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niceprophecies · 5 years

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“Amazon’s Good Omens is an ambitious story about a lot of big concepts: faith, destiny, free will, and forgiveness. It’s also a story about love, of every size and variety, but it focuses primarily on the unlikely and unconventional relationship between a bookish angel named Aziraphale and a caustic demon called Crowley.

While the pair’s relationship is not given any sort of official name on the show—though Queen’s “Somebody to Love” does play rather cheekily at one point when one thinks the other is dead—it’s hard to dispute the fact that the connection between the two is the linchpin around which the entire series turns. Furthermore, the genuine love between Crowley and Aziraphale is not just sweet to watch, but presented as utterly necessary to the story Good Omens is telling.

The idea of interpreting Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship as something more than just “the most epic bromance of all time” isn’t a new one. Fans have been rooting for this crazy odd couple to become canon pretty much since the day the book was published back in 1990. And by all accounts, they’re even more into the idea than ever before. (The series, and the pair at its center, have consistently ranked as one of the top five most-discussed topics on Tumblr since it premiered back in June.)

Author Neil Gaiman has repeatedly said that any interpretation of the duo’s relationship is best left to readers. (Though, according to internet lore, he also revealed that the two retired to a cottage on the South Downs together following the almost-Apocalypse, so here’s hoping we hear the rest of that story someday.) Star Michael Sheen is possibly the biggest Aziraphale/Crowley shipper on Earth, and can name the precise moment he feels the angel began to care about the demon in a “more than just friends” sense. David Tenannt seems to fall somewhere in the middle, generally defaulting to the language of buddy cop films to describe their repartee.

Of course, Good Omens itself leaves us a lot of room to maneuver in defining the specifics of Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship. The two are celestial beings, after all, which means it’s highly doubtful that they are governed by the same physical needs and laws as humans are, regardless of what sort of corporation each currently inhabits. The mere concept of things like romance or sexual attraction may not exist for them as we understand it. Therefore, their story automatically lends itself to a sort of choose-your-own-adventure feel. If you want to ship it, there’s certainly enough onscreen evidence to support your feelings. And if you don’t, that’s fine too.

But what does seem apparent, no matter what side of the are they/aren’t they divide you fall on, is that Crowley and Aziraphale absolutely love one another in the deepest, purest sense of the word, and that connection drives not just their relationship with each another but the entire world of Good Omens.

Talk to anyone who’s watched the show, and they’ll inevitably mention that one of their favorite moments is the extended 28-minute sequence that opens Good Omens’ third episode. The segment, which fills in the backstory of Aziraphale and Crowley’s millennia-old relationship, follows the angel and demon through everything from the Biblical flood to the Reign of Terror in France. Along the way, what starts as mere professional courtesy between them grows into something more complicated, and eventually the two find themselves constantly breaking the rules, going out for crepes on the regular, and rescuing one another from Nazis.

All of this plays out like the most sumptuous of rom-coms, complete with Crowley saving Aziraphale’s rare books from bombs in the Blitz, and Aziraphale guilting Crowley into making Hamlet a hit. (That first bit, incidentally, is the most romantic scene on television this year. Fight me.) The two are monstrously co-dependent, and their dynamic together resembles nothing so much as an old married couple who’ve settled into the idea that there’s nothing for either of them but each other. Thus, when the two basically decide to co-parent the Antichrist in an attempt to thwart the coming Apocalypse, well, it barely even feels weird.

And to be honest, it really shouldn’t.

Aziraphale and Crowley may have been initially thrown together by circumstance but their unique situation forces them to become something more. No other being understands their experiences, because no one else has seen the things they’ve seen. No angel or demon has lived among God’s creations for so long, or seen them at their wondrous best and most destructive worst. Crowley and Aziraphale grasp humanity’s triumphs and failings as others don’t, and they love them for it all. And in doing so, they learn to love each other, too.

Perhaps the bureaucracies of Heaven and Hell have both forgotten this fact, in the midst of their cosmic struggle. These creations-angel, demon and human alike—were formed by the greatest love there has ever been, and are all reflection of that fact in their own ways. And perhaps Good Omens is so popular precisely we ourselves need the reminder too: That love has always been the thing that unites us, whatever the differences that divide the creatures above, below, and within this world might be. It’s the Almighty’s greatest gift, and the maybe only thing truly worth fighting for.

(Remember, after all, that it’s not the threat of Crowley’s own death that motivates him in the final battle against Satan. It’s Aziraphale threatening to never speak to him again.)

Perhaps it’s merely the chance of proximity that ultimately leads Aziraphale and Crowley to care about one another so fiercely. Perhaps it’s because they’re both divine beings, initially formed of love themselves, and therefore their default factory setting is merely intense emotional attachment. Or maybe it’s a deliberate narrative choice, and their connection was the point of everything all along.

Good Omens is the sort of story that desperately wants us to choose not to be cynical, and to embrace big, gloppy sentiment with arms wide open. Armageddon is thwarted not through battle or manipulation or even divine intervention, but love. Between an angel and a demon, no less, who choose each other over and over again though they’re not supposed to do so. But also, it’s between a boy and his father. Among friends and neighbors and strangers who just met. And in the ineffable machinations of a Higher Power who has never abandoned Her Creation—though it may not have always seemed that way.

In short: Love is a radical act, and always has been.

From the very beginning of Aziraphale and Crowley’s story, this has been the case. In the Garden of Eden, the Serpent tempted Adam and Eve to disobey, in order to give them the power to choose their own futures. The Angel of the Eastern Gate broke the rules to gift the fleeing humans his sword, and spent the next six millennia lying to the servants of the Almighty about what happened to it. In their simplest forms, these are acts of love.

Perhaps they’re not the sort that we ourselves can often emulate—and if someone has a flaming sword at home, please leave it there—because we’re probably not all equipped to save the world from Armageddon. But we can choose each other, whether that means rescuing priceless books, delivering a thermos of water, or simply learning to care about those who most different or alien from us. We can do small things with great love. And change the world along the way.”

neilhimself

pastemagazine

#good omens #review #neil gaiman #paste magazine #twitter #mystuff #link in replies

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Good Omens - “Tricked and Treated” (Rated G)

Summary: Aziraphale and Adam bump into an intriguing man and his son while out Trick or Treating. Of course, it is Halloween, and nothing is quite what it seems ... (3415 words)

Notes: This is one of two stories I wrote for A Big Spooky Fan Zine. Be sure to check the rest of the collection for some amazing spooky works from other wonderful fandom creators :)

Read on AO3.

Knock-knock-knock-knock!

“Trick or Treat! Smell my feet! Give me somethin’ good to eat! If you don’t, I don’t care. I’VE GOT PURPLE UNDERWEAR!!”

The chorus of tinny voices dissolves into giggles as a multitude of pint-sized monsters, ghouls, and superheroes wait for the door to open. If it doesn’t … they won’t do anything. Not a one of them is older than nine, and their parents are standing a few feet behind them. But the song is tradition, even if they do tweak the lyrics a bit every year.

