. He doesn’t resist when the angel reaches up and takes his glasses off, and Aziraphale’s breath catches at the look in his eyes. 

Crowley leans down, hesitating a hair’s breadth from Aziraphale’s lips, the two of them sharing unneeded breaths - Aziraphale can’t take it anymore, leans up and closes the last few millimetres between them. As he does, as he kisses Crowley like he’s wanted to for two hundred years, he can’t help but whimper. 

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s love for him, and all of a sudden he realises that the reason he’s never felt it is simply because he’s been missing the forest for all the trees. The love Crowley feels is so all-encompassing, ever-present, that Aziraphale’s been so enveloped in it he hasn’t even noticed.

They’re so in-sync that they don’t know who pulls the other closer, who deepens the kiss, but they stay there, kissing in the middle of the bookshop, for a long time. When they eventually break the kiss, Crowley leans his forehead to Aziraphale’s, eyes closed but with a small smile on his face.

“If I’m dreaming, angel, please don’t wake me up just yet,” he murmurs, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale can’t help but lean into it, is as close to purring as a non-cat ever gets. Nonetheless, he’s the first of them to pull away.

“I am so sorry, dearest, that I didn’t tell you, but - well, I think I just didn’t see the forest for the trees, and well,” he says, watching as Crowley opens his eyes. For the first time, he sees the love shining in them for what it is. The smile on Crowley’s face is fond, and Aziraphale can’t believe how he never saw it before. “I could never believe you’d love me like this.”

“You’d better believe it, angel - and now I’m definitely not ever going to stop loving you.” 

As declarations of ever-lasting love go, it’s maybe not the flashiest, but it is the most sincere Aziraphale has ever heard.

An angel and a demon go to bed together in a flat in Soho, for the first time daring to cuddle close and whisper sweet nothings that have been on the tip of their tongues for almost as long the Earth’s been around. 

I do not play dice with the universe; I play an ineffable game of My own devising and this - this was always one of the sidequests. 

[creacherkeeper]

Familiar Weight 

If Aziraphale didn't want a relationship with him, well that was fine, really it was, Crowley could deal with that. He would mope, it's what he did. But he'd get over it, as he had in the past, and they'd continue on with their friendship as they always had.

He just ... needed some time. Because it was fine, but it also hurt, and he needed to sit with that alone.

'Alone' being the key word. Which can't exactly be accomplished by Aziraphale turning up at his doorstep with a fluffy blanket and ice cream and a horribly out-of-date VHS copy of The Princess Bride.

some angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, & friendship

~4000 words 

read on AO3 

Moping wasn’t technically one of the seven sins, but Crowley could do it better than anyone. He didn’t need demonic intervention to get that sense of deep existential angst one feels when one is heartbroken. If he could’ve gotten a commendation for “best at feeling absolutely anguished and doing nothing productive about it”, he would’ve applied ages ago. Or … at least before all this. Before the Apocalypse that wasn’t.

He didn’t think he’d be getting any sort of commendations now. He was no longer on Downstairs’ “worst in the best way” list. Just the worst. Bottom of the barrel.

He rolled over in bed, using a minor miracle to fill up his glass on the nightstand with water, specifically so he could not drink it. Just so the water felt ignored. His body was physical, no matter his state of immortality, and lying in bed for days on end had left him with aches and pains. His wings were out so they could become messed and ruffled and tangled in the sheets. He was doing a very good job of this moping business, he thought. It was a shame no one was around to witness it. If a tree falls in the forest, and all that.

Of course, just to add to the irony of the thought, that’s when he heard a knock on the door. He was used to missionaries coming knocking—he encouraged it, actually. He loved inviting them in and leading the conversation in circles until they left feeling confused and dismayed.

He wasn’t up for it today, though. He didn’t want the satisfying thrill of the minor inconveniences he could cause. He didn’t want any sort of thrill at all. He rather did just want to be glum, with an upset feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His fingers waved, and the raving bark of large dogs sounded by the entrance—snarling and snapping of foaming jowls.

Even from his bedroom, he could hear the sigh.

“You don’t have dogs, Crowley. I’d like to come in now.”

Crowley sat up, heart beating an uncomfortable thud. Aziraphale was at once the last person on the Earth he wanted to talk to right now (minus all the other celestial creatures who might be out and about) and the only person he desperately craved to see. Once they’d gotten past the initial high of saving the world and saving each other, things had gotten … awkward. Strained. At least on Crowley’s end, they had. Aziraphale didn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

“Go away, angel,” Crowley grumbled, knowing his muffled voice would carry perfectly well to the angel’s ears. “I’m sick.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You are not.”

“I am,” he protested. “Horrible demon flu. Coughing up frogs and all that.”

The door unlocked, and in the few seconds before it was opened, Crowley had half a mind to lock him back out. It was a battle of wills at that point, and Crowley didn’t have it in him to put up much of a fight.

“I’m coming in,” Aziraphale said, unnecessarily.

Crowley sighed to himself, as dramatic as he could, and pulled his blanket back around his shoulders. He shuffled into the open doorway, facing Aziraphale as he shut the front door and turned.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Your wings look terrible. Maybe you really are sick.”

“What do you want?” Crowley croaked.

Aziraphale flashed him a strained smile. “Well, you hadn’t returned my calls. Bit worried Downstairs had gotten you after all. But it seems, uh …” He gave a little wave at the mussed wings and the blanket. “You’ve been keeping yourself occupied.”

Crowley swallowed, not deigning to comment.

“That’s quite alright, though,” Aziraphale continued. “I’ve brought supplies for just the occasion.”

And he tapped on the briefcase he’d held by his side, and crossed into the living room.

“Supplies?” Crowley muttered. His head tipped back and forth while he wondered if it was worth it. His chest already felt lighter, even as his stomach turned to knots, and frankly, he’d rather go back to the achy, empty feeling of a few minutes ago. He was quite good at that feeling. He’d taken 6,000 years to master it. “Ugh, blast him,” he finally growled, and followed.

Aziraphale was standing and waiting for him, hands crossed, smiling pleasantly when the demon joined him. The briefcase was sat on the coffee table, unopened.

Crowley eyed it with suspicion. “Scotch?” he asked.

“Not quite.” He leaned down to click the latches open, clearly taking his time. “You know, for a demon, you’re quite bad at indulging yourself.”

“Bad at a lot of things,” Crowley shot back, and Aziraphale’s eyes glanced to his for only a second.

“But, no matter,” he continued, as if the comment hadn’t been made, “for I’ve brought just the things.”

