#if aziraphale is avoiding work just know crowley is a mess too

[wraithee]

Imagine if Aziraphale runs heaven like the bookshop and he’s just hanging out doing absolutely nothing but shuffling papers around to look busy while keeping inconsistent office hours and tracking Crowley back on earth all day long and stress snacking, and that’s what ends up ruining heavens plans for the second coming.

[las-lus]

Aziraphale lied Theory

First of all, this theory is not mine, its from @/doubleskk on Twitter and can be found HERE. Go show them some love! It's in Portuguese, so I'll do my best to translate it - blue texts are my personal additions!

This season, we have something very clear in Aziraphale's development arc: is his relationship with LIE. He lied to protect Job's children, and he lied he had performed a miracle to make Nina and Maggie fall in love. That's not counting other little lies, sprinkled throughout the season here and there.

We keep seeing Crowley say "I'm a demon, I lie", but in the big finale, we have Crowley saying the truth - the big truth, the one he has been avoiding for 6 thousand years.

All of this was to set the stage for the biggest lie of all: the lie he had to tell Crowley to fend him off and protect him.

When Metatron goes to buy the coffee, he asks Nina if people ask for death, as the name of her shop is "Give me a coffee, or give me death". What if that name is an allegory for the actual conversation between Metatron and Aziraphale?

Aziraphale may have been threatened. Either Azira goes back to heaven (coffee), or he and Crowley would have their existence erased from the Book of Life (death). So, to protect Crowley, Aziraphale had to invent a lie to make sure he got away. The Book of Life was namedropped a couple of times in the show, a Chekhov's gun that never went off - Neil is too good of a writer for that.

And Aziraphale knew that Crowley would be pissed if he agreed to go back to Heaven after everything that happened, and he knew that Crowley would never accept being an angel again. "But rescuing me makes him so happy" - Aziraphale had to make sure Crowley wouldn't realize he needed saving.

That's why he knew exactly what to say to mess with Crowley.

At 41:14 of episode 6, when Azira starts telling the (alleged) lie to Crowley, he becomes all flustered, moving his hands from side to side and stammering, SAME PATTERN as when he lies to the angels about having done the Nina and Maggie fall in love, in episode 2.

[This part really works better with 2 videos side by side, which you cannot do on tumblr, so if you want you can check them out here]

The sequence of him talking to Metatron at the table is nothing more than an enactment of his lie. The conversation didn't go like that, Aziraphale made everything up.

And when Crowley declares himself, Aziraphale starts shaking his head in despair: not now, don't tell me that now.

He also looks out the window as soon as the confession starts, as if he knows Metraton was watching him outside.

Then there's the kiss, Aziraphale falters for a moment, but he has to keep up with the lie and he knows he has to hurt Crowley on purpose. And after Crowley leaves, Aziraphale is MUST recover in seconds, because Metatron is coming back. Also notice that when Metatron comes back, he doesn't ask if Crowley agreed to go back to heaven or not. He just sends a "How did he take it?"

That is, there was never any choice, and for Metatron Aziraphale was only going to break the news that he was leaving. And Aziraphale had to invent a lie to the inmates to make sure Crowley stayed away from him.

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Hello! Sorry to hear youre in quarantine, I hope youre doing ok :)

Would you want to write something for your do androids dream of angel cyborgs au?

The prompt in your list "i like you. A lot. Like a lot a lot" seems like it could be extremely cute

It's been ages since I've worked on this au!

That is a good prompt, perfect for them. :)

For those new to the au, it's a future-based au with Crowley as an advanced android (who was originally naked AJ0440) who accidentally develops free will and had escaped. Aziraphale is a cyborg who runs a bookshop (that technically is just barely avoiding being illegal) that also doubles as a repair shop for out-of-date androids and cyborgs.

On with the fic!

--

"It's a shame," Aziraphale commented as he opened the door to the roof of his shop, "that the blasted lights and neon display images make it so hard to see the stars here in town."

"That's fine, angel, it's the thought that counts." Crowley chuckled, following behind with a blanket, in Aziraphale's hands was a small basket.

It was a clear enough night to have the moon seen, though stars were harder. Still, Aziraphale thought it would be a nice gesture anyway, to spend a bit of time out on the roof to just enjoy the night, some wine, and each other's company.

"Still, it would have been nice to do some... oh, I dunno, constellation spotting? Is that what one calls it?" Aziraphale turned, pouting a bit.

Crowley smiled and patted Aziraphale's shoulder before moving to lay out the blanket, his fingers blinking pink as he set it down as perfectly as he could. "Sure, you can call that. But it's fine, angel! I'm sure we'll have a good night!"

He wasn't going to point out that his eyes could filter out the light pollution, and he could see the stars, but Aziraphale didn't need to know that. He took his friend's hand and helped him get down, Aziraphale's leg had been aching, came with the changing weather, he had said.

Aziraphale gave him a gentle smile, which has Crowley's insides whirring loudly. This human has such an effect on him, it's... it's a lot that had been building up within Crowley.

A lot that he really needed to get out of his chest. He hoped it wouldn't backfire, emotions are... complicated. And difficult. And sometimes free will was a muddled mess, but if humans could live with it, so could an android.

"I picked an excellent year for us." Aziraphale said, opening the basket, setting out the bottle, then grabbing two glasses. He also pulled out a small covered dish he had prepared before, something that Crowley wasn't really going to touch. Food wasn't completely necessary, but he could use the wine as bio-fuel. And it was delicious, that was a plus.

"Thanks." Crowley replied, watching him before glancing up at the sky. He could see small movements of satellites and air crafts, lights blinking and displaying messages from projections. He adjusted his eyes and they were gone, he could see natural lights, from stars and reflections off planets.

"Are you alright, dear?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley saw him giving him a concerned face. "You're making odd noises, are you overheating? Your lights are flashing too. Goodness, do we need to do a systems check?"

"Uhh... no, no, it's not that." Crowley shook his head, glaring at his hands before shoving them into the pockets of his jacket. He sat down, grumbling, but Aziraphale kept watching him.

"What is it?" He asked softly.

Crowley looked at him, seeing him under the lights of SoHo, of the moon, of the faerie lights that he and Aziraphale put up last week because the cyborg thought it would look pretty.

Aziraphale looked pretty.

Crowley sighed, turning to face him properly. "Angel, listen... there's something that's been on my mind for a long, long time. Something that I've been trying to understand, something that I don't think androids normally feel. I mean, I know that Francis does with Ashtoreth."

He grabbed for one of the glasses that Aziraphale has prepared, taking a sip from it. "And... well, I've realized something about what it is."

"What is it, Crowley?"

Mismatched eyes stared into hazel, and Crowley knew this was his last chance. "I like you. A lot. Like a lot a lot."

Aziraphale blinked. "You do?"

"Yes. I'm aware that these sorts of things don't normally happen with androids, we're technically not supposed to feel emotions, obviously. But I do. I feel things for you, lots of things. Lots of things that overheat my systems, lots of things that make me feel like I'm gonna blue screen when you smile at me, or laugh, or tell me sweet things. It's just... holy shit, it's a lot? Do you know?"

"Yes, I do." Aziraphale said softly. "It's a lot, I understand, because I like you too, Crowley. A lot. More than I had expected, which is not a bad thing. It's a wonderful thing."

They looked at one another, and they didn't say anything else. It was better not to, it so just... it was nice, looking at the sky, holding hands, just being... them.

--

I like the idea that they don't have to say everything, they understand, they completely understand how the other feels. It's a lot, but it's good.

[theroundbartable]

When I do Character studies, they look a lot like this. A bundled mess of facts that just come to mind when thinking of a character. Followed by important albeit random functions and Goals. It's a mess. Does anyone know how to structure your brain?

Crowley: *oblivious as fuck* also somehow knows everything, except he forgets how everything works after it's done. Extremely organized. Inconveniences people which always backfires and inconveniences him too. Asks questions all the time and encourages asking things. Wants to be feared, is actually kind to others. Loves complaining. When fed up, he stops time. Alcoholism. Calm, easily frustrated, loves to complain, glasses to avoid confrontation, slithering snake behavior. Mr. Swag.

Main goal (failed): Avoiding things. Ergo: deflection tactics.

Problem: ignores his own problems, lets other people handle things if possible

Main Love language (giving): 1) acts of service, 2) quality time, 3) words of affirmation

Main love language (needing): quality time x3

____

Aziraphale: *detects things all the time* doesn't know anything, so he figures everything out. Often he's right, but things are also out of his control so he can't do shit about it. Ignores obvious things. Forgives, a lot. Displeased with how things are done. Doesn't ask questions, goes in roundabout ways to have them answered. When he's fed up, he confronts people and/or situations. Food addict. Book lover, anxious, rigid.

Main goal (failed): confronting things. Ergo: explaining things, waiting for someone to correct him

Problem: doesn't listen/ stubborn

Main love language (giving): 1) physical touch, 2) quality time

Main love language (needing) quality time, words of affirmation x2

[turquoisedata]

this is about me really, not GO. Please stay, I won't make a post like this again.

it took me a week to watch Good Omens season 2. I mistimed my S1 rewatch and then the week after it came out was insanely busy* so I couldn't think about it at first. I watched the first ep Thursday 3/8, then the day after my son went to his other parent's house so I could watch the rest in one go.

I think maybe that wasn't the best of ideas?

It's been 9 days now. 9 days in which I have struggled to think about anything else. 9 days in which I have signed up to Tumblr, which I've been avoiding since the site launched. Thought I was too old, ha. 9 days in which I've been away to visit family but during which I've sneaked views and rewatched the show with my son** and started to reread the book and watched Staged and cried. 9 days in which one of my friends *died*, unexpectedly but also not, and still all I can do is cling onto this frigging show. All I can do is watch the kiss gif and the chest stroke (that I legit didn't even spot) and Az grabbing Crowley's waist (that I very definitely did).

I want to know why this has grabbed so many of us so hard. I mean, partly because fucking Neil has BROKEN ALL OUR FRIGGING HEARTS, so of course we're finding comfort together. But.

My friend didn't have a person, a partner to share her life with. I always thought that wasn't fair. I know she would have liked to find someone. A piece of my grief will always be sadness that she deserved that and didn't find it.

I don't have a person either. I thought I'd found my soulmate, but after two decades of thinking our souls fit together I realised he was a bit of a shit, actually, and that I deserved better than someone who was just plain mean to me. I didn't want our kid thinking that was expected or normal.

And I think, maybe. When I see Crowley and Aziraphale gazing at each other with such longing and love and affection and want and lust, it gives me hope that even this late 40s perimenopausal AuDHD mess might actually find someone, some day, who looks at her with love like that.

I dunno. It's been the best part of a decade being single, in that time I've realised I'm autistic, realised I'm not straight, lived through a plague, entirely broken down. I'm so much more broken than I used to be. I feel like... why would anyone ever want me.

But maybe they will?

I really hope none of my IRL friends followed me when I shared one post that I made on my Facebook. Also really hope my ex never finds this. Hey ho blah blah blah blah plausible deniability

*stupid work getting in the way of my obsessions

**he's also devastated, I feel like such a terrible parent

[starofhisheart]

Just had an angsty ineffable husbands au idea (dw ends happily)

Cw: pregnancy/mpreg (kinda. For the purpose of the story I will be referring to both Zira and Crowley as "he/him")

What if after Aziraphale gets up to heaven the metatron turns to him and is like "well now, lets begin" and Zira is magically impregnated w Gods child. He is kept a close eye on so deals with the whole pregnancy mostly alone, save for certain lesser angel attendants attempting to take care of him (but they have no real clue about pregnancy so Zira gets very little actual help).

Zira is struggling, still emotionally devastated by the breakup, but one day he overhears Gods plan for his child and starts thinking up an escape plan. By the time everythings in place (Muriel helps?) Zira is very far along (the pregnancy is faster than a regular human one) but by some miracle the angels who were meant to be guarding him have become lax in their duties and its now or never.

He's thought a lot about where he could go, where he would be safe, but the thought he keeps coming back to is Crowley. But oh surely he is still angry with him! Surely he would take one look at Zira and his extended belly and shut the door on him forever. No apology dance could fix the mess he'd made.

And so he finds himself in his bookshop, intending to not bother his love with the problems he'd brought on himself. He expects the bookshop to be a mess. Muriel was a kind angel but he did not expect much from them in the way of book keeping. But he finds the place just as he'd left it, almost uncannily so, and is gently running his fingers over a bookshelf when he hears a noise.

Not just any noise: Crowley. He'd know his footfalls anywhere. The way he staggers about, stumbling into corners, softly cursing when he stubs his toe on a bookend. When he rounds the corner its clear he's been drinking. If the bottle clutched in his arms was any indication so too would be the way he's practically falling over with every step, gulping down the bottle with the occasional burp or hiccup.

Aziraphale is frozen, shocked by the sudden appearance of the one person he wanted to avoid-and the one person he most longed to see. Crowley hasn't seen him yet. He could miracle himself away and disappear as if he'd never been there. But some mysterious force has him rooted to the spot, drinking in the sight of his beloved.

And then its too late.

"A-angel?"

"Hello, my dear."

The demon rubs his eyes as he staggers backwards into a shelf, scattering a pile of Jane Austen's works, Persuasion landing at Zira's feet.

Fitting.

"S'just another dream." Crowley mumbles, sounding oh so very tired. "S'no way he'd come back. Up there with them fancy white coats. All light and good and-everythin m'not."

"Oh, Crowley..."

"No!! G-get away from me!" He throws his arms up in the air as if he can clear away the apparition if he waves them frantically enough. "Not real..."

Zira makes a choice then. He could leave, find somewhere else to hide from God and the angels and try to weather it out alone. Or, he could stay and try to fix things.

Moving slowly, arms outstretched, Zira calls to his beloved:

"I'm home."

<>

Crowley is a sobbing mess. Once he was sober enough to believe his angel was real he got angry. Flinging curses in every direction. Zira was hurt but took them gently, knowing he deserved it. Then the tears came. Until finally he passed out in Zira's arms, clutching the angel like a lifeline.

When morning comes Zira hadnt slept. He'd wanted to start putting the wards up but everytime he tried to move out of Crowley's arms the demon would make a pitiful noise and hold him tighter. It would all be very cute if his back wasnt killing him.

Crowley woke with a start at exactly 6:02AM and simply stared at Zira with an unreadable expression. He did not speak for several minutes. Simply stared. Then the first thing out of his mouth was:

"Gee, angel, you've gotten fat."

Aziraphale went red, immediately annoyed and anxious at the same time.

"Excuse me? How is that the first thing you say to me?"

But Crowley was staring intently at his belly not at all listening to Zira's offended screeching.

"Angel..." He cut in softly and at those words Aziraphale crumbled and it all came out at once.

About Gods child. The pregnancy. The plans they had for his baby. His escape plan. Everything.

Crowley listened quietly, expression the most unreadable Zira had ever seen it. Which of course only made his anxiety worse.

"-and I know I couldn't possibly expect you to help me, not after what happened, but-"

"Aziraphale."

Zira continued babbling, his voice getting higher and more shrill as he went on.

"Aziraphale!"

Zira shut up at that, wincing at the anger in Crowley's voice.

"I'm sorry."