Last year, the preferred modifier for underwear had been ‘dirty’, and even though that isn’t age-inappropriate, per se, the parents are thrilled the quorum decided upon a color this year instead.

The group falls silent when they hear heavy footsteps approach from the opposite side. The brass knob turns, and the door pulls in. The children know what to expect, but still, they take a tentative step backward. It’s an old house, but a familiar one; that always has carved pumpkins on the patio at Halloween and handmade wreaths on the door at Christmas. A house that generations of children have run up to on October 31sts past and knocked on its door. Those children grew up and bring their children here to visit the same bubbly lady who never seems to age, always has a smile on her face, and a tray of homemade caramel apples wrapped in wax paper at the ready.

The door creaks open.

The children gasp in anticipation.

Then, she is revealed: a red-haired woman in a flowing, floral kaftan beneath a cozy pink peacoat steps out with her gentleman behind her, dressed in olive drab and menacingly pointing, of all things, his right index finger, as if he thinks it will protect him from the beasties gracing their porch. The woman looks at the crowd of masks and made-up faces surrounding her and gasps in mock fear.

“My goodness!” she says, putting a hand to her mouth. “Look at all these frightful goblins and ghouls at my door tonight! I don’t suppose any of you like caramel apples, hmm?”

“I do! I do!” Hands shoot up, eager to be seen. The woman smiles.

“Mr. Shadwell! Put your finger away and bring me that tray!” she scolds, grabbing up apples on their sturdy wooden sticks when they come her way and handing them out one at a time, receiving a grateful and excited, “Thank you!” with each one.

“I do believe everyone’s parent is present,” she says with a glance towards the ring of adults manning her garden gate, “but if they’re not, you let them know that these apples came from Tracy Shadwell’s own kitchen, so they’re safe to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am!” the kids answer obediently. Most everyone in the neighborhood knows Mrs. Shadwell and her famous caramel apples. For those who don’t, she ties a pink tag at the base of each stick with her name and telephone number embossed on it in gold, should anyone want to verify.

And while she hands out her wares, she looks over each child and comments on their costume – the hand-crafted along with the store-bought – with nothing but the highest praise. As the crowd thins, two boys approach, patiently awaiting their turns. Mrs. Shadwell spots the first of the boys and hands him two caramel apples. She knows him - and his chaperone - very well.

“Why, Adam Young!” she coos at the boy dressed in white satin brocade. “What a stunning costume! Another one from your grandfather’s collection?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy replies proudly. “French Revolution era. I’m a political prisoner, about to get my head chopped off!” He drags a finger across his throat in a slicing motion, tilting his head to one side and sticking out his tongue for greater emphasis. His eyes pop as he remembers the best part. “Look! Here’s my head!” He fishes around in his candy bag and pulls out a childishly executed but morbid prop - a bleeding papier-mache head on a stick. It vaguely resembles Adam, having the same hair color and skin tone, but drenched in fake blood and with X’s over the eyes. “I wanted to slather blood all over my neck, but my grandfather said no.”

“I can understand why!” Tracy chuckles. “That costume must be expensive! It looks quite handsome on you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shadwell,” Adam says with a dignified bow.

“You’re very welcome.” Her gaze lands on the boy standing beside him. “And you! Another scary vampire!” The corners of her mouth tug down as she struggles for a name. “I can’t seem to recall your name, dear. Would you be so kind as to help an old lady out?”

“I’m Warlock,” the boy says, speaking with a pronounced lisp and spitting his consonants, courtesy of the plastic fangs crowding his mouth.

“Here you go, Warlock.” Mrs. Shadwell hands him two apples as well. It wouldn’t be right to give him only one since he’s seen Adam get two. Besides, thanks to her husband’s help, she has a whole army of apples sitting in her kitchen, waiting to be doled out. “Thank you for stopping by so I could see your costume. Give your parents my fondest regards.”

“Yesh, ma’am,” the boy slurs, trying his best not to spit again. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The boys wave politely as Mrs. Shadwell closes her door. They turn together, stepping down from the porch, eyeing one another’s costume as if the two of them are catwalk rivals.

“That belongsth to your grandpa?” Warlock asks, looking Adam’s shimmery outfit up and down.

“Yup.” Adam holds his head high and gives the boy a spin so he can view it from all sides. “Your costume is cool, too. Did your parents buy it? Or did someone make it for you?”

“It’sth vintage,” Warlock explains, tongue tripping over his teeth. “It wasth my father’s when he wasth a boy.” He holds the ends of his cape out wide, flapping the wings it creates.

“Awesome!”

“That’s right, Warlock,” a tall man says, receiving both children when they reach the wooden gate. “It belonged to your ancient, elderly father.”

The man standing beside him chuckles, reaching a hand out to Adam as the boy walks through.

“Well, despite its interminable old age, it really is a smashing costume, Mr….”

“Crowley,” Warlock’s father supplies, extending a hand in greeting. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” Adam’s grandfather answers, taking Crowley’s hand and shaking it. “Aziraphale Fell. This is my grandson, Adam.”

Crowley nods at the boy who is less concerned with the subject of adults’ names as he is with comparing his haul with that of the boy beside him.

“I believe we’ve lost them!” Aziraphale laughs as Adam and Warlock dive into their sacks.

“Bound to happen,” Crowley concurs. “We’re nowhere near as entertaining as chocolate. At least, I’m not. Not to be rude or anything but aren’t you a little young to be a grandfather?”

Aziraphale grins hard enough to make his cheeks ache. “That’s very kind of you to say, but I am much older than you might think.” He narrows his eyes at the man tousling his son’s black hair - suspicious considering his own hair is red. Flame red. Of course, that could come from a bottle. Not that Aziraphale is judging. It looks rather fetching on him. “Forgive my saying so, but I don’t think I’ve seen you or your son around here before.”

“Is that so strange?” Crowley asks, his grin growing tight, but not terribly.

It seems Aziraphale may not be the first person of the evening to mention it.

“No, not really. But we’re a tiny hamlet. Everyone here knows everyone else.” Aziraphale leans in a companionable inch. “All their secrets, too.”

“Ah, well, we’re not from around here,” Crowley admits with a sheepish grin.

“Gotcha.” Aziraphale winks. “It’s no secret that we’re one of the few neighborhoods around that gives out full-sized candy bars by the handful and real popcorn balls – not that stale, store-bought crud.” Crowley’s lips quirk, in shame it seems, and Aziraphale rushes to elaborate. “Not that we mind visitors!” he says, waving his hands as if to wipe away any doubt. “As long as the children have a pleasant time, that’s all we care about. It’s nice to see some new blood around here.”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, his face blank for a second. His lower lip quivers. He sputters, then he laughs out loud (harder than necessary, Aziraphale feels).