Crowley didn’t want to be curious. He didn’t even want Aziraphale to be here. He didn’t want anything except a restless sleep and perhaps some sporadically noisy neighbors. Just to really make the experience worthwhile.

But, he was. Heaven be damned, he was.

He crossed over to examine the objects Aziraphale was pulling out of the briefcase. A thick, knit blanket. Some mugs. A pack of cocoa. A few cartons of ice cream—cookie dough flavor—still frozen. Some very fuzzy socks. And a copy of The Princess Bride, on VHS of all things.

“It’s a miracle that all fit in there,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale shot him a smile.

“What, are you going to tattle on me?”

The “maybe I will” was on the tip of his tongue, but in his mind’s eye he could feel the hot sting of hellfire, and Gabriel’s grimace of a smile, and he let the comment die.  

Aziraphale shook out the blanket, lying it on the leather couch.

“Where are your spoons?” he asked, moving into the open kitchen, and then proceeded to open the exact right drawer.

“Aziraphale—”

“Ah,” he said, grinning. “I found them.”

He returned with two spoons, and set them down next to the ice cream as he picked up the VHS.

The TV, Crowley thought with a tinge of bittersweet victory, had no port for it.

“Hm. This won’t do,” the angel muttered to himself. He held up the VHS, one hand to his lips as he thought, and then just … pushed it into the TV screen. Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but the TV clicked on obediently, and the advertisements began to play. His mouth clamped shut.

Aziraphale moved back over to him, where Crowley was standing dumbly by the coffee table.

“Well? Sit.”

He waved to the couch. Crowley did nothing but stare.

“I didn’t bring any, um … ‘Snuggies’. Those were one of yours, weren’t they? I thought that might be pushing it.”

Crowley could feel his days without drinking in the dryness of his tongue. He struggled to swallow, closing his eyes for a moment. He wished he had his glasses, but didn’t feel like using the energy to call up a pair.

“Aziraphale …” he finally managed. Aziraphale stared at him patiently. “What are you doing?”

It looked like it took an effort for the smile to cross Aziraphale’s face. Perhaps the angel had finally gotten the memo on the ‘strained and awkward’ thing.

“Well,” he started, “usually when you disappear like this, it’s because you’re moping over something. But you’re rather terrible at it, dear boy, and I thought this time I would intervene.”

Crowley’s jaw worked as he thought of an answer. He wanted to scream, to give into the deadly sin of wrath and yell, yes! yes, you stupid angel, of course I’m moping—it’s because of you! but he didn’t. That would lead to a productive conversation, which was far beyond Crowley’s capabilities at the moment. So he twitched his lips and replied, “I like to think I’m good at it.”

“Mm. Quite,” Aziraphale responded, squinting his eyes in a faux smile. “Well, are you going to stand there all day?”

Somewhat petulant, Crowley plopped back onto the couch, wings draping over the back, and snatched up the blanket Aziraphale had brought. It was … heavenly soft, if you’ll pardon the phrase, and his fingers stilled in appreciation of it.

Aziraphale hummed in contentment and sat down next to him, leaning forward to grab one ice cream carton and the spoons.

“Not hungry,” Crowley muttered.

“That isn’t the point,” Aziraphale informed him, “drowning your sorrows in—well—ungodly amounts of sugar is the point. And if you share the carton instead of having your own, you can pretend you haven’t eaten as much as you have. Little trick I’ve picked up on.”

The carton was shoved into his hands, and the chill of it raised bumps on his arms. The spoon was offered next, and Crowley glumly took it and began to eat.

It … wasn’t bad. He didn’t usually go for food, and tended to like savory over sweet when he did. But the texture of the cookie dough chunks was pleasant, and the ice cream was cold and smooth.

“Now, this movie,” Aziraphale started, hands rising to gesture, “was originally a book, you see. Penned by William Goldman and published in 1973. It found its own success, but the film, well it really was a hit. It’s now considered to be a ‘cult classic’ and has quite the following. It’s the perfect film for a gloomy-hearted day.”

Crowley shoved another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth in lieu of responding, glad that it was good at least for that purpose.

The movie started to play, and the lights in the flat seemed to, almost by themselves, dim to the perfect degree. It was with a bitter taste on his tongue that Crowley noted the almost cavalier way the angel was using his miracles. They may have scared off Heaven and Hell for the moment, but Aziraphale wasn’t even trying to be cautious.

Cough cough. Baseball noises. The movie was drowned out by the sudden wash of Crowley’s thoughts. Why was Aziraphale even here, sitting not six inches from him, acting like nothing was wrong? Was he really that obtuse? He’d hoped the angel would get the hint and leave him alone, at least for a while, at least until Crowley could carefully shove down all his feelings and get on with the whole friendship thing, as he’d done in the past. He only needed to mope for … oh, maybe a good month or so. They’d gone much longer without seeing each other. It’s not like this hadn’t happened before.

He was startled from his thoughts as Aziraphale reached over and took the carton, taking a few spoonfulls himself before putting it back in Crowley’s frozen hands.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s mouth as he sucked the last of the ice cream from the curved metal surface.

“That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘As you wish’, what he meant was, ‘I love you.’ And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.”

The ice cream carton clunked onto the table, and Crowley let the blanket slip from him as he stood.

“I’m going back to bed.”

Aziraphale huffed behind him. “Oh, don’t be so difficult, Crowley.”

The demon spun with vengeance, wings puffing and feathers standing on end. “Me? I’m the one being difficult? You’re the one who’s broken into my house and forced all this on me.”

Aziraphale’s lips pulled taught. “Yes. Perhaps that was unfair.”

“I mean- Why are you even here, really? What is all this?”

His hand waved half-heartedly at the briefcase and its supplies. “I just wanted to help you feel better.”

“Well, it’s not.”

His hand dropped. His mouth opened and closed as he looked away. “Well,” he said, voice quiet. “Is it too much, then, that I just wanted to see you?”

Crowley’s wings dropped. The fight left his body, and he looked away. “A bit.”

“Look, I know I- that I had a hand in—” His hand rose to motion towards Crowley. “-all this. I just … Well, forgive me, but I didn’t want to stay away.”

Crowley sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “I just need some time.”

“Well, this time, I don’t want to give it to you.”

Frustration bubbled up in Crowley’s chest. “You can’t just pick and choose. You can’t—” His teeth ground shut.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and the way his voice broke on the name forced the demon to look back. “I understand you’ve had a hard week, and some of that was because of me. But I’ve had quite the go of it too, and right now all I want is to be with my best friend.”

