#in conclusion: aziraphale loves the world and crowley loves the universe and they both love each and i’m always in pain

[crowleave]

ok so the thing is, the kiss really was the best way crowley knew to convey his feelings to aziraphale because nina and maggie were right, they do talk but they never say what they mean.

but that doesn’t mean they don’t understand each other, at least to a certain extent.

and crowley knows aziraphale

he knows that he loves books and plays and the stories made by humanity. he watches his angel learn magic the human way and finds out he learned french the human way and knows better than anyone how much he loves human food. he throws a ball to get nina and maggie together because that’s what the humans in jane austen novels would do.

crowley knows that aziraphale romanticizes humanity, loves the drama and the stories and every little thing that makes humans human.

and what could be more human than a desperate kiss asking someone to stay

[dorian-they-ao3]

it is so so important to me that Aziraphale said “I forgive you”

there’s a variety of theories floating about out there but I personally believe he was saying “I forgive you” in the celestial sense because like. Aziraphale is basically the right hand of God now, right? So saying “I forgive you” is him saying “I’m not going to condemn you or cast you out for rejecting Heaven.” “I forgive you” as in “I won’t hold this choice against you.”

So the “I forgive you” leaves the door open. Aziraphale is waiting for Crowley to change his mind. Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale to come to his senses. So S3 is gonna be all about who caves in first, which is basically like putting two marbles on a slope & seeing which one gravity decides will reach its inevitable conclusion first.

bottom line is these are two beings who love each other and know they both want to spend eternity together but they’re currently having a disagreement over a job offer. A job offer from an historically corrupt company that Aziraphale believes could make a difference in the world with the right person in charge. The problem is not only is he not actually going to be in charge, but this job is going to move them across the universe from the home they’ve built together & force them to give up all of their prized worldly possessions while also requiring both of them to be working for said company. A company that Crowley was fired from several millennia ago all because he asked too many questions and didn’t agree with what management was doing. And now that he’s gotten comfortable being a plantdad-househusband who fudges memos to home office, he really doesn’t want to return to any work at all, let alone for the awful company that fired him in the first place.

So either Aziraphale needs to actually start making a enough of a positive difference that Crowley can admit that Heaven is sort of alright now (unlikely), or, after Aziraphale makes some sweeping celestial changes, he realises his work is basically done so he can leave the company in good hands (hello Muriel) and go back home to his life & his husband, kiss & make up, and live happily ever after (even more unlikely).

OR — and most likely — Aziraphale needs to realise that no matter what he does he can’t change The Way Things Are bc the system of Heaven & Hell itself is broken and needs to be demolished. So he abandons Heaven, reunites with Crowley, does the I Was Wrong dance, and fights alongside the humans in the upcoming Us vs Them battle, hand-in-hand with the love of his nearly-endless existence. And then we’ll ALL live happily ever after.

bottom line: it’s all going to be alright.

[bigfuns-stuff]

I think that Good Omens, Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss share more comparisons than originally thought. I’ll get the basic info out of the way. The colour palette of the three are obviously similar because they both take inspiration from the famous Christian and Dante Inferno versions of Hell. “3 rings down” from Helluva Boss. And general world building. “two sides of the same coin” Yin Yang idea that Heaven and Hell share in all 3 shows. In the fact that they are all awful and I hope death is just hanging out in a pit alone. Like where Laura Moon was supposed to go in American Gods after her death. The relationships between Stolas and Bliz represent the worse version of Azi and Crowley. The miscommunication, lack of respect and boundaries, divided by class. Fizz and Ozzie are like Bebzebub and Gabriel/Jim, the better version of both couples. The way they could be if they were honest, not to mention adorable. But because Stolas is a heartbroken idiot and Blitz doesn’t think he deserves love. And Azi and Crowley are just idiots pointe blank and shove their feelings down a hole and ignore it. The shared love of ducks between Lucifer and Crowley is very interesting to me, which represent how they both feel like ugly ducklings compared to their peers for not fitting in. Crowley never belonged anywhere, the world doesn’t like dreamers. Lucifer has apples in his design, his hat and cane, a reminder that his dreams failed. The reason why he didn’t believe in the Hazbin Hotel to begin with. He never got to see the good free will did to humanity and carries it around to remind himself of his failure. Crowley IS free will personified in the Good Omens universe. He WAS the snake that tempted Adam and Eve. And continues to use that to joke with Aziraphale. “Could l tempt you to a spot of lunch?” He was the first being who thought for himself and was punished, he was gifted imagination like Charlie, and is berated for wanting better. Emily is a more assertive Aziraphale, when she hears what happens to souls in Hell, she jumps to Charlie’s side without hesitation. Something Azi wishes he could do, to not have his religious trauma run so deep, and to heal Crowley heal from his. Angel Dust is a much more desperate version of Crowley if he was still under Heaven, used and abused, threatened with power imbalance. Husker is his Aziraphale. Helping him out of the hole he dug himself into.

In conclusion, Everyone needs a hug, let me know if you think there are any comparisons I missed!

[daria-meoi]

Misunderstanding somersault

I've lost hope to make anything coherent out of this, but need to get it out of my system, so here goes nothing and a lot of projecting. I'm a person who is prone to doubt (in my own perception and judgement more than anything) and constant juggling of contradictory interpretations of the outer world's input.

So what if this is what's happening between these two?

There are several distinct bullshiteries in their fight, which could be either seen right through by the other one or taken at face value. Or both. And when you (I'm projecting, remember) are all wrought-up and drowning in emotions it's all too easy to do both, in fact you start operating on both interpretations at once without any distinction.

Also there seems to be a code phrase (which is 'No nightingales'), which can be interpreted differently too. And until it is shown otherwise (which I suppose it has a chance to be), we can safely presume that their reading of it can be contradictory too.

- Firstly, it's all the Heaven is the side of light and good and so on possibly meant for the onlooker to buy and for Crowley to see through, which Crowley, all distressed, doesn't (see @ao3cassandraic kayfabe theory and @indigovigilance post here) Or maybe at some level he does see through it and just desperately wants them to run? Or his understanding flickers between two possible interpretations and he can't settle for one, but running is his universal response to both of them, so it doesn't matter at this point.

- We can go off together (like Beez and Gab) followed by You can't leave this bookshop. Which simply can't coexist in one plane of reality, if we are still clutching at the precious peaceful sanity here. But they can coexist if Crowley is operating on both interpretations of the events at once, which are: • We are in danger, you are being threatened and • You are acting on your own volition and really believe in what you are saying. Answered with a Nothing lasts forever trainwreck, which somehow, at least momentarily, proves to Crowley the second interpretation, while in reality being the opposite.

The rest under the cut ⬇️

- I don't think you understand what I'm offering you. • I offer you myself and the only way I see to protect us. And Oh, I understand better than you do. • You want me to become mommy's little angel again. Do you indeed? Here comes an unexpected semi-conclusion: Dropping all doubt is not always a good thing. Especially when all the conversation before that was hopelessly floundering in it. Now it just hits the rocky bottom. Don't do this.

- Then there's nothing more to say. • I get it, you understand that we're threatened and don't want to be with me. With the most painful smile in existence, which haunts me since the first watch. And which probably triggers Crowley to reevaluate the whole thing again.

- Then comes No nightingales. Which helpfully provides us (and possibly the boys too) with, yep, two mutually exclusive interpretations again. It can be a code for danger and [unwilling] separation (@demontobee Romeo and Juliet parallel) (likely to be used with the connection to the Song in the 3rd installment of the 1941 date night). But it is also their love song. On which meaning are they operating? Is it the same for both of them? • I understand we are in danger, I love you but I think it's better/safer if we temporarily separate for now; and • This love story has come to an end, hugs and kisses, I'm leaving. Aziraphale's face changes. He understands something. Is it the same something Crowley implies?

- You idiot! For going into the lion's den when they could 'simply' try to run away? For presuming the worst? For not catching the nightingale line's real meaning, that the separation is temporary and for the best? Possibly.

- We could have been 'us'. Some illogical bullshitery again. They have been 'us'. There's no place for 'could have' here. They both know it. We had enough of we's and our's in the season to prove it. Even if during this disastrous conversation one or both of them start to think that it is going to an end. A strange thing to say. Unless it's a code and a way to let Aziraphale know that it is. Maybe a show for the onlooker. But it is all so raw and they both are so emotionally wrought-up and tired of misapprehension that the delivery and the perception flicker between all the meanings at once (I repeat myself, sorry).

Now, the final 5 minutes are special. A while back @ineffablefood sent me this ask of Neil's from whenever in time they were at the moment to the middle of my night. Naturally that was the end of my night right there.

The last 5 minutes is The Kiss™ and onwards. Also the last 3 minutes are sorta comforting when you put The Right Soundtrack™ on. So what if that +2 minutes preceding them is a transition between the boiling mess of anguish, which is the argument, to the cautious comfort of the discreet version of the final 3 minutes?

- So here comes The Kiss™. Which may or may not be a Houdini kiss (@queerfables theory).

Let's for the sake of whatever say that it is (although if it isn't, the interpretation still stands).

The quote on the matchbox is a verse from the Book of Job, describing Leviathan, who is a serpent. The serpent is pushing something fiery out of his mouth (into the mouth of the love of his life perhaps?).

By the way, why isn't anybody talking about Crowley being Leviathan? Or Ouroboros for that matter? Why is everyone so obsessed with his angelhood when he can be something interestingly enormous in his current state?

Also if we are talking of The Crow Road here, there's quite a sequence of mutual love confession in pornographic Morse code the night before one of the lovers moves across the Atlantic to take a job.

Discreetly passing something useful into the mouth of the love of your life under surveillance in combination with Azi's discreet answer later on fits right in, I think.

If Crowley passes Az a bullet or a bullet-shaped container it could flip his notion of understanding again. Az, overwhelmed with the kiss itself and the situation as a whole, could have at least two interpretations of it. The I forgive you has a bit of so sorry to hear it from the first season in it to me. He has several mutually exclusive takes on what's going on and opts for the safest one (I'm projecting here like mad. Maybe that's the reason I love Azi so much). The safest option for me (and I project it on Az) is to presume the worst first. You grieve the loss of your best friend - your best friend is probably not me - I'm so sorry to hear it. You kiss me and plant a bullet into my mouth - you are probably trying to tempt me and metaphorically kill me - I forgive you but also fuck you. Anyway, he is not to show the Metatron his real emotions here, is he?

Here, as a bonus, are some post-kiss slights of hand in front of the Metatron, which can be interpreted as taking something out of your mouth and putting it in your clothing (but also can be unclogging your nose and wiping the boogers on your waistcoat, who knows).

- I'd say, that leaving the shop and finally seeing the Metatron outside - is possibly the moment when Crowley at last settles on We are threatened interpretation. Maybe that is the reason for him to stay and watch.

- And then we have the news of the Second coming. Az, who saw Crowley the whole time out of the window, finally settles for one interpretation of the events too and discreetly lets Crowley know about it. The song in the Bentley, The tulip, The True Soundtrack™.

[writer-of-random-things]

To The World

Or, Good Omens and facing the end of the world while holding hands.

I've done a previous meta focusing on Book Omens, Adam Young, and climate activism, but this time I want to take a look at Aziraphale & Crowley, in both the book and the TV adaptation; the lengths they went to for humanity, for the world, for each other, and what it means to a climate activist like me.

Sometimes I think about Crowley and Aziraphale, and the sheer audacity they have to flip off Heaven and Hell to save the world, only to, you know, mess up the entire world-saving bit so a 11 year old is the one who fixes it all. It's hilarious, it really is. Then I think about it more and it starts resonating.

So, the idiot angel and demon have spent years raising the wrong Antichrist. Oops. Armageddon is days away and their plan is a total failure. Double oops. Crowley and Aziraphale could've said "screw it" right then and there. What could they do in a few days' time? Instead, they give it their (misguided) all. Aziraphale gets discorporated and travels around the world in the book finding the right person to possess just so he could be back on Earth. In the show, he defies Heaven directly. Crowley, in one of my favorite moments in the book, acknowledges that there is little to no hope left. And then he says "heigh ho" and drives to the end of the world anyway, because he will do anything for the planet he has grown to love. TV Crowley, on the other hand, is understandably anxious ("Show me your Great Plan...test them--but not to destruction") but eventually comes to the conclusion that book Crowley did.

When they do arrive at Tadfield, book Crowley and Aziraphale hold hands at the end of the world. They say they were glad to have known each other. In the show, they say to Adam: "You can change things...Whatever happens, for good or for evil, we're beside you."

And it's just. It hits me so hard. The world was going to end. The odds weren't in their favor. Adam did the heavy lifting, really. Yet they tried. It matters that they tried, that they got Adam to try. Even if they were scared and hopeless, even if there was not chance of making it out alive. Because it was their world, it was Adam's world, it was everybody else's. In times like these, when the climate crisis is more terrifying than ever before, it means so much that an angel and demon stood together and tried; for the world that they could've disregarded, for the world they chose to love instead.

It also gives me hope. In any medium of this story--book, show, radio, you name it, Aziraphale and Crowley's actions are borne out of love and will end with love. Whether spoken or otherwise, an angel and demon will always express the simplest and most important of terms:

To the world. For us, for humanity, for the universe itself.

If that isn't worth trying for, what is?

[littlelionman666]

In the beginning of good omens season 2, we see the world through Crowley's eyes; the creation of the universe puts us in a position where we have no choice but to align with Crowley as a character. Most of the Flashbacks we see Aziraphale's perspective. He NARRORATES! This highlights the significance of the confession scene where we finally get Crowley's perspective again, specifically when it comes to Aziraphale and the alignment really becomes more important; not only are we initially seeing Aziraphale's proposal as a rejection, we have just enough of a glimpse of Aziraphale's beauty to make it painful for us on a more personal level. We see Aziraphale's whimsy and how fiercely protective Crowley is of him when he's not around, which is another way I'd say we see a reflection of Crowley's love.

This brings me to my next point; the way they express love towards eachother opposes their statuses as an angel and a demon. Aziraphale is physical, Crowley expresses emotionally weather he thinks he is or not, which is a lead up to the confession scene. Crowley's emotions are never directly expressed to Aziraphale until he confesses. With every one of his actions; threatening "Jim", saving Aziraphale making him "so happy", helping Aziraphale when he's under threat, doing anything for him even if he thinks it's ridiculous (the magic act, loaning him the Bentley, ext), learning Aziraphale's mannerism and tones; points to his emotional attachment. Everyone around him can see this attachment and it manifests in the way he speaks of Aziraphale- in the way he tells Nina "he's far too pure to be anyone's 'bit on the side.'" These actions are an expression of love and a substitute for physical touch he struggles with giving. You would expect a demon to have no issue with intimacy, given that one of the seven deadly sins is lust, though that isn't Crowley. He isn't really a demon, atleast not in the same way the others are. In a way, it feels as if he's worried any physical advancement would be taken as a temptation.