“What?” Aziraphale asks self-consciously.

“Nothing,” Crowley says, reining in his laughter with a snort that Aziraphale can’t help but find adorable. “It’s just been a while since I’ve heard that term. But to be honest, we’re here strictly to socialize. We don’t eat candy.”

Adam, totally engrossed in his conversation with Warlock, catches that last part. His head snaps up, jaw dropping to the ground, utter disbelief written on his face.

“Don’t eat it?” he moans with regret on his new friend’s behalf. “Why not?”

“I’m on a special diet,” Warlock says, looking down at his pregnant bag of sweets.

“A special diet?” Aziraphale looks from Warlock to his father.

“I adopted Warlock from a hospital overseas,” Crowley explains, distracted momentarily by a new wave of Trick-or-Treaters headed their way. “He has a rare blood-borne illness that they were ill-equipped to handle.”

“But … is he okay now?” Aziraphale gazes at the boy’s face, particularly his large, sleepy eyes, dark circles underneath made all the more prominent by his pale skin. Crowley watches the way Aziraphale looks at his son, examining him with an expression of genuine concern, and smiles.

“There is no cure, but we’re managing it the best we can.” Crowley puts a hand on Warlock’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “It helps when you don’t have to worry about trivial things like money. Heartbreaking for those parents in dire straits who don’t have an excess of disposable income. A lot of tough choices to be made when you find yourself in that position.”

“Aren’t you the lucky one?” Aziraphale teases, knocking Crowley playfully on the shoulder.

“It’s old money,” Crowley replies, that sheepish smile from before making a comeback. “I like putting it to good use.”

Aziraphale looks up when Crowley does and meets his eyes – boundless amber eyes that catch the surrounding street lights and flickering Jack-O-Lantern candles in a mesmerizing way, as if with a single blink he could read Aziraphale’s mind.

Or hypnotize him into doing his bidding.

They don’t look human. Snake-ish, more like - slit pupils and all. They can’t be real. They have to be contact lenses. Fake or not, there’s something about them that makes Aziraphale shiver. Crowley notices, grinning devilishly. Aziraphale laughs.

He’s letting the magic of the evening get to him.

Or the magic of this charming man.

From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale catches Adam yawn. He fishes his watch out of his pocket and checks the time.

“Oh my goodness!” he exclaims. “Look at that! When did it get so late?”

“We’re not going home now, are we?” Adam asks, whining the way tired children do while fighting back a yawn.

“I’m afraid so, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “You’re just about dead on your feet, and I can’t carry you all the way back to the house. Besides, I promised your mother and father I’d have you tucked in before they got home.

“We’d better be heading out as well,” Crowley says, wrapping an arm around his son’s thin shoulders and holding him close.

“Do we have to?” Warlock asks, sulking into his father’s embrace.

“I’m afraid so.”

“All right.” Warlock turns to Adam, who yawns again, shaking his head to dislodge the exhaustion from his brain. “It was nice meeting you, Adam.”

“It was nice meeting you, too,” Adam says.

“Do you guys …?” Aziraphale starts, not eager to see this captivating man disappear so quickly. “I know you said you aren’t from around here, but …”

“We’re in Mayfair,” Crowley says, anticipating Aziraphale’s question. “About two hours give or take, as the bat flies.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale casts his eyes down dejectedly. “That’s quite a distance to travel for conversation and candy you can’t eat.”

“We’re also visiting family. Family that we’ve been looking into visiting more often, maybe even moving closer to, so who knows? You could be seeing us around?”

Aziraphale nods because if that question implies what Aziraphale hopes it does, the answer is definitely yes.

“Who knows?” he echoes, hoping Crowley catches on to the fact that he’s flirting. It’s been a while, and he was never very good at it to begin with. “We might end up neighbors.”

“Maybe,” Crowley says, the word a vague promise but a promise nonetheless. It leaves Aziraphale with the feeling that if those plans to move fall through, he may still see Crowley again. “I could take you out for a bite?”

Aziraphale smiles, cheeks flushing red and not from the chill in the autumn air.

“I’ll take you up on that.” Aziraphale reaches into his pocket and pulls out his business card. “You can reach me at this number. I have a bookshop in Soho. I’m there most of the time … even if the sign on the door says closed.”

Crowley takes it, slipping it from between Aziraphale’s fingers and sliding it into his inside breast pocket. “Clever of you, really. Who wants to be bothered by a bunch of busybody customers anyhow?” He smooths down the front of his jacket, patting the pocket keeping Aziraphale’s business card safe.

That subtle touch of his palm to the spot makes Aziraphale tingly inside.

“Here …” Warlock, watching the exchange between the two men, holds out his bag of candy to Adam “… I want you to have this.”

Adam’s eyes grow big as saucers, his face lighting up at the offer of a sack of sweets as big as his own. “No way! Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Warlock says with a sad, one-shoulder shrug. “I wasth gonna hafta throw it out anyway.”

Adam looks up at Aziraphale, eyes pleading. “Can I?”

“I don’t see why not. It would be rude to turn down such a generous gift.”

“Yes, it would,” Adam agrees, reaching for the bag and taking it reverently. “Thank you, Warlock.”

“Don’t make yourself sick eating all that candy in one night,” Crowley says.

“Oh, I won’t!” Adam assures him. “I’m going to share it with my three best friends! Hey! If you come back, I can introduce you!”

“You would do that?” Warlock asks.

“Of course! There’s always room for one more in our group.”

“Now, you see, you must come back,” Aziraphale says when he’d meant to say ‘We’ll see, boys. We’ll see.’ He doesn’t want to appear pushy. He doesn’t regret it an inch, though, when he notices the new look in Crowley’s eyes - the one that says he’s prepared to move heaven and earth to make that happen.

If it’s because of the promise of new friends for Warlock or to see him again, however, remains to be seen.

“I guess we will,” Crowley responds.

“Have a safe evening, Mr. Crowley. Warlock.” Aziraphale raises a hand and waves good-bye, backing away, pulling Adam along with him.

“And you as well, Mr. Fell. Adam.” Crowley waves back, turning down the street with Warlock in tow.

Crowley and Warlock weave through several pods of children racing up to houses and knocking noisily on doors. They walk against the flow of revelers, ending in a dark street with no lamps lit, no decorations on the porches, no Trick-or-Treaters anywhere to be seen.

“Did you have a good time?” Crowley asks.

“Yesh.” Warlock reaches up and spits out the false teeth that had been covering his fangs, glad to be rid of them at long last. “That was a blast! Adam and his granddad are really nice. Don’t you think they’re really nice?” Warlock asks, vibrating with the enthusiasm of … well, an eight-year-old on Halloween.

“Yes,” Crowley agrees, turning one last time, using his supernatural vision to find the man and his grandson walking down the street. Crowley doesn’t believe for a minute that Aziraphale is that boy’s grandfather, but he couldn’t get a read on him … as in he couldn’t read Aziraphale’s mind like he can with other humans. Adam’s neither, which makes the two of them that much more enticing.