Crowley bit his tongue. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? Or at least part of it. Best friend. It had taken him almost 6,000 years to admit it, but that wasn’t what he wanted out of their relationship. Maybe actually saying that would’ve been helpful, but he felt like he couldn’t have been more clear with his intentions. And that’s how it always went. Crowley would put out the feelers, make a suggestion, an offer, and Aziraphale would shut it down. And he could live with that, he could. It hurt like anything, but he was coping. He’d respect Aziraphale’s wishes and his boundaries and anything else. He just needed time. All he wanted was a little time.

“I asked you—” Crowley started, and then had to stop, as his voice had taken on a choked quality. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I asked you to go away with me. We would’ve had all the time in the world. And you said no. You did. So I waited. I asked again. You said no. I just need a little space.”

The smile that rose to Aziraphale’s face was too watery to even be considered a smile at all. “The world was ending, Crowley. And we stopped it, the two of us. If we’d left, only She knows what would’ve happened.”

“And after, I- After it was over, I thought … Maybe now.”

“Crowley—”

“But the thing is, Aziraphale, that I shouldn’t have thought- I shouldn’t have hoped, because you always say no. And that’s—it’s fine! It is! I just … it hurts, too. Maybe that’s … maybe that’s not on your radar, one of your heavenly senses, but …” He looked down. “It just hurts. And you have to let me deal with that.”

When he looked back up, he was ashamed to find tears in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Do you think it doesn’t hurt me, too?” Aziraphale stared at him, a little fire in his eyes. The breath stilled in Crowley’s lungs. “That I—Heaven forbid—that I get anything out of it but pain? Do you think it doesn’t kill me to say no, every time? The last thing on this world I want to do is hurt you, Crowley, and I hate myself, truly, when I do.”

Crowley’s wings shook, and he pulled them back into his shoulder blades, afraid of what they’d show. The coffee table met his backside a little too hard, and he wrung his hands together.

“My dear, do you think I don’t want to say yes?”

His yellow eyes shot up, locking onto Aziraphale’s. He knew they were yellow all through where the white was supposed to be, and he’d be embarrassed about it if he had the focus.

But he didn’t, because the only thing he was thinking about was the wetness of the angel’s eyes and the wobble of his lips.

“Then why—” His voice rasped, and he swallowed and started again, “Then why didn’t you say yes?”

Aziraphale’s breath huffed out of him, sad and wet. He looked away for a moment before patting the couch cushion beside him.

Cautiously, Crowley moved beside him. His body was taught, only growing stiffer as Aziraphale reached over and took his hand.

“I had a dream once,” he started, both of his hands wrapped around Crowley’s, thumbs working over his knuckles and fingers skirting over his palm. “You were always talking about sleeping, and dreaming, and, well, I wanted to try it. This must have been, oh, I don’t know, decades ago, now. There was a war on, and I was so tired. All I wanted to do was sleep.”

He swallowed, and Crowley watched the movement of his throat.

“And so I did. I slept, and I dreamt. And I had a dream that we were together, you and I, in- Well, you know what way. But we were caught, you see. Heaven found us.” His lips pressed together, and his eyes pinched, and Crowley wanted to shush him, and tell him it was okay, that he didn’t have to continue. It wasn’t like Crowley didn’t know where this was going. “Well, they … They killed you, Crowley, to put it bluntly. Not temporarily discorporated, or put at a desk job Downstairs, just- You know. That was it. You were gone, and it was my fault, and I’d never see you again.

“And I woke up, and at first I thought it was the most horrible dream. And then I had the even more horrible thought that perhaps it wasn’t a dream at all, but a premonition. You know I love my books of prophecy, and, well, I’m an angel after all, so I thought … what if it was true? What if, should I go down that path, that’s what would become of you?”

His fingers stilled over Crowley’s, like he’d lost himself in thought and had forgotten to keep the movement up. Crowley squeezed his fingers, and the angel shook his head.

“Because, well, this thing we had … It worked, didn’t it? Up until now. Because, angels and demons, we were meant to thwart each other, that’s what we do. And Heaven was fine with me, being here, and you, being here, as long as they thought that’s what was happening. Me, the good and obedient angel, making sure you didn’t stir up trouble. Well, it’s just natural, isn’t it? That’s the way of things. But—think of it, Crowley. What would happen if they thought … if they thought we were happy? It’s just not natural. Not to them.”

Crowley didn’t want to think what would’ve happened had they been caught sooner. His mind flashed again to Gabriel’s disdain, for the easy way they’d led him to the fire.

“Why do you care what Upstairs thinks of you?” Crowley whispered, already knowing, and not wanting to hear the answer even as he wanted to hear it all the same. “They … They don’t even like you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s breath stuttered, and a pinch of guilt rose in Crowley’s stomach at causing it. “Yes, well … I’ve come to realize that, now, but … Well, they were supposed to love me, weren’t they? We’re angels, and I thought, well, that that’s rather the point. I suppose you’ll think it’s silly, but … part of me was terrified to lose that.”

Crowley’s eyes stung, and he looked down as he willed the feeling away. He squeezed as Aziraphale’s fingers again. “It’s not silly.”

“No, it was.” The breath came from Aziraphale in a sad little laugh. “Can’t lose what was never yours.”

His eyes drew back up as Aziraphale extracted a hand, wiping at his cheek.

“Did you know that, um, when they found out, Michael and the others, they, um … Well, they hit me, and pushed me against a wall.”

All of Crowley’s hairs stood on end, and he sprung from his usual slouch. “They what?”

“No, no.” Aziraphale pulled him back down, patting his hand. “Don’t be angry, it’s fine, really, it, uh … Well, it was good, I think, in the end. It adjusted my priorities, you might say.”

Slowly, Crowley sunk back down. But he could feel the anger dance across his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he managed.

Aziraphale nodded, blinking a few times. “What I’m trying to say is … It’s not that I didn’t want to say yes. I was … I was just scared, Crowley. And it was easier to hold you at arms’ length than to confront that.”

Crowley nodded back, staring at his knees. “I’m sorry if I pushed you.”

“No, it … I think I needed the push, the push was necessary. I just wasn’t ready.”

Crowley squinted across the room, trying not to put too much focus on him. The movie had quieted, almost imperceptible, though neither of them had moved to turn it down.

“They’re not watching us, anymore,” Crowley said, and he hated in part how light and hopeful his voice was. “We’re … well, we’re free of them, for the moment. We don’t have to hide, anymore.”

Aziraphale nodded, not looking at him.

“We could—”

“Not today,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stopped short.

Something rumbled in his chest, some ancient and fresh frustration. “Why?” is all he could ask.

“It’s not the right time.”