Crowley's eyes softened but Zira was looking anywhere but at him, not able to bear what could only be hatred in his eyes.

"Hey, look at me."

Zira shook his head. A sigh. Then Crowley was holding Zira's face in his hands and looking at him as if he were his whole world.

"I've got you." Zira tried to duck his head but Crowley moved with him, keeping their eyes level. "Its you and me, remember?"

It would take time for Zira to truly believe his words but in that moment it was just what he needed to hear.

After a while of holding each other, Crowley broke the silence with:

"So, I guess we're going to be fathers this time around, huh."

The end

[ineffable-endearments]

You know, there are some themes that show up in both Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's works, often repeatedly.

One is the power of beliefs, stories, and assumptions - our inner narratives - to create meaning and sometimes even shape what we view as reality. The most ready examples I can think of are in The Sandman, in Hogfather, and in Good Omens - especially in Adam Young's power.

Another feature I think I've noticed in both of their works is a pretty profound comfort with chaos and ambiguity. What are the rules of magic? What are the rules of anything in this world? Who did the good thing and who did the bad one? While not absolutely everything is totally ambiguous in their stories (it would be pretty hard to have a coherent narrative that way), I'd say they delight in ambiguity, conflicting information, and grey areas in ways that not all creators do.

Combine those themes with the ones Aziraphale and Crowley specifically explore - "opposites" and how they define each other, how they give each other meaning, how they aren't always so different after all - and I think you have a relationship that is not only up for interpretation, but whose interpretability is the whole point.

Aziraphale and Crowley aren't only mirrors to each other - they're mirrors in front of ourselves, showing us exactly what we'd expect to see, given our existing beliefs and assumptions. In other words, we create the meanings we see in their story. It's a more engaging process than simple projection - Aziraphale and Crowley are who they are; they aren't two-dimensional RPG player characters for us to project onto. The fact that their relationship is very well developed while avoiding specific labels forces us to engage with exactly why we see them, or don't see them, in certain ways.

I know there are people out there who don't buy this reasoning. And though I disagree, their feelings are valid. They've been messed with in ways that are incredibly damaging and they have every right to want certain things from their queer love stories. They don't have a right to be rude and hateful toward the creative team...but they definitely do have a right to roll their eyes and say "OK, this isn't the story I needed, I'm going to find a different one."

But I believe the interpretation I described is valid and worthwhile, too. It's provoked so much thought, so many internal adventures - you're just not going to convince me it's a waste.

Also, we barely know anything about season 2 yet anyway.

[wistfulcynic]

3, 12, and 23?

3. favorite line/scene you wrote this year

favourite line, from On the Side of the World:

Crowley turned to the Metatron with a smirk so smug that if you murdered him for it no court in Creation would convict you. Aziraphale had never loved him more. “I believe the human expression for that is ‘hoist with one’s own petard',” he observed.  “Crowley,” said God, in a voice that was at once a pat on the back and a knife in it, “you always were too clever for your own damned good.”

favourite scene, from taking it slow:

Maybe he just doesn’t want me.  It’s an absolutely ridiculous notion given Stede’s very obvious suffering but Ed’s sexually frustrated too and it’s seriously messing with his capacity for rational thought. He’s been throwing himself at Stede for days now and Stede’s done absolutely fuck all about it and the only explanation Ed can come up with anymore is that Stede just doesn’t want to.  So much for I didn’t know it could be like that, he fumes, as he hammers nails into the roof with more force than is advisable, given the rickety state of said roof. So much for Oh, Ed you feel perfect. So much for the greatest sexual experience of Ed’s life, apparently it meant nothing at all to Stede. Apparently fucking Ed was so awful that Stede will go to just about any lengths to avoid doing it again.  He works himself up into such a lather with these thoughts that when he’s done on the roof and goes back inside, the sight of Stede’s welcoming smile tips him right over the edge.  “Oh there you are, Ed,” he says, “good. I wanted to ask you—”  “Mate, what the fuck?” Ed yells.  Stede’s brow knits in confusion. “What?” he says. “You know what,” Ed snaps back. Stede’s wearing a well-worn white shirt today, so thin and open at the collar he may as well be wearing nothing. Ed wants to lick him. Just lick up that little pool of sweat that gathers at the base of his throat. Lick his pecs, bite his nipples, suck his dick—fuck.  “I can’t do this anymore,” he growls. “I fucking won’t.”  “Do what?” Stede looks truly baffled. “Ed, what’s wrong?”  “What’s wrong?” Ed throws his hands in the air. “You’re asking me what’s wrong?”  “Yes, I am.” Stede stands and cautiously approaches. “Is there anything I can do?”  “Anything you can do?” Ed starts to laugh. “Is there anything you can do? Yes, Stede, there fucking is something you can do. You can fucking mean it when you say you love me.”  “I—”  “You can be honest,” Ed barrels on, ignoring his attempts to speak, “and tell me that I’m not enough for you and you hated having sex with me and you never want to fucking touch me again.”  “Ed—”  “And you can stop,” Ed continues, voice rising, “wearing those fucking shirts that leave your chest bare and smelling like clean sweat and the sea and hibiscus, some-fuckin’-how, and you can stop looking at me like you think I’m the greatest thing ever when you won’t fuckin’ just fuck m—”  He’s cut off by Stede’s lips on his, hard and ravenous. Before he can fully process what’s happening, Ed finds himself slammed back against the wall with such force the whole building shakes and kissed as though both their lives depend on it. As, very possibly, they do. 

12. favorite character to write about this year

this may be cheating but it's definitely Chad from On the Side of the World. He's an OC and if i'm honest he's just Bertie Wooster in a himbo suit but i have had so much fun writing him and the response from readers has been lovely.

23. fics you wanted to write but didn’t

this was kind of a slow year for me for fic writing, i took a long break which i really needed and also deleted a wip that i liked but was not rewarding to post. So i think all told i wrote what i wanted to write. However. i do have an idea for a continuation of taking it slow which would see Ed and Stede into the innkeeper era and beyond, an OFMD season three pre-write, effectively. Which is madness to contemplate considering i'm just finishing my Good Omens season three pre-write but no one ever said fic writers had any sense of proportion. So idk, maybe it will get written in 2024. It is a banger of an idea if i say so myself but ouf, it would be at least 60-80k and take forever.

thanks for playing!!

-

SEND ME AN END-OF-YEAR FIC ASK

[luwathegreat]

Not a Damsel, A Fearful Angel Aka: The Bastille Incident Should Make You Say "Oh..." and Not "Aww..." (For the Most Part)

Luwa here!

I had made the mistake not too long ago in a repost, saying Aziraphale happily took on the role of a Damsel in Distress while Crowley took on the role of the Knight in Shining Armor based on two incidents:

Crowley rescuing Aziraphale in the Bastille

The Paintball Scene

I've recently read that this remark is be offensive so I'd like to apologize for that. I didn't know at the time and I had found the remark the post was making amusing/agreeable. I now know better and will avoid saying that sort of thing again. I've deleted the post and I'd like to correct myself here.

So if you'd like a refresher as to why the Bastille Incident is more evidence against G.O. Heaven, come along with me

I know it isn't as fresh in a lot of peoples brains since it's in Season One (And our brains are stuck in season two), but this is some dialogue between Aziraphale and Crowley in the cellar/prison/holding cell: Crowley: "Why don't you just perform another miracle and go home?"

Aziraphale: "I was reprimanded last month..."

Crowley: *Visibile Confusion*

Aziraphale: "They said I'd preformed too many 'Frivilous Miracles'...Got a strongly worded note from Gabriel."

Crowley: "Well you're lucky I was in the area.."

Aziraphale: "I suppose I am..."

THAT is part one. Keep that in mind and let's continue:

Aziraphale: "Why're you here?"

Crowley: "My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance.."

Aziraphale: "So all this is your demonic work?!"

Crowley: "No! The humans thought it up themselves- nothing to do with me!"

THIS is part two.

Part One gives us the clear reason as to why Aziraphale did not miracle himself away from his imprisonment. NOT because he was sitting around waiting on Crowley (or at least not in the way we depict it), but because he was REPRIMANDED! Of course he did stand up and try to move away from getting his head chopped off- but we know he would've gotten dragged away by the guards.

Simply because heaven scolded him, he wasn't going to save himself from discorporation (and paperwork). I understand they can't neccesarily die, but still experiencing getting your head cut off must be incredibly scary. So of course he was relieved and happy that his friend, his one true friend, had unexpectedly shown up. Not because he needed a knight...but because he needed a miracle. And Crowley was just that in this situation for him.

Part One Coupled with Part Two also makes me wonder... Why does Heaven monitor Aziraphales miracles? How would they know they are frivolous and why do they care? They're just so overly controlling it is insane.

Hell doesn't check to the point where got praised for something he didn't even do- I don't know if that's a good thing either really.

Why are they helicopter parenting Aziraphale from heaven and telling him off for just...doing what Angels do! They're just so...rrrghghrhei!

Final Points: We just know Aziraphale knows that rescuing him makes Crowley happy. So he's less of a Damsel in Distress and more of an Angel who's just happy to see his Demon happy. I feel as though

I can't really explain the paintball incident other than Aziraphale having a (well deserved) moment of upset/frustration (as we all do) at something he loves a lot being messed up and him looking to Crowley for help. Again, not a damsel. Just an angel who knows Crowley likes to help him.

That concludes it! Proof to everyone (and former Luwa) as to why the Bastille Incident does NOT paint Aziraphale. The Bastille Scene is definitely an interesting/enjoyable one- but I can't believe the whole conversation they had slipped my mind. I apologize again for calling Aziraphale a damsel in distress and it will not happen again!

A reminder to all: Always rewatch season one as well before making any claims/theories on season one so its fresh in your mind <3

LUWA OUT

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

I feel like I've written about this before, maybe in a tag or something, but I'm honestly really into the idea that, despite being despised by the higher ups (or lower downs), Crowley and Aziraphale are actually considered really cool by the younger rank and file members of their respective sides.

'Cause Crowley's immediate superiors might privately dislike him, but that's because he's doing something that they don't understand. And he's doing it really well. In public, the Serpent of Eden is Hell's golden boy. Every up and coming young demon who wants to someday make it big has got an Anthony J Crowley poster up in their cubicle.

There's competition to work with him on temptations. There are stories— "they say he's started two world wars!" "They say he's the one who came up with Original Sin!" "They say he invented telemarketing!"— that get passed up and down the corridors of Hell. There's a black market among the younger demons for knock-off sunglasses and cheap red hair dye. (The latter has a tendency to dye your hair almost entirely the wrong colour— ranging from bright orange to hot pink— and will make you smell like peroxide for three weeks, but who cares? You all stink anyway, and you'll be the coolest demon in your department!)

If you're a hardworking young demon who's only too eager to serve your Master and bring about The End of the World, then your dearest wish is to be Anthony J Crowley.

And Crowley? Hates this. Absolutely hates it.

Like a key reason why this has all been allowed to go on for so long is because the likes of Beelzebub and co. just find it too damn amusing to watch the great Serpent of Eden go slithering round the long way through the back alleyways of Hell in the hopes of avoiding his adoring fans (who have been tipped off by Hastur, and are already waiting for him at the other end).

Crowley wants to be cool, yes, desperately so. But Crowley wants to be James Bond, and now instead he's stuck being Hell's weirdo version of Captain America.

He has to give speeches! He gets held up as a role model! Somewhere in Hell there are even a bunch of Health and Safety videos starring the Demon Crowley, from that time he lost a bet with Beelzebub back in the '70s. Featuring such exciting titles as: '99 Reasons Why You Shouldn't Lick The Walls' (the first 98 are just increasingly detailed descriptions of what Beelzebub will do to the next person ze catches doing it).

It's humiliating.

Aziraphale, on the other hand… well, young angels really aren't meant to look up to Aziraphale. In fact, letting your squadron leader know that you're an Aziraphale fan is a good way to land yourself a stern talking to and a reccomendation that you find yourself some better role models (have you considered Gabriel, by any chance?).

Aziraphale made a terrible error in letting the Serpent in, and although Heaven in its great mercy saw fit to forgive him, in penance he must walk the Earth until the End Times, protecting the humans from the consequences of his own, silly mistake. You tolerate Aziraphale, you might pity him even, but you do not admire him.

Except… as far as anyone in Heaven is concerned, Aziraphale spends most of his time on Earth fending off vicious demons at flaming sword point. And I don't care what species you are, there's something inherently badass about that.

So there's a always sizeable population of young angels who hang out in some of the less blindingly lit corners of Heaven to trade stories about the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. "They say he consumes gross matter! Doesn't even care about defiling his corporation— he's just that hardcore." "They say he can do magic— without miracles!" "They say he's the only angel the Serpent of Eden was ever afraid of!"

'Cool'— and Crowley would really like to debate this usage of the word— angels carry pictures of Aziraphale around with them, usually torn from that one issue of the Celestial Observer that covered Gabriel's attempt to promote him ("They say he turned it down! Said it was his duty to stay and protect the humans!"), and owning one of these is a great way to gain some celestial street cred. Phrases like "my dear" or "tickety boo" are the Heavenly equivalent of slang— and referring to anything as "nifty" in front of your superiors will get you a proper dressing down and several hours on polishing duty in the armoury. Every young angel's rebellious phase involves tartan.

Yeah, to us Aziraphale comes across as just a stuffy old professory-type bloke, but from an angelic perspective he's like a cross between Van Helsing and Bear Grylls (I stand by my headcanon that living on Earth, eating and drinking physical matter, is to angels what living in the jungle for six weeks, eating grubs and drinking your own urine filtered through a sock, is to humans). You don't mess with the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

Aziraphale, of course, knows nothing about this.

He's not generally allowed much interaction with host outside of the archangels, and the few admirers of his that he's managed to come face to face with were generally too starstruck to say anything. As far as he's concerned, everybody in Heaven sees him the same way Gabriel does.

As a result, he is even more surprised than Crowley is when a ragtag bunch of minor angels and demons show up at the bookshop a few months after the Apocawon't, asking to join the revolution.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Visibility (Good Omens Fic)

Written for Lesbian Visibility Day, 2021

(26 April, 1972)

“What did you szzay?”

Beelzebub glared at the empty space before zir throne, listening to a pair of feet shuffle awkwardly.

“I just…woke up like this,” Crowley explained, in what was probably supposed to be a casual voice. “At first, I thought I was coming down with something. Flu. Hangover. Allergies. All very contagious this time of year. Really, if you haven’t been to Earth before, April is – just wait at least another month. But then I realized, s’not going away, and I thought: curse. Definitely a curse. Probably one of those angels, thwarting and all, you know how they are.”

“An angel.” The Prince of Hell tapped one finger on the arm of the throne, swarm of flies flitting around, trying to make sense of what zir own eyes weren’t telling zir. “Iszzn’t that hideouszz pieczze of real esztate you live in warded?”