Conversely, Aziraphale struggles to say what he means, which leaks into the confession scene. He never speaks of his love for Crowley but its in the way he touches him and the way he physically expresses. The face he pulls when Shax suggest Crowley would never be interested in him exemplifies what I mean by this; he doesn't need to state his feelings for Crowley for his feelings to be known. His love is expressed in how close he stays to him, constant physical contact that you would think would be unbecoming of an angel. Despite what he is meant to think or feel, Aziraphale desires to be physically loved.

Both of these affection styles bleed into the Confession scene; Crowley emotionally expresses how he has loved and does love Aziraphale through words and when that doesn't work be tries to speak Aziraphale's language. He kisses him. He attempts to physically dedicate himself to Aziraphale and give him what he wants; this is met with his worse fear being realised. Aziraphale treats him as a tempter. Aziraphale, during this scene, attempts to be emotional for Crowley, trying and partially failing to verbally express what he's feeling. His plea for Crowley to come with him comes across wrong, his "I need you." Is lost in his accidental implication Crowley is only worthy of love if he changes. When Crowley kisses him, he struggles between leaning into it and pulling away, his hands being the tell all of his wants and fears.

Conclusively, I think it's safe to say that they failed to speak eachother's language and share one brain cell.

P.s. anyone else think the 25 Lazari miracle is just a testament to the power of love between them and generally within the world of good omens?

[milli0n-dollar-fool]

I kept a little list of things I noticed about Go2 and updated it every now and then. Please feel free to add

- the one time we see crowley in the elevator he goes back to aziraphale. The one time we see aziraphale in the elevator he leaves crowley

- aziraphale puts on his glasses immediately after saying 'that's what friends are for' in 1941 just how crowley puts his glasses on in ep*s*d* s*x

- after the is bookselling your bit on the side scene crowley gets drunk, invites aziraphale to join him, then goes and tries to get rid of Gabriel, the thing keeping them apart

- the metatron didn't seem fazed at first that goob disappeared. How long has he been planning for aziraphale to take his spot?

- plus, the metatron is absolutely bluffing. 'I can't think of a better angel' to lead the second coming? Please, the only time they ever interacted, aziraphale was going on about how there didn't need to be an end of the world.

- when Maggie and Nina confront crowley about not talking to aziraphale, Maggie calls Nina angel and just saying I stopped breathing

- When Maggie said that she's going to to back to her empty flat, have a good cry and drink herself to sleep, crowley immediately says don't do that. Talking from experience?

- both aziraphale and crowley want to return to the stars. Aziraphale because it was the time they were angels, crowley because he always wanted to go to Alpha centaur ii. When Beelzebub was implying goob was on earth, crowley said there's a whole universe for an angel to hide in and never be seen again. He never stopped wanting to hide in the stars with aziraphale. Back to the way they were, but as they are.

- you know how the Bentley is an extension of crowleys feelings? How it played a nightingale sang in Berkeley square after the divorce? How it refused to go above the speed limit because aziraphale didn't want it to? How it drove slowly past aziraphales bookshop one last time because it/crowley subconsciously missed aziraphale?

- everyone seems to be taking sides - they're either aziraphale defenders or crowley defenders or both. Isn't that the whole theme of good omens?

- the tubey thing that Gabriel goes through when he remembers his past is reminiscent of the tube in coraline

- the juke always playing everyday to 'comfort the afflicted' and crowleys car always playing queen - coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy

- in s1 (Bar scene) crowley says that the food hadn't been good recently before he fell, meaning he did eat before he became a demon but not after. Cut to him 100% not tempting aziraphale in s2 to have an ox rib. The idea of food = being human, him liking food before he fell, him falling before he fell - I feel like God never meant him to be an angel. Maybe She knew him and aziraphale could never be together in heaven and he fell because of Her plans for him and aziraphale.

- Muriel asking to keep a book when they thought they were leaving the bookshop forever because they're like people only portable compared to crowley keeping the nice and accurate prophecies as a 'souvenir' I can't

- it's the way goob kind of represents crowley, or at least their relationship. After both goob and crowley left heaven, they met aziraphale with fondness (hugging him while naked lmao, the look in crowleys eyes in Eden). Aziraphale took them under his wing (with crowley quite literally) and was willing to forget who they were before and treat them as they are. Makes sense then, when crowley confesses to aziraphale, aziraphale doesn't say the right things. The same thing happened when goob said I love you.

- thinking more about the ending. Imagine being crowley - a confession, a kiss, his devotion to aziraphale were still not enough. Imagine thinking that so long as you were a demon, something you couldn't even control, you would never be enough for your angel to stay.

In conclusion, Neil gaiman is a genius

[nickelnackleberries]

Theological implications of Good Omens season 2 (because I'm a nerd)

Intro/TLDR - My analysis is that Season 1 explores the morality of religious institutions, wheras season 2 extends that to God and religion itself. Through the metaphorical devices of heaven and hell, good omens condemns the institution of the Church. This is futherd in season 2, where God's complicity in there corruption and Her morality itself is questioned. This, in turn, questions the fundamentals of Christianity.

Things to bare in mind/fun tidbit:

Pratchett and Gaiman know what they were doing when it comes to theology in the book. Crowley is named after Robert Crowley, one of the 'Commonwealth Men' , a radical 16th century movement that argued for social equality under protestantism

Problem of Evil - the question and challange to religion of how God allows evil and suffering, when that contradicts God's supposed nature as all loving and all powerful

Season 1 - the Church™

Season 1 explores the Church as an institution, through Heaven and Hell. They are shown to be corrupt, arbitrary and flawed, serving as the main antagonist of the season.

God, however, is seperated from them. It is clear that, although hell is the 'fallen', they both exist as part of, and to serve God's Ineffiable Divine Plan. But, no one is fully certain as to what this plan actually is. This uncertainty actually contributes to saving the day. Weither God wants the end of the world and the great war, or actually wants Aziraphale and Crowley to succeed, is left uncertain.This is reinforced by God being a literally omniscient, narrator. God opens and closes the story, and may or may not interfere in events (baby swap).

This seperation and uncertainty leads to a stance that condemns the institution of the Church, but not necessarily God/ Christianity itself

Season 2 - God?

Season 2 continues and expands on the exploration of religious institutions from season 1, showing Heaven and Hell as antagonist, incompetent, curropt and abuseive. Crowley's reason for falling, asking too many questions about God's creation, and the luring back of Aziraphale at a key moment expand apon thier abusive practices.

It also takes this question of the Churches morality to it's logical conclusion, extending it to cover Christianity and God. If heaven is curropt, cruel and abusive, is God? Classic problem of evil stuff, we love.

This can be seen as the seperation between God and her institutions (heaven and hell) vanishes. God no longer narrates the episodes, and the flashback to the book of Job explicitly explores the problem of evil and God's morality in allowing such suffering, with God themselves answering Job with a resounding 'shut up'. The Metatron, portrayed in the show as the Voice of God seperate from and above heaven, intervenes futher this season, even replacing Gabriel to ensure armagedon can happen. And the only 'happy ending' for Gabriel and Beezelbub, representing Crowley, Aziraphale and the audiences desires, is fleeing heaven, hell, and earth to the far flung reaches of the universe, out of God's immediate concern.

Overall, less grey area is allowed to cover God and God motives, bringing the morality of God directly into question. However, there is still no definite conclusion on that morality - God's transcendence (heightened by the loss of narration) gets in the way of that as with the problem of evil for decades. How far the Metatron actually represents God and God's wishes is still left for question. Most importantly, the question of if heaven did any wrong in thier actions towards persueing armagedon, 'remains to be seen' (season 3 perhaps?)

[elven-child]

It took me long to put my finger on it, but eventually I’ve come to the conclusion that all differences between book Crowley and show Crowley boil down to this:

“Because, underneath it all, Crowley was an optimist. If there was one rock-hard certainty that had sustained him through the bad times - he thought briefly of the fourteenth century - then it was utter surety that he would come out on top; that the universe would look after him.”

Because that’s not true about show Crowley at all. He thinks if you want something done, you have to take care of it yourself. There are so many instances where people seem to attribute his actions to caring about the world less than book Crowley. (I don’t mean to like, vague anyone, I just decided not to hijack posts I don’t agree with because I didn’t want to sound like “you’re wrong and here’s why”). I just think what he lacked in those situations is book Crowley’s belief that things will somehow work in his favour.

That’s why book Crowley doesn’t think of running away. That’s why book Crowley doesn’t think Aziraphale is dead, he just thinks he’s “out of the equation”. That’s why even after witnessing the bookshop burning down, he drives to Tadfield. He’s an optimist. He hopes for the best.

Book Crowley likes to think things will be okay even if he has no idea how that could happen. Show Crowley doesn’t believe that. If he has no plan, if he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t assume things will solve themselves.

Thay both drunkenly ramble about gorillas and dolphins, they both swear in the car after receiving the antichrist, they both think humans are brilliant, they both love human inventions, they both enjoy being a nuisance to humans, they both care. One just has less hope than the other.

[azfellandco]

It’s like this.

Crowley’s been in love since Eden. Utterly smitten. He took one long look at Aziraphale as he justified giving Adam and Eve his sword and he was done for, and he’s been done for ever since.

Aziraphale has known, on some level, since Rome. I haven’t written the fic I want to write about this yet but it comes down to this: before Rome it was always Crowley who sought out Aziraphale, and it usually happens that way after, but Aziraphale just happened to bump into him when he was looking very glum and had just changed his hairstyle and started covering his eyes? Just accidentally? Nope, don’t buy it, more happened there.

So Crowley’s loved Aziraphale since Eden, and Aziraphale’s known it since Rome, and I think he’s always been aware, distantly, that he could love Crowley back if he let himself.

But he doesn’t. He lets Crowley do little favors for him and he gets himself into trouble so Crowley will rescue him and he’ll have an excuse— to look at him so fondly, to spend time with him. And he’s so painfully aware that Crowley keeps coming back because he love him.

Because the other side of Crowley knowing, because he fell, because God cast him out and stopped loving him? The other side of Crowley knowing that even God’s love is conditional is that Aziraphale knows that, too. And what in the world, in the universe, has he done to earn the sort of devotion Crowley has towards him?

Aziraphale is a mediocre angel. He’s never been able to muster up the sort of easy, solid Belief angels like Gabriel and Michael and Uriel and Sandalphon have, that unquestioning acceptance. He wonders in Eden if he did the right thing, laughs in relief with Crowley at the prospect he didn’t before the ramifications catch up with him. He’s selfish and stubborn and he enjoys the world far more than other angels seem to think is Good for him. And Crowley, fallen Crowley, who Aziraphale has to know cannot possibly have the same sort of relationship with the idea of “unconditional love” as Heaven does, loves him. The idea terrifies him (not because it’s a reminder that he’ll never be as Good as he’s supposed to, I think everything and everyone Aziraphale encounters reminds him of that and he’s used to it) because there’s nothing he could ever give Crowley back that could even begin to repay him for it.

And Aziraphale thinks if he doesn’t he’s going to lose him, and he clings, oh man, we make Crowley pretty clingy in fanon but it’s Aziraphale who brings up how Hell will punish him, Aziraphale who thinks Hell will destroy Crowley if they find out about their association, Aziraphale who brings up suicide when Crowley asks him for holy water. I’ve been threatening a meta on how Aziraphale jumping to the conclusion that Crowley wants to kill himself is purely guilt on his part and a faulty assumption to boot for weeks and this is that meta, I guess. Crowley doesn’t ask for holy water because he’s suicidal. Crowley asks for holy water because he’s cautious, and he’s clever, and he plans ahead, and Aziraphale just assuming he wants to kill himself smacks to me of the fear of abandonment. “It would destroy you/hell would destroy you” he says, but what he means is don’t leave me here, don’t make me do this alone. It’s why he looks so hurt about Alpha Centauri, because he finally knows that Crowley never would and it’s too late now. Because Crowley loves Aziraphale and Aziraphale loves Crowley but he’s never claimed it, never let himself, and he knows he has no right to Crowley’s affection and regard if he won’t even admit to him that it’s important and that he feels the same.

And so we come to 1941, where Crowley saves Aziraphale’s books, anticipates that he’d be upset about them and saves them at the same time he saves both their lives, and I think something just. Clicks. Aziraphale expression there has never struck me as anything as simple as realizing he’s in love. He looks devastated, somehow, not upset devastated but dazed, overwhelmed, struck dumb, and the reason is that it’s finally hit him that Crowley loves him the same way he loves Crowley. Without expectation or consequence or desire for reward. Crowley saved Aziraphale’s books as a selfless act because he knows him and he likes making him happy, and I think in that moment Aziraphale realizes that’s all it really has ever been, that Crowley loves him and likes making him happy. That Crowley doesn’t think Aziraphale owes him anything. And I think that stuns him, because he’s been so very, very wrong about the most important person in his world, and I just. I’m hugely sappy about this. To draw on the “the show is fanfiction” analogy, it’s the show’s emotional equivalent of all those fics where Aziraphale realizes that he was wrong about “especially not to you” in the book. Where Aziraphale realizes Crowley is capable of the kind of love that you can feel like that, and that he’s always felt it. 

I dunno, I just. I cannot, I refuse to believe that Aziraphale didn’t know Crowley loved him. “You go too fast for me” are not the words of somebody who’s only realized in the last 26 years they’re in love. That only makes sense as a statement if it’s not about anything recent and is instead about Eden, and Mesopotamia, and Golgotha and Rome and Wessex and every time since then. Aziraphale and Crowley loved each other for a very, very long time, and I think it was partially a misjudgment of what that love meant to Crowley and partially his own insecurities about Heaven and his role as an angel that kept Aziraphale from acknowledging it to himself sooner. 