Crowley huffed, but didn’t pull his hand away. “It’s been 6,000 years, Azira—”

“It’s not the time,” he said again. “I think,” he continued, “that we’ve gained a lot. But we’ve lost a lot, too. And it’s okay to be sad about that. I think we both need a little time to be sad. I know I do, at least.”

And that was when Crowley understood. It’s not that they didn’t want each other, mutually, it was just … Aziraphale was mourning. He was mourning what he thought he had.

Maybe the blanket and the ice cream and the fuzzy socks weren’t for Crowley, after all.

He let the silence sit between them for a few moments, and then the sound of the movie faded back in.

“What’s this movie about, anyway?” he asked.

Aziraphale smiled at him, grateful. “Well, it’s a love story,” he said, voice soft. “But it’s more than that, too. There are fights and adventures, and good friends, and cunning wit. And laughs. There are a lot of laughs, as well.”

“It sounds good,” Crowley said.

“Oh, it is,” Aziraphale agreed, leaning forward to pick up the remote. “I’ll show you my favorite part.”

“Hey,” Crowley protested. “You can’t just go to the good part. It’s all the things leading up that make it good.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond, but his smirk did.

Crowley frowned. “You did that on purpose.”

“Perhaps.”

His eyes rolled, though Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, and he plucked the ice cream carton back off the table. “Wily,” he muttered, holding the carton between them, and Aziraphale hummed in contentment as he took a big bite.

Their hands left each other as Crowley pulled the blanket tighter around the two of them. His wings stretched back out of him, and he let one drop around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Not asking anything, not inviting. Just a familiar weight.

“Oh, this is a good part,” Aziraphale said, thoroughly distracted by the screen.

Crowley watched him, and smiled. He didn’t take any more ice cream, just held it for Aziraphale so he felt like they were sharing. And that’s all it was. Familiar and comfortable. And, Crowley could finally admit, that’s all it needed to be.

Tomorrow might be different. And if it was, they would come to that then, together, as it should be. But for now, they had this, they had each other. If this was what Aziraphale needed from him, not a great love, not right now, just a friend—his best friend—then that’s what Crowley would give him. Things were different now, but some things had stayed the same. And, finally, Crowley was okay with that.

[anotherhawk]

Good Omens Fic - Making Plans

Random short piece of fluffy getting together nonsense which is absolutely none of the fics that I’ve been talking about or writing randome lines for.

Summary - A few weeks after the notpocalypse Aziraphale frets, Crowley broods and in a rare display of competence they actually manage to do something about it.

“He frowned at the money tree trembling in his face. “Honestly, what does he do to you?” he asked, going on to murmur a litany of soothing words. In response the plant promptly shuddered and produced a shiny red apple, almost bending in two beneath its weight. “Yes, well…” Aziraphale looked aside in embarrassment. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever been crass enough to bring up, but inanimate objects tended to take on a life of their own around Crowley. The Bentley had its own tastes and Opinions for a start, and there had been that viol a few centuries back which Crowley had been so fond of and which Aziraphale would swear had bit him one night after he’d misguidedly plucked a string.”

Read the fic on AO3, or click the read more link.

Aziraphale was fretting. It was an activity he was both naturally suited for and very well practised in. On this particular occasion he was expressing his fretfullness by making numerous cups of tea and allowing them to grow cold, picking up and reading the first few pages of several absolutely blameless books before setting them aside, and glancing frequently at the telephone and the bell above the shop door, both of which adamantly refused to ring.1

It wasn’t as though he had any reason to worry, he told himself firmly. Crowley hadn’t said he was going to come over today, they certainly hadn’t had any plans. It was just that…well, it was just that since the notpocalypse Crowley had made a habit of popping in to see him of an afternoon. Most afternoons. All afternoons. And now it was well after teatime and heading towards dinner and not a word. Surely heaven or hell couldn’t have got a hold of him. They’d both been sure they’d be left alone for the time being at least. And if either side had figured out their little body switcheroo surely they would have descended on both of them.

He took a deep breath and carefully laid the book he had been trying to focus on aside. Really it wasn’t like he should expect Crowley to just show up. In the beginning they’d gone centuries without seeing each other after all.2 But centuries had gradually turned into decades then years and in recent times what with young Warlock, and then the apocalypse and being on their own side and everything, well, they’d practically been living in each other’s pockets.

It would make sense that Crowley might want some time to himself. He only wished, rather selfishly, that the dear boy had just said something. He’d rather thought they were heading towards something new here. Redefining the nature of their relationship, as it were.

A horrible thought suddenly struck him. If that was what they were doing hadn’t he been relying on Crowley to make all the effort? Here he was waiting for Crowley to come over or call…maybe he hadn’t been showing enough commitment of his own? Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t been appreciating him enough, and now Crowley thought his presence was unwelcome and he was going to stop popping round and get into one of his moods again and do something unfathomably silly, like sleep for another century,or move to America and cut off all his lovely hair again, or find whatever new intoxicants the humans were using and overindulge. And heaven…no-one only knew whether he’d remember that being discorporated wouldn’t just mean a quick trip down below for some unpleasantness and paperwork in order to get a new body.3

At that thought Aziraphale snatched up his coat, ran out the door and hailed an idling cab whose previous fare had miraculously decided to get out and walk the rest of the way.

*

1Actually the shop bell had rung twice that day, but on both occasions it had proved to be a customer which was the last thing the bookshop needed.

2This wasn’t quite true, in the Beginning they hadn’t known each other at all, and in the time immediately after the Garden, which was more what Aziraphale had in mind, their temptations and blessings had been very much focused on the one existing family and so they’d seen each other nearly every single day, though they’d rarely exchanged more than the odd embarrassed nod.

3You might think that this is rather a lot of panic and suppositions over someone who has only been ‘missing’ for a few hours. But Aziraphale had had a very trying time of it lately and the effects of adrenaline take longer to fade in those of angelic stock than in humans.

*

He had been to Crowley’s flat before of course. Well. Once. The night after armageddon’t. But even if he hadn’t he’d have been able to find it by following his awareness of Crowley through London, though admittedly that particular method of navigation would have been difficult to explain to the cabbie. The door was locked and he knocked a couple of times before walking in, rationalising to himself that he was just checking that everything was as it should be.

“Crowley?” he called from the hall, shifting uncomfortably as a wave of heat and humidity hit him. “It’s me, dear. I thought I’d see if you wanted to get dinner?”

There was no answer. He moved deeper inside, telling himself that he wasn’t really intruding, after all they’d known each other for 6000 years and Crowley was always popping into the bookshop unannounced. Turnabout was fair play and all that. It really was very warm in here. Perhaps Crowley was just taking a nap. He always did like the temperature far too high, old serpent that he was.