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder and bites his lip as if he knows he’s being watched. Crowley eyes the dent his teeth make in his skin, lingering on it and licking his lips. If his heart were still beating in his chest, it would be racing out of control by now. “They were great. With any luck, we’ll be seeing them again.” Crowley puts a hand over the pocket with the business card hidden inside and smiles. “So,” he says, clapping his hands in front of him, “are you ready to give it another try?”

“Yes.” Warlock sounds confident, but he looks ready to puke. “It’s just … I’m not as good at it as you are.”

“It takes practice,” Crowley says, and with a snap of his fingers (which is entirely unnecessary - he does it solely for dramatic effect), he changes - shrinks down, sprouts wings, keeping only his serpentine eyes and a tuft of his red hair.

Crowley transforms effortlessly.

Warlock manages the feat with a little less finesse and a frantic snapping of fingers, but even though he’s only done it about a dozen times, he makes a handsome young bat. Father and son circle the neighborhood once to stretch their leathery wings and then rise high into the air. From this height, they can see everything, the whole of London stretched out beneath them. Crowley manages to spot Aziraphale and Adam one last time, then heads towards the ocean, disappearing into the night.

***

“Here we are, Adam,” Aziraphale says, opening the door to the Young house and ushering his charge inside. “If you hurry, get yourself washed up and into your nighttime clothes, you can sort your candy until your parents get home.”

“Can I have a piece or two?” Adam asks, gripping hard to the handles of his bags. “Or seven?”

“Three,” Aziraphale counters.

“Five?” Adam negotiates hopefully.

Aziraphale bobs his head back and forth, taking his time on purpose.

“Four,” he decides. “Final offer.”

“Deal!” Adam takes it. No need to tempt fate any further. He races off towards the staircase, burdened by roughly sixteen pounds of sugar weighing down his arms, but stops at the bottom step. He looks at Aziraphale thoughtfully for a moment before he speaks.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Adam?”

“Warlock and his dad … they’re vampires, aren’t they?”

Aziraphale smiles to himself and nods. Crowley and Warlock are as much humans as he and Adam. Aziraphale is an angel, tasked by the Almighty Herself to care for the Antichrist, ensure he never comes into his power and brings about the end of the world. He’s been on the lookout for demons since Adam was born.

Which should make striking up a conversation with a vampire inadvisable.

But Aziraphale doesn’t believe Crowley meant to do them any harm. He didn’t come across as the dangerous sort of evil. For one thing, he didn’t seem to recognize Aziraphale and Adam for what they are at all. And a vampire adopting a son? Aziraphale has never heard of such a thing. Vampires tend to be opportunists. What could Crowley possibly have to gain by doing that? Still, Aziraphale can’t let his guard down, not for a minute. He isn’t sure what Crowley was trying to pull, but he hopes he gets the chance to find out. “Yes, I believe they are.”

“Cool,” Adam says with an awe-consumed grin. “I hope we see them again.”

Aziraphale pictures Crowley in his mind: his fair skin, his steep nose, his red hair, and his snake-ish eyes. Aziraphale has seen his share of demons, but they’ve all been wretched. Not Crowley. Crowley takes pride in his appearance, that’s for sure. It reminds Aziraphale of the sad state of his wings. He must groom them as soon as time permits.

“So do I, Adam,” he says, planning for later tonight when young Adam is asleep. Wing grooming is a messy business, one he’d prefer to do in private. “So do I.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #crowley

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lazarusemma · 4 years

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i suppose you ought to be going now? aziraphale doesn't mean to make a question of it but the words curl up anyway, a defensive smallness, a giveaway in the form of pulling away. the usual words he's said so many times before no longer feel familiar. it's getting late.

crowley freezes beside him. aziraphale cannot see his eyes but his mouth has gone totally flat and very, very still. aziraphale didn't realize until today that he could sense crowley's breathing, but even that's paused now, waiting in this horrible hushed moment.

aziraphale imagines all sorts of sentences crowley might say in response to his awkward, stilted half-question. the typical, well-known excuses as crowley gathers up his jacket and rushes out into the dimming of the evening; the careful, practiced nonchalance of maintaining it all just as it has always been. but aziraphale imagines too the sorts of things he would like to hear, if crowley has this same wanting in him. sentences like i'll stay and don't worry, i'm here and i'll get the kettle on, don't get up, angel. he knows better than to expect these things but the ache of longing for them doesn't fade in the face of experience.

and still crowley has not moved. he might be watching aziraphale. the silence stretches a little further and it does not snap. how long can they wait? how much longer? aziraphale looks away but the weight of hidden golden gaze sits on him anyway.

he doesn’t think about the next word. it is only because he doesn’t think about it that it manages to be spoken. or, he says, very quietly, not knowing what comes next.

continue on ao3!

or? breathes crowley, and that’s enough of an encouragement for aziraphale, for now, for a start.

or we could— you could— i’ll make us some tea, he says, half-wildly, breath coming quicker despite his efforts to hold himself back. heaven knows he has tried that long enough. if you’d like— the tea, i mean. i do have cocoa if you prefer.

crowley’s nearly smiling; aziraphale can sense it in the edges of his voice, the tiniest nuance of daring. tea would be good, says crowley, newly reanimated, extending himself once more across the sofa like he never was poised to leave. like he’s supposed to be here. it looks so right, so natural. aziraphale’s chest feels tight.

right then, he says, standing. he clasps his hands for a few seconds, opens his mouth to say something, decides better of it and hurries to put the water on. not too fast. not all at once.

when the tea is ready they sit together at the table, not opposite one another but in chairs beside each other. there is a muffled sort of consciousness of what these things mean, whispering in aziraphale’s mind, which he is working very hard to ignore. it means only as much as crowley wants it to mean.

thanks for the tea, crowley says abruptly, and aziraphale tries not to parse out the intricacies behind the meaning of the words. it’s basic politeness. common courtesy. his heartbeat should not be skipping, even if he can’t recall the last time crowley said the words, even if he’s reminded so strongly of telling crowley not to when—

when he brought a thermos that was almost a promise, and handed it over with trembling hands, and all but spelled it out. the closest to the surface it ever came, this smothered nearly-there thing. and crowley listened, didn’t he, hasn’t he waited? he is still waiting. aziraphale knows this with a rush like prophecy. he sees, now, what he has to do.

aziraphale sets a hand on crowley’s wrist where he holds his saucer. crowley.

crowley glances at the hand, and then at aziraphale’s face, pale and determined, and then back at the hand. mhm?

you don’t have to go. aziraphale takes a second to marvel at the words. where did they come from? and yet they have a feeling on his tongue like they were always waiting, ready. you can— stay.

slowly, crowley reaches up and removes the sunglasses. like coming undone. the inverse of a line in the sand. you’re sure? he murmurs, and aziraphale’s heart cracks anew to hear the hesitation; even now, crowley waits, serpent’s eyes fixed on him and still ready to go if he gives the word.

aziraphale has never been sure of anything. he’s spent the entirety of eternity to this point in denial about his doubts, quashing his questions. he knew what could happen. he knew, always, the risks and the dangers on all sides; he never took a step without knowing what was on the other side. but this— this he is certain about. this is something aziraphale could learn to become familiar with. he knows so little but at the core of him there is a need and he has a name for it at last. please.

crowley smiles and aziraphale is so light he might be flying. okay, crowley says, yeah. alright.

there is a giddiness in the room. so much has yet to be addressed but for now, it is enough for the two of them to savor the moment like sipping fresh tea. to be here. to stay.