“Probably. You know how it is. Get home late, really tired, swear you locked the door, but…” The footsteps – echoing as those ridiculous heeled boots struck the ground – began to circle the room. Beelzebub didn’t keep many possessions – at least, not the material sort – but Crowley seemed determined to touch them all. “Anyway, you know angels. Clever bastards.” An ornate dagger on the far table began to spin. “Or witches. Not quite as bastardly, but they cause trouble. Oh, or a cursed artifact.” Papers began rearranging themselves. “I just…I haven’t been thrift shopping in years, you know, not really my scene, not anyone’s scene anymore, but I saw this really spectacular jacket, I thought, what the Heaven? Might have some age-old horrific curse, or bedbugs, but it’s going to look stunning on the dance floor.”

Pinching zir nose, Beelzebub tried not to imagine the foolish way she was probably grinning. “And by complete coinczzidenzze,this angel, witch or…garment, juszzt happened to make you completely inviszzible on the day of your department budget review?”

“Yup.” A selection of goblets toppled to the floor with a clatter, bouncing and spinning across the floor. One rolled as if kicked, but not even Beelzebub’s cleverest flies could locate the blasted demon who had caused the mess. “I mean, not just a coincidence. Plenty of reasons. Er. The angel. Just last week, that – uh, that Aziraphale, I foiled one of her plans. Thoroughly. Foiled like…like leftover chicken. So. This could be revenge. Very unfortunately timed, but you know.”

“Indeed.” Beelzebub rose, stalking from zir throne across the floor to the spot that most strongly radiated incompetence. “And the curszze breakerszz haven’t been able to turn you back?”

“I mean, they tried.” More footsteps, hastier now, so that the echoes made them harder to track. “Course they tried. But,” she clicked her tongue, “couldn’t do it. Said they’d never seen anything like it before.” Ze would have to speak with them. No, too much trouble. Beelzebub would send the Hellhounds to take care of those idiots. “But, they did say it should wear off in…twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You know. With bed rest. Pity about the budgetary review.”

“How szzo?” Ze asked, lip curling. Every twenty-five years, like clockwork, like the courses of the blessed stars, the day of Crowley’s review, something – something highly improbably – tried to disrupt things.

“Well. I mean. Bed rest. Suggested by your curse breakers. And anyway. Can’t go like this, can I?” One of the goblets floated up from the floor, spinning in an unseen hand. “Might be disruptive.Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from Dagon – I heard, she has some fantastic charts this year. Pie graphs. One of those ones with the dots and the lines. Look at this!” From behind Beelzebub’s throne floated a ceramic pot filled with tall green plants, three dozen flies happily flitting around the attractively scented leaves. “Is this dill? Excellent choice. I’ve been doing some gardening lately, too, and let me tell you—”

“I cannot imagine anything” Beelzebub snapped, snatching the plant out of her invisible hands, “that could make you more diszzzruptive than you already are. But it appearszz you can szztill szzee, hear, and – unfortunately – szzpeak.”

“Just lucky I guess.” More pacing.

“Szzo. Dagon will be exzzpecting you in…four and a half minuteszz. I’m czzertain everyone iszz eagerly awaiting your planszz for the coming quarter-czzentury. Dagon, at leaszzt, could probably uszze the…amuszzement.”

“Course. Right. Perfect.” The footsteps began to lead towards the door. “I’ll just—”

“Szztop.” Beelzebub’s hand flew out, snapping tight around the demon’s wrist exactly as she walked past. “The otherszz will need to szzee where you are.”

“I could whistle,” she volunteered, launching into something that sounded like a tortured bird.

The Prince considered ripping her arm off and stuffing it down her throat, but the last time ze did that, the satisfaction hadn’t been worth the days of cleanup.

“Juszzt put on a hat or szzomething.”

A snap of fingers, and a band of glittering silver cloth appeared around where her waist should be. “Better? Can I go now? I’m…extremely eager to start my presentation. Ngk. Everyone is going to be impressed. This – this decade is going to put me on the map.”

“Go.”

The silver band of cloth sauntered out of the room, echoing the moronic way the demon walked. Checking the dill plant for damage, Beelzebub lowered zirself back onto the throne.

Which had, inexplicably, moved several inches back, causing zir to fall onto the floor, the potted plant shattering. “Crowley!”

--

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Crowley muttered, stalking down the hall towards the meeting room. She’d spent a week putting this curse together, combining ones from six of Aziraphale’s most obscure grimoires, and yet she still had to make her bloody presentation. “Next time, I’ll just give myself the plague.” That had almost worked in the fourteenth century. Just needed a more impressive plague.

Ahead on the right, a door with a piece of paper taped on it reading Temptation Department Budget Group Lambda. She hesitated, fingers hovering just short of pushing it the rest of the way open. Had Beelzebub warned everyone she was invisible? More often, ze expected demons to take care of such things themselves, on pain of pain. Two minutes to spare; might as well try.

Crowley dropped the silver belt on the floor outside and slipped through the partially-open door, transforming her extremely cool boots into a pair of quieter slippers. That, at least, she could do without being sensed; shifting the shape of her feet didn’t alert the other demons the way a real miracle would.

A dozen of them sat in chairs around the conference table, grumbling about their project proposals, miracle allotments, and soul quotas. An overhead projector sat at the front of the room. It was the one with the cracked glass, projecting a broken circle of light onto a white wall. Dagon stood beside it, shuffling papers.

Crowley could try writing dirty words on a couple of the pre-made transparencies, but that didn’t seem properly demonic. Scanning the room, she spotted the wheeled coffee cart tucked in the corner, laden with a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plate of pastries and various flavorings. Horrid stuff. All demons were required to drink three cups of it per meeting, and to eat one of the scones, which this time appeared to be…pickled herring flavored? With orange marmalade?

There wasn’t much she could do to make that worse. She grabbed a few anyway, tucking them down the front of her shirt, and dumped the marmalade into the molten coffee, turning the temperature up as high as it would go. She’d managed to grab a fistful of wet soil and some dill from Beelzebub’s plant. Most of that went into the coffee pot, a little into the sour creamer, and the rest into the alleged sugar – probably an artificial sweetener, those were all the rage lately.

What else? She stole all the spoons, then pulled off an earring and started poking holes in the bottom of the cups with it.

With the perfect sense of timing honed from millennia of avoiding one more second in the company of her coworkers than necessary, Crowley managed to slip out the door, put on the belt, and waltz back in exactly as Dagon demanded, “Where is the demon Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry. Feeling a bit under the weather today.” Only about three demons glanced her way with some level of surprise; the rest just got up and headed over to get their first requisite cup of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. And the traffic! The roads just get worse every year. Anyway, here now. Ready and eager. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She snagged an empty seat and dropped into it, crossing her boots on the table with a heavy thud.

Dagon sighed. “Do I even want to know what happened this time?”

“Pissed off an angel. Utterly ruined her plans. Cursed me out in the most unbelievable language, and then, well, you see. Or don’t see.”

It was certainly true enough. Aziraphale had been very upset when the “fine dining establishment” Crowley had selected for their meet-up turned out to be the hottest disco in the city. And the way she managed to express her disappointment while technically not swearing certainly strained credulity.

“Did you kill her?” Ligur asked. So unimaginative.

“No, I did something much worse.” She’d dragged Aziraphale onto the dance floor and managed almost twenty-three seconds of enthusiastic disco next to her before the angel – now bright red and flustered – had stormed out entirely. “But, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s have it. Numbers. Spreadsheets. I heard a rumor we might see that climate change graph.”

A general groan ran around the table.

“Shut up,” Dagon snapped. “Listen up, you lot – all you idiots, and Crowley in particular. Every one of you worthless wastes of matter needs to explain what you’re going to do in the next quarter-century, how that’s going to secure souls for our Master, and why we should waste any number of miracles on your pathetic hides. Until then—”

With an icy shiver, Crowley felt her miracles vanish.

“Now. Let’s start on the success rate of last quarter-century, and if I hear one word of complaint, you can scream it from the bottom of a sulfur pool. And don’t forget your blessed coffee.”

As Dagon started her presentation, Crowley watched the coffee cart. Someone had helpfully wheeled it next to the conference table, so the demons could more easily torture themselves. Seven managed to soak their shirts and trousers from leaking cups before the marmalade clogged the pot entirely. That, however, would never be enough to cancel the meeting. Heaven, a few of them even said it tasted better than usual. Should have seen that coming.

Still. It was a start.

Crowley played with her earring, then grinned, thinking of a possibility.

“Ow!” she shouted dramatically. “Something bit me!”

“Wasn’t me,” Hastur said sullenly.

“W—no, I mean. Some kind of insect.”

“Don’t see one,” grunted another demon called Krang, sitting right beside Crowley.

“It’s right there!” Silence. Oh, right, no one could see her pointing. “There! On the coffee pot!”

Eyes narrowing, Krang leaned forward, glaring across the table at the pot, which was rattling slightly. Crowley jabbed them in the back of the neck with her earring.

“Arg! It got me!” Krang slapped at the spot, leaping out of their chair. “Did you see where it went?”

“There! On Hastur’s head!”

“Where—?” Hastur managed before Ligur swatted him so hard he fell out of his chair.

“Ah, shit!” Crowley shouted. “It got me again! No, wait, I think it’s a different one.” The demons anxiously glanced at each other, but no one else stood up. Not enough. “Oh, no! My…my hand!” Crowley tried to think of something suitable “It’s burning! Like Holy Water!” She jabbed the earring into the arm of the demon on her other side.

“Bloody—It got me too!” He was on his feet in an instant. “I can feel it burning already!”

“And me!” That demon wasn’t even near Crowley. She grinned. It was working.

“What are these things?”

“I can feel it crawling on my leg.”

“My neck is swelling up!”

“Sit down!” Dagon snapped, baring her teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word about bloody insects. You’re demons. Act like it! Or I’ll make it four cups.”

The room froze – silent, apart from the now-continuous rattle of the coffee pot – as a dozen demons weighed the fear of some sort of terrifying unseen holy insect versus drinking more of the vile brew.

So Crowley ripped a handful of scone out of her top and crumbled it. “What – my hair!” She tossed the crumbs across the table. “Are – are those larvae?”

Everyone shuffled back a few steps.

“I don’t think you heard me—” Dagon started, in a tone that suggested Crowley was about to lose the room. So she went all in.

“Oh, Satan!” She shouted, falling dramatically from her chair. “They’re – they’re crawling into my ears!” That earned a few nervous glances, so she took a deep breath and gave her best horror-movie scream. “That angel! She did something to me!”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Stop acting out right now,or I swear to Satan, I’ll—”

She never found out what Dagon wanted to do to her, though, because at that moment the coffee pot exploded, lid flying off, scalding brown liquid splashing in every direction, along with blobs of now-runny marmalade.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, no matter how unexpected, Crowley cried, “Eggs! They’re nesting in the coffee! Who drank that?”

A perfect panic set in, and there was nothing Dagon could do to stop all the demons – including Crowley – from evacuating the room.

--

In the confusion that followed, everyone lost track of a certain invisible demon. How sad. And totally unexpected, Crowley thought, climbing into the Bentley. Too bad I kept the radio off and didn’t go to the cinema. Otherwise, they could summon me back. If she were careful, she could have days to finish coming up with her proposal.

But first, a little fun. Grinning, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what kind of trouble she could get into next.

Well. One way to find out.

The London police were extremely disappointing that morning. It took nearly eight minutes of driving around at top speed, running red lights, and blaring her horn outside rich-looking homes before one finally started chasing her.

Slamming into top gear, she raced down the busiest streets, whipping around corners, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too far ahead. The second patrol car joined in somewhere near Oxford Street, the third during a quick jaunt up towards Regent’s Park. When she’d collected four, sirens blaring as they struggled to keep up with her flawless driving, she spotted a side street and lurched into it with a complicated 270-degree-spin finished with the nose of the Bentley facing the approaching cars.

Then she settled back in her seat and waited.

--

The black monstrosity finally slid to a stop. Officer Mills kept her eyes on it while her partner slowed their own car to a stop.

“We sure he’s not just going to run?” She asked, trying to spot the driver. The glare off the windshield must be playing tricks on her eyes; she couldn’t see a thing.

“We surround it,” Harmon said. “Got to be enough of us, even if they try to make trouble.”

Six officers eased out of their cars, silently trying to decide who should approach the window. Mills won – or lost – and took the lead, Harmon close behind her. He was the only one armed; she felt a little better for that, in case the driver turned out to be dangerous, though most likely she figured he would try to plow through the police cars to get away. They couldn’t do much in that case apart from try to kick the tires in passing.

“Think it’s stolen?” Harmon asked as a few others moved to try and block the street beyond the idling nightmare. “Teenagers messing around?”

“Could be,” Mills said doubtfully. “It’s vintage, though. Really old. And whoever was driving knows what they’re doing.”

Anderson waved from the far side of the vehicle. Everyone was in position. Mills nodded and walked up to the window, prepared for a lunatic – or a drunk – or someone on an awful lot of drugs.

Instead, it was completely empty.

“What…” She glanced back at Harmon. “No one. Did he bail out?”

“We’d have seen. Check the back seat.”

“Nothing. Wait. There’s…a tin of biscuits. That’s all.”

Down the street, Anderson crouched, checking underneath. Nothing there, apparently. Slowly, the police approached, one by one relaxing as they confirmed that yes – the car was empty.

The driver side window was open. Mills stuck her head in, glancing up and down. Nothing. No sign of what had happened to the driver. The engine still gently rumbled, and the door was locked. She definitely would have noticed if someone had stayed there long enough to lock it through the window.

“I’ll call to have it towed,” Harmon said, stepping back. She could hear the confused frown in his voice. “Maybe we’ll find…something…when we search it.”

By this point, even the officers who had waited in the patrol cars had joined them, crowded along the sides of the black vintage monster, testing doors and peering through windows. Mills leaned in to unlock the driver side door. “But where could he have gone?”

“She,” a soft voice said near Mills’s ear, and something tapped against her nose. “And I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Mills stumbled back as the radio burst to life.

You know the day destroys the night Night divides the day…

Everyone spun in place, looking for the source of the music from a nearby window or door, shouting at shadows, so only Mills was watching as the pedals and gear stick moved themselves.

Tried to run Tried to hide Break on through to the other side Break on through to the other side…

The ghost car – what else could she be? – shot backwards up the street, faster than should have been possible, spun a full 360-degree turn, then straightened up and drove away, blending into traffic with a cheerful toot of the horn.

Mills finally blinked.

“Harmon?” She called. “You do the paperwork on this one. I need a drink.”

--

Crowley danced in her seat far more than she usually would, but for once no one could see her.

Made the scene Week to week Day to day Hour to – Crowley!

She nearly slammed on the brakes as Jim Morrison began to sound an awful lot like Dagon. Shit. Forgot about that.

“Ahhhh…speaking?”

“Who, exactly, gave you permission to leave?”

“Oh. Ahhh.” She glanced out the window at a row of businesses and pulled over in front of some kind of barber shop. “I thought, what with all the insects—”

“There were no insects!”

“There weren’t?” Crowley really needed to work on her innocent voice. “I must be hallucinating. Better go home and lie down until it passes.”

“Crowley. Your budget proposal is due by the end of the day. Do you want to be stranded up there without miracles? Do you know what we do to demons who fail to meet their quotas?”

She knew that. She’d been told, several times, exactly what to expect. “Nnnnnh…I’ve got – it’s going to be a big project. Very big. More souls than…than wasps have larvae. Just need to work on my proposal in a secure, bug-free location.”