[casebasket]

Since I absolutely cannot stop thinking about Good Omens, the blessed show, I’m just going to list my favourite things that endlessly swirl inside my mind:

Crowley spends 6000 years tracking Aziraphale so he can swoop in and save his angelic dumbass every time he gets himself into trouble for some crepes and books or when he’s mildly - (mildly!) - inconvenienced or distressed

Aziraphale almost dies for crepes and wow what a mood, what a relatable god damn dumbass, and all Crowley can do is smile 

clearly, Crowley’s considered Aziraphale his friend, his best friend, over the span of six millennia, even when time and time again Aziraphale denies it because he’s fallen so hard in self denial, which speaks to the immense patience Crowley must have, specifically for his angel. Crowley knows Aziraphale likes him, possibly even loves him, even when Aziraphale won’t admit it to himself. Even so, he’s still particularly pleased whenever Aziraphale is happy being with him, to see proof of their companionship 

Crowley keeps urging Aziraphale to run off together and he just says it outright, all the time, they’re on their own side, it’s the two of them, they’re basically a couple, we’RE BEST FRIENDS, and he never runs off by himself 

every time Crowley says any of those things, Aziraphale is shocked by his affection and starts to smile before Angelic Purpose and Ineffable Plans or whatever kicks in and he’s all I DON’T EVEN LIKE YOU but he does and he has for 6000 years, dumbass

the gigantic heart eyes Aziraphale throws at Crowley, constantly, whether it’s saving his dumbass, his dumbass books, his dumbass jacket, his dumbass shakespeare, etc., that he thinks are subtle but he’s clearly gazing longingly. he looks so pleased!! 

Crowley saves Aziraphale’s books and while he’s holding them and looking at Crowley longingly a romantic string quartet plays in the background???

the absolute happiness on Aziraphale’s face when he sensed Crowley behind him while he was imprisoned for crepes

“you go too fast for me, Crowley” woah, dumbass hits home, hurts everyone’s souls, turns table on sunglasses dumbass,

the sadness, almost grief, when he says those words - Crowley has probably always known he loved Aziraphale (and hates that fact but begrudgingly accepts) but Aziraphale has never been ready to accept it, and even when he begins to their diametrically opposed circumstance prohibits him from accepting it, regardless of how many times Crowley’s shown his affection, how steadfast he is in their friendship. In some ways, Crowley will always be miles ahead of Aziraphale, who tends to stay put and delight in his old books, old clothes, hide in old virtues. 

and wow Crowley’s super soft when Aziraphale gives him the holy water, and he doesn’t know how to react at all when Aziraphale sadly, softly mutters  those words

I can’t BELIEVE his threat to Crowley is that he’ll never talk to him again while holding a god damn flaming smiting sword, and Crowley regards that as more threatening than the god damn flaming smiting sword, and stops time itself just so Aziraphale will still pay attention to him, like how flippin whipped can you get 

alternatively, Aziraphale saw the slight flinch when he raised his sword at Crowley and immediately put it back down and threatened him with something equally if not more effective

Crowley literally crying to Aziraphale because he lost him, and all Aziraphale says is a slightly uncomfortable “I’m sorry to hear that”, as if he doesn’t quite believe he’s the source of Crowley’s grief because how could he be? but also he 100% knows its about him, Crowley grieves for him, and in the moment he couldn’t take it, resorts to platitudes, clamming up and not thinking about how much Crowley loves him, how much he loves him back. demon, angel, dumbass denial.

Crowley walks out of the flaming bookshop, thinking his best friend has died, and “Somebody to Love” plays in the background LMAO

Aziraphale experiencing his own frantic sense of loss when he witnesses the angels dragging Crowley away

Aziraphale happily dancing the gavotte. what a dork. gay

Crowley basically pole dancing with a gigantic pin. also gay

Aziraphale so angry and scared about Crowley and holy water, about Crowley possibly dying forever, that they don’t meet for another century, and they only see each other again because Aziraphale is getting killed by nazis and Crowley can’t let that happen. And then Crowley saves him and his dumb books and after that Aziraphale gives him holy water next time so Crowley wouldn’t get hurt when he tries getting it himself 

their respective human ‘agent’ is the same idiot. dumbasses

they had absolutely no hand in raising Adam, who turned out fine. the one they did raise, on the other hand, is kind of an asshole. lol they’re so dumb

Aziraphale’s puppy face when he tries to implore Crowley to do something. it’s disgusting how effective it is. Crowley is weak.

Crowley claims to hate Aziraphale’s human magic shows but he’s also exasperatedly fond when he watches it. WEAK

Aziraphale is a DORK and Crowley LOVES IT. WEAK!!

Aziraphale did a stupid thing giving away the fire sword and shaded him from rain and Crowley’s dumbass has loved him since

“you’re so clever! how can anyone as clever as you be so stupid?” Crowley calling Aziraphale out on his denying dumbass

‘angel’ is a pet name

people rightfully mistaken them as dumb husbands

Crowley basically breaks up with him and Aziraphale stands there on the side walk, devastated 

they don’t say thank you, they just take each other out to meals

laughing together

Crowley worries over what Azirapahle thinks of his name. He cares about that detail. “You don’t like it?”

Crowley says “you can stay at my place if you like” with such hope in his voice, what a soft dumbass

Crowley smiles when Aziraphale slips up and says stuff like “let me tempt you” or “i’ll be damned”. Aziraphale smiles whenever Crowley is nice.

Aziraphale has his bookstore full of the things he loves for him to indulge in, Crowley has his bentley full of Queens music for him to escape. One stands still, the other rides fast. One is sentiment for human things heaven cares not for, the other is a sort of freedom from hell. Both feels safe, are shared with only the other, and when set on fire, are mourned. 

they go on lunch dates like all the time and gaze at each other, softly.

“i know what YOU smell like!” he knows what he smells like

Crowley calls him a bastard and Aziraphale just gives him a shyly pleased look. He’s so pleased, the soft dumbass

so i guess like, the entire show

in conclusion i believe you can interpret their love in any myriad of ways, romantic, platonic, eternally entwined, transcendent of any of our human labels, all encompassing, every love imaginable, all at once. They love each other, and they’re probably in love with each other, whatever that means to them, in the sense that it will always be the two of them against whatever else. In the whole universe, they’ve got each other. They’re stupidly fond of each other, to a point beyond their understanding of the world. 

also they’re a pair of dumbasses

update when I think of more

edit update:

whenever the burned bookshop is brought up Crowley is immediately on high alert softness, ready to console and hug and picking up on aziraphale’s every reaction trying to make him feel better, SOFT

[obaewankenope]

"I read a fic a while ago that had Az and Crowley painting the bookshop and when Az rolled up his sleeves, Crowley was "tempted" and now I cannot stop thinking about the concept. Az tempting Crowley? Entirely on accident? On purpose? His temptations being more gentle than a demon's and has a lovedrunk affect? Him using it to get Crowley to do absolutely anything (after getting full consent ofc)? My new kink" -retyped by fucker so you can respond properly to an incredible prompt

Okay, thank you fucker for resending me this. To the original nonnie, my sincerest apologies for tumblr fuckery. Now onto the prompt! [AO3]

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Thebookshop needs painting. Well, it doesn’t. The paintjob it’d had in the earlytwentieth century is still good—in Crowley’s opinion—but it seems thatAziraphale feels it needs a little updating[1]. Crowley’s suggestions ofcolours are all clearly ignored by the angel who putters about the bookshop,arranging books here and there so they are out of the way of the paint. Aroller and some rather nice looking brushes are on a small side-table with twotubs of paint in shades Aziraphale refuses to allow Crowley to see just yet.

Crowleyis seriously considering a miracle to find out the colours because come on all ready angel! You’re takingforever when Aziraphale does something rather unexpected.

Heremoves his coat.

“Angel?”

“Hmm.”

“Whatare you doing?” Crowley is rather proud of the way his voice doesn’t catch orwaver and is exceptionally thankful he’s still wearing his sunglasses—thanksomeone for the sunshine today—because he is rather shamelessly staring atAziraphale calmly placing his coat on the back of a chair.

“WellI can’t exactly decorate with my coat on now, can I?” Aziraphale gives Crowleythe look one usually receives when the person they’re talking to thinks they’veasked a rather stupid question; one with a clearly obvious answer that doesn’tneed stating aloud. “I’d hate to get paint on it.”

“You’rean angel, you can literally miracle it away,” Crowley points out, shifting onthe sofa he’s claimed as his ever since the bookshop opened.

Aziraphalefrowns at him. “But I’d know the stain was there,” he says and that’s a pout onhis face, the same pout Crowley has seen on Aziraphale’s face when the angelwants something but won’t actually ask Crowley for whatever it is. It’sthe Please Indulge Me pout and Crowley hates loves it fiercely.

Crowleylets his head flop back so he can’t see Aziraphale anymore, the gesturehopefully conveying to Aziraphale that Crowley is done with his behaviourrather than overwhelmed by looking at his angel without his coat. It’s- it’s-it’s obscene really. Aziraphalewithout a coat on. The soft beige tone of his overcoat is something Crowley hasactually found rather pleasant to see and he’s long grown used to Aziraphalealways wearing it.

Withoutit, the angel seems—if Crowley were ever to admit it aloud—rather vulnerable.Meek. Mild. Things that Aziraphale must assuredly is not.

Hestares up at the ceiling, resolutely ignoring the sounds of Aziraphale makinghis way about the bookshop, the noise of the roller in the paint-tray, thescrape of paint-bristles on the wall. They blend together in a gentle sort ofmelody, a calming tune that has Crowley relaxing into the sofa more and moreuntil his body does that thing where it twitches in an awkward way and bringsyou right back to alertness.

Crowleylifts his head, easing the ache in the back of his neck from having his headback for so long, and looks in the direction of the working melody he’s beenlulled by. He’s greeted by the sight of Aziraphale standing on a small set ofladders, the type with only two steps, body stretched as he reaches the edgesof the wall and spreads paint along the top—cutting in, humans call it.Aziraphale is, for an angel, not quite as fit as he probably ought to beaccording to Gabriel the fucking archangel who thinks the perfect form for anangel is himself. Crowley finds Gabriel to be actually quite repulsive. He’s ademon, he can sense sin and Gabriel—oh so mighty and bright and Holy Gabriel—isbrimming with sins both big andsmall. It makes the archangel repugnant for Crowley who is of the opinion thanan angel should be—well—Holy and goodand kind and strong. All the things that Aziraphale just so happens to be[2].

Butback to the view Crowley has of Aziraphale right now. It should be fine—it’s a view Crowley can somewhat appreciate with thesafe distance of being on the sofa away from the object of his gaze, securethat at least he won’t make an utter fool of himself with his gawping—but unfortunatelyfor Crowley, it seems that the universe has decided to both tempt and destroyhim in one swift act. Namely, Aziraphale with his shirtsleeves rolled up to theelbow, wrists and forearms naked for all the world to see, and two top buttonsof his shirt at the neck undone to allow him to breathe better without hisbowtie in the way. It is, Crowley can admit, a mesmerising sight, but it isalso a sight that has Crowley hissing out at the flare of Desire that flashesin his body, making him want to reach out with his long fingers and touch thatlovely revealed skin.

Suchbehaviour is most unbecoming of a demon but very typical for Crowley and,thus, the demon known as Crowley is stuck staring helplessly at a decadent-lookingprincipality who has no idea the affect and effect he has onsaid demon.

Orthat’s what Crowley thinks at least.

Outside of the perspective of Crowley, thedemon from hell who is a serpent and creator of original sin, it is much easierto witness the fact that Aziraphale, principality and guardian of the easterngate of Eden, is very much aware of the effect he’s having on the demonCrowley. It is, to put it bluntly, very entertaining for an all-seeing,all-knowing being to witness. A good way of passing the time that unfortunatelyhad to be made in order for mortality to be a thing.

Theonly thing the omnipotent and omnipresent being is missing is some popcorn butcreating popcorn out of nothing can be a bit hit-or-miss[3].

Dueto the demise of Crowley’s only braincell, it is easy for the demon to miss theway Aziraphale subtly glances at the reflection of said demon in the window tothe angel’s right; a window that provides a fantastic view of Crowley on thesofa at an angle it otherwise shouldn’t be able to provide. But that’s whatmiracles are for, aren’t they?

Aziraphale,meanwhile, is seriously contemplating calling for Crowley’s assistance justmoments before he has to stretch a little further to reach a little higher withthe paintbrush. The principality had considered simply miracling the bookshop paintedbut had, ultimately, decided otherwise after one evening at the Ritz when he’dnoticed Crowley’s rather distracted focus on his wrist when Aziraphale had spilthis wine and fussed over the ruined cuff of his sleeve. Crowley’s eyes,actually on display for once due to Aziraphale’s insistence, had been quitedilated—almost like a cat’s actually—and the golden ember colour bled beyondthe usual limits Crowley allowed it.

Aziraphale,that evening, had come to a series of conclusions regarding Crowley that haveled to this moment in the bookshop wherein his dear friend is currently a uselessheap of feelings on the sofa while Aziraphale steadily redecorates his bookshop.It is, considering everything, a case of “two birds, one stone” consideringAziraphale has been fretting over how to broach this Issue with his long-timefriend and… something else, but has dithered rather typically over the natureof how and when.

Removingseveral layers, rolling up his sleeves, and undoing buttons at his throat hasbeen remarkable effective in leaving Crowley in such a state that Aziraphale iswondering if it was a good idea to possibly rile the demon up so with so littlewarning on his part. But then, of course, the principality turns his head andcatches Crowley’s gaze—even through sunglasses, Aziraphale always knows when heand Crowley are looking each other in the eye—and makes the split-seconddecision that yes, yes it is a good idea and no, no he shan’t stop any timesoon.

Fromthe tertiary perspective here, we can witness the exact moment Aziraphale makesthat decision and the rather lustful tint to those angelic blue eyes that hasCrowley’s body burning even more than it was before although Crowley himselfconsciously misses the lustful tint. The benefit of having a subconscioussmarter than you, apparently, is that it reads cues and responds accordinglylong before your singular braincell is capable of even noticing said cues.

Itis a good thing Crowley is the curious sort by nature lest he be even moredysfunctional than he already is. And it is also a good thing that Aziraphaleis just enough of a bastard to recognise this fact and utilise it at the mostopportune of moments.

“Crowley,you know you could help,” Aziraphalesays, loudly and pointedly, with an arched brow and Crowley—dear, awkwardCrowley—makes a rather amusing sound that has Aziraphale wishing to smile. Hedoesn’t, but he does quite wish to, if only because Crowley has such a look on his face and it’s ever soamusing. Endearing, even.