Giving the spot on the floor where once had lain the foul remains of a demon and a thermos of holy water a wide berth and an unhappy grimace1, he followed a sense of fear and anxiety through a closed door at the end of the hall and was confronted with a wall of green. Oh, yes, of course, Crowley’s plants. Gardening was one of those human preoccupations that Crowley had always been partial to, like sleep or music or gender. Aziraphale didn’t exactly understand it, but he had once read that having separate interests was very important so that was alright. He didn’t have to.

Well, this seemed to be where the anxiety was originating from anyway. He frowned at the money tree trembling in his face. “Honestly, what does he do to you?” he asked, going on to murmur a litany of soothing words. In response the plant promptly shuddered and produced a shiny red apple, almost bending in two beneath its weight. “Yes, well…” Aziraphale looked aside in embarrassment. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever been crass enough to bring up, but inanimate objects tended to take on a life of their own around Crowley. The Bentley had its own tastes and Opinions for a start, and there had been that viol a few centuries back which Crowley had been so fond of and which Aziraphale would swear had bit him one night after he’d misguidedly plucked a string. It wasn’t like Crowley went around whispering 'Let there be life’ all over the place, it was just that he could get a little overfocused on his obsessions.2

“Anyway,” he said brightly, dusting off his hands and getting back to the original point. “Crowley! Crowley, dear boy, are you in?” He tried another door and found himself in a study of sorts with…was that a throne? He pressed his fingers up against his lips, suppressing a ridiculous. How absolutely ridiculous, he thought fondly. And how typical.

There was a slight noise behind him and he turned quickly to see a twelve foot long black snake with a bright red hood inches away from his face.

With a yelp the angel leapt back about three feet. With a hiss, so did the demon.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said, brushing off his lapels carefully. “You startled me.”

“Ssstartled you?” Crowley exclaimed, surprisingly expressively for a snake. “I’m ssorry, whosse home are we in again? I wass assleep.”

“Yes, well.” Now that he was actually here in front of a Crowley who was evidently unharmed and wasn’t noticeably pining away he felt rather silly. “I thought we’d been going out this afternoon and when you didn’t show up I thought maybe I should meet you here.”

Crowley reared back, his tongue flickering agitatedly. “We didn’t have planss, did we? I would have remembered plansss.”

“No,” Aziraphale said stiffly, somewhere between the point of wishing himself far away and actually miracling it. “I suppose I just rather assumed.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Eventually Aziraphale coughed. “Well. I won’t intrude any further,” he said, turning to walk away.

“Don’t!” Crowley transformed in an instant, hand reaching out to lightly grasp Aziraphale’s sleeve. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to chase you away. I was just surprised to see you is all. But not all surprises are bad.”

“Well.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks pinken. “That’s alright then. Shall we have some wine?”

*

1Aziraphale had been the one to carefully miracle it away that night. But he would always know it had been there.

2Aziraphale did have the grace to be aware he was being something of a hypocrite here, but in his own defense his books had never expressed any emotions of their own.3

3They did tend to take on the emotional aura of those around them, however. In most cases Aziraphale’s collection reflected love.

*

A few moments later found them on a leather sofa that was impossibly comfier than it looked, drinking a vintage that was rather superior to the one it had been when Aziraphale had bought it.

“I didn’t know you were scared of snakes, angel,” Crowley said, pouring them another glass.

He sat up indignantly. “I am not! Why would anyone be scared of snakes?”

“Dunno. But lots of humans are. Think maybe it’s because they think all snakes are poisonous?”

Aziraphale quickly glanced towards him and equally quickly looked aside. “Well, my dear, that would only be a problem were I planning on eating you.”

He hid his smile behind his wine glass as Crowley choked.

“What have you been doing today anyway,” he asked before the demon had a chance to fully recover.

The light vanished from Crowley’s face in an instant. “Oh, this and that. Thinking, mostly.”

Brooding, Aziraphale mentally translated. “There’s nothing…wrong, is there?” he asked hesitantly. “You haven’t heard from…” He gestured vaguely downwards.

“No. No, nothing like that, ’s just…” He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do you think Warlock’s doing okay?”

Aziraphale blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, I’m sure he is. Why wouldn’t he be, after all?”

Crowley drained his glass. “Well, I mean, it’s just that I’d – we’d – always been there for him since before he can remember, and now we’re not. And you know what his parents are like.”

He nodded, even though in his experience Mr and Mrs Dowling had been perfectly unobjectionable. His lips twitched. “You’re worried about him.”

“No! Course not. I put a lot of work in with him, that’s all. I’d hate to see all that go to waste. Who know what influences he’s going to fall under now? They might be nice. They might not know when to make him the hot chocolate with the stars and when to just sit and play Minecraft with him until he’s ready to talk.”1

Aziraphale blinked again but more slowly this time. Apparently there was quite a lot he’d missed while he was out in the garden. “Maybe - “ he started, but Crowley was already talking again.

“Sudden changes can be extremely distressing for children, all the books say so.”

“Books?”

Crowley looked at him and Aziraphale just knew he was rolling his eyes behind his shades. “Yess, books. I can read, you know.”

“I know you can, I just didn’t know you had,” he tried to explain. “No, hang on, that sounds worse.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of qualifications you need to be a nanny these days? I thought if I didn’t know any of the latest buzzwords it might look suspicious. So I glanced through some child development books in preparation. Which, I might add, is more than you did to be a gardener.”

He couldn’t help the smile. “I love you,” he said, immediately following it up with “Meep!”

“Real gardeners don’t encourage slugs, and do you even know the first thing about compost…what did you just say?”

Aziraphale currently had both of his hands clamped against his mouth. “Mmmph,” he said, hoping that somehow that would be enough.

Crowley was staring at him, sitting rigidly upright on the edge of the sofa like he was considering either running or just discorporating there and then. “I…you…no, you can’t…are you sure?”

One of them was going to have to be brave. Unfortunately it looked like it was going to have to be him. “Quite sure, I’m afraid. I’ve known for, oh, almost seven decades now.”

Crowley continued to stare.

He shifted nervously, wondering again about miracling himself somewhere far away. “My dear, it would really help if you said – mmph!” He was interrupted by Crowley surging forwards and kissing him.

It wasn’t a very good kiss, all things considered. There were far too many teeth clattering together, and Crowley never had been all that sure just how human tongues were supposed to work. The second one was much better. As was the third.

Later, soberer, they lay back on the sofa together, feathers lightly entangled.

“We could take a trip to go and see Warlock tomorrow,” Aziraphale suggested.

“If you like,” Crowley said, like it was a great favour he was willing to confer.