“Crowley! Do you think for one second—”

“Ah! They’re coming out of the radio!” Crowley cut the sound.

She sat in the Bentley, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

I just hung up on Dagon. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to send me down to file in the archives for a thousand years.

Then again, they’d have to find her first.

And, she was finding, her current state presented the kind of temptations even a demon couldn’t ignore…

--

Graham Palmer had been trying to get into the barber shop for twenty minutes.

The door was stuck fast. No matter how he rattled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, as if something enormous had pinned it shut. And yet, every time he stepped back to let other patrons try, the door opened easily, but slammed as if pulled shut whenever he approached. He even tried slipping through behind another customer, but then it stayed shut until Graham stepped back. There was just no way in.

Now he hammered on the window, trying to get his barber’s attention. “Stuart! Stuart! What the hell are you trying to pull?”

The barber looked up from his current customer, blinking in confusion, and jerked his head towards the door.

“I tried that, it doesn’t bloody work!” A young man half his age walked past, giving Graham a funny look, and pulled open the shop door. Graham dove to follow him, but again it snapped shut, almost catching his nose. He pounded the door with his fist, glaring at the customers inside. “I’m going to be late!”

Across the shop, Stuart put down his scissors and shouted something. All Graham caught was “…break my glass…”

There was an idea.

He crossed the pavement to where an ancient black car was parked, removing his jacket. Wrapping it around his arm for protection, he charged forward, bracing himself for impact.

The door swung open in front of him and before he could stop himself, Graham tripped over – something – there didn’t appear to be anything – and sprawled on his face, sliding across the linoleum floor.

“Watch yourself, dearie,” a cheerful woman’s voice said, but when he looked up, no one was there.

--

Crowley strolled around the park, her new domain, another time.

Over there, at the edge of the path, was the Strange Chill area. Anyone who paused there, perhaps studying the slightly askew sign that seemed to indicate the exit was in the fountain, would feel a touch on their shoulder, a tickle on the back of their neck, or hear heavy breathing with no source.

Over here, near the ice cream cart, was the Creepy Bush. Originally just generic ghost noises, Crowley eventually discovered what really freaked humans out was a disembodied voice whispering their name, or something they’d said in private a few minutes before. She followed strolling couples around, listening in on anything good, and when one stopped to by the other ice cream, just really let loose on the one standing by the bushes. They usually started clinging much more closely to their partner after that, so really, Crowley was doing them a favor. Instant relationship counseling.

Across from the fountain sat the Haunted Bench. Crowley really went wild with that one. Children’s songs in a creepy voice. Branches shaking with no wind. Possessions floating away from wherever they’d been set down. Really, anything was allowed.

The narrow path leading through the tulips was the Asshole Road. Anyone Crowley caught being an asshole in her park was subtly sent that direction, pickpocketed, and then beset by bees, or at least a very convincing humming and a few pricks from an invisible earring.

The fountain itself was Rare Coins and Lost Items. Her third pickpocket victim had been carrying a tube of very powerful epoxy, and it turns out the coin-stuck-to-the-sidewalk trick was even better when you glued it underwater. A few pieces of jewelry at the bottom were also glued in place, but most of the valuables were simply tossed in or – if they weren’t waterproof – hung from the sculpture of frolicking animals in an amusing way. Crowley mostly just kept the cash, and even then only if the Assholes had been particularly cruel. So far, she’d accumulated almost five hundred pounds.

It was either the best park in London, or the worst.

She leaned against the clock – now set forty-eight and a half minutes slow – and surveyed the chaos. Two teenagers were frantically trying to get something out of the fountain, while the Asshole who’d sworn at that lovely gay couple was now soaked through, desperately trying to get his watch back from the ear of a sculpted rabbit seven feet high. That had been hard to get into place, but certainly worth it. The couple, meanwhile, were hand-in-hand, clutching ice creams and hurrying away from what had been for them the Creepy but Oddly Affirming Bush. The lady with the dog that had made a mess by the roses was trying to report the Haunted Bench to a cop, who tiredly insisted it was her lunch break and that the lady would not believe the morning she’d had.

Crowley grinned up at the sky. This – this was what it was all about. Forget budget meetings and presentations. Who did that make miserable, apart from the demons themselves? This park had everything: temptation, fear, frustration, justice, ice cream, and perfect weather.

“Hey. Hey you feathered wankers,” someone shouted, followed by the sound of rattling pebbles and angry quacking.

Tipping down her invisible shades, Crowley spotted some young idiot chucking handfuls of rocks at the ducks. Most were fleeing, but one flapped her wings, panicked and possessive, over a nest. One of the eggs had already been broken.

Looks like another volunteer for Asshole Road. Crowley was already eying their watch.

--

Every bakery has that one customer. Probably every place that sold food.

The one that demands impossible standards, not because of any particular love of fine cuisine, but just because they can.

The one that counts the blueberries in their muffin and lets you know if there aren’t enough.

The one who spends five minutes shouting, “No, not that one, that one,” while providing no other information, until their server had touched everything in the display case.

The one who complains that their brownie is too chocolatey.

The customer who somehow gets away with murder on account of being someone’s spouse, or sibling, or old school friend.

Victoria Lockwood was that customer, and as Riley watched her approach, they held their breath in trepidation.

“This scone,” she snapped, dropping her plate onto the counter, “is not right.” Then she glared at Bailey, waiting for a response.

“Is it…” Bailey’s mind raced, trying to work out what might be wrong. “The wrong flavor?” Victoria’s face only darkened. “Um. Is – is it dry?” But most of that batch had sold without a single complaint. “Did you want…more lemon curd? Or—”

“It is not hot enough.”

“Ah.” Of course. They’d taken that batch out nearly an hour ago; the next was ready to go in. “If you’re willing to wait, um…twenty minutes? I can give you the first—”

“Twenty minutes? What kind of service is that? I want my scone now.” She glanced at the tray coming out of the oven. “Why are you making me wait? What are those?”

Bailey glanced back and relaxed for a moment. “Oh – yes, I can get you one right now. They’re Raspberry Almond Butterm—”

“Disgusting!” Victoria rapped her hand against the counter. “That is not what I ordered! I demand you warm this one up, immediately.”

“I…” Bailey glanced at their coworkers, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. “That’s…I can put it back in the oven but that would probably dry—”

“Fine.” She shoved the plate towards them. “Be quick about it, young lady, I don’t like to wait.” She clearly noticed the way Bailey flinched. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for a girl, I suggest you get a proper haircut. And not that hideous shade of pink.”

“Y’s ma’am,” Bailey muttered, because some arguments would never be worth it. They took back the scone and put it on a baking tray. Maybe if it was only in the oven for a minute or two—

“Victoria Lockwood!” Bailey spun around, searching for who had called out. Not anyone else behind the counter, they all had their heads ducked, concentrating on some other tasks. But there – on the counter – a scone sat on Victoria’s plate.

She looked up from her makeup compact, smiled triumphantly, and took a bite out of it.

Her face immediately went green, and she dropped plate and pastry, running out of the bakery faster than Bailey had ever seen anyone move. They rushed forward, ready to call after her, but very much not wanting to, and picked up the discarded scone – it smelled awful, like vinegar and fish.

There was also an enormous wad of banknotes on the counter, wrapped up in a scrap of paper with a note: Kid – Don’t take that shit from anyone. Flip off your boss when you quit. <3 C

The bakery door opened and shut on its own.

--

Well, there was an entire day’s pickpocketing gone in a moment, but it wasn’t like Crowley had a better use for it. She still had a few rare coins, but after the fountain, sticking them to the ground seemed an anticlimax. She’d had some fun modifying the haunting routine for the bus or Underground, but both would be filled with commuters now a ghost that swears when you elbow her in the ribs on a crowded train is…not as impressive.

Still. Not a bad day overall. The most expensive foods in the corner marked had all been re-priced, several examples of hostile architecture had been mysteriously destroyed, enough people would be sharing stories of “hauntings” that the whole city would need to be exorcised, and – just for the Heaven of it – she’d followed a particularly annoying human for almost an hour, up and down the streets, buzzing in his ear.

Really, it was the simple pleasures that made the world so enjoyable.

And speaking of simple pleasures, Crowley had left one particular part of the city for last.

Strolling down the streets of Soho, which was just waking up while more respectable – but far less fun – parts of the city were winding down, she kept her eyes open for anyone who might make a good target. A few possibilities presented themselves, but in the end her destination proved the stronger draw.

A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop.

It was just the right time of day, when the customers would still be bothering Aziraphale, and she would be running short of patient ways to refuse them and start turning to biting sarcasm and, on occasion, outright threats. She’d probably appreciate a little haunting to help chase them off, once Crowley had finished stealing her cocoa, moving her bookmarks, and changing the record in the gramophone.

But, glancing in the window, Crowley saw something that poured cold water all over her brilliant day.

Gabriel.

Michael and Uriel, too. Probably Sandalphon lurking around.

Aziraphale stood before her bosses, hands clutched anxiously, that eager, ready-to-please face that made Crowley’s chest ache. Some, when faced with the beings who had hurt them so many times, became afraid, or angry, or distressed. But Aziraphale…just wanted approval. A kind word.

Crowley glared at Gabriel. The Heaven are you up to this time?

For once, she would be able to find out.

--

“And, I really think,” Aziraphale said, hands twisting like captured rodents as she rambled, “that this past decade in particular,I’ve – I’ve accomplished many things. Um. I – I prepared a list…somewhere…” her eyes darted to the disaster she called a desk, and she started shifting material objects around, smiling nervously. Guiltily.

“Is this going to take long?” Gabriel asked with a pointed sigh.

“No! I just…one moment…”

“We’re already running late,” Uriel commented. “We’d expected you to be better prepared.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale snatched up a book and began flipping through it frantically, as if it might contain the answers she needed. “Only, ah, you didn’t actually say when you would be coming…”

“We did say between the 3rd of January and 28th of October,” Michael pointed out reasonably.

“Oh. Um. I…”

“Something doesn’t seem…right,” Sandalphon said, stepping close to Aziraphale, putting a hand on her shoulder. The book she held tumbled from her fingers. “This whole place has a…smell about it.”

The door slammed behind them. Gabriel glanced back, but couldn’t see it from where he stood. Sandalphon gave Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze, then headed over to check on it.

“I thought,” Gabriel said slowly, making sure the slow-witted Principality heard every word, “I told you to lock the door.”

“It was.” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “I – I mean I did.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. This had been a particularly disappointing review. Disappointing in the sense that their agent had once again conclusively failed to present evidence of meaningful victories towards Heaven’s cause. Less disappointing in that, whether she knew it or not, Aziraphale had already given him what he needed to take the arrogant fool down a few pegs.

In six thousand years, she’d barely managed to do a single thing right, yet somehow always came to him simpering and smiling like she deserved all the accolades of Heaven. Well, he’d been patient, as suited an Archangel, as patient as he could. But once per century, he had the opportunity to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Take away her miracles for a start, he thought. Though that didn’t seem to work nearly as well as it had a few centuries ago. Maybe recall her to Heaven for a year or two, re-educate her on the basics of her duty. There might be enough for a period of isolation. With restraints. They’d done that once, about three thousand years before, after a particularly poor review. Seven years chained up in an empty corner of Heaven, and Aziraphale had been wonderfully pliable for centuries after. Perhaps it was time to revisit.

“Look – look here, I have a list of…oh.” Aziraphale held out her book again, which seemed to be filled with irregular scrawl instead of the usual neatly printed words. “I started a list of accomplishments, but ah…I became busy the last few years. Um. Quite a lot has happened since…”

Uriel took the book and studied it, face impressively calm. “Interesting,” they said, not giving anything away as they turned the pages over. Gabriel trusted them to spot anything useful.

As the Archangels waited in pointed silence, Michael walked her fingers across a table. She pressed a thumb against a book, sliding it to the edge. Aziraphale stared as it teetered, then found its balance again. Michael watched it, disinterested, then moved on to another book, sliding that forward as well.

Sandalphon stepped back beside Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. No sign of anything. Well. More questions for later.

Uriel reached the final page.

“What happened in 1967?”

“Nothing!” At the panic in Aziraphale’s tone, all four Archangels raised their eyebrows. “I – I – I mean, yes, lots, many – many—” One of the books beside Michael fell to the floor with a slap. The Principality winced. “I – I’m terribly sorry, could you be more specific?”

“Your final entry,” Uriel held the book out to Aziraphale, “says 1967 – Prevented… Prevented what?”

“Ahhhhhh.” Aziraphale squirmed. “Well, I…I…there was…ummm…”

“As I recall,” Michael said slowly, “you briefly visited Heaven that year, but didn’t officially report to any of us. And then didn’t return for at least…six months? Very unusual.”

“You haven’t been hiding something, have you?” Gabriel smiled, his heart rising. More than isolation. He could probably take away this shop, for a start, give it to a more trustworthy angel.

“Nnnnno.” Aziraphale gave that particular smile, the one that meant she thought she was about to get away with something. The one she thought Gabriel didn’t know about. “But, ahhh, if you could, um, quite a lot happened in the world in the…the last ten years or so.”

Something crashed on the other side of the building. No, he’d have the place demolished. It was falling apart already. Aziraphale could watch. Maybe he could order her to help. An eminently suitable punishment for wasting his time. “As I understand it,” he said, taking a step forward, “the last decade saw…war, riots, assassinations…”

“Well, well, yes, I…but, if you look at progress with, um, civil rights, ahh…anticolonialism…”

More made-up human terms. Gabriel and Michael shared a pained glance. “Look. Aziraphale.” Gabriel pressed his hands together. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate you taking the initiative, but…what does any of this have to do with your orders?”

“Or, for that matter, with your visit to Heaven?” Michael moved her fingers across the table again, coming to rest on one of those stupid little figurines Aziraphale had accumulated. Like a packrat. A human depiction of an angel, as some kind of soft, happy baby with wings. Not a warrior at all. Michael’s finger tapped against it. “What were you trying to prevent?”

“Did it have something to do with…Holy Water?” Sandalphon suddenly asked.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. Something clicking in his mind. “There was that storage jar that went missing.” Did Aziraphale look more guilty than usual? “What year was that?”

“1967,” Uriel said.

He couldn’t hold back the smile. If he could prove Aziraphale had taken Holy Water for some sort of personal use, well.

He’d pretty much be justified whatever he decided to do.

“I – I – I can explain.” The Principality tried to back away, but was stopped by her own desk. “There – there was this demon, an – an especially, ah, wily, cunning, um, crafty demon—”

“Was there?” Michael’s finger twitched, sending the false angel off the table. It fell—

Then hovered, halfway to the floor.

Slowly, it lifted, rightening itself in the air before them. There was no trace of a miracle, no power of any kind. It simply…floated. Drifting through the air to land on the desk beside Aziraphale.

“Clever,” said Gabriel, watching the Principality’s face for any sign of deception. “How did you do that?”

“I…”

The pages of a book, laid out on the stand behind her, began to turn, flipping faster and faster, slamming shut.

“This…isn’t me.” Aziraphale said.

Behind her, books began to float off their shelves. One rocketed across the room towards Gabriel. He dodged it easily, but it was followed by another, and another. The lights flickered overhead.