“I-uh- angel,” Crowley says, as though that is a coherent response although,considering it’s from Crowley, that is acoherent response. Either way, it forces Aziraphale to roll his eyes at Crowleywho seems to find the act something else to make sounds over. “Right.”

“ReallyCrowley, what has gotten into you?”Aziraphale asks innocently. He’s not at all innocent or apologetic but it isentertaining nonetheless to pretend he’s oblivious to the effect he has onCrowley. “You seem all out of sorts dear.”

“Ngk.”

Aziraphaleraises an eyebrow. How fantastically eloquent of Crowley. Truly.

“Asalways, dear, I’m in awe of your commend of the verbal word,” Aziraphale drawlsand he sees the moment Crowley’s brain kicks him, recognising he’s being insulted,and the angel bites the inside of his mouth to avoid smiling. Trust Crowley tocome back from wherever his mind has wandered off because of an insult.

“Oi!I’m- I’m plenty good with words, angel!” Crowley sits forward on the sofa, shoulderblades up, chest arched, head positioned in the way Aziraphale has witnessedsnakes do in the past. Predatory posture. It’s ever so enticing for Crowley to dothat—makes Aziraphale’s own instincts flare a little.

Crowleyhas his tendency for all things serpent but Aziraphale has a certain fondnessfor all things avian. It makes their relationship all the more surprising and endlesslyfascinating. Any omnipresent and omnipotent being would find themselvesnaturally caught up in examining and analysing such a connection even if saidconnection weren’t between an angel and a demon who helped thwart the end ofthe world.

“OldShakespeare wasn’t anywhere near as gifted as them historians like to think!”Crowley scoffs. “Gave him half his bloody sonnets myself.”

“Oh.”Aziraphale gives him a look, purposefully pausing in his painting to lower thepaintbrush and he’s very aware of how Crowley’s eyes follow his arms, the waythe demon’s chest heaves a little harder than it typically does and the angel smiles. “I don’t believe you evermentioned that.”

“Well-uh-” Crowley fumbles. “I- didn’t think you’d be interested,” the demon finisheslamely.

“Iam.”

Aziraphaleplaces the paintbrush on the tray, a minor miracle ensuring it won’t get allpainty on the handle or dry out and descends the little two-step ladder. Theangel crosses the space of the bookshop, intimately aware of how Crowley’smouth opens a little, tongue barely darting out past those teeth of his andAziraphale remembers reading about how snakes smell. They use their tongue.

Witha thud of his heart, Aziraphale sits down primly beside Crowley who shiftsautomatically, instinctively, to accommodate the angel beside him. A snap offingers and they both have a cup of tea each—Aziraphale is uncertain that winewould be a good idea at the moment; though he is tempted.

Crowleygulps the tea while Aziraphale politely sips at it, the angel watching the waythe demon goes at the cup like one would go at water when dying of thirst. Hewaits just long enough for Crowley to gain some measure of control over himselfbefore purposefully reaching out and laying a hand on Crowley’s arm, a little bitvindictively pleased at the way Crowley shudders beneath his hand.

“Shareone of those sonnets that are yours?” He asks though it’s more of a commandbecause Crowley—for all that the demon insists he is a demon and evil and thusobeys no one—has always caved to Aziraphale’s demands; usually with somewhining and complaining but seldom has Crowley refused him. Now is another timewhere Crowley caves to Aziraphale and it probably has more to do with the wayAziraphale’s thumb is stroking lightly on the smooth material of Crowley’ssleeve, his golden-pale skin offset beautifully against the dark black ofCrowley’s clothes.

“’kay.”

Thisis the point, readers, where things Change with a capital C for both angel anddemon. Perhaps it’s the metaphorical dropping of a penny, or some other metaphorthat conveys the sense of realisation, but both Aziraphale and Crowleyrecognise the Shift in their relationship at this very point in time. It is apoint that they will both think back on in years to come and smile rathergoofily. At this precise point however, we have Crowley beginning to blush,fingers fidgeting with the fine bone china cup in his hand, while Aziraphalestares at Crowley’s face and his thumb continues to stroke the soft fabric ofCrowley’s sleeve. It’s an intimate, emotive scene and ever so suited toadmissions through poetry if I do say so myself.

“Devouringtime, blunt tho the lion’s paws,

Andmake the earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluckthe keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s Jaws,

Andburn the long-lived phoenix in her blood.

Makeglad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,

Anddo whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed time.

Tothe wide world and all her fading sweets.

ButI forbid thee one most heinous crime;

O,carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

Nordraw no lines there with thine antique pen.

Himin thy course untainted do allow

Forbeauty’s pattern to succeeding men.

Yet do they worst, old time;despite thy wrong

My love shall in my verse ever liveyoung.”

.

.

[1]Considering how out of date Aziraphale himself happens to be, it’s no stretchof the imagination to assume he means a slight change in the shade on the wallsto update it by a ten year margin or something else equally out-dated in theeyes of the modern world today.

[2]Gabriel’s hypocrisy when it comes to the Ideal Angel Form is no where moreapparent than when you look at Sandalphon who is short, snivelly and lessappealing to look at than a sack of rubble dumped in the Tiber. Crowley hasstated this to Aziraphale before, multiple times and rather directly, over somewine and thus has witnessed the amazing sight of Aziraphale spitting out hiswine and laughing himself silly. Crowley isn’t quite sure what is quite soamusing about his derision of Sandalphon but it amuses Aziraphale and he’s okaywith not quite understanding when Aziraphale is happy.

[3] Last time there was the matter of an accidentalearthquake and we wouldn’t want that to happen again now, would we?

[hazelandglasz]

Sweet, Sweet Temptation

Word count: 12.727

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairing(s): Arizaphale/Crowley (Ineffable Husbands) ; Hastur/Ligur ; Beelzebub/Gabriel (Ineffable Bureaucracy); Background Minor Relationships

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Beelzebub, Hastur

Tags: Alternate Universe-Humans, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food Porn, Bibliophile Aziraphale, Gourmet Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Awkward Flirting, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley started working at Heavs and Hens, F.A., but they thought he asked too many questions, and frankly, he didn’t like his colleagues’ attitude. (Well. Except for one, but he never got the chance to get close to the blond cutie.) So he left. Now he’s working in a pastry shop and life is infinitely better. (Well. Most of the time, since neither his boss nor his colleagues are too often in the shop and he’s left to his own device, which is really for the best.) Baking is fun, tempting customers is even better, and if there is a certain blond who keeps on coming back to the shop, well, Anthony is not one to deny himself that pleasure.

A massive, massive thank you to the artists who managed to create such beautiful art for this fic, to the mods who set all this process up, and to my betas for blessing this mess!

Artist: IG Hufflepuffbetty (Art Post) / @hufflepuff-betty

Artist: @scribblemakes

😇😈😇😈😇😈

They say they fired him, but if you were to ask him, Anthony J. Crowley would tell you that he quit before they could.

Or, more accurately, he would tell you to bugger off and leave him alone, but if he felt like giving you an answer, that is the one he would give you.

Joining the financial advising firm was never his idea of a good time, really, but he did because he could and that it made his mother happy. But as weeks went by, Crowley discovered some things.

About himself, and about the firm’s ways, and both were inextricably in opposite directions.

He discovered that the more answers he found, the more questions he got.

That questions were not exactly welcomed, at Heavs and Hens.

That asking questions was the equivalent of lighting yourself on fire in the middle of a family dinner--a sure way to get everybody’s attention, but at what cost?

That fairness and obeying to the idea of the law was not a top priority for the partners.

And that fairness was one of his major core value (along with curiosity, which, if you have paid attention, should tell you how bad an idea it was for Crowley to work there).

So he quit, not with a bang, but with a swagger.

(And a comfortable “keep your mouth shut” pocket money.)

Oh, Crowley doesn’t hold any lasting feeling toward his former colleagues--especially not for Gabriel, that pompous ass who kept on stealing all of Crowley’s ideas and notes for his own credit--but there is a, oh, how can he put it into words, a chance of something greater that was missed with one particular junior adviser.

The man must be approximately Crowley’s age--old enough to be an adult, young enough to still have hope and energy--, with curly hair so blond Crowley isn’t quite sure it is natural, blue eyes that remind Crowley of a Spring sky, and the perpetual shadow of a smile on his rosy lips.

Yes, Crowley could wax poetics about this angel of a man who passed his desk once, eyes on a pocket watch while Gabriel was berating him for being too soft with the clients.

Crowley also knows one thing about this former colleague of his, that could-have-been-something-more-but-wasn’t, one thing that nobody else knows--if they knew, Crowley has no doubt about whether the man would still be working at the company or not.

(The answer is a resounding “not”)

The man, Mr. Eastgate is all Crowley knows to call him, is not as robotic as the other employees and, behind his soft smile and perfect attire, hides just enough of a dark side to be interesting.

How does Crowley know this to be facts?

Crowley saw a memo that miraculously disappeared from the system the following day.

A memo stating that while Mr. and Mrs. Godson would have been very interesting clients for the firm to acquire--read, very profitable clients who would have ended up with the clothes on their backs, if at all--, Mr A. Eastgate thought it best to tell them to invest their savings in a more secure venture, such as Apple shares or any other investment they could actually profit from in the future.

Which, if you weren’t aware, goes against the grain for a financial advising firm.

Tells you a lot about the kind of ethic and the character of Mr. Eastgate, that’s for certain, but where Crowley wouldn’t have been able to resist the need to rub it in everybody’s face, Mr. Eastgate apparently possesses much more diplomatic talents and decided to just …

Swipe it under the proverbial carpet, and play dumb whenever asked about it.

Crowley has to admit it: he respects that.

In addition to his already unbearable crush on the guy for simply looking cute, that’s the only reason he has a pang of regret as he leaves the firm’s building with his potted plant and his severance check.

So long, Mr. Eastgate.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale may not be the best financial advisor in the company, let alone in the world, if only because he doesn’t like putting people in harm’s way, and financial enterprises often lead to harmful conclusions.

But he’s good with numbers, and people listen to him, so, financial advisor it is.

When A.J. Crowley is summoned in the boss’s office and leaves with a smile on his (handsome, unusually handsome) face and a swagger to his walk, sunglasses firmly in place even indoors, Aziraphale feels something akin to regret to see him go--the man was probably the only of his colleagues Aziraphale could stand.

Sad to see him go, but delighted to watch him go, if you can catch his drift.

Good Heavens, what a sight.

Anywho, Aziraphale needs to get back to work, now, doesn’t he?

After all, collecting books is one pricey hobby.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Plant in hand , Crowley lets himself stroll the streets down to the parking garage where he left his beloved car.

As content as he may be to be done with all of those self-righteous lunatics, a question keeps on nagging him:

What is he to do with his life now? Pester his neighbors until they want him blown to smithereens?

Not that he would particularly mind, Crowley delights in being a bother to his admittedly boring neighbors.

But there is a limit to the amount of little offenses one can come up with on a daily basis, isn’t it? And staying idle is really not in his temperament; again, lounging in the sun and doing nothing is a fun past-time, but there always comes a time when his mind cannot stand the passivity.

No, there is no way around it: Crowley needs to find himself a new job, one that will not make him feel like needles are piercing his skin every time his values system is breached.

A quiet, nice job, with almost non-existent colleag--

Oh, look at that shop window.

All thoughts about his future, near and far, come to a standstill as Crowley pauses in front of a bakery.

“Tempting Bites”, an interesting name for sure, but it is the content of the window that really gets his interest.

The cakes are all, indeed, bite-sized, but elegantly decorated--if a little on the morbid side, if Crowley is actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Yep, that is a tombstone on that grey-glazed éclair.

The pastry cannot be bigger than Crowley’s index finger (sure, he has long, pianist hands, as his mother called it, but still, it is a size-reference) but the fondant is still delicately decorated to mimic granite, and the tombstone is engraved and, dare he say it, sculpted to perfection.

The woman behind the counter glares at him, raising one eyebrow when he replies with a smile.

Daring him to enter her queendom, no doubt, and Crowley has never been good at resisting a dare.

“Good morning,” she says in a deadpan tone, “may I tempt you with one of our delights?”

Crowley’s smile only widens. “I would love to try the éclair in the window,” he replies, eyes perusing the store’s shelves. “And may I get a bag of chouquettes?”

The puff pastries are just, well, too tempting to pass, what with the black and red pearls of sugar decorating them.

“Temptation accomplished,” the salesperson says in a monotone, ringing his purchase. As Crowley goes to pay, he spots a sheet of paper behind them.

“You are hiring?”

They blink at him before sighing. “Yes, we do. Do you have any experience in baking?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you mind if the hours are long and the pay minimal?”

Crowley beams at her, leaning over the counter. “Not at all.”

“Are you a felon?”

“Would that matter?”

For the first time since he entered the shop, the hint of a smile appears on the person’s face. “Not at all,” they reply, “but I have to ask.” They shrug, pulling a piece of paper from under the counter. “Here, fill this and send a picture of your I.D. to the number inscribed on top.”

“Right away, boss,” Crowley replies, giving them a jaunty salute with the piece of paper.

“Call me Beelzy.”

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Okay.

If we’re going to continue with this story, there are a couple of things you need to know about Aziraphale Eastgate.

First of all, as previously stated, he is quite the bibliophile, collecting all first editions of British children’s books.

(Yes, it is a collection that requires a lot of time, care, and money.)

(Yes, Mother, he’s aware that he is an adult and that there are better things he could do with his money than chase after kiddy books.)

(No, Mother, he has yet to find a woman to marry and carry on the Eastgate’s legacy.)

((If only she knew.))

Second of all, but perhaps not entirely unrelated to the first point, Aziraphale considers himself an epicurean. A lover of good and beautiful things. A man capable of appreciating the finest things in Life, from a good book to a good meal.

After all, C.S. Lewis said it quite eloquently, “Eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.”

Third of all, as brave and smart as he vows to be on a daily basis, Aziraphale hates being confronted.

All three are needed to understand how conflicted Aziraphale has always felt about the bakery around the corner near the office.

(All right, so maybe the fact that he is a bibliophile is not particularly relevant to this part of the story. But presenting Aziraphale without insisting upon his love for books would be criminal, criminal indeed.

Back to the point.)

Because on the one hand, bakery! Provider of scrumptious cakes and food!

But on the other hand, the person usually behind the counter makes him feel like he’s about to enter a ring just to prove himself worthy of the cakes.

Oh, he has seen many of his colleagues and many people coming out of the shop with little black bags, so the confrontational attitude may just be in his head, but still.