#fic: staying power #good omens #ineffable husbands #fanfic #crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #my writing #em og post #would you look at that. i wrote a thing #wrote this instead of doing homework!

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amadness2method · 4 years

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The New Year Brings New Things!

First off, Happy New Year! I hope you are all having a wonderful 2021. Someone needs to. Anyway, some of you who are following me on Instagram and Twitter know a bit about some of the things going on (I sometimes forget to post to Tumblr, unfortunately, but I’m trying to do better).

Without going into a lot of detail about some of the rougher parts where my real personal life has been raining on my head, I’ll simply say that I’ve been extremely busy fandom-wise with zines, events, and projects.

Most of these projects have been art and design related regarding zines and some collaborations, but some of them have been writing projects of my own as well. I’m still writing on the 9 WIPs I’ve got going on (though only 4 are in the process of posting) and have gotten a lot done in between other commitments.

Just because you don’t see me posting, doesn’t mean I’m not busy doing the work. I haven’t been posting because I don’t write in a linear fashion. I can’t. I write scenes as they come to me along the plot outline.

Part of my not posting in Finders, Keepers, as an example, is a courtesy. The next chapter to post will end on a cliffhanger, and I want to wait until I’ve got the chapter after that ready so that I don’t leave it for over a month without the next part.

Nothing has been abandoned.

I pour so much of myself into my writing. It means a great deal to me, and I don’t want to write just anything to get something out there. I have stories I want to tell, and to do that takes a lot of working between different chapters to ensure the clues I’ve left early on match up with the progress that is made towards the end. It’s a bit of a juggle, but it’s how I like to write, and if you’re following my work, I think it’s safe to say that you might like it, too.

I miss posting regularly. I do. I miss the comments and interaction. I always sit up and wait to read comments (PAKIDGE?) after I post anything, but especially so with my longer fics that I’ve poured my entire heart and soul into. My art and writing is a lot of what keeps me going. You can usually tell when I’m in a funk, because I’ll have more projects lined up. It’s because I’m trying to find some sort of satisfaction in a world that I don’t necessarily fit into anymore.

It’s part of a complex coping mechanism, one I use to process a lot of the things I feel. Part of why I write so much angst is as a way to deal with things, but also, the more intense the writing, the more emotionally draining it is for me to do. You might notice that sometimes I will have little hiatuses here and there with writing, but then you’ll see little silly things I do art-wise pop up, such as my style-trial experimentations, or previews for things I can’t share publicly due to exclusivity periods.

As someone with severe anxiety and depression problems, these are the things I do to not spiral out into further despair.

As much as I love that people enjoy my writing, and I do so love that, when I get comments and messages telling me I need to be working on the fics, or asking when the next update is, or telling me they’re tired of waiting, or things like that, it makes me feel worse. I want to be able to get all of this out and done and be completely unaffected by it. I do. But the same emotions that I try to weave into my art and writing also weigh me down at times. Sometimes, it’s simple enough to brush off. Other times, especially when combined with many other things happening all at once, it’s suffocating.

On a lighter note, many of the projects I began in late 2020 are about to be completed, at least for the bulk of the work done on my part, and this will leave me with more time to work on things without deadlines.

When Finders, Keepers wraps up (That’s going to hurt, because I’ve truly loved writing those characters in ways I never expected) I have already written lot on O, Fortuna, and will start posting that, along with continuing in the Music and Manuscripts extended universe. I’ve been writing more about Crowley, Louis, and the rest of the demons in M&M: Soothe The Savage Beast, and have also begun work on Aziraphale, Raphael, Michael, and the other angels in M&M: Broken Wings. There is also backstory for the parents in M&M: Ciribiribin, and a new book in the Universe, but with a bit of a twist, and it will run concurrently with the main universe, M&M: Twist Of Fate. I’ve also started writing something entirely new outside of these, but it won’t be ready to publish until after Finders, Keepers completes, at least, and possibly some more on Celestial Spektors.

I’ve posted a new snippet for Finders, keepers on the WIPS page of my website if you’d like a sneak peek.

Please know that whether you read this entire wall of text or not, I love you all so much for following my work. I do understand what it’s like to get attached to a story and want to see where it goes. I’ve been there many times, myself. I’m so sorry that I haven’t been able to make each and every person who asks for more fic or more of a specific fic, or more of a specific art type, etc as happy as I would like to.

I am doing my best, but sometimes my best isn’t quite good enough, and I have to accept that. There’s a long road ahead, and I hope that you’ll stick with me through it.

Thank you for everything

Cyn

#Finders Keepers GO #music and manuscripts #amadness2method #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanart #How I cope

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kanna-ophelia · 5 years

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Love is Snakes and Ladders

Forgot to post this! @drawlight Ineffables Advent Calendar Day. Prompt: Silver and Gold

AO3

Wattpad

210 BCE

“A sea monster?”

Captain Pan sighed. “It’s a giant bloody snake. Can’t go around it. It just moves with us, and blocks us off. Perhaps we should return to Emperor Qin Shi Huang for archers.”

“A snake,” said the alchemist with the moonlight hair, thoughtfully. “May I ask which colour it is?”

“What does it matter? It’s a giant bloody serpent as big as three ships and it has fangs the size of a man, dripping venom, and it’s in our way.”

The pale-haired alchemist was soft, everyone knew that. Not like Xu Fu, the actual alchemist and leader of the expedition. The foreign alchemist had a gentle, precise voice and spoiled, white hands and tender eyes like a pond on an overcast day, a face as unbearded as a woman’s, a smile as innocent as a child’s.

Only sometimes, those same eyes were as hard as jade.

Captain Pan looked into those hard eyes, and gulped. “It’s black. And red. With yellow eyes.”

“I see.” The alchemist nodded as if something had been confirmed. “I would like to speak with the serpent. Alone, if possible.”

Mad, the Captain thought, mad, and wondered what would get him into more trouble, defying him, or having to tell Xu Fu his idiot friend had been eaten by a sea monster. Xu Fu was adamant that this man alone could lead them Mount Penglai to fetch the elixir of life for Emperor.