“If it isn’t you,” Gabriel began, but a small table by the door to the next room began to rattle. Atop it lay a black-and-white board covered with formless carvings, which lifted into the air, then exploded, pieces flying at the Archangels. Gabriel easily batted them aside, but now one of the armchairs began to shift.

Without a word, the four prepared for battle, Gabriel stepping back, Michael and Sandalphon moving to the front. At least, that was the plan – the moment he tried to move, Gabriel fell, his feet somehow tightly bound together. The same happened to Sandalphon and Uriel, and even Michael stumbled, knocking over a table in her haste to stay upright.

Glass rattled in the back of the shop.

“It’s…” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “It’s that same demon again! I thought I’d banished her!”

“What?” Banishing wasn’t exactly something angels did.

“The – the Holy Water!” A bottle of something hovered out from the back room, moving slowly but threateningly. “Did you bring any? It’s the only thing that can stop her.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s sword manifested in her hand. “What demon?”

“Crowley! She – she seems to have grown even more powerful!”

“Crowley?” Not that worthless snake again. How many times had he been assured – through Michael’s secret back-channel sources – that Crowley was the most useless, incompetent, lazy demon in Hell? And yet somehow, not a single angel had ever successfully dealt with her – except Aziraphale.

“I thought I smelled a demon,” Sandalphon said, pulling his shoes off and tossing them aside. “But I can’t sense demonic power.”

“Obviously not!” Aziraphale’s wings burst from her back, and she held out a hand towards the hovering bottle. It slowly lowered itself to the ground. “Why do you think she’s so difficult to defeat? The power she uses – it’s not of Heaven or Hell! I – I can barely counter it!”

“Let me, then,” Michael said, predatory gleam in her eyes. Like Sandalphon, she’d removed her shoes; Gabriel was working on his own, but somehow the laces had become wound together like snakes, something sticky sealing the knot shut.

Sandalphon and Michael stepped forward, swords at the ready. “No!” Aziraphale turned to block them, and immediately the rattling started up again – this time from the metal stairs to the upper floor. “You – you don’t understand! Wh – when she gets like this – the fires would only make her stronger.”

Something – horrible, screeching noises – began emanating from the back room, like some animal being torn apart.

“That’s – that’s why I need the Holy Water! In the proper ritual, it – it – it’s too complicated to explain!”

A cupboard burst open, revealing a display of holy items – consecrated Bibles, holy symbols, sticks of incense and jars of oil. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, genuine panic in her voice.

The largest, heaviest of the Bibles lifted and shot across the room. It didn’t reach the Archangels, but Gabriel could see smoke rising from its cover.

Next came a crucifix, spinning end over end, which Michael caught out of the air. The wood was burned all along one side.

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale said, eyes round. “Nothing I have in there can stop her! What could a flaming sword even do? I need more Holy Water.” A jar of oil fell to the ground and immediately began to boil, bubbling and steaming. “I’ll try to hold her back as long as I can.” Aziraphale’s face furrowed in concentration as she walked across the shop. “Please, it – it’s far too dangerous for you here…”

“Right.” Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels. Something wasn’t right. But they couldn’t risk themselves against an unknown force. “We’ll…we’ll get some Holy Water. You do what you can.”

With a thought, the ascended to Heaven.

Gabriel quickly stood up, brushing down his clothing and trying to school his expression. “Well. I think the best course of action is to wait a day or two, then go see what the damage is.”

“And Aziraphale’s review?” Uriel asked, face somehow still calm, despite everything that had happened.

“I just hope we don’t have to give her a damn commendation again.”

--

The Arch-Wankers vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

“Ow, ow, fuck that hurts!” Crowley gasped, stumbling away from the spilled oil and shaking her hands. “What kind of stuff do you keep in there?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale started to rush forward, then froze. “Where are you? Can’t you – reveal yourself, or whatever?”

“Nnnnnnnnope. Rrrrrgh, how does this hurt more than walking in a church?”

“I…I’m sorry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been worried lately that if – if your side realized what was happening…I thought it best to have a little insurance of my own.”

“Well it works.” Crowley managed to reach one of the shop chairs and sank into it. “Over here…no, here! Where’s…” She nudged the rug with her least-burnt toe, folding a bit of it up. Aziraphale immediately ran over.

“That was – well, that was clever, Crowley, but highly unnecessary. I – I was only having my performance review. I thought I was doing quite well.” Her soft hands found one of Crowley’s and picked it up, fingers tracing across the palm.

“I…” Crowley had seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the mention of Holy Water, while she was on the ground gluing his shoelaces together, and she counted it among the most terrifying things she’d ever seen. “I’m sure you were, but vanquishing some super-powerful demon? Saving the Archangels? Well, that’s only going to help, right?”

“Hmmm.” Another brush of her fingers, and the sting started to go out of Crowley’s palms. “And, I’m sure, spark a few rumors that might help you?”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced, looking out the windows. “Unless those rumors spread really fast, I doubt I’m going to get much benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale sank to the ground, patting around until she found one of Crowley’s feet. She gently lifted it, stroking from ankle to toe and giving it the same healing treatment. “And why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Crowley.”

“Right. Um. I…may have…borrowed a few of your books and…designed a curse to get out of my quarter-century budget review. But in my defense – it’s so boring.”

Aziraphale sighed – or possibly blew a healing breath across Crowley’s feet. No, probably the sigh, but at least they felt a bit better. “My dear, it’s only a meeting. There’s no need for these – these histrionics.”

“Histri—Angel, that is – I am not – can you grab a dictionary? I need to know how upset I should be.”

“Extremely.”

“Right. I am. And…I thought it would only last a few hours. Have a bit of fun. But…I need my miracles for, you know, ambient healing, and…look, they cut off our miracles during the review, and only give them back once you’ve wowed them with your project idea.”

“And you don’t have one, do you?”

“Not…as such.” Crowley hung her head. “I…I thought I could get an extension. Just long enough to think of something.”

“So you cursed yourself.” That pained look, the I-hate-to-tell-you-how-much-you-failed-but-also-I-love-it look. Only slightly ruined by the fact that it was aimed somewhere over the demon’s left shoulder. “Crowley, did it never occur to you that in the time it took you create such a thing, you could just as easily have come up with a project?”

“Nh.”

“And did you come up with your brilliant idea during your delay?”

“Nnnh.”

“Well. At least you’re sorry now, I assume?”

“Nope.” If she hadn’t skipped out, Crowley wouldn’t have been here to help Aziraphale. She’d saved her friend countless times over six thousand years, but sometimes…she was quite happy the angel didn’t notice. “No, demons don’t get sorry. We get…” she grunted. “We get annoyed at ourselves for…ngk…for hanginupndagonnpissinheroff.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“For hanging up on Dagon and pissing her off.” Crowley rubbed her face. “Unless I can think of the greatest project any demon ever came up with…” Her stomach dropped as the reality of it hit. A thousand years in filing meant a thousand years without Aziraphale’s bastard looks and gentle touches. “I’m…probably going to be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stroked her fingers across Crowley’s foot one more time. “No, that won’t do at all.” She looked up with that icy, determined look. The let-me-speak-to-your-manager expression that made Crowley go completely light-headed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about all this.”

“Like what?”

“How are your feet?”

“F—hmm? Oh, fine.” They were – Aziraphale seemed to have removed all the pain. Or at least, she’d removed some of the pain, and the fluttery feeling in Crowley’s chest allowed her to ignore the rest. “So. Um. What did you have in mind? Oh!” A grin stretched across her face. “Dagon and Beelzebub already think you cursed me. Maybe we can stage a second fight where they see it. I’ll definitely get an extension that way.”

“Or.” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands again and laced their fingers together, pulling her to her feet. “We can go for a drive in that beastly car of yours and actually come up with a proper idea. Something convoluted, demonic, and with that…Crowley style.”

“I have a style now?”

“Hmmm. Yes. Not as refined as mine, but I think we can make it work.” Her right hand squeezed Crowley’s, and her left slid up the demon’s arm to her shoulder. “You know, I had a little over a century apart from you. And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that. In fact I…I rather think I prefer your company to, well. Anyone’s.”

“Nnnnh.” Crowley shuffled her feet and clutched Aziraphale’s hand back, guiding the angel to stand just a little closer. Needing to say something. Afraid to say too much. “Ssssss. Mmmm. Yeah. I, uh. I like it better up here, too. Y’know. Where you are.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale’s left hand slid further up, coming to rest on the back of her neck. “I can see right through you. My dear Crowley.” With the lightest pressure, she tipped the demon’s head down.

And kissed her, soft lips covering Crowley’s shocked mouth.

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back slightly, hardly at all. “I, ah…I meant to…” Her breath still tickled Crowley’s lips. “I…forehead…”

“Nrrh.” Crowley’s free hand drifted forward, finding Aziraphale’s hip, resting on it, barely a touch. It was all she dared. “Ah…?”

Neither of them moved. Or both did. Or they stood still and the world around them shifted. Whichever way it was, their lips touched again, and held this time. Slowly, they drifted closer, caught in each other’s gravity, a decaying orbit. Crowley would surely burn up on approach, but it was worth every moment.

Eventually they parted, once more just enough to breathe, to speak, to remember that they were two beings and not a single, burning soul.

“Not…” Crowley swallowed. “Not too fast?”

“I…” Aziraphale bit her lip. “I don’t know. But…Crowley…I know…where I want to go. Eventually.”

Their foreheads pressed together. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping left hand falling away, right thumb rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped. “Oh, my word!”

“What?” Crowley glanced at herself, black cloth trousers flared wide at the legs, tight red sleeveless shirt cut scandalously low in the front and back, boots with heels that made her even taller than usual—

She was visible again.

“I…I suppose I was still healing you when we…oh…oh, Crowley…what are you wearing?”

“Angel, it’s – I look fashionable, you look – have you changed anything in the last century?”

“I…a few things! Were you honestly planning to give a presentation like that?”

“I was going to be invisible, yeah!”

“You…are…” Aziraphale pressed her eyes shut. “I am going to get my jacket. And then I’m going to get you a jacket, because it’s cold at night, and you are cold-blooded.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered.

“And then we will go for our ride and determine what evil, dastardly plan I will spend the next twenty-five years thwarting. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” After a moment, Crowley said, “Ah, Aziraphale?”

“What is it now?”

“At some point, are you going to let go of my hand?”

Aziraphale glanced down. “Oh. Hmm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

--

(Fifty Years Later)

Crowley sat beneath the apple tree, her hand clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s, leaning back against her angel’s chest. “And that,” she concluded, “is why we call the 26th of April Lesbian Visibility Day.”

The Them stared at the two supernatural beings, mouths slightly open.

“You…” Pepper started, “are full of so much shit.”

“Oi!”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “that’s…one of the worst stories I’ve ever heard. How are you supposed to budget miracles?”

“If they could cut you off that easy,” Brian jumped in, “why didn’t they do it when you left Hell?”

“Oh, ummm,” she glanced up at Aziraphale.

“Tactics,” the angel said enigmatically.

Pepper didn’t even seem to be listening. “How did you know what all those people were thinking?”

“That’s right,” Wensley nodded. “Particularly Gabriel.”

“He…he has a very expressive face,” Crowley argued.

“How’d you actually move around like that, without anyone hearing you? The whole day?”

“Shouldn’t you’ve been, you know, way more worried about getting killed?”

“At least one of those bookshop attacks wasn’t even possible, unless you were in two places at once.”

“And how d’you accidentally leave your healing on?”

“How could you possibly mistake her lips for her forehead?”

“This was rubbish.”

“What do you think, Adam?”

The former Antichrist looked up from where he was playing with Dog. “I think…” He gave the angel and demon a penetrating look, then shook his head, smiling as if he’d just seen the joke at the center of the universe, and it had turned out to be a truly terrible pun. “I think you should just tell us the next story.”

“Which one’s that?” Crowley asked, settling back into the curve of her angel’s arm, fingers still twined together.

“The one with the greatest project any demon ever came up with.”

“Oh.” Grinning, Crowley tipped her head to meet Aziraphale’s shining eyes. “Wahoo.”

--

The song is "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by the Doors, because Queen had not yet put out their first album, though there was a lot of pressure in the Discord to have Crowley dancing to Abba instead.

Final scene set next year because we'll all be sitting together under apple trees with our loved ones and telling BS stories to kids before we know it.

For everyone who contributed non-anonymous suggestions:

@amidst-innumerable-stars @tangle5ancer @fenrislorsrai @feuerkindjana @bowser14456 @taksez @yeahhiyellow @infinitevariety @gargelyfloof118 @lourek @soft-forest-rain @undertaker991 @jules-al-c @lov-lyness2 @thisleadstohollyhocks @marianrios33 @aux-barricades @lostmemimi @joybones @derederest @myusernameispie @mothmans-favorite-lamp and @n0nb1narydemon (yes I did find a way to level up the coin gluing!) and of course @5ftjewishcactus who encouraged me when you really shouldn't. Sorry I couldn't fit in everyone's suggestions!

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - A Corpse, Cake, and a Cuppa (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is Death and Crowley is the serial killer who keeps murdering to catch a glimpse of the ethereal being he fell in love with. (1714 words)

Notes: Written for the above Halloween prompt from @new-endings/M.A.D.#8943. Human Crowley au. It’s kind of gory, I’m not going to lie.

Read on AO3.

“Jesus Christmas!" Aziraphale yelps, tiptoeing through the thick pool of red coagulating on the concrete. Threads of it cling to the soles of his shoes when he lifts his feet as if trying to drag him down. Aziraphale has seen a great deal of blood in his time. None of it has been pretty. But this is especially gruesome.

He wonders if that’s for his benefit.

"Look at... look at this! Look at all the… !” Aziraphale takes a pause and breathes in deep, pressing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to his forehead. Tension causes a vein to distend and throb - quite the feat since, as a non-human entity, he shouldn't be able to experience this kind of pain. Or so he thought. In the thousands of years he's roamed earth reaping souls, he's finally found the one mortal who can give him what humans call a migraine. And he doesn't like it. Not one bit. “Could you please just… stop already?"

Crowley grins, thrilled giddy by the arrival of his intended audience. “No,” he replies, shoving the slicked head of his filthy ax deeper into the severed spine of the fresh corpse at his feet.

Aziraphale grimaces as the blade lands with a resounding slap. 

That ax of Crowley's gets on every one of Aziraphale's nerves. It's effective for its purpose but positively unsanitary. It makes his skin crawl every time he sees it.

Crowley lifts it slowly, eyes Aziraphale menacingly.

Eyes his nice, clean coat, Aziraphale realizes.

“Crowley!” he warns, putting both hands up in defense. “Don't you dare... !”

But Crowley doesn't let him finish, hoisting his ax higher with part of the dead man's torso attached. He doesn't need to do anything after that. The torso falls from the blade and splashes down in the pool, accomplishing what Crowley set out to do.

“Holy... GAH!” Aziraphale leaps back to avoid the spray. He frowns at his clothes when he sees he wasn't quick enough. "Look what you've done! You’ve made a mess of my coat!”

“Improved it, I’d say,” Crowley snarks. “Given it a pop of color.”