For now, he has only savored the pastries with his eyes, for their aesthetics and satisfies his need for sweet goodness in other places.

(No one needs to know about this, but his favorite place is a little, how should he say, hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Theater district that serves the finest sushis in all of London and got him addicted to crepe cakes. Di-vine, to say the least.)

That being said, he’s reconsidering his avoidance of the bakery.

The sight of a certain shade of red hair behind the window is most definitely to be blamed for this change of mind, but Aziraphale would never admit it, even under threat.

(It depends on the kind of threat. Though he tends to avoid it if he can, Aziraphale is more than capable to handle a little brawl, shall the need arise. But threaten his books or his closet, and chances are Aziraphale will fold like a … well, like a crepe.

Oh, crepes.)

As it is, Aziraphale is not so easily tempted, so “Tempting Bites” and his possibly newly hired and very tempting salesman will have to work a little bit harder at convincing him.

Or, to be more truthful, Aziraphale will need to be sure that it is his infamous former colleague who is now behind the counter, in order to ensure a fruitful encounter.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley is many things, but he is not a liar.

When Beelzy asked if he had any baking knowledge, he did not lie when he said none whatsoever. 

But. He is a very fast learner.

“Crowley!”

And. He has a lot of imagination.

“Crowleeeeey!”

Not necessarily a bad combination--he supposes it depends on who you asked.

“What. Is. That.”

Crowley beams at his boss and at his colleague.

“That, my Lord,” he replies with a small curtsey, “is a pumpkin brioche.”

“A … brioche.”

“Yes.”

“A bit on the nose, Crowley,” Hastur drawls from behind him. “An orange brioche, shaped like a pumpkin, and you flavor it with pumpkins.”

“Try it, Hastur.”

“No thank you.”

“Try it before you ditch it.”

Hastur rolls his eyes at him but takes a knife from his pocket anyway, cutting two slices of the brioche.

Beelzy’s face barely shows any reaction, but then again, their face is usually expressionless. As it is, the slight uprising of their eyebrows is all Crowley needed from them.

Hastur’s reaction, in comparison, is far more immediate and satisfying. 

“WHAAAAA--”

“Yes, Hastur?”

“But--! How--! Beelzebub, how did he do this?”

Beelzy takes another bite, waving the slice in the air. “Well, there are definitely spices in the dough of the brioche--you’ve been too generous with the cinnamon, Crowley, curb your enthusiasm there--reminiscent of the infamous pumpkin spice latte, and there is the matter of the gooey center … Citrus?”

“Lemon zest and orange compote.”

They nod, swallowing the remains of their slice of brioche in two bites. “Good product. We’ll get the high school population and the office population tempted in no time.”

“Only a matter of days until they’re ours.”

Hastur recovered from his shock--or from his distaste of cinnamon, whichever sounds best--and is now smiling like he came up with Crowley’s creation.

“I’m glad you approve of my idea, my Lord,” he simply says, pushing Hastur out of the way with a hip check. 

Beelzy leaves the kitchen as the bell above the door rings and Hastur comes far too close for comfort.

“One of these days, Crowley,” he croaks, “one of these days, you’re going to run out of ideas. And then--”

“And then we’ll be more alike than ever, Hastur! Won’t it be wonderful?”

Hastur snarls one more time before pulling his phone out of his pocket--to text his boyfriend about all the things he wishes he could do to Crowley to make him suffer, no doubt.

Crowley picks up the last piece of brioche from the plate and nods to himself. Indeed too much cinnamon, but he lost track of his spices while he was preparing his test batch.

See, a certain blond head happened to walk by the kitchen’s window when Crowley was seasoning his dough, and, well.

Crowley preferred to follow its tracks than to follow his idea.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

That is most definitely Anthony J. Crowley arranging small brioches in a basket in the bakery’s window.

Aziraphale finds himself dry-mouthed at the sight of these long fingers carefully placing one delicate peachy confection after another on a checkered napkin, and he would have an awfully hard time telling you which of the two brings him to push the bakery’s door.

“Good afternoon, how may I tempt you--,” Crowley starts, spinning on his toes before coming to a stop as he sees Aziraphale.

The way he stops and the way he gawks at him from behind his tinted glasses makes Aziraphale blush and preen.

“--today,” Crowley finishes his welcome, a small smile appearing on his face. “Well, well, well. Welcome, Mr. Eastgate.”

He knows who I am.

He knows my name.

Say something, Aziraphale, before he thinks you are under the influence of something illegal.

“Hello, Crowley.”

There, short and to the point.

Oh, dear Lord, he’s leaning against the counter like some sort of Michelangelo’s sculpture.

“Tempted by something, Mr. Eastgate?”

“Oh please, call me Aziraphale, Mr. Eastgate is my brother Uriel.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley repeating his name should not awaken such warm tingles in his lower regions, and yet, here we are, aren’t we?

Maybe it’s the way his tongue seems to hiss on the ‘zee’ sound and curl around the last ‘el’, maybe it’s the way he says it like Aziraphale himself is the delicacy about to be devoured.

“Earth to Aziraphale?”

Oh, right. He didn’t enter the shop just to leer at his former colleague and ever-present fantasy-man.

“Forgive me, Crowley,” he manages without a stutter, “I was, um, that is to say,” so much for not stuttering, well done, “your buns caught my attention.”

An army of angels passes by, as Crowley’s smile widens into a smirk. “Did they now? Flatterer.”

Aziraphale blinks at him until the words that left his mouth fully register. “Oh! Not those buns! I--I mean! The edible buns! Brioches! In--in the window!” He groans, placing his hand over his face. “Can the floor swallow me now, please?”

“What a waste it would be,” Crowley says quietly, his smile less mocking and more … gentle. “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, your appreciation of all my kinds of buns will be my little secret.”

Aziraphale can literally feel the color of his face taking a turn for the crimson. “G-g-good to know.”

“Now, about the pastries in the window, would you care for one?”

Aziraphale relaxes with a deep breath. “That would be lovely, yes, please.”

Crowley nods and goes to pick a couple of perfectly round orange brioches to put in a paper bag, and Aziraphale watches him carefully.

There is clearly more to Mr Anthony J. Crowley than meets the eye (and a sight it is already, look at those lines, those curves!).

What a pity that he didn’t get closer to the man when they shared an office--now, if he wants to be better acquainted with him, Aziraphale will have to come to the bakery quite often, won’t he?

As he takes a bite of one pumpkin-flavored brioche at the bus stop, letting moans that scandalize and, or, amuse his fellow commuters, Aziraphale comes to realize that it won’t be much of a hardship to pursue a friendship with his former colleague, present favorite baker.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to cross the street and turn toward the bus stop to fall to his knees behind the counter, one hand pressed against his heart.

So not only the man looks like an angel, but he decides to attack Crowley with puns, albeit unintended, and a delicious flush that Crowley wanted to follow under that crisp, white shirt?

Cruel, cruel, cruel.

Cruel and delicious torture.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

As time goes by, Crowley comes to really appreciate his new job.

Sure the hours complicate his social life, but Crowley never really had a social life to begin with, and he’d rather be in the lab in the early morning to tend to his garden of herbs and berries and try new recipes than go out and, what, dance on a sticky dance floor in the hopes of finding someone who will only be second-best to the man he really yearns for ?

He’s not that much of a dancer anyway.

And he has standards.

“I’m warning you, you better do as I say or there will be consequences.”

Luckily for him, now that both Beelzy and Hastur know he can hold the fort alone, they tend to mysteriously disappear and leave him to his own device.

All the better for Crowley to experiment to his heart’s content.

All the better for Crowley to enjoy the company of one particularly faithful customer, too.

Aziraphale comes almost every day now, several times on particularly gruesome days in fact.

By some kind of magic, the shop manages to always be empty when Aziraphale enters it, allowing Crowley to take a break with a man who is slowly becoming a friend.

Crowley doesn’t talk much, not in his nature really, unless a bottle of strong alcohol is involved, but he is a good listener.

And there are very few things in this world as entertaining and satisfying as Aziraphale daintily devouring Crowley’s cakes while ranting about his colleagues.

The man is made of contrasts, and Crowley …

Well, Crowley loves it.

Him.

Whatever.

You’re not in his head.

So what if he made a detailed mental list of all of Aziraphale’s preferences in the matter of tastes, uh?

What about it?

So what if his heart tries to compete in the Gymnastics Olympics every time the doorbell rings?

What are you going to do about it? Mock him? Tell him that he is an idiot for pining after a man who, clearly, seeks his company?

(Well, you wouldn’t be completely wrong about that, even Crowley would admit it. Not out loud, never out loud, but he would admit it.)

Trust him, he knows that this is bordering on ridiculous, this pinning and sighing and burying his feelings in yeast and flour whenever Aziraphale leaves.

Ridiculous, yet productive. 

He just put a batch of his matcha, sesame and crushed hazelnut loaves out of the oven, right before the end of the working day, when Aziraphale comes in.

“Hmmm, that smells heavenly.”

“That’s the yeast fucking.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them--he entirely blames Hastur for the phrasing (and his twisted mind for actually enjoying it)--and he looks up toward Aziraphale in alarm, with an apology on the edge of his lips.

Except that Aziraphale, while clearly startled by Crowley’s words, seems to be even more enthused by them, if the beaming smile on his face is to be trusted.

It’s blinding, truth be told, even with the protective sunglasses Crowley has to wear at all times to protect his sensitive eyes from any light.

“The yeast f--”

“I mean, it’s the dough,” Crowley interrupts. He’s not sure he would survive hearing Aziraphale actually curse.

He’s already as infatuated as can be, there is absolutely no need to add another layer of hidden bastardry into the mix.

Aziraphale hums, his amused smile hiding possibly jokes that would kill Crowley on the spot. 

“And what, pray tell my dear, did you do to make the dough rise so deliciously?”

A thousand arrows into the chest probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.

(Probably.)

Either Aziraphale has taken a secret vow to kill Crowley with innuendos while not doing anything about … whatever is brewing between them, or he is really that oblivious and Crowley’s mind just has a dirty filter.

Whatever explanation works, Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Green tea and roasted sesame seeds,” he replies before shimmying his shoulders. “And my personal touch.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. “As in …?”

“As in, that’s my secret and you won’t get it, as angelic as you may appear.”

Aziraphale looks surprised for a moment, before turning bashful. “An-angelic? Me? No, I’m not, I’m just... I’m just me.”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, mentally listing everything he would love to do to the people who ate this man’s self-esteem.

Then he starts mentally listing everything he could do to restore said self-esteem, and, folks, it takes a turn for the graphic with the speed of light.

“You are just you,” he finally says, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, “and that’s all it takes for you to be angelic.”

The blush on Aziraphale��s face darkens, but his smile is more assured already. “That’s … probably the nicest thing anyone has ever s--”

“Oh shut up,” Crowley sneers as he straightens up, “I’m not nice.”

Aziraphale makes a show of zipping his lips shut, but his shy smile is still there when he leaves.

😇😈😇

When Crowley leaves the shop, not too long after Aziraphale, the skies have taken a turn for the gloomy and seem ready to open and throw a flood on them all.

Crowley allows himself a moment of self-pity. Even if he takes the bus instead of walking home like he intended to, there is no actual bus-stop.

Hence no shelter.

Hence his new boots getting soaked and his evening ruined.

Raising his head to the heavens just as the first drops fall, he mouths a heartfelt “why” before making his way to the aforementioned bus-stop.

Only to find a blonde head and a beige trenchcoat waiting under the most Aziraphale-Esque umbrella possibly conceived.

“Aziraphale?”

The man in question looks startled before beaming at him. “Crowley!”

Without another word, he lifts the umbrella higher, giving Crowley some room to shelter himself from the downpour.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans for the evening,” Crowley says, digging his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid.

Like, on the top of his head, snake his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

That would be a terrible, awful idea.

A deliciously awful idea.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I did,” he replies, looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye, “and then decided I would rather be at home, with a nice cup of cocoa and a book--and some secret bread someone just created.”

His bus comes and leaves and Crowley cannot be bothered to leave the cocoon of warmth that the umbrella provides.

“Which bus are you taking?” Aziraphale’s voice is muted as if the umbrella really shelters them both, not only from the rain but from the rest of the world.

“I--I think it just drove away.”

Aziraphale looks at him more directly, a crooked smile on his face. Not mocking, no, just …

A smile that speaks a thousand words.

A smile that says, “I know what you did, and I know what it tells me about you and about us, but I won’t say it aloud. For now. Because this is comfortable and nice too.”

Or at least that’s how Crowley reads it.

“Looks like mine is delayed,” Aziraphale simply says. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

Crowley smiles, tired but content. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Eastgate?”

“If there is enough cocoa for one, there is enough for two, my dear Mr. Crowley.”

😇😈😇

For the life of him, Aziraphale doesn’t know what he was thinking.

He entirely blames Crowley’s tight pants and warm smile and--and ...Well, he entirely blames Crowley for being Crowley for his enthusiastic yet unplanned invitation to go to his place.

If he has to be completely honest, Aziraphale’s place is … Not somewhere you invite someone without careful planning beforehand.

(Especially someone who could potentially see more of the place than any random guest, and is possibly someone Aziraphale would like to see in the said apartment more often than not.

Possibly. 

As in, always and forever.)

Because, and not that it is a piece of information that is absolutely needed but it bares being told at least once, Aziraphale is messy.

“Ooooooh,” Crowley starts, low under his breath the moment Aziraphale lets him in, an amused look on his face. “You’re messy.”

It does bare being told twice, to be honest.

What puzzles Aziraphale is the sheer delight in Crowley’s voice. He glances around the living room, slash, kitchen, slash, dining room, slash, personal library, and tries to give it an objective look.

There are empty, dirty mugs in the sink, but otherwise, the kitchen area is clean-ish.

There are … oh dear Lord, there are dirty clothes on the couch where Aziraphale came home last night, too tired to get to his bed but not tired enough that he didn’t feel like indulging in a little one-on-one session with himself and his thoughts before succumbing to sleep.

(If said thoughts involved the very person now standing in said living room, well, that’s for Aziraphale’s shame to feed on.)

Three books are opened, stacked in a precarious pile on the coffee table.

At least Anathema is nowhere in sight. With any luck, she’s asleep on Aziraphale’s bed and won’t bother sniffing around.

(Aziraphale feels like introducing Crowley and Anathema would bare more consequences than introducing Crowley to his family.)