He was, as always, happy to play along. “It would make me feel better. We could say goodbye properly. Maybe even give him a forwarding address.”

Crowley squeezed his hand tightly. His sunglasses were gone now and his eyes were luminous in the dim light. “Aziraphale…you know I do too, right? Love you, I mean.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, and he did. And that was everything that seemed to matter.

1For those wondering what an ancient demon and an eleven year old not-antichrist might build in Minecraft, the answers vary from a volcano lair complete with McDonalds, a theme park filled with screaming villagers, and a remarkably accurate recreation of the hanging gardens of Babylon.

[an-abundance-of-castiels]

Best Left Forgotten

Part 16: Lost

Series Summary: You wake up in the bunker with a serious head injury and no memory of the last year or the Winchesters and find that Dean is avoiding you. You are determined to find out the truth about what happened but maybe the truth is best left forgotten.

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam

Warnings: language, Season 10 Spoilers

Word Count: 2075

General Disclaimer: I do not own the gif or any of the Supernatural properties or characters. This is a fan piece and is intended to be enjoyed only as such.

A/N: This is my first fic so any and all feedback is appreciated! A HUGE thanks to @weirdochick56 for rough beta-ing and encouraging me to pick this up again and give it another try in the first place!

Best Left Forgotten Masterlist

Missed Part 15?

**********

It didn’t take long for Sam and Cas to sneak you out of the hospital. You were frankly surprised at how simple it was. You changed into the street clothes Sam had brought you, kept your head down, and walked right out. And now you are standing awkwardly in front of Rowena and Crowley.

Sam is bickering with Cas about leaving him here to finish the spell. “Cas, finding Dean won’t matter unless we can remove the mark!” Sam insists.

You smirk as Crowley rolls his eyes so hard the whites of them are the only things that show.

“What about the consequences?” Cas protests, “Dean said-”

“Dean guessed!” You interject angrily. “Think about the consequences of not doing it. I won’t let him go, I can’t. You know that Cas.” Your voice is barely a whisper by the end. You swallow the things you can’t speak out loud.

“We’ll have to watch him murder until he turns into a demon again. Do you want that?” Sam tries to guilt Cas.

Cas looks torn. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it.

There’s a moment of silence between you three. Cas looks at Sam and then you. You notice the slight twitch in his mouth. His tell. A crack in his resolve.

You don’t have time for this, you need to find Dean, “Cas.”

He turns to you.

You grab his hand. “Cas. Please.” You look into his eyes desperately and for just a moment you let the fear consume you.. All of the things you can’t bear to say about what watching Dean murder the world will do to you washes over you. How it will tear your very self in half.

You aren’t sure what he sees there, but his expression shifts to a pained one as he looks into your desperate eyes. You get the feeling he knows something that you don’t. After a moment, his frown unfurls and relaxes to an even smile. “Okay, Y/N.” He looks down for a moment. Then he looks up with a small smile. “I owe you one anyway. You did save my life back there.” He pulls you into a rare, tight hug.

“Thank you, Cas.” You mummer as you close your eyes and hold him tight. You linger a moment too long and savor the warmth. You have accepted that this may be the last time you see him. If you fail to save Dean, you are certain that, one way or another, you will not make it out alive. You expect fear and sadness to wash over you, but instead you feel love for Cas, for your whole family. As if your heart is taking its last beats to love them as much as possible. You feel your resolve strengthen.

————————————

You stare silently out the window as tall pine trees fly by. On any other day, you would be riding with the windows down, taking in the warm smell of pine needles baking in the sun. You don’t really see them though and the moments pass without a second thought from you about your favorite part of summer. You’re too busy playing over the memory that came to you after the gunshot. Dean got out. How did you and Sam get him back? As much as your brain screams out to you that you don’t want to know, you have a sneaking suspicion that if you want to save Dean, you are going to have to know. He’s just a little lost right now. Like you were when you woke up without your memories, without the knowledge of how complete you were after you met him. He’s lost his heart, his soul, his very being, and it’s your job to find him.

You turn to look at Sam. He is staring straight ahead, eyes full of determination. Even if you don’t make it, you will make sure Sam gets out. But you need to know something first. Before you walk into all of this mess.

“Sam. I need to know what happened after we shut the power off.” You say evenly, gauging his reaction.

Sam’s head snaps to you. And he almost runs the car off the road. You grab the dashboard in a panic to brace for impact. Sam yanks the car back onto the road. You sigh in relief and your muscles unclench as he begins to slow down. He pulls off at a gas station and turns to look at you. “What?!” Sam stares daggers into you. Shock and disbelief all over his face.

“I remembered the last injection while I was out from surgery. The last thing I remember is turning the power off.” You look him in the eye. You finally allow the pain, conflict, and confusion that has ruled your life to take over your face. You are desperate. “Sam, I need to know. Before I walk into this. How did I lose my memory?”

Sam studies you closely. “I love you Y/N. I don’t want you to hate me.” Sam looks down in shame, “but if I tell you, I’m afraid of what will happen to you. You might pass out and I need you awake. I need you to help me save Dean.” He looks back up, begging you with his eyes.

You look down at your hands and pick dirt out from under your nails as you think for a moment. He’s right. Cas said remembering the trauma could have unexpected effects. So now you have to decide what’s more important: saving Dean or knowing the truth?

Dean is a part of you. Nothing you remember will change that.

You glance over at a very anxious Sam. “Okay, Sam. Let’s find Dean.”

Sam lets out a breath and you see his shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you, Y/N.” Sam pulls the car back out on to the road and begins speeding towards the tip that Rudy gave you. “Let’s find my brother and bring him home.”

————————————

You stare out the window thinking about Rudy. The girl that Dean “saved” may never recover from the trauma of him just letting his hunter friend bite the dust. Poor Rudy. He wasn’t the smartest, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.

 Something black catches your attention and you turn to look at it.

“Over there! It’s Baby!” You point to a dingy motel room in excitement.

Sam squints at the car, seemingly unconvinced but decides to pull in. He looks over at you, nervous. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” You say steadily. You feel so sure of this moment. You are going to save the love of your life or die trying.

You both draw your guns as you approach the door. You knock as your stomach does somersaults. A mix of fear and nerves chewing at your stomach.

“Dean, it’s me and Sam. We’re coming in.” One swift kick to the door is all it takes for you to kick it in.

You slowly step into the dim room and fumble for the light switch as Sam covers you. You finally grasp it and are blinded for a moment as you flick it on.