Captain Pan, who was a practical man and had seen a lot of the world, had his doubts about the existence of cities of gold and silver with jewels hanging from trees and elixirs of life. On the other hand, there was an unfeasibly gigantic snake in the sea right ahead of them, so he supposed anything was possible. And the mad silver-haired alchemist was sailing out in a tiny boat to talk to it.

* * *

Aziraphale stared up at the snake as it reared out of the ocean. It was, as Captain Pan had told him, three ships tall at least.

“I should have known you would be involved in this. Whatever are you thinking of?”

Venom dripped from the serpent’s fangs as it hissed at him.

“You can stop that right now. I’m not impressed, Crawley.”

The serpent reared up and struck the water, drenching him with seawater. A cry of fear went up from the youths on the ships.

“That was completely uncalled for. I expect an apology.” Aziraphale waved his hand, and his immaculate silk robes dried.

“I don’t apologise. I am the lassst guardian, the terror of the sssssea. You will never reach Mount Penglai. Turn back, humans, or meet your fate.”

“Crawley. You’re making a scene. Now come down here and stop trying to talk around those ridiculous teeth.”

Aziraphale extended an arm up to the giant snake. There was a moment when it waved back and forth, as if prepared to strike again.

“Don’t you dare even think about it.”

The head shot down towards Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. When it reached it, the serpent shimmered and shrank until it was a merely six foot snake snake, winding around his arm.

Aziraphale sat on the deck, moving out of sight of the waiting fleet, so no one saw the snake pool its tail onto his lap and shimmer again, becoming a lanky man-shaped creature perched on his lap, arms loosely linked around the angel’s neck.

“Hullo, Aziraphale. Can’t you at least pretend to be intimidated, just for the sake of my dignity?”

“I have never been afraid of you, Crawley.”

“Well, you could pretend, at least a bit. Not my fault, Samael was supposed to be riding me. Five hundred year’s journey tall, studded with eyes from head to foot, both of us spitting venom. The whole fleet would have turned tail and fled. But oh, no, he had a special date with Lilith, I had to do it alone. Being a big scary fuck off monster was never my scene, you know that.”

“You were quite impressive, really.”

“Hnh,” said Crawley, turning red. “Anyway, wasn’t expecting to see you around these parts. How have you been?”

“I was doing just fine until a great sea monster turned up in the fleet’s path.”

Crawley flashed his dimples at him.

Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing that their faces were very close, and resisted the urge to blush and look away. Of course, they had run across each other in times and places in which men sat on and across each other’s laps casually while talking, and Crawley had always seemed more than willing to slither onto Aziraphale’s broad lap at the slightest excuse. That was not true of China, and Crawley had no excuse at all for staying on his lap.

Besides, Aziraphale was cross, he reminded himself.

“Are you here purely to get in my way?” he asked. “It’s very inconsiderate of you.”

Crowley pouted. For someone with such sharp features he was terribly good at pouting, drawing his long lips out until he was one big pout. “Didn’t know you were coming, honest. I was just told a fleet with three thousand virgins of both sexes was coming to seek Mount Penglai, and I was to cause trouble.”

“Well, you certainly managed that.” Aziraphale huffily lifted his chin.

Crawley’s pout deepened, although it hardly seemed possible, and his huge gold eyes widened even more. “Come on, angel, aren’t you even a little glad to see me? It’s been eleven years.”

Aziraphale softened a little. “Of course I am, dear. Always a pleasure. But this is an important assignment.”

Crawley lifted an eyebrow, still right up in Aziraphale’s personal space. “Odd thing for you to be assigned to. Your lot are usually right against seeking immortality and gold and silver.”

Aziraphale knew, absolutely knew, he should not discuss this with anyone at all, let alone the Enemy. Assignments from Heaven were sacred by definition.

The problem was that it was lonely, being an agent of Heaven. Sometimes, it would be really nice to discuss things with someone who would understand what it was like to get strange and inconvenient orders from on high.

This demon pouting on his lap understood better than anyone else. It was, well, tempting to confide in him.

Aziraphale sighed the sigh of inevitable defeat, and settled back into a more comfortable position. Crawley adjusted too, sliding slightly off his lap so that his legs were draped across Aziraphale’s thighs and Crawley was pressed against his side, arms still around his neck, cheek leaning on the angel’s head. If Heaven happened to look, it would be hard to explain.

“Comfy?” Aziraphale asked in what was intended to be a sarcastic tone. He had the horrified sense it sounded tender instead. Especially as one of his arms had, apparently without his conscious will, curled around the demon’s back. He felt good to embrace, thin and muscular, stronger than any human despite his slenderness.

“Yesss.” Crawley’s heart beat was faster than Aziraphale’s and his cheeks were bright red. “Tell me about why you’re helping the Chinese Emperor. Doesn’t sound like your kind of person, really. All that burying of scholars alive. And burning of books.” His voice was teasing but Aziraphale felt like he could hear or imagine real sympathy in it.

“Oh, he’s a dreadful man, true. Xu Fu's been sent by him to find the elixir of life. No such thing, of course. But I’m supposed to help them find Japan instead, at least according to Gabriel.”

“And I’m clearly supposed to thwart you. One of us is going to be wasting all this effort, unless we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

“I’m afraid so.”

They sat for a while, thinking together. Cuddling together, complained the sensible part of Aziraphale’s mind, which knew there was absolutely no excuse for having his arm around his adversary, even if it was sensible to find a mutually acceptable way through this dilemma instead of smiting each other and causing all that paperwork. Even if it had been a very long time since Aziraphale had held anyone, and even if Crawley fit into his side as if he’d been created to tuck in there.

The Chinese Imperial Court was fascinating–well, less so since Emperor Qin Shi Huang had purged it of any philosophical difference–but no one could call it an affectionate environment. Aziraphale was a creature of love, after all, and he missed touch. He pulled Crawley even closer, and the demon gave a hiss that sounded like contentment, not warning.

“What if I let you through but messed up some vital part of the mission? Like, do they have to be virgins? I’m a fast worker, but seducing three thousand of them might take a while.”

“Crawley.”

“Unless you helped. You’re pretty cute. I know I couldn’t resist you if you started batting those eyelashes.”

“Crawley.”

“Some of them might just need pointing at each other and encouragement.”

“Crawley, no.”

“Oh, all right then.” Crawley sighed theatrically. “Look, what about I let you through, but we don’t let them send word home to China of any success? Partial victory against great odds for both of us.”

Aziraphale thought it over. “I never liked that unpleasant book burning man anyway. I don’t mind the thought of him waiting indefinitely to find out if he’s going to live forever,” he said, a trifle maliciously.

“That’s my angel.”

They sat there a moment longer, while Aziraphale reflected that he really did not even have the smallest sliver of an excuse now for not pushing the demon off his lap and sending him away.

“Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?”

“I was just teasing when I suggested we seduce the virgins.”

Aziraphale sighed. He knew the remark about his eyelashes had just been teasing. He certainly didn’t regret that fact. “I know.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to bear it.”