Some shoes and ties create a parkour-worthy arrangement around the room.

On his shelves, it’s not a mess. It’s the perfectly organized chaos Aziraphale has chosen as his way of putting his collection together.

All the editions of one book together, naturally, arranged per publication date, of course.

So it looks a bit in disarray in relation to the sizes and the conservation states.

That doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but he can see how, added to the rest of the room, his shelves give a distinctively chaotic vibe.

Still, Crowley is not running for the hills or making fun of him as some other people did in the past.

(Gabriel is a judgmental asshole who wouldn’t make the difference between a sketch by E.H. Shepard and a napkin at the bottom of a dump, and he can suck on his minimalistic design for all Aziraphale cares.

Still hurts when he makes fun of Aziraphale’s prized possessions.)

No, quite the contrary. Aziraphale can only gulp when he spots Crowley strutting, really, the man is strutting in his living room, caressing the back of Aziraphale’s chair or browsing the shelves, the same delighted look on his face softening as he goes.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he says suddenly, voice barely above the sound of the rain hitting the window. “How did you get your hands on this one?”

Aziraphale forgets all of his embarrassment at the state of his home to see what caught Crowley’s attention.

“Sendak?”

“Not just any Sendak, you little minx. Quite the controversial item, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale can tell that his cheeks are now matching some of his books binding. “Well, no respectable collection--”

Crowley snorts and raises one eyebrow.

“No collection would be complete without Sendak’s entire body of work, now would it?”

“Dreaming about baking in the nude, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s brain flies out the window and into the gutter. “I--you--but--”

Crowley snickers, reaching for the copy of “In the Night Kitchen”.

Aziraphale takes it first, clutching it to his chest. “You demon! Do you enjoy making fun of me?”

Crowley’s smile slowly melts away. “I am not making fun of you, honest. It’s just …” Crowley looks frustrated, searching for his words and that alone appeases Aziraphale. “I like finding out that there are more layers to you than what you usually let people know, okay?”

It’s raw and honest and, frankly, adorable.

If Aziraphale wasn’t so worried about losing Crowley’s friendship, he would jump in his arms right there and then kiss the sarcasm out of him.

(It would take a while. Maybe even a lifetime. That doesn’t bother him. He’s willing to spend that time on this task.)

As it is, Aziraphale simply puts the book back on its shelf before clasping his hands in front of him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Aziraphale chances a look at Crowley, who is busy pretending he finds the pattern on Aziraphale’s floor mind-riveting.

“How about that cocoa to go with your loaf?”

Crowley visibly chokes on air.

“Of bread! Your loaf of bread! That I bought!”

“... Right.”

Aziraphale all but runs to the safety of his kitchen where he gently smacks his head against a cupboard.

“Are you all right, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale closes his eyes one moment before letting out a deep breath. “Do you have a milk preference? And do you want some sugar in your ….?”

Crowley appears next to him. “I wouldn’t mind if you have sheep milk--easier to digest.” Crowley takes a step that puts his hand almost on top of Aziraphale’s. “And I think I have all the sweetness I need.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale is absolutely not using his countertop as a crutch to keep himself upright while Crowley is standing so close to him.

Dear Lord, he smells like a cologne-scented pastry, and that is more appetizing than it should be.

“Perhaps if you mixed some honey in it, though …”

Aziraphale can’t help but beam at Crowley. “Now that’s an excellent idea, my dear! Go, sit, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

Crowley frowns at him, silently muttering “a jiffy?” but still complies with the command.

Aziraphale focuses on preparing their drinks, cutting slices of the delicious green tea loaf and putting them on a clean plate--more of a feat than you’d think--before joining Crowley.

And that’s when he almost drops the tray.

Because Crowley is not sitting on the couch, oh no Sir.

Crowley is sprawled on the couch, spread on the pleather like caramel on a crêpe.

“Com-comfortable, I believe?”

“Hm-hm.”

Aziraphale straightens up and bumps his hips against Crowley’s feet. “Leave some room for me, will you?”

Fussing over the cups and saucers, Aziraphale completely misses the fond look Crowley addresses in his direction as he sits more properly.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

“What are your plans for the weekend?” Crowley asks, wondering if today is the day he’ll finally get brave enough to ask Aziraphale if he’d like to--

“Would you care to accompany me to the auction I texted you about? Afterward, we could go get some sushis ….”

“Why do you need me, exactly?” Crowley cuts in. “It’s not like I know anything about books.”

(This is a blatant lie, for once. Crowley knows it, you know it, his shelves of astronomical and botanical books and romance novels know it. Aziraphale, however, does not. This will have to wait for Aziraphale to actually come to Anthony’s place, and, well, sorry dears, but Crowley is not there yet.

Pace yourself and enjoy the moment, will you?)

Aziraphale toys with the paper napkin, wringing it into oblivion. “Well, if I remember our brief moment as colleagues, you always seemed to be the … responsible, shall we say, um, perhaps, the sensible kind of fellow.”

Crowley barely resists the need to bark a laugh at that. As it is, he keeps it to a smirk stretching his lips as he leans back in his chair.“Hardly.”

“Now come on, dear,” Aziraphale tuts, oblivious to the way Crowley’s eyes widen at the term of endearment, “you would do a fantastic wingman to contain my enthusiasm.”

Crowley briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling--dear God, there is no way his former-colleague-turned-friend-could-be-more is not doing it on purpose, is there?--before sighing. “Why is there a need to contain your enthusiasm?”

Aziraphale gives him a look. 

“No, seriously, Angel,” he continues, this time being the oblivious one to the stunned look on Aziraphale’s face at his choice of words, “you do make a decent living, working for those vampires, why would you need to, um, contain your enthusiasm?”

“Because that’s the … reasonable, err, thing to do?”

“Screw reasonable, Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims. “You’re not harming everybody, you are not going to spend all of your money during an auction. After all, there is only one book fitting your collection--”

“Oh. You looked at the catalog I sent you?”

“Of course,” Crowley shrugs, mildly offended. “So if you’re only looking to buy one book, why not splurge a little?”

“When you put it that way …”

“Treat yourself, Angel!”

“Clever tempter.” Aziraphale tries to look angry, but it only comes out as unbearably cute.

Crowley lets himself smile as fondly as his heart desires at Aziraphale. “Not much to tempt when it’s already what you wanted to do.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So, will you come with me, Crowley?”

Oh, right, he never actually gave an answer did he? “I guess. If nothing else more interesting comes my way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What? I may have hundreds of invitations waiting for me to give them a reply.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice just lower enough to awaken an unidentified heat in Crowley’s stomach, “you’re the one who asked me if I had plans over the weekend.”

With a pat on Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale is up and already at the door with a wave. “See you Saturday on New Bond Street, Crowley!”

Crowley is left stunned in his chair, looking after the blond curls bobbing down the street.

The little devil.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

To be completely honest, Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley would show up.

After all, it is his only day of freedom before going back to a job that is far more physically demanding than Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale would completely understand if Crowley decided to just sleep it away.

(He would understand. He would be disappointed and sad, but that would be for him and for his pet to know.)

But no.

Next to the entrance of the auction house, in all his glorious lankiness draped in black, stands the man starring in a lot of Aziraphale’s dreams lately.

Oh, kindly get your mind out of the gutter, not all those dreams are of the pornographic variety.

(The key-word here being “not all”.)

Crowley’s hair is out of his usual messy bun, flowing in crimson rivlets around his angular face. Sunglasses firmly in place even though it is a cloudy day in London.

As for the rest of his attire, one would call it “punk chic” if one even dared to try and qualify Crowley’s …

Well.

Crowley as a whole is inqualifiable, isn’t he? Almost …

Ineffable.

And here he goes again, waxing poetic over Crowley while being too shy, awkward, afraid, to do something about it.

Would that be so hard? “Hey Crowley, thanks for coming, after the auction, would you fancy some dinner? No, not like the hundreds we already shared, no, this one would be special. A date. I’m asking you on a date. No? Preposterous? Oh, alright, back to business as usual then, see you Monday at the bakery.”

See? Not that hard. Hardly more than a band-aid ripped from one’s skin.

… Right. As if that simple mind simulation didn’t rip Aziraphale’s heart out of his chest, stomped on it before putting the beaten pulp back for him to heal.

“Right on time, Angel.”

The pet name never fails to cause more aortic gymnastics and Aziraphale beams at Crowley. “If right on time means half an hour before the auction, then, yes, right on time.”

Crowley digs his hands in his pockets, face turned to the ground. “I know you want to find a good spot to observe without being observed,” he mumbles as they enter the auction house and are directed toward the room. “Half an hour to do so sounds reasonable.”

“I appreciate the effort,” Aziraphale says lightly, lighter than he really feels. “I thought reason was your kryptonite.”

A crooked smile appears on Crowley’s face, and he pulls his glasses down just enough for Aziraphale to see him wink. “Among other things, Angel.”

Crowley takes two strides as Aziraphale is glued on the spot.

That--that was flirting, wasn’t it?

It has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Aziraphale is going to lose his darn mind trying to read between Crowley’s lines.

(And he loves every second of it, don’t get him wrong.)

“Now, do you prefer to sit in the back, or somewhere in the middle? I’d prefer somewhere where we can talk without disturbing anybody, even if the walls have ears,” Crowley is rambling, strutting--there is really no other way to put it--strutting his stuff back and forth across the room where the auction will be held. “Do books have ears?” he mutters, to Aziraphale’s complete delight, before snickering in a way that can only be described as adorable, as much as Crowley denies being anything approaching “adorable”, “cute” ou even just “nice”. “Though I suppose they can be eared.”

It requires a lot of focus on their surroundings and a massive amount of self-control for Aziraphale to keep himself from throwing himself at Crowley and kiss the living daylights out of him right then and there.

“Get it?” Crowley insists, his smile far too much for Aziraphale to handle. “Dog-eared?”

“I get it, dear,” Aziraphale says, willing his cheeks to return to their normal, pale complexion. In a very satisfying turn of event, his blush seems to transfer to Crowley’s cheeks, too. “Very funny, and contextually appropriate. Kudos.”

Crowley gives him a little curtsey before pointing at different seats. “So? The choice is yours, Angel.”

Oh, Aziraphale knows that there is a slight percentage of Crowley’s choice of pet name which is vaguely mocking. He knows.

He does love being called “Angel” by a man who looks like one himself, only in a more lustful way.

(Can angels be lustful creatures? There is a probably a whole moral and theological debate to have there, but he’ll keep it in mind for their next date-not-a-date-God-he-wishes-it-was-a-date.)

“Right this way,” Aziraphale points to two seats in second to last row, somewhere around the middle. “Perfect view, perfect to bid.”

As if summoned by magic, a paddle seems to appear in Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale eyes it warily as Crowley twirls it in the air. “Planning on bidding, dear?”

“Yep. You should get yours too.”

“Seriously?”

Crowley looks over the rim of his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale. “Deadly.”

Aziraphale attempts to glare a him as he stands, taking a double take to make sure that his companion is not pulling his leg. When Crowley has the audacity to make a “go on” motion, Aziraphale huffs and puffs all the way to the paddle counter.

“And what, pray tell, do you plan on bidding on, exactly?”

“Something awfully overpriced, just to make some idiots pay more than they should.”

“Oh, be serious, Crowley.”

The room fills up one person at a time, but as far as Aziraphale is concerned, it’s just the two of them.

“If you must know,” Crowley replies, a faint blush appearing on the apple of his cheeks (and on the tip of his ears, that is just … Aziraphale has no words), “while browsing the catalogue you sent me, I spotted a copy of a book that could look good on my shelves.”

“As in …?”

“As in, wait and see, good things come to those who wait, for Pete’s sake!”

Aziraphale smiles crookedly at that, as discretely as he can manage.

If he had any doubts, they’re all gone now. There is definitely more to Crowley than meets the eye. The man is not as blasé as he would like to appear.

Or maybe, just maybe, he only lets Aziraphale sees under all that nonchalance to show his true self.

That possibility almost makes him faint.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention,” the auctioneer calls with a too-white smile. “Let’s begin with the first lot of this English literature, History science and Children’s book auction, shall we?”

😈😇😈

It’s not that Crowley is a bibliophile--far from it.

He simply has a profound respect for books and the answers they can provide to all the questions in the Universe.

And sometimes, just for the fun of it, he likes to splurge on books which show how far Humanity has come, in terms of knowledge.

The irony of it all, and, though he’ll never admit it, the hope that lies between those lines.

If humanity is capable of growing out of a pit of superstitions and darkness, the future cannot be as bleak as it looks, can it?

Which leads us to the present moment, to the book he spotted in the aforementioned catalogue and wishes to purchase if it fits his splurging budget.

Rachel Bell Maiden’s “The Canape Book”.

The small book doesn’t look like much, on its podium, barely held upright by the handler’s gloved hand.

And yet, Crowley wants it like he doesn’t often want for things.

(A look on his left tells a different story, but a, this is not the place nor the time, and b, Crowley himself doesn’t want to admit to himself that he yearns.

Humans can be stupid like that.)

The green binding is pretty unique, or so Crowley has learned online, and he really, really ...

“Starting the auction at 200 pounds, do we have a bidder, I have an offer at 250 pounds …”

Crowley raises his paddle like a sword in the air.

“300 pounds to paddle 666. I have an offer at 325?”

One more lift.

“350, 350 to paddle 666. What about you, Sir, care to raise the stakes? No? On the phone?”

The auctioneer looks around the room and Crowley starts sweating. As it is, with the fees, and everything, the book is going to be right on the verge of extravagant for his budget.

But it is a good purchase, if only to find recipes to try with Aziraphale, sandwiches and cocktails that will make for splendid afternoon and fantastic evenings, perhaps a prelude to more if they--if he ever gets himself together.

“Going once, going twice …”

“Come on,” Crowley mutters between gritted teeth.

“And sold to paddle 666, congratulations sir.”

“Yesss,” Crowley cannot help but hiss as he puts the paddle away.

Still in the rush of the auction--and yes, it was a rush, shut up--he slides his hand over Aziraphale’s next to him. 

And Aziraphale doesn’t move it away.

Oh, no, quite the opposite actually: he turns his hand to clasp Crowley’s firmly and doesn’t let go.

“Congratulations, dear,” he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle Crowley’s skin. “I hope to be as successful in my own endeavor.”

Crowley smiles bashfully. “Thank you, Angel.”

The fifty or so lots after that go by without Crowley noticing them.