“I've had this coat for ages and hadn't collected a single stain! Not one! And look at your shoes! Ruined!" He gazes down at Crowley's feet in despair. "I actually liked that pair.”

“Really?" Crowley tilts his head, batting his eyes innocently. "You didn't tell me that.”

“Yes, well... " Aziraphale busies himself fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket. Praying he’s swift enough to save the fabric, he pats at the specks on his sleeve "... it’s not my place to tell a homicidal maniac that he looks fetching in snakeskin, is it?”

Crowley pouts, his lower lip jutting out, making him look comically childish despite the streaks of blood running down his cheeks. 

Aziraphale’s brows pull together. He glances around, trying to work out what's wrong. "What? What is it?"

"You're being mean."

"How am I being mean?"

"You're calling me names."

"Accurate ones, yes."

"You sound disappointed."

"You think so!?"

“B-but... but why? I took your advice!" Crowley argues. "I changed me m.o.!”

“I didn’t give you advice! I said you should stop killing innocent people!”

“I did! This guy?" Crowley plants the heel of his sopping shoe into the dead man's crooked neck for emphasis. "He weren’t innocent! He was a serial killer, too! He just happened to be shite at it!”

"I can see that." Aziraphale peers into the vacant eyes of the man on the ground, spirit buzzing beneath his skin, waiting to be reaped. But Aziraphale is in no rush. In the choice between filling out paperwork and shooting the shite with Crowley, surprisingly, he chooses Crowley. 

Or maybe not so surprising, Aziraphale muses, biting his lower lip and indulging in a private chuckle. He rolls his eyes in disgust at himself right after. What are you doing? Stop that!

"Besides, I'm doin' you a solid!" 

Aziraphale scoffs, snapping back to his senses. "How do you figure?"

"You're Death, ain't ya? I'm keeping you in business!"

"I don't know if you've read the papers lately, dear boy, but humans are dropping like flies thanks to their own stubbornness and stupidity. You're slap in the middle of one of the worst pandemics in history, but instead of doing what you can to stay safe, you lot spend your time arguing over petty b.s.! I won't wear a mask! It's against my rights! I'm not taking the vaccine! It'll make me sterile! There is no disease! It's all a big conspiracy! Meanwhile, in the states, some orange lunatic has everyone drinking bleach! Believe me, I hardly need your help doing my job!" 

“Oi! Don’t lump me in with those prats!”

“Why not? You’re not wearing a mask, I see.”

“Don’t have to. I got my shot. And I keep me distance.”

“But you’re covered in blood! Did that man you dismembered have the virus!? You don’t know!” Aziraphale cringes at words that sound far more like concern than scolding. Which he should be doing. Scolding and ridiculing, and possibly calling the police.

But he won’t.

If Crowley were thrown in prison, it would be harder for Aziraphale to find an excuse to see him. Aziraphale has yet to decide if that’s something he wants, but either way, he’d prefer it not be at the expense of another life.

"Fine. Whatever. If that's the way you feel about it... " Crowley grumbles, letting what remains of that statement die as embarrassment rises to his cheeks, settling beneath the red already there. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his face away. 

Just like a child, Aziraphale thinks. 

And as with a child, Aziraphale should have nipped this in the bud much, much earlier - like when Crowley realized that he could summon Aziraphale whenever he wanted by upping the frequency of his murderous antics. 

This, to date, is his twenty-seventh kill.

Aziraphale doesn't know how Crowley spotted him. He's pretty adept at avoiding human detection. But after victim number eight, Aziraphale turned around, scythe in hand, and there he stood: tall, gangly, bizarrely besotted, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses at one in the morning. Aziraphale thought Crowley was a run-of-the-mill psychopath looking for attention, seeing Aziraphale as a hapless dolt to play cat-and-mouse with, not knowing for one second who he was dealing with.

Not only did Crowley know exactly who Aziraphale was, but he had taken a considerable shine to him.

Aziraphale humored the man when their paths crossed so he could get on with his work, never for one minute considering the consequences. Thinking back on their past interactions, Aziraphale can pick out the hints Crowley had been dropping.

Aziraphale played right into them, and he could kick himself over it.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Aziraphale quipped dryly after Crowley had beheaded some poor, down-on-his-luck fool. "I'm going to start thinking that you have a thing for me."

"Finally!" Crowley tossed his arms in the air. "At this rate, I was going to have to murder half of London and spell out the words ’Will you go out with me?’ with their bodies. Do you know how time-consuming that would have been?"

Aziraphale had written that comment off as a morbid attempt at humor. 

Now he feels like an imbecile.

He’s going to get an earful from Gabriel if he ever gets wind of this. Aziraphale has been able to cover up the increase in London deaths by blaming the pandemic. But once people get their acts together and things calm down, he’ll have to come clean.

There’s a serial killer roaming the streets that has a serious crush on him.

Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh as he comes to a decision.

A bad decision.

He's going to regret this. He knows he's going to regret this. 

But will he really though?

Aziraphale looks Crowley over, still moping with his nose in the air. He examines him at depth - his sharp features, his debonair style (hiding beneath a litre of blood), his devil-may-care attitude, his rowdy sense of humor. If he were another angel, or even a demon, Aziraphale would have asked him out already, body count or no. 

So what is he waiting for?

It’s not entirely unheard of, an angel dating outside their dominion. And as for the moral issues of dating a murderer, well, Aziraphale is an angel. He has a responsibility to bring sinners to the light, help them see the truth. That can be done anywhere, not just in church - on a street corner, in a diner…

Back at his flat.

Besides, he and Crowley have a lot more in common than Aziraphale did with his last paramour, an angel he had dallied with solely for the fact that he was guardian of comestibles.

It seemed like a match made in Heaven, so to speak.

Far from it.

“Look - if I let you take me out for coffee, will you stop the gratuitous bloodshed?”

Crowley all but gasps when that question leaves Aziraphale’s mouth, the grin growing on his face transforming, becoming less maniacal and more… normal if that makes any sense. "One cup of coffee. That's all I ask."

"Then come along. Here… “ Aziraphale snaps his fingers, cleaning Crowley thoroughly before he takes his arm. “If you're good, I'll let you buy me a slice of cake.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’m a very slow eater. And I figure the longer I stay with you, the more I can keep an eye on you."

“Deal. But, you know," Crowley starts, his tone so filled with teasing he’s on the verge of giggles, "if you, say, spent the night at my flat, you could keep an eye on me for hours. Think of all the people I wouldn’t be able to kill.”

Aziraphale smirks, amused that they both had a semblance of the same idea. “You don’t say?”

“I do.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“More so than you bartering human lives against a cuppa and cake?”

Aziraphale shrugs, but he doesn't relinquish Crowley's arm. He does, however, relieve him of his ax so he doesn’t get any ideas along the way. “Fair point.”

[new-endings]

Ayy I want to hear about Beta!Aziraphale :D

so glad you do!~

fic idea #1112

It started with the premise of beta Aziraphale thinking that alpha Crowley’s been trying to court some poor omega sod for the past few centuries. Crowley had been displaying rather alpha-like characteristics around him since Rome, what with the innocuous gifts, the food, the protection he's provided—

All served with the same dour expression that leads Aziraphale to believe that the alpha really doesn’t intend on it, doesn’t really seem to realize what he’s doing, nor does he really want to do it. Aziraphale comes to the conclusion that something or someone must be some causing Crowley’s instincts to pop off like this.

Aziraphale comes to the conclusion that his …err, acquaintance, must have met a "nice" omega demon and that the beta is just dealing with a twitter pated alpha in the aftermath.

((He knows it's not him, knows better than to even think for a second all those little gestures meant something more. Why—to think anything more would be utterly absurd—impossible! He’s—an angel, a beta—))

But it’s not until centuries later that Aziraphale knows there's another involved after Crowley asks him for the holy water

 Crowley found someone he was willing to risk not only Aziraphale's life for, but his own.

 And given the latter, Aziraphale naturally said no.

 I don't need you.

 Yes...that's right.

 Betas are intermediaries— useful, but not essential.

—————————————————

 On the other hand, Crowley's been tryna court the oblivious git for millennia now but naturally, none of the regular "alpha" tactics work. Puffed up pride and the sharpness of his scent indicating an interested alpha only makes Aziraphale uncomfortable. The instinct to force the angel to submit, to bare his neck and bend to his whim, only inflicted fear.

 And when frightened, Aziraphale did not whimper and did not bow. He would instead lash out with his own silver tongue, his own venomous words, and turn away.

 He was not an omega— he was not an omega an alpha was meant to tame.

 He was a beta without a hint of instinct to let him know that Crowley only wanted him safe— only wanted him loved.

 But Crowley learned. He adapted. Gifting the beta soft silks and cloths soaked in his scent was often met with the cloth thoroughly cleaned within the hour "to get rid of the stench of evil; angels can smell it, you know," creating a nest with him was out of the question given their respective…offices, but foods—yes, foods were among his beta’s favorite—

 an offering of oysters...

 was that where it started?

 —and Crowley was more than happy to show the beta he can provide, he can protect—

 ((Crowley has even gone as far as developed a sense for when his beta would be in a spot of trouble. There were no distressed omegan hormones, no telltale shifts in Aziraphale’s mild scent when something was amiss, of course not.

No, it was other things—things that were so heartbreakingly Aziraphale in every way—from his dithering, from the curl of his lip, just barely a sneer when Crowley was misbehaving, or the change of pitch in his voice when he was scheduled to meet with his superiors.

And last but not least…

…a tugging, at the back of Crowley’s head. Insistent when Aziraphale was in the area. And it downright dragged him to the center of the mess when Aziraphale landed himself out of the pan and into the fire (so to speak)

Aziraphale always forced Crowley to learn things the hard way—

 and that was one of the things he loved about his bastard beta.))

 —but he wanted—needed—that reciprocated too.

 Fraternising.

 The word sliced his chest wide open.

 Maybe he couldn't get through to him. Perhaps it was all in vain. A transaction for the beta, just as he'd proposed it all those centuries ago.

 I don't need you.

 It was true. Crowley got on just fine without him.

 ((It didn't curb the want. The longing.))

 The feeling is mutual!

 obviously...

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

And then— 1941. The scene at the church happens.

 Where Crowley's instinct that Aziraphale was in trouble still functioned quite impeccably despite a century apart and an argument that fractured what they had.

 And Crowley limps away, feet burnt on consecrated ground, knowing—without a doubt—that he would walk across the sun if it meant Aziraphale is safe.

And Aziraphale stands there in the rubble of faith, understanding and facing, with certain and absolute sincerity that he was in love with this demon,

 Knowing—without a doubt—that Crowley loves another.

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

 20 years later, Aziraphale learns of a heist and a cold fear grips him. he can't lose Crowley—absolutely refuses to.

 He can't look Crowley in the eye as he gifts him—insurance the demon called it. Protection. For himself...and for his omega.

 Crowley must have concocted this arrangement to protect himself and his mate should an angelic threat arrive. Maybe he'd meant to use Aziraphale as insurance too—

 “I'll give you a lift, anywhere you wanna go.”

 Aziraphale looks at him then. Look at him and saw the patience, the hoping, the quiet, tenderness behind those dark glasses and it took everything Aziraphale had to rip himself away and exit the car.

 He...he mustn't get ahead of himself. But it was hard to tamp down the tiny seeds of hope, smashing them so they would never see light.

 But really…what did it change?

 Everything, maybe

 Because Crowley may have his mate, but he made it clear that Aziraphale was part of his pack too.

 And that was enough

 It had to be.

 You go too fast for me.

 ------------------------

In the years following, Aziraphale finds coping with his…unideal… feelings not-so difficult. He may be the beta of Crowley's pack, but for much longer than that, he'd been a thorn on his side, so it was easy to slip back into that role.

 They spend a few years raising the wrong boy ((and Aziraphale bites his tongue to avoid asking why he didn't ask his omega to have a hand in raising Warlock)), but despite the unusual convention (which is honestly par for the course for the two), the child comes out normal.

 Unfortunately, they are unsure if the same could have been said for the real antichrist.

 And Aziraphale is not sure what gripped him to withhold the boy's whereabouts— to go against the alpha—his alpha—and lie to him.

There is no our side.

Not anymore.

Maybe it was the insistence that heaven must be good, that a part of him believed with all his heart that they wanted the right thing too.

 and maybe...just maybe...he knew that if things went...pear-shaped...

 There was still a chance for Crowley and his mate to escape all this. That the blame could easily fall on Aziraphale, sparing the two.

 And when I'm off in the stars—I won't even think about you!

 Good, Aziraphale muses as Crowley drives away, even as every meter that separates them physically burns him.

 Betas are not essential.

 Crowley doesn't need him.

 He and his mate just need to be safe.

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

At the heart of it, Crowley is a liar. A pretty shite one, really. Says things he doesn't mean—doesn't want to say. But what else can he do when his beta refuses him at every turn?

 Lash out-like a child, apparently.

 All his plans have gone up in smoke, time was running out, and Crowley knows there's no turning back after Ligur ends up a pile of smoldering goo at the floor of his apartment. He feels a tug at his heart, knowing that it was Aziraphale who protected him that time, betraying everything he knew to give Crowley thermos. He can't give up—he'll drag Aziraphale away kicking and screaming if he could.

 Crowley walks out of his apartment, sidestepping the mess on his floor, when he feels— knows something is wrong. Every sense in-tune to Aziraphale is blaring—

 and just as suddenly, it all goes quiet.

 Crowley breaks both traffic laws and the laws of physics to find a burning book shop and no trace of his beta.

 Remorse battles with rage, but what triumphs above all is a resounding howl that anyone would be able to recognize—

 Mourning.

 Someone’s killed my best friend

 -----------------------

 Aziraphale feels his heart stop—well, if he still had one—at the sound of Crowley, there at the bar. He bites down the urge to yell at him, to tell him to grab his mate and run while they still have a chance—

 I lost my best friend.

 Aziraphale pauses, words caught in his throat. He'd been...selfish. So selfish. Of course, Crowley wants his pack intact. And Aziraphale was part of that.

 Crowley is truly a phenomenal alpha while Aziraphale is the most terrible beta in existence.

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

"Wherever you are, I'll come to you—where are you?"

 Crowley almost lost his beta once. He won't let it happen a second time.

 "Come up with something or—

I'll never talk to you again"

 Because Aziraphale (finally, finally) stood with him.

 "We're on our own side."

 ---------------------

It's the final piece of the prophecy that Crowley was able to salvage that inspires the idea from Aziraphale.

 He knows his superiors. It will be hellfire— befitting a traitor who refuses to fall from god's grace. Crowley tells him that his will be holy water— that there will be a trial that Crowley is rigged to lose.

 Aziraphale knows there will be no such thing for him

 They have everything to lose and everything to gain with this final arrangement and on the dawn of that day where they make the switch,

 Aziraphale wonders if he will finally get a glimpse of Crowley's mate at the trial.

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

 Crowley has enough sense to curb his anger, his fury, his outrage at the way they treat his beta. He doesn't roar at the injustice, in vengeance, as an alpha should. Instead, he smiles and breathe a flicker of hellfire at them, letting them know that Aziraphale has always been better than all of heaven could ever hope to be.