That startled Aziraphale. “Why not?” He turned and met great fiery eyes with blown pupils and golden irises expanding to hide the whites, and all the gold of Mount Penglai could not have shone more blindingly. Aziraphale shut his eyes against it.

“Jealoussss.” It came out as an inhuman hiss. “My angel.”

There were lips against his, not the cool courtesy kiss they had sometimes exchanged in public but seeking, possessive lips, pressing close, parting his own–or was he parting them himself? Aziraphale couldn’t be sure.

He was only sure that his head was being pulled close, a tongue silkier and more delicate than any human one could be was touching his own, and instead of pushing the demon away he was clutching him closer.

Crawley pulled away at last.

“Crawley?”

Crawley gave him a long, blank look, his face frozen. Then he shimmered.

“Crawley!”

“Ssssorry.”

Aziraphale grabbed for his tail as he slithered off his lap. “Get back here, you stupid snake!”

It was too late. There was a splash as Crawley disappeared off the side of the boat.

Aziraphale buried his head in his hands for a long moment.

Right. He had a job to do. And he could talk to the demon later. Or not.

Aziraphale had a suspicion that Crawley would sashay back into his life as if they had never kissed, as if Crawley had never declared Aziraphale to be his angel in that possessive hiss, and Aziraphale would let him, because what else could he do? They were enemies.

Dear enemies, but that was all they could be.

Aziraphale sighed and prepared to return to the fleet. He had a job to do. They both did. All part of the Plan.

He hoped it was part of the Plan that his euros was now divided into before and after having an annoying, beautiful snake with searching lips and golden eyes in his arms, because he really couldn’t bear it if not.

He addressed the sea, just in case Crawley could hear.

“Fare thee well and may we meet again soon, my demon.”

#good omens fanfiction #31 days of ineffables #azicrow #aziraphale/crowley #Ineffable Husbands #fanfic #ancient china

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destielfreshhits · 5 years

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Destiel Fresh Hits

July/August Winner Announcement

Our July theme ‘History’ was courtesy of @saltnhalo who blazed into the winning position with an incredible fic in June.

The nominees for our extended July/August round are:

Destiny Is In Love With Effort by @angelaland

As a graduate student in history, Dean spends a ridiculous number of hours in the library. He's walked the aisles countless times, but he's never seen a book like this one. It's putting off a palpable hum that's not like anything he's heard before. It's also shimmering with golden sparks. When he reaches for it, he knows his life will never be the same.

Raw Score: 103 Handicap: -27 Total Score: 76

Invention by @violetlyvanilla

Aziraphale encounters a fellow angelic inventor. Castiel is a fearsome seraphim carrying out a mysterious personal mission. Crowley and Aziraphale attempt to track Castiel’s movements through time and learn to invent a few new things along the way. Afterall, desperation is the mother of invention.

Raw Score: 17 Handicap: -40 Total Score: -23

And the winner is:

@angelaland !!

with a stunning 40K story of time travel, there’s Shakespeare, there’s Russian, there’s Constantinople! Can’t wait to see what your prompt will be!

#destiel #destiel fanfic #deancas #destiel fanfic writing challenge #destielfreshhits #july august winner

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Good Omens - Dodge and Parry (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley discovers that he is rather enamored of his angel's bruises ... especially the ones that go farther than skin deep. (2006 words)

Notes: I wrote this for Kinktober 2020, the prompt 'bruises'. So I was going to write a piece about bruise worship, which this sort of is, but it went much deeper. I will try to come up with something kinkier and more fun another time XD

Read on AO3.

“How does that feel, angel?” Crowley asks, soaking his washcloth completely, then wringing it out over Aziraphale’s scalp. “Too hot? Too cold?”

“Neither.” Aziraphale hums happily with eyes shut. “It’s perfect. Sublime, I should say. Like soaking in a nice, warm cup of tea.”

“We’ve added enough dried flowers and wot not that you could just be,” Crowley comments, swiping a hand through the water, swatting at a cluster of rose petals, lavender, sweet jasmine, and chamomile.

“Hmm. Then you could drink me,” Aziraphale says, sinking deeper into the steaming water.

“Ngk … I … I could …” Crowley stumbles, but he recovers, a triumph since that remark from his angel almost had him choking on his tongue. “But let’s save the sweet stuff for later, eh? We’ve gotta get you fixed up.”

“Yes … let’s. Then … I can do you …” Aziraphale mumbles, drifting off, his cheeks rosy from the warmth and the company. Crowley soaps up his cloth and runs it over Aziraphale’s arm, sliding past a mark that has blossomed considerably since he last saw it. He runs the cloth over it again and it seems to darken, the cream-colored suds rinsing into cloudy water and revealing a plethora of purples swirled together, related to one another by hues, tiny freckles sprouting along the fringe like shy violets.

A galaxy of them really.

Crowley isn’t normally fond of scars and bruises, especially on his angel. Aziraphale bears many types of blacks and blues, with varied stories behind them. Older scars on Aziraphale’s corporation - ones following mortal paths and having faded to silver - come by way of other angels who delight in his suffering. Crowley has seen every one of those, categorized their existence, set their placements to memory. A touch of his fingertips tells him when they were created … and by whom.

Crowley has gathered a list of enemies on his angel’s behalf, and that list is long.

Very long.

Not all of angel’s bruises are visible to the naked, mortal eye, but they’ve dimmed his aura considerably.

Crowley never thought the humans’ quarantine would get to Aziraphale. Being locked inside, forbidden to go out and socialize, leaving him heaps of time to read his books, seemed like a dream come true. With no one coming into his shop to browse, there was nothing keeping him from doing his crossword puzzles till his heart’s content. And it seemed that way for the first few months.

But it didn’t stay that way.

More and more, Crowley would catch his angel sitting in a chair by the window, staring up at the sky, sighing deeply as if for a long lost love, which seemed utterly preposterous to Crowley since every book Aziraphale could ever want lay in a stack beside him. Aside from that, he had his music. And cake! Why, they’d been baking cake every single day! So much cake, in fact, that any poor soul who so much as poked their head out of their door received a cardboard baker’s box packed to bursting with confections, passed along at a socially safe distance courtesy of a long, wooden shepherd’s crook.

And thanks to a wonderful service with a mildly vulgar name, whenever Aziraphale so desired, a delivery person dropped by with a box of his favorite sushi, which Crowley generously tipped for.

But Aziraphale still wasn’t happy. And he was becoming less happy by the day.

Something had changed.

He mentioned several times to Crowley that he felt hemmed in; that lately, being locked inside made it difficult for him to breathe. He longed to walk through the park, soak in the sunshine (when it made itself available), and feed the ducks again.

Crowley didn’t understand it. Aziraphale despised exercise to such a degree that if he sat at Crowley’s kitchen table, preparing to sup, and discovered that he’d left the butter in the fridge, he’d rather do without then to get up and fetch it.