A not so small part of him wishfully thinks that Aziraphale doesn’t pay much attention to it either.

When Aziraphale straightens up in his chair, paddle at the ready, Crowley turns his attention back to the room.

The big lot of the sale isn’t up yet, but a few heads are turning toward the three tan-leather bound books.

“Now, lot 69, a 1840 printing of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, in 3 volumes, signed by the illustrator George Cruikshank, we have a lot of interest from buyers over the phone, let’s start this auction at 1200 pounds. 1200, 1300, thank you Sir, 1400 for you Emma, 1400 over the phone, 1500 for me, 1600 over the phone with Tang, 1650 for me, 1650, do I have more bidding?”

Aziraphale raises his paddle and Crowley can feel his heart beating faster in his friend’s behalf.

Well, “friend”.

Whatever they are.

“1700 pounds for the paddle 29472, thank you Sir. 1700 in the room, not with me, not on the phone.”

Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, a proud smirk on his face.

“And 1800 for the paddle 75005.”

Aziraphale and Crowley snap their head toward the part of the room pointed by the auctioneer’s hammer. A smug looking person raises one eyebrow at them.

Aziraphale scowls at them and lifts his hand.

“1900, paddle 29472.”

“2000, paddle 75005...”

Crowley glances back at the catalogue when Aziraphale reaches 3000.

“Angel,” he whispers, “you’re at the higher estimate.”

“These books are mine,” Aziraphale growls back, and while the sound goes straight to Crowley’s bloodstream, it may be time for this whole affair to end.

Glaring at the back of Mx. 75005’s head, Crowley waits for them to lift their paddle, again, and turn to smirk at them, again.

Which they do--so predictable.

Crowley discreetly brings his thumb to his throat and hisses.

The person seems appropriately taken aback.

Aziraphale lifts his paddle one more time, bringing the auction to 3500 pounds.

“3500 pounds for paddle 29742, do you wish to continue, Sir?”

The person hesitates, glancing at them one more time. Crowley lowers his glasses to glare them into submission.

And then they shake their head.

“We’re at 3500 pounds for the gentleman with the paddle 29742, do I have any more bidder? Going once, going twice…”

Aziraphale is the one reaching for Crowley’s hand this time around.

“And sold. Congratulations, Sir. Now, moving on to lot 70 …”

“Unless you wish to stay for what most of these people consider to be the important lot of this sale,” Aziraphale whispers, his hand still clasping Crowley’s, “we can take our leave.”

“Do you want to see how it goes?”

“Nah, I’ll check the final results online.”

“Sure?”

“Sure. Let’s go. I feel peckish.”

“Peckish.”

“Indeed. How about some crepes?”

“Lead the way, Angel.”

😈😇😈😇😈

“Well, wasn’t that fun?” Aziraphale says happily, hands clasped in his back as they walk down the street.

“It was fun,” Crowley replies, a crooked smile on his face. “Especially to see that side of you, Angel.”

“Which side, my dear?”

“The feisty, slightly bastardish side, of course.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, he does, but even if he felt like lying to Crowley, he couldn’t possibly procede. And he can admit that he did let out his … inner bastard.

“Right. Well. I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

“You have no idea.”

Crowley’s voice catches Aziraphale’s attention. It’s soft suddenly around the edges, almost tender, almost fond.

Almost smitten.

Aziraphale searches Crowley’s face for more clues, but beside this smirk that has indeed softened into a grin, his blasted sunglasses block Aziraphale’s “reading”.

“Crowley …”

“Angel …”

They both start at the same time but Crowley shakes his head before Aziraphale can tell him to go ahead. “Never mind that. Where are you taking us?”

Aziraphale considers pushing it, once and for all--speak your mind and heart, damn you, so I can snog you senseless in the middle of Oxford Circus--but Crowley is not the kind of man you can push into confession, that much Aziraphale knows now.

“To my secret spot.”

Crowley’s face instantly matches the crimson lining of his jacket. “Cool. Do you take all your dates there?”

“I never brought anyone there, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale replies over the pitter patter of his heart at the mention of this afternoon being a date. “But I--I want you to be my guest there.”

They reach a crossroad and Aziraphale brings his hands in front of him, nervouser and nervouser as Crowley remains silent.

Until, that is, Crowley’s hand enters his line of vision.

“Crowley?”

Crowley is not looking at him, but he still wiggles his fingers, prompting Aziraphale to take it.

“I would love to see your secret spot, Angel,” Crowley finally says, voice barely covering the hubbub around them. “I am--I am honored.”

It’s only because he knows the way so well that Aziraphale doesn’t lose them both in the streets, floating as he is on his very own cloud.

“This,” Crowley says with as much doubt as he can put in a single syllable, “is where you take me to have crêpes?”

“Indeed it is.”

“This restaurant? Really?”

“Don’t pass on such a hasty judgment,” Aziraphale tutts. “‘For by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemned’.”

Crowley groans as he follows him inside the tiny Japanese restaurant. “Quoting scriptures at me now? Why, oh why would you do that?”

Aziraphale salutes the owner before taking “his” seat, inviting Crowley to join him. “If only to make you admit that you knew the source of my quote, you fallen soul. And to gently ask you not to say another word before you have a chance to try their desserts.”

“Fine, fine, I suppose I can put my judgmental side on hold for a moment with you.”

Oh. Wow. That’s too much, too fast, wow.

All Aziraphale can do on the outside is clearing his throat and pulling the menu in front of him.

“I mean--” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him short. 

“Should we split one plate of crêpes, or should we share two plates, I don’t know, I--I, um, I know I have built an appetite with the adrenaline and all, but how do you feel?”

Crowley shrugs, pulling off his glasses to clean them with his scarf. “You’re the connoisseur, you decide. I’m putting my faith in you, Angel.”

But all of Aziraphale’s knowledge and appreciation for the crêpe cakes on the menu flew out the window the moment Crowley’s eyes came into view.

They’re such a peculiar shade, a mesmerizing golden amber Aziraphale could bask in for all of Eternity.

“-raphale?”

“Uh? Sorry, my dear boy, I was--I was lost in thoughts.”

“Pure, happy thoughts?”

“Enough to make me fly if I had any fairy dust.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth, the smile left behind enough for Aziraphale to gather that he has a joke on the tip of his tongue and is refraining out of the goodness of his heart.

“You were saying?” he asks instead, folding back the menu to focus on Crowley, now that those jewelled eyes are once again hidden.

(What a shame, but what a relief for his poor heart, too.)

“I was asking you what was your favorite cake?”

“Depends on my mood,” Aziraphale replies, more comfortable on the subject of food. “A good vanilla crêpe can do the trick but when I feel like treating myself properly …”

“Yess?”

“Chestnut and chocolate is my go-to.”

“An interesting combination.”

“A scrumptious combination!” Aziraphale claps his hands. “Oh, that makes my decision easier. We must simply try that.”

Aziraphale’s favorite waiter approaches and they exchange a few words in Japanese before Aziraphale places his order.

As he leaves them to it, Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who is gawking at him.

“What?”

Crowley clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly. “You--you speak Japanese?”

“Oh, yes, I do, don’t I?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, fingers drumming on the tablecloth.

Aziraphale starts fidgeting under such intense scrutiny. “What’s so special about it, anyway? I’m sure you speak other languages, too.”

It comes out a bit more defensively than he really intended to. There is just something about Crowley that reveals his darker side.

Crowley smirks, still drumming on the table. “I speak Scottish, if that counts.”

“Of course it does.”

“And I suppose I can manage with French, but nothing as … exotic as Japanese.”

“French?”

“Tout à fait.”

Isn’t it funny, how we sometimes discover things about ourselves late in life?

As it is, until this very moment, Aziraphale had no idea that a few words uttered in French could affect him as it does.

But affected he is, and to his core.

“Mighty useful, French, when you enjoy baking,” Crowley continues, seemingly unaware of the sudden heat threatening to consume his companion on the spot. “So many French words just to talk about ingredients. Beurre noisette, crème pâtissière, sucre boulé …”

“Would you teach me?”

Crowley stops in his tracks and looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “French, or baking?”

“Both?”

Oh, it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t see how either lesson could turn into an apocalyptic sort of disaster. He does, he absolutely, with great clarity, does.

But on the other hand, this kind of apocalypse would inevitably lead to him and Crowley spending more time together, getting closer, until Aziraphale would be able to whisper his freshly acquired vocabulary into the meat of Crowley’s skin.

So, yes, Aziraphale would take the risk of an apocalypse of embarrassment for the reward of successfully wooing Crowley.

“That could be fun,” Crowley replies just as the crêpes land on their table, his hand suddenly covering Aziraphale in a sneak attack. “If you teach me something in return.”

Oh, boy.

“What would you want me to teach you?” Aziraphale asks.

“You could teach me Japanese,” Crowley replies, taking his hand back--both a blessing and a curse. “Or fencing.”

Aziraphale freezes. “How do you know I fence?”

Crowley sits back in his chair, cup of tea in his hand as he slouches. “Something in your posture, Angel,” he replies, gesturing in Aziraphale’s direction. “It was either fencing or horse riding.”

“And how do you know it’s not horse riding?”

“Hard on the buttocks, horses. Bit of a flaw in the design, if you ask me. But you don’t strike me as someone who would inflict such pain on his buttocks.”

Such a sentence promptly produces images of Crowley thinking about the comfort of his buttocks, which, if you are in Aziraphale’s mind, doesn’t take too long before derailing into Crowley taking care of his ass.

Not that Aziraphale’s mind needs much prompting to go in that direction nowadays.

“Touché,” is all he can say without making a fool of himself in the middle of his favorite restaurant. To cover for his sudden silence, he picks up a fork to dig into the crêpes.

Ah, crêpes.

Even when they are average, they are the superior dessert, snack and culinary creation altogether.

Aziraphale takes a moment to enjoy his first bite. Much like a French philosopher, Aziraphale thinks that as enjoyable a thing may be, nothing can surpass the happiness brought by the first bite, first sip, first encounter.

The crêpes are thin yet soft, with a delicate crispy ring on the edges. In the center, the pieces of chocolate are on the verge of being completely melted, but not yet, while the crushed chestnuts are bringing some texture to the whole plate.

Aziraphale hums in his delight, before pushing the plate toward Crowley. “Where are my manners? You’re the one who has to try this for the first time.”

Crowley picks up a fork, turning the plate so he can face an untouched part of the crêpe. Aziraphale carefully watches his face for his reaction.

His mind takes another turn for the gutter at the way Crowley flicks his tongue at the fork before closing his lips around it, but then.

Then.

Crowley’s eyes widens, visible even from behind the tainted lenses and he lets out a soft, heartfelt moan that seems to fly directly through Aziraphale’s veins and straight to his heart.

“That’s--” Crowley starts, a pink flush appearing on his high cheeks. “It’s delicious!”

A small part of Aziraphale’s mind takes pride in making his … friend discover such a pleasure, but most of it is entirely consumed by the way Crowley looks at the moment.

Amazement colors his features, and the largest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on his face stretches his lips.

If Aziraphale thought he had a crush on the lanky man before, that is nothing compared to the rush of, well, Love he feels right now.

“I can understand why you kept this place a secret, Angel,” Crowley says, picking a second piece of the crêpe cake. “This is truly a slice of Heaven.”

Aziraphale lets out a short giggle before smothering it with a forkful of cake.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley removes his glasses completely before cupping his face in his palm. The sight of those golden eyes, with their oh so particular shade, short-circuits Aziraphale’s brain.

Particularly because of the fondness warming them.

“May I tempt you for dinner?”

“T-tempt me?”

Crowley cocks one eyebrow at him. “Well, asking you for dinner on my terms means making you leave work early, thus tempting you away from them all.”

“Them?”

“The parasites who used to be my colleagues.”

And just like that, the warm feelings in Aziraphale’s chest melt away. “Parasites?”

Crowley must hear the change of tone in his voice. “Well,” he straightens up while managing to still slouch in his chair, “you know. Gabriel, Michael, all those who act all holier than thou.”

Aziraphale feels hurt--he isn’t quite sure if he feels attacked or if it’s just a sense of professional duty. “Aren’t I one of them too?”

Crowley puts his sunglasses back on. “You work there, yes, but you are not one of them,” he replies emphatically.

“How so?”

“I know so.”

Aziraphale swipes his face with his hand. “I know I should take your words as a compliment, but what makes you so sure that I’m not like them?!”

Crowley smiles at him, blinding and, and, loving, yes. “I know you would never take advantage of the people who have faith in you,” he replies simply. “And that you are more layered than any of those buffoons.”

“Oh.”

“And given the chance, you wouldn’t work for them.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Crowley. “Oh really. And what would I rather do?”

“I think that you would be way happier if your job involved books and making people happy.”

Aziraphale blinks at the image those words paint.

Far too appealing an image. He needs to stir the conversation away from it.

“To answer your earlier proposal …”

“Hmm yes?”

“I would love to let you tempt me.”

“Great.” Crowley beams at him. “Meet me at the bakery around 5pm.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

😈😇😈😇😈

The thing you need to know about Crowley is that he’s a perfectionnist.

Oh, maybe you already gathered as much about him from the rest of the story already.

But anyway, that is to say that in preparation for his date--because yes, this is officially a date, if the previous day wasn’t already one--, Crowley spends the night trying to figure out the best sweets to treat his angel to.

(Yes, his. Aziraphale is his. Move on.)

He considers making a decadent crepe cake, perhaps even on with a heart hidden in its center, cliché be damned, but does he really want to enter a competition with Aziraphale’s favorite dessert on their first date?

No, he doesn’t. Maybe later, once they will have dated for a while, for a special occasion perhaps.

No, for now, Crowley needs to blow Aziraphale’s mind and tastebuds.

(No, Crowley is absolutely not considering blowing anything else. Who do you take him for? 

… If the mood seems right.

Maybe.

Possibly.)

The rest of the meny is fairly simple: Crowley knows Aziraphale’s tastes now. Fresh, quality ingredients, some fancy ones but nothing that can take him away from the ultimate prize that is the dessert.

So he decided to start with oysters (which doesn’t require a lot of preparation, juste the mignonette sauce).

Pros: it’s easy, fresh and aphrodisiac.

Cons: the shells. But Crowley will deal with them later.

For the main dish, Crowley goes with a pancetta and butternut squash risotto.

Pros: he can prepare it in advance and simply reheat it when needed (and he totally prepares it while considering his dessert options).