 And Crowley vows to stop being a coward and make Aziraphale know it too.

 -----------------------

 Aziraphale scans the crowds for any sign of disbelief, of horror and indignance on the faces of the demons around him as he is charged guilty.

 But no one steps forward and Aziraphale feels his heart fracture with pain and betrayal for Crowley.

 He deserves someone who would be here, who would do anything to see him again, Aziraphale thinks as he lounges in the bath of holy water, exuding the confidence and control an alpha like Crowley would project. He deserves better, he thinks, a bitterness rising like bile at the back of his throat.

 I could be—

 He stops that train of thought immediately.

 -------------------------

 Their plan succeeds and Crowley tempts him to a spot of lunch. Their dawn of a new day begins at noon and upon seeing Crowley (in his corporation) safe and whole, Aziraphale rides that high all the way to the Ritz.

 To the world.

 To the world.

 ----------------------------

 Aziraphale regales him the scene all over again, careful to leave out the part where none, not even his own mate, rose to defend him during the trial. Instead, he talks about rubber ducks as he refuses to look in Crowley's direction.

 He knows the way he's looking at him. He knows the soft, tender look the alpha gives him, and truly, what an injustice that someone like Crowley is mated with someone who holds such little faith in him

 But as a beta, it isn't Aziraphale's place to.

 He may be part of the pack, but he knows his place. Maybe...maybe Crowley's mate was told to stay hidden, just in case things went awry—

 You wouldn't have listened, Aziraphale's traitorous mind whispers. You would have been there for him.

 Precisely why I'm a beta, Aziraphale chuckles to himself. Could you imagine me, doing a thing Crowley's told?

 Preposterous.

 Just like the spikes of jealousy digging into the meat of his heart.

 Aziraphale knows he’s a terrible beta—but even more than that, he’s Crowley’s best friend, and he knows Crowley deserved the truth.

 "They weren't there, you know."

 "Who?"

 "Your mate." Aziraphale scoffs at the confused (panicked) reaction. "Oh, come off it— I know you've been courting someone for centuries."

 "Yes...that's true..." Crowley cautiously, carefully admits and although Aziraphale knew this for a fact— knew this like he knew the back of his own hand, the admission tore a bleeding wound right open.

 "Yes well...they weren't there. At the trial." Aziraphale bites his lip. "Where are...are they safe?"

 Crowley is looking at him strangely.  Aziraphale only wants straight answers. He's gone centuries without asking, always respecting this boundary between them—

 —but they were pack, weren't they?

 But then Crowley is smiling, a gleam of amusement sparking in his eyes. "The one I've been courting? I assure you, they were there at my trial."

 Suspicion—even indignance— arose. Aziraphale was quick to smother it. "Oh! I...I didn't see them."

 "Nope, they were there," Crowley said with such confidence that Aziraphale felt his very heart wither.

 Stop it, he told himself. You knew this was true. You knew he has a mate. And you knew he'd love them and be loyal to them no matter what.  Because Crowley is a phenomenal alpha...and Aziraphale is a wretched beta. "I...all right," he said faintly, hoping to distract himself with some cake, if only to counter the bitter bile rising at the back of his throat.

 "Mhm...they're the sole reason I'm still here," he said pointedly and at that, Aziraphale couldn't help but choke. "I owe everything to them."

 Of course.

 Crowley's driven to protect his mate against anything. He saved the world for his mate.

 And who was he to get in the way of that?

But if Aziraphale was ready to sink into the ground and possibly disappear for the next century or two to mend his own heartbreak, it was this statement that shoved those ideas straight into a pit of hellfire:

 "Yep," Crowley says with a knowing, teasing grin. "Brilliant idea they had too— switching bodies. Who else would have thought of that?"

 "YOU IDIOT, THAT WAS MY IDEA!"

At the back of his mind, Aziraphale knows he’s making a scene. And he’s possibly going to irreversibly damage his and Crowley’s relationship for this—

 But damn it all he'd gone centuries making sure this absolute idiot of a demon didn't get himself killed and not ONCE had he seen hide nor hair of his so-called mate.

 "AND FOR THE RECORD," he seethed. "YOU HAVE ABSOLUTE SHITE TASTES IN MATES!"

 "I disagree," Crowley replied and Aziraphale wanted to rip his hair out. "They may be a bit of a bastard at times, but they've always been there for me."

 "WHEN!?"

 This was disconcerting in many different ways:

 Mostly through the implication that Crowley got into even more trouble than Aziraphale was able to help him with.

 "Salem witch trials— was about to be hanged. Saved me from discorporation."

 Aziraphale frowns. He's done similar for Crowley— it figures that the demon would have gotten himself into that mess at least a second time.

 "14th century— The Plague. But they were always so eager to do the best they could, given the situation. Made the shite times less…shite."

 Aziraphale wouldn't have known, personally. It truly was a shite time indeed and Aziraphale had gotten discorporated as he spent his days healing the sick. He briefly recalled Crowley being there, shortly before his corporation ah...expired.

 “Rome was better, but not by enough of a margin. We had something to eat and suddenly my whole day was better."

 Hmm...maybe it happened sometime after their lunch? Perhaps dinner, no wait, he had dinner with Crowley too. But Crowley was in exceptionally good spirits the days following. It must have been sometime after then.

 "The Ark," he said softly. "They smuggled some children with me aboard."

 Aziraphale pauses. Wait...he’s sure only he and Crowley were aboard who knew about the stowaway children, then. After all, Aziraphale helped sneak them in.

 "19th century— had a nasty fight." Crowley is staring intently at him now. "He made it up to me."

Aziraphale feels his breath catch.

"Took about a century, but we got there. The holy water came in real handy, by the way."

 Wait—

 "Golgotha...lost a good friend at the time. They were there with me the days afterwards."

 Hang on—

 "In the 1940s, when a bomb dropped on the church—"

 That doesn't—

 "11 years ago— when I roped them into this scheme to stop Armageddon—"

 But—

 "The airfield," Crowley says. He’s no longer across the table. Aziraphale hadn’t realized he’d moved so close. "When I'd given up everything. They threatened me to do something— and I did. It ended saving all of us."

 No, that— that couldn't be right—

 "Eden," he breathes out. "He sheltered me during the first rains."

 Aziraphale isn’t quite sure when he stood up, but he sits down all the same. The pieces are in front of him but not slotting in the way he expects them to—

 —in the way he thought it was possible to.

 And then Crowley is holding his hand, at first laying his atop his own— and then lacing their fingers together.

 Fitting perfectly.

 He tears his gaze away only to meet those lovely, lovely amber eyes. Time around them stops like a bated breath. "You've always been there. Every time I needed you."

 To which Aziraphale, for all his knowledge and expertise of the written word, can only eke out an, "Oh," in response.

 And at that, Crowley can only laugh, relieved and so heartbreakingly happy as he closes the distance between them. "Yes, oh, my stupid mate."

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Would you, possibly after finishing chapter two, or whenever you feel like it if you do, write something with Aziraphale invisibly following Crowley around, watching him work? (Maybe making sure any scratches do not get infected, falls are less hard than maybe they should be and such. A suspicious amount of large white feathers on the ground, Crowley thinks, but he's a plant guy so he's not too sure. Maybe they've got swans now. Do swans live in the mountains?)

Sure, sounds like a fun time for Aziraphale, and weird time for Crowley!

On with the fic!

--

Tourist season has started, and Aziraphale decided it was his duty to keep an eye on the park staff. Well. At least one staff member. The redheaded one, who had stayed at his cabin over a week ago.

Aziraphale rested on the roof of the center, watching as Crowley was speaking to another staff member. Anathema, if Aziraphale remembered correctly, she had been working here for two years now, lovely girl, bit odd. He sometimes wondered if she knew what he was.

Impossible, really, but... she would give him the oddest looks, as if she were reading him.

He watched as Crowley waved goodbye to her and headed off to a work vehicle parked nearby, throwing a box into it before getting in. Right, work time!

Aziraphale slipped off the roof, invisible to all, and he scurried after the moving car. He carefully avoided humans as he went, trying to see where Crowley was off to today! Hopefully it was somewhere interesting.

Turns out it was just to the Southern Gate, where a massive lake sat. Moonlight Lake was a lovely place, sometimes Aziraphale wished it was over where his main area was, but he could visit it anytime he wanted. That worked just as well for him.

He had listened to what Crowley said his tasks were for over here, clean the restrooms. Aziraphale made a face, oh, the worst job to have...

Well, Crowley probably wouldn't mind if Aziraphale made it a little easier for him, right? He snapped his fingers, and Crowley looked up, confused. Oops, that made a sound. Might have to do waves today.

Crowley looked around, shrugged, then put in some little nubs into his ears. Ah, headphones, yes? That was the correct term? The angel watched as Crowley approached the restrooms, making a confused sound when he found that they were in a decent state, ready for a quick tidying up and restocking!

Aziraphale sat himself down on the ground, coiled up, watching as Crowley started to clean up around the area after he finished with the bathrooms. This shouldn't be interesting, watching a human pick up trash left over by other humans, but Crowley was just so fascinating.

There were no humans around, so Crowley seemed to be singing to himself as he listened to the music from his little nubs. Aziraphale didn't know what the song was, but it sounded like the singer wanted to break free from something. The angel smiled to himself as he watched Crowley dance about as he cleaned.

Well... if you want to call that dancing. Not that Aziraphale could talk, angels don't dance. It was one of the many distinguishing characteristics that marked an angel. Although, Aziraphale did take time off in the late 1880s to learn to dance the Gavotte at a discreet gentlemen's club in Portland Place.

He wondered if he could dance with Crowley at some point.

He continued to watch as Crowley danced about as he picked up garbage, until he stopped suddenly, looking down at something in the grass. Aziraphale felt his halo burn brighter, a warning, was something in the grass? A threat?

Then he saw Crowley crouch down, holding out his hand, and watched as a garter snake started to slip up his hand, around his wrist. "Hello there, you li'l beauty. Almost got picked up with the trash, ya know! Best you stay outta my way, don't want a little guy like you to get into that mess."

Aziraphale watched with wide eyes as Crowley walked over to the trees, letting the snake get off his hand. "There we go, better you're in there than out by the humans, yeah? Off you go!"

Then Crowley smiled and Aziraphale felt his halo ignite for a different reason.

"Oof, gettin' warm today." Crowley commented, fanning himself with his hat before returning to work.

--

This shift had been a rather... odd one, to put it simply.

Crowley had felt like he was being followed all day, but he wasn't sure why. Often, he was left all alone, since Hastur and Ligur rarely worked with him, and he didn't work with a lot of the other maintenance workers unless he had to. Could just be the park guests, they were everywhere.

A lot of them were causing him trouble, messes everywhere, too many stupid questions, especially about the wifi. Well, shit, Crowley didn't know what to tell you about the wifi when you're out in the forest surrounded by trees! If he had wifi here, he'd be playing on his phone more often.

Still, he had a decent enough day. The bathrooms always seemed to be in better order than expected, a lot of the empty campsites didn't seem to have left too much behind, or even had hazardous stuff laying about. And he had seen a snake! Reminded him of his cutie back at his aunt's, Apple, he hoped she was doing well.

He had also seen a black bear, who seemed to be minding his own business. Crowley should have been worried, yes, they were one of the more docile bears, but they were still a threat. Yet he didn't feel like he was in any danger, like there was something that was keeping him safe.

He didn't understand why, but he didn't question it.

As he was packing up his stuff, his shift done for the day, taking care of this areas around the lake, he stopped and noticed something near his truck.

There was a small scattering of pure white feathers. He picked one up, looking it over. It wasn't plucked, it looked like it had fallen off a bird naturally. The texture was strange, so soft and clean, if not a little ruffled, not usually how you find feathers like this, especially near a lake.

Was this from a swan? Did this lake have swans? Crowley wasn't too familiar with the wildlife yet, he knew there were books about what lived here, but he was more of a plant guy, maybe he should look into getting a book?

"Still..." He mumbled to himself, picking up a few more feathers. There were really pretty, he didn't want them to just get blown away, he kind of wanted to keep them. For what reason, he didn't know, but he was sure to figure something out.

He put them in the truck with him before driving off, ready to go back to his apartment to relax. He never noticed that he was followed, to make sure he arrived safe and sound.

--

In case you're wondering, Crowley healed up very well, miraculous how that happened, yeah? His arm's in a brace, so he has to be careful, but he's healing well. And his foot is just fine.

I considered Aziraphale helping him if he got hurt, but I think Crowley deserves a break right now from injuries, haha. For now. Lots of things could happen over the summer. :3c

[elentary]

Black as the devil, pure as an angel

Happy 31st Good Omens anniversary! (i’m late as usual)

A little story about Aziraphale and Crowley popped up in my head and I tried to write it down. 

This is my first story and my first language is not English (so don’t expect a masterpiece out of this): any correction or comment will be appreciated!

(All material related to Good Omens is the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.)

Black as the devil, pure as an angel

London, Monday, 10th May 2021

"Hey, this is Antony Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style"

-biiiiiiip-

"Ah, hello, it's me… ...Aziraphale! Well, ehm, it's been a while since we spoke and I suppose you're still sleeping in this moment because you aren't answering the phone. I just hope you aren't sleeping on the ceiling or on the walls: I'm pretty confident to say that's not comfortable for your backbone and I know for sure you have a perfect soft bed in your room. Also, last time I saw you up there, I almost had a heart-attack and I'd like to avoid it, even if I'm sure I can't die of that since I'm not human, but… ...oh, I wandered off too much with this!

Ehm, I called to inform you that lately the situation here in London seems to have improved and, since some restrictions have been lifted, I thought we could maybe meet again when you'll wake up: my bookshop will be open just for you at every hour! 

 Oh, don't worry if you'll be a bit sleepy: I'll prepare my special qahwah (kahve/caffè) in a jiffy! Well, it's not so special, it's just an old recipe I learnt because… ...oh, not that, it's a secr…. ehm, it's not important at all!

I… I… hope to see you soon, my chuck-… my dear!"

Aziraphale hung up the phone and started fidgeting with his golden ring almost immediately: "I shouldn't have called him: it didn't go how I planned", he muttered to himself. Unsurprising, the phrase "it went down like a lead balloon" popped up immediately in his head.

He had been rehearsing the call for ten days, preparing himself for every possible scenario, but in the end he went completely off-script after a few words, letting his emotions spill too much in his tone. 

But what worried him the most was the moment he let slip the words "old recipe" from his mouth: not for the recipe per se, but because of the little secret behind it. 

"I'm quite sure - he said out loud using a hopeful tone to calm himself - I was able to stop in time, thanks goodness! I’m sure that he won't ask anything even if Crowley notices something, because he'll think there is just a boring story behind it".

While he was heading for the kitchenette to make a cup of tea (there is no problem that couldn't be fixed with a good cuppa), he halted midway and wondered: "Why did I call coffee in that ancient way?"

The reason for that ancient name was very old, pretty much as old as Aziraphale's secret: a little more than four hundred years old.

Venice, 1596

"...and just a cup of qahwah for me" said a guest all clad in black who was slouching on a chair in the most luxurious house of the city. 

The young waiter who was taking the order, looked at him a bit perplexed for the last order. 