The room is destroyed. Every piece of furniture has been smashed and glass litters the floor. Dean is nowhere in sight. You lower your gun and walk to the bathroom. The destruction in this room consists only of the demolished mirror. You walk over to the sink and pick up a triangular shard. You see an odd angle picture of your own face. What would make someone smash a mirror like that? You run your finger over the reflective surface of the shard and intense self-loathing fills your chest. That’s what. You remember how Dean just let Rudy die. This is a good sign. A sign that Dean still knows who he is. He still knows right from wrong.

“Y/N!” Sam calls from the bed.

You run over to the bed where a stunned Sam stands, staring at it and follow his  gaze down to the bed. There’s a note scribbled in Dean’s messy handwriting on a piece of notepad:

“Y/N, I love you. Always.

Sam, she’s all yours.”

The keys to baby lay on the note.

Sam looks up at you with hopelessness and desperation in his eyes. You want to save Sam from all this but you ca-

Sam peeks around the corner and motions for you to look. You peek around him and see nothing. You lean back and see a hammer coming at your face. You dodge it and Sam shoves you away from Dean. You get a good look at him and see that he has a hammer in one hand and a knife in the other. Sam and Dean are locked in a wrestling match. You are frozen in place. Half of you doesn’t want to hurt Dean and the other half wants to save Sam. You can’t comprehend Dean hurting Sam… It’s Dean’s eternal responsibility to protect his little brother at all costs. It just doesn’t make sense. You simply.. can’t move.

Dean lets out a sick laugh as he starts to get the upper hand on Sam. Sam turns to you and screams, “RUN! GET OUT! GET CAS! RUN!!!!”

His scream breaks your stupor and a primal survival instinct takes over. You take off, running for your life, adrenaline and pure fear coursing through your veins. You hear Sam’s pained screams echoing down the hall and they yank you out of your instinct driven need to flee. His pain cuts you all the way into the center of your chest and you stop in your tracks. He’s losing and you can’t leave him. He is your family. You take a deep breath. This is Dean. Dean would never hurt you. You just have to make him stop and look at you. You can do this. You ignore the urge to flee and take off towards the sick laughing and screaming.

“DEAN. STOP!” You scream as commandingly as possible as you come to a stop in front of them. In just a few minutes, he has beaten Sam so badly that his blood stains the wall, floor, and Deans t-shirt. Your brain rejects what lies in front of you: that Dean has beaten his little brother within an inch of his life. You push down the horror that you can’t afford to feel.

Dean stops in his tracks and turns to you.

“Sop Y/n… e’ll kill you.” Sam struggles to spit out along with some blood. He tries to get up, but his leg is definitely broken and he falls. You grit your teeth and fight back the urge to go to Sam. You focus all your energy on Dean.

“Dean, look at me and just breath. Please. Please look at me.” You look him in the eye. Your body is screaming in fear, but this is Dean, your other half, the person you cannot live without and who cannot live without you. And he would never hurt you.

Dean looks into your eyes… his eyes soften and his shoulders relax. The tight muscles in his face fall as the rage slips away. And suddenly he’s your Dean again and there is nothing to fear anymore. “Y/N?” Tears start to run down his face.

“It’s okay baby.” You coo at him and without deciding to, you walk to him.

He spreads his arms open and you fall into them. You fit perfectly. You were made to rest in these arms for forever. He holds you tight and you breathe in his scent.

You wake up in the backseat of Baby. You had some kind of dream. A dream about saving Dean. Dean! Not a dream, you correct yourself, a memory.

You jump out of the car and take in your surroundings hurriedly. You have no idea how much time has passed. What if you’re too late? You are outside an old bar and the lights are on inside. You hear Sam yell out from inside and without thinking you dash in the door. You register Sam and Dean beating the shit outta each other in front of a tall, solemn-looking man.

Dean and Sam haven’t noticed your entrance and you watch Dean launch a glass at Sam. Sam ducks as you yell out. “Dean!”

His eyes meet yours as the glass smashes into the side of your head

And

shatters.

The world goes

black.

Part 17 

If you would like to be tagged in future posts, please add yourself here! (Message me to add you if you have issues with the doc)

IMPORTANT NOTE for my BLF tags: Anyone who has changed their handle, please update it! Also, this tag list will be disappearing when the story ends. If you would like to be added to a specific category, change that in the google doc as well! Thanks for reading!!! <3

My Lovely Forever Tags: @alexwinchester23  @mogaruke

Best Left Forgotten Tags

@webcricket @musiclovinchic93 @spnfamily-thewinchesters @flipperjanga11 @emptywithout @closetspngirl @falloutgirlzz @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @myfavemoose-sammy @krob284 @darkswanordie @spookycowz @thegirlwhorunswithwinchesters @sandlee44 @supernatural-bellawinchester @alyeskandragon @deans-baby-momma @polina-93 @somebadeeee @formulafun @catlover1899 @ashley-unicorn  @musiclovinchic93 @capandbuckylvr @misspygmypie  @witch-of-letters @love-nakamura @analisespn @klinenovakwinchester  @sasbb23 @20gayneen @dolphincliffs @daydreamingintheimpalareturns

(I can’t tag you? please check your settings so I can!)

@smolbeanexe

[gaily-gavotte]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 - 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 & 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.

( 𝐁𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 ; 𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 ) 

JOHN KEATS.

the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold, loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,   names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.

crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,  empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,  the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,  the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,   the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,  the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.

the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,  decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,  delicate veins in the wrist,  ghosts filling lungs,  shattered bones,   raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,  nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.

the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.

the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,  impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,  silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,  perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,  dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,  the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @beelzzzebub  (cheers my dear!)

TAGGING: @creeping-crowley @exanxmo @potentesgratia @ineffablequestion @crowleyisms @hasteur @crowwl @practicaloccultist @therevcnant and anyone else who fancies it

[ferian-gap]

The Ultimate A Court of Thorns and Roses Playlist

The Ultimate A Court of Thorns and Roses Playlist

Spotify (x)

YouTube (x)

Throne of Glass Playlist (x)

Feyre x Rhys:

A Fine Frenzy - The Beacon

"You say your time has come. You're tired of waking up. Don't be obscene. I can't conceive of living without you. Burning beacon in the night, can't feel it's heat or see its light. That single solitary guide. It must get lonely there sometimes." 

Beth Crowley - Please Take Me

"What do I do if I'm no good for you, but you might be good for me? Why aren't I brave enough to make a move instead of second guessing? My defenses are down. I've lost all resistance, and when you're not touching me, I can feel your distance, so if you're gonna leave, wherever you go, please take me." 

Beth Crowley - Warrior

"You fascinated me, cloaked in shadows and secrecy. The beauty of a broken angel." 