It wasn’t until days later, when Crowley found a stack of newspaper clippings hiding underneath Aziraphale’s ledger, that he began to catch on:

Covid cases increase rapidly as next steps planned

'Tier Three' Covid restrictions in announcement on Monday

More than 80% of positive UK cases in study had no core symptoms

It wasn’t the toll quarantine was taking on Aziraphale. It was the toll this disease that caused the need for a quarantine was taking on the humans he was so fond of. That time spent staring at the sky, Aziraphale spent praying, wondering why the Almighty would let this continue, let so many of Her beloveds die and for what?

From the expression on his angel’s face after, Crowley assumed he got no answers.

It was like the Ark all over again, only without the refreshing rain, and with no rainbow in sight.

Determined to take his mind off of it, Crowley arranged a private movie marathon for his angel at his flat. They sat on his sofa with homemade snacks and watched some old Errol Flynn movies. And it worked! After a while, Crowley started watching Aziraphale more than the film, his angel that much more entertaining. Aziraphale had started the way he watched every movie - sitting primly upright, hands folded in his lap, eyes glued to the screen. But over time, he’d started to inch forward, lean in, muscles twitching to recreate the fight scenes - the swipes of a sword, the parries, his feet shuffling enthusiastically in place to mimic the steps of the actors’ retreats like they were performing a gavotte.

Encouraged that this was a way to break through Aziraphale’s melancholy, Crowley recommended they dig out the old fencing foils and have at it, sans protective gear in honor of old Errol. Besides, they didn’t need it.

“Oh! No, no, no!” Aziraphale argued at first, even with a smile on his lips. “I couldn’t! It’s been so long!”

“Nonsense!” Crowley retorted, heading for his closet. “You were an expert swordsman centuries ago. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully now. It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“And how’s that, dear?”

“Once you fall off, you get right back on.” Crowley tossed Aziraphale a foil, which he caught without looking, and Crowley smirked knowingly.

Crowley didn’t give Aziraphale a chance to back out, didn’t salute him like at the beginning of an official duel. Crowley came at him like a buccaneer, crowing and catching Aziraphale off-guard. But Aziraphale fought back. He wasn’t upset by Crowley’s abrupt start. On the contrary. He laughed at Crowley’s antics, especially when he tried to evade by climbing over the sofa, and then onto an end table. His joy was infectious. It rang through Crowley’s flat, made the plants (which had initially recoiled at the sound of clashing metal) stand straighter, wave their leaves and cheer. It rose up inside Crowley as if the joy were his own, making him laugh, too.

Laugh till he snorted, which he hadn’t done in a long time.

But it didn’t last as long as Crowley had hoped.

Aziraphale got lost somewhere in the fight, lost in thinking, his mind drifting in all directions while he dodged and parried by rote. His face grew tense, his expression morphing from concentration to anger … to vengeance. He went after Crowley with clouded eyes, as if everything pent up inside him - the sadness and the anxiety - had found a weak spot in Aziraphale’s armor.

And now, it was starting to break through.

Crowley didn’t know who Aziraphale saw when he looked at him. Those world leaders who didn’t take this pandemic seriously, who didn’t act quick enough, who were greedy.

Beelzebub and the Dukes of Hell, whom Aziraphale credited for the speed in which this disease took hold, and the blind, stubborn stupidity of those who refused to do their part to stop it.

Gabriel, who has long since laughed off any correspondence Aziraphale has sent him regarding the matter, rejecting the last dozen with a very snarky ‘Return to sender!’ emblazoned in gold across the envelope.

Or the Almighty, who has the power to stop this but who has refused, and doesn’t have the decency to tell him why.

Or maybe he simply saw Crowley, who treated the whole thing like a joke, not only taking a nap for the first few months but then extending it, leaving Aziraphale alone when he might have needed him most.

Aziraphale attacked, closing in on Crowley fast, fighting with more fist than blade, and Crowley defended.

They struck one another at the same time - Aziraphale bringing his wrist down on the bridge of Crowley’s nose, Crowley’s guard-covered fist coming up to block and accidentally clocking Aziraphale on the jaw.

Both stumbled back, seeing stars.

Had they been human, Crowley’s nose would have broken, and Aziraphale’s jaw would have shattered. As was, Crowley’s nose ended up a bit crooked till a minute ago when Aziraphale snapped his fingers and set it straight. Aziraphale’s jaw still sported an indigo bruise reminiscent of a mum.

“Oh … oh my dear boy! I am so sorry!” Aziraphale apologized profusely when he saw Crowley’s nose, blood pooling underneath.

“Wot?” Crowley sniffed, wiping his Cupid’s bow with the back of his hand, examining the stain left behind with swimming eyes. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Barely a scratch. Think nothing of it.”

“But … but …” Aziraphale stuttered, on the verge of tears. He dropped his sword, almost dropped to his knees, too, but Crowley hurried forward and gathered him up, wrapped him in his arms and held him.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, hugging Aziraphale tight. “It’s going to be all right, angel.”

“Do you … do you really think so?”

“Yes,” Crowley said with a sigh. Whether he did or not didn’t actually matter. But no one, angel or human, was going to get through today and on to the next if they didn’t believe it was at least possible. Crowley had to hold Aziraphale together, even if he did it with lies. He had to keep the one angel left on earth who still cared going. “I do.”

That’s when Aziraphale’s tears began to fall.

Crowley held him.

An hour went by, and Crowley held him.

Crowley declared Aziraphale the winner, and as a reward, offered to give him a bath and miracle him healed.

But when he got his angel naked and saw the bruises glowing on his skin, he hesitated. He shouldn’t be attracted to them. He shouldn’t find them appealing. On top of being physical damage to Aziraphale’s skin, some of them were bred out of despair. They should have repulsed Crowley, but they were actually glorious, like a small corner of impressionist art brought to life and tattooed on his skin.

Because not all of these new bruises, exploding with vibrant color and depth, were bad. They happened when Aziraphale was still smiling, still laughing. When his leg banged the corner of a table during a particularly rowdy retreat. When he tried to follow Crowley vaulting over the back of the sofa, misstepped, and landed on his knee. When their foils tangled together and Crowley accidentally kicked Aziraphale in the thigh in his effort to separate them. Aziraphale had watched Crowley fly backward, land on his heel, and spin three times like a ballerina, stopping in a perfect arabesque, just to then trip over air and land in a chair. Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed so hard, he walked right into Crowley’s (blunted) sword, the flat tip leaving its circular shadow behind.

Those bruises …

Those are bruises of pleasure.

They run deeper than skin.

And Crowley is quite satisfied by that.

Crowley almost regrets his promise to rid Aziraphale of them.

But being the one who gets to heal Aziraphale is an honor all its own.

However, he realizes with a grin, there is a way to get them back.

He’ll memorize these, too. Their exact locations.

And freshen them up later with his mouth.

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