"Right, that was Arabic" chuckled Crowley "bring me some kahve or whatever is called here".

"Oh, caffè, here it’s called caffè here, Siór!” [1] , said the young one, ”How much sugar would you like in your cup?” added hasty at the demon's expression.

“I'll have Sade kahve but with a bit of cardamom. Remember to grind finely the beans”.

The waiter was still lost but the other guest at the table helped him with a smile: "He doesn't want any sugar in his caffè, dear" 

“I'll bring everything as soon as possible" said the young man and, after bowing a little, he headed for the counter.

Aziraphale was a bit surprised by what just happened: "It seems you are the meticulous one today: I have almost never seen you so specific with your food or drink order, unless alcohol was involved". He also added: "I just hope you didn't want to mess with the poor waiter".

No, angel, I didn't pull a prank. I have been drinking coffee for a while: but since my last mission in Malta [2] I have been loving it: Altan was the best at making it, but he went to Rome", Crowley said with a sigh.

"The funniest thing - he continued, smiling - is that I was lured to that because I thought it was an alcoholic drink since they called it qahwah, that also means wine. At first I was a bit disappointed but later I discovered it helps to stay awake during boring stuff: it did wonder with every task Hell gives me."

"I tasted some qahwah some times ago but it was too energetic for me… but maybe I should try it to deal with Gabr… ehm, with tedious tasks". Crowley politely didn't mention Aziraphale's little slip but smiled a bit inside.

When the order arrived the angel observed how his partner smelled and tasted happily the concoction humming approvingly: 

"I didn't think you were a coffee connoisseur" Aziraphale joked. 

"It's not so bad for someone with so little experience: you should try it sometimes. If you're done with your food, let's organize our Arrangement. For my report…"

They discussed their work for a couple of hours, drinking coffee. Aziraphale tasted it too (a lot sweeter than the demon) but in the end he still preferred his tea. The angel, however, decided he'd propose another place with coffee, since Crowley enjoyed that drink so much.

Milan, Four years later

"Why can't I have a cup of coffee?" Sulked a very crossed demon who was missing a couple of years of sleep due hellish work. "Lent was over 2 month ago, wasn't it?"

The owner of the shop was distraught: "The priest told us that is not proper now, Sir: the Infidels are using it and - he started whispering - it seems that's a Devil's plant". 

"I'm pretty sure that the Devil wasn't involved in any botanical project, even before Falling, and he has never tried any coffee. Instead, if you are speaking about demons, I am the onl-"

"Why don't we order wine instead this time?" Interrupted quickly Aziraphale before Crowley could say something more compromising. The unhappy demon agreed begrudgingly so several bottles of red wine were shared among them. 

"I'm sorry for your coffee, Crowley. It seems idiotic banning a plant just because somebody else has it".

"Well, they copied the idea from the Boss: God was the first to ban a plant, you and I should remember that easily" Crowley snickered.

Aziraphale started blushing and his cheeks soon were as red as that famous fruit: "ah, it… i-it wasn't just a normal fruit and that was part of God's plan…  I suppose.". That phrase was just commented by the demon with a bemused expression.

"So, Crowley, what are you going to do with this? Are you going to tempt a lot of people to drink coffee?"

"Nah, I'm already too busy with Hell's job at the moment. It would be too troublesome to convince people and especially priests: those at top are the worst."

I'm sure I'll miss the ability of coffee to transform random thoughts into ingenious ideas: humans were experts at using that!" The demon slouched sadly on the chair.

Aziraphale would have missed the improved human genius too but, in his opinion, would have regretted more not seeing his demon's smile but he said nothing. He instead started thinking if there was something he could do and soon became lost in his thoughts.

"...anything there?"

"Sorry, what was that?" 

"I told you I'll go back to Spain tomorrow for a temptation: do you need anything there?" 

"Oh, nothing special, just the usual [3] we can share and those books, if you could be so courteous." Aziraphale happily answered, giving him a neat written list.

"Are you going to stay here long, angel?"

"Oh, no, I'm departing for Rome the day after tomorrow… … I know you don't like it because of the absurd amount of consecrated ground there, you don't need to make a face each time I mention it"

"And every pope makes the problem worse." 

The angel assumed a grim expression: "I have to meet pope Clement VIII for the closing ceremony of the Jubilee"

"You don't seems pleased" 

"The Archangels, especially Sandalphon, think highly of him, but I don't… appreciate him, especially after he burned at the stake messer Giordano Bruno and other poor humans."

Crowley liked discussing the stars and the universe with Giordano: he tried to warn the poor man but he was too stubborn to listen.

"May I reciprocate your favour from Spain? Maybe some wine?" Suggested the angel.

"Only if you're sure the bottles are not blessed - Crowley shuddered - I still remember last time I was wrong".

"Are you sure it will be enough?" 

"I'm sure, angel. Let's party now and forget our troubles for now". 

Unfortunately Aziraphale couldn't party happily because he couldn't forget what happened with the cup of coffee and he thought his favour was too small: he decided he should do something about it! 

Luckily the following morning was more propitious and he found a way to repay Crowly for his favour: he'll find a way to lift the ban on coffee.

The only remaining problem was how to do that.

Rome, a week later

Aziraphale was reading the same line of the missive for the third time in a row at his desk: the angel was too distracted because hadn't found a solution for his "problem" yet. 

"I bet I have the solution under my nose but I can't see it" mumbled the angel touching the pope's sigils on the papers.

"Of course, the pope! - he yelled happily - He is the highest authority for the priests: he could convince everybody that drinking coffee is not bad if he tastes it himself".

"I just need to learn how to make the best coffee ever". A name came back to his mind, the name Crowley gave him: Altan. 

Immediately he used a little miracle to locate him that led him to a small cemetery outside the city and on the grave and there were few sweets with a little cup: unfortunately Altan died 10 years before. The angel bowed a little to pay respect. 

A big Turkish man came next to him and inquired "Did you know my father?".

"I didn't but my... acquaintance considered him a genius and was very fond of his qahwa, ehm, kahve. He'll be sad when he'll know he died." 

"I'm Osmanek. May I ask you what brings you here mister...?

"Oh, I'm Aziraphale. I came here to learn how to make the best coffee ever: I hope his art was inherited by you."

"Luckily it was not lost: I loved to help him make coffee. Before revealing my secrets I have a question for you: are you doing this for your… acquaintance?"

Aziraphale nodded: "I'd like to prepare him some coffee he loves, but at the same time I'd love to see everyone have a coffee whenever they fancy, like in your birthplace. To make that possible, however, I have to let somebody else drink your coffee to.. ..to tempt him saying it's not a bad thing: that person is the pope Clement".

The angel knew what he was asking for and couldn't hold the gaze of the man anymore.

"I understand -he continued sadly- if you don't want to help me since I have seen how much that man has been hurting your brothers and sisters…" The angel couldn't say anything else, overpowered by his memories and bowed his head to hide the tears in his eyes: he has seen too many inconceivable deaths in the name of faith

Osmanek observed Aziraphale for a little moment: he was sure there was no lie in his words. "No, - he smiled - I can't leave you after you poured your heart out: I'll help you and your friend to tempt the Pope." 

"Oh, oh, thank you! - and the angel added hastily - But he's not my friend, we barely know each other!"

The man started smiling brighter than ever and guided him to his house.

Immediately after they arrived, Osmanek offered his guest a cup of his special kahve with few sweets. Aziraphale tried just a sip of coffee and he was immediately in love: "Now I know why Crowley likes it so much: it's so scrumptious even without those sweets!"

"I call this Altan kahve in honour of my father: I will teach you how to prepare it for your fr… aquietance but I ask you to not give any of this to the pope. For him, I'll give you another tasty recipe" 

"Oh, I agree with you: the pope doesn't deserve that perfection!" 

Osmanek patiently taught Aziraphale everything he should know: how to roast and grind the beans, how to use the small pot "cezve", the ratio perfect between coffee and water, how to boil and froth the concoction and  which flavours could be used.

In the beginning everything felt so difficult for Aziraphale and he failed a lot. However the angel was very stubborn and, thanks Osmanek's tips and teaching, he was able to make an excellent cup of coffee in a couple of days.

"I hope this will be good enough" mumbled the angel.

"Trust me, it will be too good for the pope", he chuckled. "Now let's see how good you are with Altan's coffee. I'll give you a final tip: imagine you are preparing some coffee for your acquaintance and not me".

"Why…?"

"If I'm right, it will taste better"

Still perplexed and a bit nervous, Aziraphale went into the kitchen and, following the last advice, he prepared meticulously the dark drink, flavouring with cardamom and finally pouring it in two kahve fincanı, a dark one and a light one. The smell seemed quite promising.

Osmanek took the darkest cup and, after smelling the aroma, he tasted it. After a few seconds, he smiled "In my native Country there is a proverb that says the coffee should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love but for your coffee this doesn't sound right". He put the empty fincanı on the table.

"I think - he continued - the Italian expression suit it better" 

"I'm sorry but I don't know it" the angel was starting to worry he messed up something even if the man was smiling fondly.

"Il caffè deve essere caldo come l'inferno, nero come il diavolo, puro come un angelo e dolce come l'amore.". [4]

The angel took his courage and drank his coffee: in his opinion, it wasn't perfect as Osmanek's but it tasted like something Crowley would enjoy and that was the best feeling ever. 

The angel couldn't stop smiling: "Oh, I am so grateful to you! But I don't know how I can repay you for this"

"Your happiness is enough: I'll bring you everything you need".

Aziraphale didn't agree with him so he performed some miracles and blessings. 

Osmanek came back with some coffee beans, flavours and utensils. There were also three kahve fincanı: two were familiar (the dark and the light ones) but the other was new (and very flashy).

"Oh, that's for the pope: I have always hated that cup and I hope it'll break when that man wants coffee most"

"Oh, that cup will do that, I can assure you" the angel promised with a mischief smile.

Aziraphale finally bid farewell, still thanking Osmanek profusely.

Two months later was the time to put the plan in action: the pope was in the library at 2 a.m. and he was getting tired but he had a lot of work to do. Aziraphale approached him: "I may have the right solution for your Excellency: it's a healthy concoction that promotes wakefulness and wonderful ideas. It was discovered b-"

"I don't care, - interrupted the holy man - give me that drink and let's hope it works".

"God gives me strength" whispered under his breath the angel while preparing some coffee that suited the pope's taste.

When the cup of coffee was ready, it was given to Clement VIII: he grabbed it and started drinking absent-mindedly. The smell and the taste were so good that he woke almost immediately. 

"Librarian, what is this?"

"As I was saying, this is coffee" 

"Why has nobody given me this miraculous drink? The taste is divine and it works perfectly!"

"I suppose nobody wanted to offer your Excellency any drink consumed by Muslims. Some people also believe coffee is a Devil's plant. In my op-"

"I don't care: it's too good to be Satan's plant and we mustn't let the infidels have exclusive use of coffee."

Aziraphale was quite happy: it seemed his plan worked out nicely.

"Maybe we could bless the beans or use some holy wate-"

"NO" shouted the angel, emanating some angelic power unconsciously "Please, DON'T". 

For the first time in his life, the pope was scared he felt like a little child in front of a giant warrior.

"Ehm, please - said more calmly Aziraphale - never suggest it again or let somebody do that. Just tell everyone coffee could be drank by anybody".

The pope could only nod affirmatively.

"Right!" 

Now the angel was sure he was successful in his endeavour and soon could have a coffee with Crowley. 

Aziraphale stayed in Rome for another three weeks, just in time to witness a fincanı to break neatly in two, pouring coffee on some important papal documents.

On his journey to London he stopped to Osmanek's house and updated him on what had happened in that time (especially the broken cup).

London, Monday, 10th May 2021, 30 minutes after Aziraphale's call.

In the end Aziraphale made some of his special coffee with his cezve: he was missing Crowley so much.

"What if i woke him up while he just wanted to sleep a bit more?" 

"No, angel, - a familiar voice answered - I want to stay awake with you for a while"

"Crowley" cheered Aziraphale

"Coffee?"

"In a jiffy" and he poured the drink in two old contrasting kahve fincanı.

"So, what's the secret behind this old recipe?" Crowley asked with a mischievous smile.

----------------------Notes----------------------

[1] Siór = mister (venetian dialect)

[2] Malta = Crowley had been at the great siege of Malta in 1565    https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Siege_of_Malta

[3] Usual = local goodies (especially wine and alcohol)

[4] "Il caffè deve essere caldo come l'inferno, nero come il diavolo, puro come un angelo e dolce come l'amore" = "coffee must be hot as hell, black as the devil, pure as an angel and sweet as love"

To write this I took some info from wikipedia about the history of coffee: if you want to learn something more accurate than my story, look here and here.

[potterhead-221b]

Here I am watching Good Omens again

The garden scene? Adding heart eyes to Crowley wouldn't make it more obvious

Everything about Crowley in the graveyard scene: the hair, the sunglasses, Bohemian Rhapsody, each and every word he says !!!

Crowley walking or whatever that is !!!!!!!!!!!

"Ciao"

Shitshitshitshitshit

"Why do you consume that?" FUCK OFF GABRIEL

"Yes, I like the clothes!" well then, fuck offffffff

"the demon Crowley" Aziraphale immediately starts fidgeting

Sian Brooke, I love you

The camera work in the ambulance scene? Amazing

The whole babies mess. Mary Loquacious. The cards trick simile and how it's presented cinematically. Most wonderful thing in the world.

"Aziraphale, it's me"

"An American diplomat?" can it be more British?

Aziraphale facing forwards, avoiding looking at Crowley at all times. Crowley looking at him during the whole conversation

"Let's have lunch" *Aziraphale clenches*

"What are you in the mood for now?" "Alcohol" me always

The whole drunk conversation is my favourite thing ever I swear "bulla... Buil... Bullabd..." "they say a whoop" "eternitaaaaAAAYYYYYYYYYYEeee"

Their faces after sobering up. Pure gold

Crowley's face when they agree to help upbring Warlock :)

NANNY ASHTORETH AND BROTHER FRANCIS YES

"Go to sleep and dream of pain, doom and darkness, blood and brains. Sweet, so sweet, my darling boy. Yu will rule when earth's destroyed"

"They don't suspect a thing" I'm laughing my arse off

"Wars are to me won, not avoided" well fuck you too

"The boy's too normal" yeah bitch cuz u fucked up, dear

"Dumbasaur more like..." what child who is not the antichrist hates dinosaurs istg

"No one will notice anything, it's reality, angel" every paranormal/magic/time-travel show ever

"Something could happen to him" *Zira becomes the maths meme lady* "I'm saying you could kill him (idiot)"

Crowley looking at Zira while they talk about possibly killing Warlock, Zira looking away while almost crying. My heart

"I could entertain" "nononono"

"Never anywhere near my ear"

"Make me disappear" what a mood you are, Crowley

Crowley's watch at the party, I don't even understand how it works but it looks so cool, I want a hundred

Sian Brooke, I love you x2

When Zira miracled life into the dead dove

The realization: "No hound, wrong boy"

The Them, I wish I had friends like that when I was young

"That's just sexist" you tell them Pepper

Transformed Dog plot twist

Crowley taking credit for everything wrong with humanity

"I know what you smell like" I'm crying