The Civil Wars - Dust to Dust

"You've held your head up. You've fought the fight. You bear the scars. You've done your time. Listen to me: You've been lonely too long. We've been lonely. We've been lonely too long." 

Hozier - Work Song

"When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth. No grave can hold my body down. I'll crawl home to her." 

Inquillery - Alive

"You bring me back to life. End this darkness inside. You make me feel alive. Eyes lit with star-kissed fire. Your touch taking me higher. You make me feel alive. Again."

Lady Gaga - The Cure

"If I can't find the cure, I'll fix you with my love. No matter what you know, I'll fix you with my love, and if you say you're okay. I'm gonna heal you anyway. Promise I'll always be there. Promise I'll be the cure." 

Laurel - Blue Blood

"Before you came to me, I was in the pretty darkness, praying for the end. You made me feel again. After the last time, didn't think that I could love." 

Ruelle - Carry You 

"I know it hurts. It's hard to breathe sometimes. These nights are long. You've lost the will to fight. You are not alone. I've been here the whole time singing you a song. I will carry you. I will carry you." 

Ruelle - I get to Love You

"Whatever may come, your heart I will choose. Forever I'm yours. Forever 'I do'. And they say love is a journey. I promise that I'll never leave, and when it's too heavy to carry remember this moment with me." 

Ruelle - The Other Side

"Is it fair or is it fate? No one knows. The stars choose their lovers. Save my soul. It hurts just the same, and I can't tear myself away. I don't wanna know what's it like to live without you. Don't wanna know the other side of a world without you. Can't live without you." 

Sleeping At Last - Turning Page

"I've waited a hundred years. I'd wait a million more for you. Nothing prepared me for what the privilege of being yours would do. If I had only felt the warmth within your touch. If I had only seen how you smile when you blush, or how you curl your lip when you concentrate enough. Well I would have known what I was living for all along. What I've been living for."

Sleeping At Last - Two

“Like a force to be reckoned with. A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss. I will love you without any strings attached.” 

Tangled - I See The Light

"Now she's here shining in the starlight. Now she's here suddenly I know if she's here it's crystal clear I'm where I'm meant to go. And at last I see the light, and it's like the fog has lifted. And at last I see the light, and it's like the sky is new. And it's warm and real and bright, and the world has somehow shifted. All at once everything is different. Now that I see you.”

Rhys:

Echoes - Gold

"All I feel is emptiness here, searching for what you want me to say. I'm terrified of their eyes when they stare. This loneliness won't go away. Nobody knows who I am. I've got intentions of gold with my plans."

Olafur Arnalds - Old Skin

"Where the woods would wear the wafting sounds of sea, roams an oath in search for something more to be. Still hard for me. Treading lightly, tightly, shedding its old skin. Leaving trails of night for light to bring chagrin while air grows thin. Roaring lungs as oath becomes a flight past trees. Only the rhythm of love escapes the harmonies, leaving us a beat."

Sia - Bird Set Free

"Clipped wings. I was a broken thing. Had a voice, but I could not sing. You would wind me down. I struggled on the ground, so I lost. The line had been crossed. Had a voice, but I could not talk. You held me down, but I fought back loud." 

Feyre:

EVEE - Lone Wolf

"I'm howling at the moon like a lone wolf. I'm tryna move the night ‘til the sun breaks through. Abandon all the fear that surrounds you. The only thing to do. Broke the chains around me, and now I'm running free. Time to make my own way. I can hear voices say, ‘Don't look back.’ “

First Aid Kit - Wolf

"Wolf mother where you been? You look so worn, so thin. Holy light, guard the night of a forgotten land. See it fall, child of war. Lend a mending hand."

Laurel - To The Hills

"I feel it here on my skin like demons. Cry with joy ‘cause I know hell follows me. Out here in the garden of angels, I felt what it was like to be free."

Madilyn Bailey - Survive

“All the way down, finding my way around. Stars and night cover me. Back and forth, searching for my way north. I’m broken down, wandering. Mountains will always need to be climbed, but we only got one foot at a time. Don’t just survive. Don’t just survive.”

Mor: 

Kelly Clarkson - Catch my Breath

“Catch my breath. No one can hold me back—I ain’t got time for that. Catch my breath. Won’t let ‘em get me down. It’s all so simple now.”

Court of Dreams:

Inquillery - The Ones Who Dream

"Hold on. Wait for new dawn. Look up at the stars, wonder who we are, beneath a galaxy of broken things. This world is not what you hoped it could be. Take my hand, here with me stand. We are not carefree, but we're the ones who dream." 

Lauren Aquilina - Way Too Good

"Don't need anything else. I don't wanna cry anymore tears for anything, anything I've wasted. Don't need anyone else ‘cause we got it all as long as we're here, but everything, everything is changing. Everything is way too good. If nothing is meant to last maybe we should drink to that. Cause it's way too good, morning's gonna come so fast. Pour another drink in my glass." 

Feyre x Tamlin:

Eurielle - You Said 

“You said I would swim, never drown. You said I’d never be buried underground. My breath would always breathe in and out. Your love makes me immortal.” 

Kesha - Praying 

"I can make it on my own. I don't need you. I found a strength I've never known. I've been thrown out. I've been burned. When I'm finished, they won't even know your name. You brought the flames, and you put me through hell. I had to learn how to fight for myself, and we both know all the truth I could tell. Let's just say this is 'I wish you farewell.' "

Little Mix - Towers

"I feel loved when I see your face, but all these scars I can't replace. So don't knock on my door and tell me you don't wanna fight ‘cause I've heard it before, and I'm not going back this time. You never brought me flowers, never held me in my darkest hours, and you left it so late that my heart feel nothing. Once we were made like towers. Everything could have been ours, but now my heart feels nothing. Nothing at all." 

Liza Anne - Lost

“I’ll be damned if I do it. Damned if I don’t. I’ll be lost if I love him. Lost if I won’t. My human heart won’t mend itself when my own two hands are ripping out the seams. Oh it seems, I am my own worst enemy.” 

Sara Bareilles - Gravity 

"Cause you're neither friend nor foe though I can't seem to let you go, and the one thing that I still know is that you're keeping me down." 

Elain: 

Zella Day - Compass

"We can build a tree house in the pine trees. We can keep our secrets buried underneath. Wild flowers crash between your fingers, clinging to the wild things that raised us. Take me to the garden of your ecstasy. Make myself a headband from your fallen leaves. Woven in the fabric of your tapestry. Cover me in honeysuckle memories."

Big thanks to @queensairai @bookobsesed-effy @amren-rhyssecond @astrologically-indecent for recommending some excellent songs to go on this playlist!