Cons: well, there are ways to fail at making a risotto, but this is not Crowley’s first risotto. He knows where the potential failure lies, and he sidesteps it like a pro.

And now back to the dessert.

If everything goes as well as Crowley wishes, thinks, hopes it will go, then by the time they get to dessert, they will both want to get closer.

Maybe kiss.

Maybe hold each other.

(Oh, to feel Aziraphale’s soft body pressed against his. Now that would be his treat.)

In order to to so, Crowley has two choices, really.

Either a dessert they can feed to each other, like an ice cream or a mousse of some sorts, or a dessert they can nibble on, like some kinds of biscuits or--

Hold that thought.

Crowley applauds himself before going through the pages of his book.

“Good Nommins: Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Recipes”, a book he got from his great-great-great-great aunt. All of Crowley’s recipes are a variation he played from those ancient recipes.

And there is something he thinks will do the trick.

So, yes, he spends the night trying recipes, finding ways to recycle what doesn’t make the cut (an unsuitable cookie is only a good cheesecake crust waiting to happen) until Crowley is sure he has the right treat.

And now he is.

At 5 a.m.

Which means that there is no point in going to bed now, is there, since he has to be at the bakery in one hour.

That’s alright, though. Crowley doesn’t really mind, especially considering the ultimate goal. Mission Woo Aziraphale Eastgate out of his waistcoat, dot dot dot, is a go.

😈😇😈

Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale in front of the bakery and he does his best not to be nervous.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Crowley is too tired to hide that Beelzy managed to surprise him.

“I’m waiting. For my, um, my friend.”

“Right,” they drawl, fixing the brooch on their lapel. “Your … friend, the blondy from the vampire office.”

“You know them?”

“Got my loan from them.”

Crowley can’t help but pull a face.

“And my regular booty call.”

Crowley’s grimace takes a turn for the worse. “Isn’t that what people call a boyfriend?”

Beelzy makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be gross. Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Should I worry?”

“Do or do not, I don’t care. Bye!”

Crowley is still frowning after them when Aziraphale taps on his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good afternoon, dear!” Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels. “So, where are we going?”

Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, bringing the rocking to a stop. 

“Follow me.”

😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know what makes him trust Crowley so much that he’s willing to follow him through the streets of London until they reach what looks like an old factory.

“What is--where are we, dear boy?”

“My place, Angel.”

(I told you it would come in the proper time, didn’t I, dear readers? Good things come to those who wait.)

“Your--your place?”

“I thought it would be better to have an intimate setting for our, err, first, you know,” Crowley says while opening his door.

Aziraphale’s brain has already melted at the word “intimate”, but the design of Crowley’s flat finishes the job.

Given the look of the building, Aziraphale expected something rough, somehow bohemian. The idea doesn’t quite fit Crowley’s general look, but what does he know, right?

But that flat!

Everything is sleek and modern, except for the kitchen which has a wooden counter, but even that part of the flat is in the darker shades, black wood and metal.

Though the space is not big, the whole space is tidy and sparkly clean, a complete opposite to the way Aziraphale himself keeps his own flat. Next to the windows, which could be seen from the outside, stand giant plants. Monstera, succulents and alocasia fill in the space, probably eating up the light during the day.

It’s the most luxurious private garden Aziraphale has ever seen. Next to them, in the biggest sunlight spot, stands a vivarium with a napping snake.

Now, that fits the picture of Crowley he has built in his mind.

“Welcome to my casa,” Crowley tells him, taking off his jacket and sending it with a scary accuracy onto the hook. Aziraphale doesn’t trust his own talent and goes to hang his own coat. “I hope you don’t mind Newt?”

“You have a lovely home, Anthony,” he replies instead, looking around. A door is closed, probably leading to Crowley’s private parts of the flat--and Aziraphale is now very intrigued to know more about the kind of bedding Crowley likes to sleep in, while the main room is split between the living room, where the plants are, and the kitchen, where Crowley is standing.

His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, good Lord.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies softly, simultaneously opening the refrigerator and turning the fire on under a large pan.

For some reason, hearing his first name in Crowley’s mouth is even better than the pet name he got used to.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Make yourself comfortable, angel, and perhaps open a bottle of wine?”

Aziraphale works quickly to open the bottle of red wine in order to be able to return to his gawking at Crowley in action.

“Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“This is a date, right?”

Crowley freezes before nodding.

“I’m really glad it is.”

Crowley comes to sit at the table too, a large plate covered in oysters and a light vinegary sauce. He has a small smile, almost shy. “I’m really glad too.”

“Oh, oysters,” Aziraphale can’t help but sigh happily. “How did you know that they are my “péché mignon”?”

“I had a hunch,” Crowley says, pushing the plate toward Aziraphale.

“You have a lot of them, about me?”

“Quite a few.” Here is that smile again, soft and warm and reaching into Aziraphale’s body to seize his heart in the most tender way.

Aziraphale tries to hide his blush by slurping on an oyster, the peppercorn and the vinegar heightening the ioded taste of the mollusk.

“That’s delicious.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you so good at cooking?”

That, more than anything else, gets Crowley started, and the hours tick by as they devour the plate of oysters and then the entire pan of risotto, spoonful by spoonful, while Crowley talks about his childhood, his desire to cook and his incessant need to ask questions to understand, really, the why’s and how’s of the universe. Aziraphale interjects some questions, mostly savouring both the food and the way Crowley seems to lighten up from the inside as they move to the plush looking couch in the living room. Truth be told, he becomes more alive the emptier the bottle becomes, sure, and his speech makes less and less sense, but it only makes him more attractive in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And then, then--” Crowley pauses, pouting. “What was I saying?”

Aziraphale blinks, and yes, he is quite inebriated himself. “Something about fish soup?”

“Bouillabaisse! Yes!”

“What about bulibaze?”

“... I don’t know. But it’s bloody good.”

Aziraphale starts giggling, and when he looks up again to pour himself another glass, Crowley is sitting far closer than he was just a moment ago.

“Oh.”

Crowley’s hair is ruffled and soft-looking, begging for Aziraphale to pass his fingers through them. His eyes are dark, a golden circle surrounding his irises. And his mouth is …

It’s calling for Aziraphale’s touch, that’s what it is.

They both lean closer, and Aziraphale licks his lips the moment Crowley bites on his lower lip.

“I have dessert.”

“You--uh?”

Crowley leans back, still close enough that Aziraphale can feel his body heat radiating on his left side.

“I prepared a dessert. For you. A special dessert.”

I could be happy with you as my dessert, fleetingly crosses Aziraphale’s mind but in the ranking of his sins, gluttony must supersedes lust because he is immediately curious.

“A special dessert for me?”

Crowley winks, the devil, before jumping out of the couch and sautering to the kitchen.

While he waits, Aziraphale tries to compose himself. 

Oh, he has every intention of bringing what almost happened to something that definitely happened, but he doesn’t want it to be a drunken, or worse, rushed moment.

Hence the composing.

“Tadaaa,” Crowley singsongs as he brings a plate to his coffee table. The plate is covered in thin golden biscuits, as thin as paper, rolled up and folded.

“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale picks up one of the biscuits. It’s amazingly light and buttery. “What are those?”

“They have two names,” Crowley explains, pushing forward Aziraphale’s glass. “They’re known as gavottes, or as crêpes dentelles.”

Aziraphale recognizes the first word. “Those are crêpe biscuits?”

“Yes.”

“And you made them for me.”

“... Yes, angel.”

Aziraphale delicately puts the biscuit back on the plate.

“What are y--”

Crowley doesn’t get to finish his sentence, his lips otherwise occupied by Aziraphale’s.

After months of dreaming about it, picturing how it would be, the reality of kissing Crowley is even better than he imagined. It’s soft and passionate and clumsy and perfect, all at once.

Crowley wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer until Aziraphale is practically lying on top of Crowley on the couch.

Clumsy? Definitely.

Uncomfortable? Just a little bit.

Everything Aziraphale wished for? And more.

Crowley moans into the kiss, and it’s not necessarily the good kind of moans. Aziraphale pushes himself up. “Everything alright, my dear boy?”

“Hm-hm,” Crowley replies, looking a bit dizzy. “Just, let me--agh--” Crowley winces, reaching behind him and picking a book. He glares at it, putting it on the table, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. The love and adoration in those golden eyes render Aziraphale silent. “Better. Now, where were we?”

Aziraphale smiles, caressing Crowley’s cheek. “At the beginning of forever, I believe,” he whispers, before diving in for another kiss.

(They do get to the gavottes, eventually, once Aziraphale is out of his waistcoat and his shirt is opened, and once Crowley’s pants have been opened.)

😈😇😈😇😈

It’s a heartbreak to part, but on the other hand, they make the journey from Crowley’s flat to the street where they both work together, so Crowley counts that as a win.

He waits for Aziraphale to pause at the entrance of his building, smiling at him one more time before they meet again in the evening, before entering the bakery.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.” Beelzy’s words contrast with their tone, but Crowley is used to that by now.”

“What can I do for you, my Lord?”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“I--I do. Did I give you the impression I wanted to leave?”

“No. Then again, I don’t usually care.”

“Oh. Then why--”

“I don’t want to work anymore. So. Are you interested?”

Crowley feels like he has entered the Twilight Zone. “Interested in?”

“In the shop, you imbecile. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Not really, no. But I could be interested.”

Beelzebub smiles at him. “Not so dumb after all then. Take your time, think about it, and come back tomorrow with your answer. I’m off now.”

With that, they walk out of the shop, leaving him alone with more to think about that he thought he would have on this day.

😈😇😈

“Are you interested?”

Crowley walks back and forth in Aziraphale’s living room, after retelling him of his boss’s proposal.

“I am! Of course I am!” he exclaims. “Fancy me, business owner. In charge of …”

“Of everything.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m sure you could do it,” Aziraphale points out, before sipping out of his mug of tea. “You have all it takes to turn this business into a success.”

“Except for the will to be responsible for it.”

“Hm.”

Crowley pauses. “Do you really think I could do it?”

“I do. You’re smart, creative, intuitive. You can do it.”

Crowley leans over the table to kiss Aziraphale before resuming his walking around. “But what of the money?”

“You have your severance money from Heavs.”

“True.”

“And, um.”

“What?”

Aziraphale wiggles on his spot. “I could, um, invest in it too?”

Crowley freezes. “You? What?”

Aziraphale stands to come in front of him. “I have money I could invest in your business.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish; he’s sure it’s not attractive, but he can’t do anything else.

“Or better yet?”

“Better?”

Aziraphale nods. “I could … be a partner.”

Crowley feels his face heating up but he focuses. “A partner?”

“Yes.”

“Care to develop on that idea, Angel?”

“I could--that is, I have been thinking.”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and then unloads all of the following in seemingly one breath.

“I have been miserable at my job for a while now, even though I’m quite good at it. I just, just, have enough of it, and I don’t think my soul can take much more of it. Meanwhile, I can see myself having a library of sorts, making my books available for all to peruse and enjoy while, I don’t know, maybe, savor some mini pastries?”

Crowley stares at him.

That idea is crazy.

Demented.

Completely out of this world.

Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

… Exactly what he wants, without ever knowing he did.

And yet, what comes out of his mouth next doesn’t make much sense either.

“You’d let people eat or drink near your books?”

Aziraphale had his mouth open to keep on babbling about his plans, but Crowley’s interjection brings him to a halt and he beams at him.

“I would. Would be rather hypocritical of me not to when I do it so often, wouldn’t it?”

“Ah. Right.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Was that your only objection, my dear, dear boy?”

Crowley’s brain fires up before he can get back to his senses. “I would love for us to be partners.”

“You would.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea, Angel.”

Aziraphale pulls on Crowley’s hand, pulling him closer, pulling him to him so they can kiss. “I do have a lot of ideas, Anthony.”

“Can’t wait to test them all, Aziraphale.”

(It takes them a moment to get their shop running, but eventually, Londoners get to enter “Above and Below”, thus named for the nurturing of the mind, through the books-- above-- and the body, through the food--below.

Crowley finds a way to make one-bite delicacies that match some of the books and Aziraphale is the one making the match when it’s not obvious.

They work well together, what can we say?) 

~~ The End ~~

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Cold and Broken Hallelujah (chapter 3)

Oof, sorry for the long wait, folks. Here it finally is, the conclusion. (As promised, I fixed it as best I could. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy the ride)

Link to Chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging  @blujicky @saphirawaffle @swanheart69 @ojedieu @gryssenielsen @totallysilvergirl @stiicck @stonequiet @giulisetta @livgg15 @collgeruledzebra @tonystark5ever @imposter-human @sharoto @guess-im-a-good-omens-blog-now @saphirawaffle @ginpaa @erdediekatze

_________________________________________________

Chapter 3

 “Crowley?” The name is a hesitant, pleading whisper that catches somewhere in the middle as it slips past his lips.  

 “Crowley!” The second call of his lover’s name rips from his throat in a harsh, broken sob, steeped in denial.

 A hurried snap of his fingers, and the holy bindings pinning Crowley to the wall fall away, leaving behind a mess of burned, bloodied skin.  The demon drops, limp and boneless, into Aziraphale’s trembling, waiting arms; the hilt of the sword that still protrudes grotesquely from Crowley’s chest pressing uncomfortably against Aziraphale’s ribs.  

The angel yanks the sword out, unthinking.  Tosses it away as if the very touch of it burns.

 Crowley doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as twitch in response. Only his blood begins to gush faster, unimpeded, from the gaping wound.

 “No,” Aziraphale murmurs – a futile moan of protestation against the merciless truth of reality, “no, no, no….”

 And, suddenly, his legs no longer seem to have what it takes to hold up his earthly corporation, and so he sinks heavily to the floor, his precious burden cradled protectively in his arms.

 He tries, oh, God Almighty does he try.  Presses his hand against the gushing hole in Crowley chest, trying his best to ignore the blood that coats his fingers, seeming to seep under his very skin, branding him like the murderer that he is.  And he pours all of his healing energy into it, channels every particle of his angelic being into one single mission – heal, heal, heal.  And he prays, and he prays, and he prays.

 “You don’t… really think it’s going to work, do you.”

 He doesn’t turn around at the sound of a familiar mocking voice.  He doesn’t need to.  He knows what he’ll see if he does: the looks of glee, the smiles of depraved pleasure. He remembers them.  Remembers them all too well.

 “You’re almost as ridiculous as that demon of yours.”

 He hears footsteps behind him, measured, deliberate, slow – a predator circling its prey, moving in closer and closer with every pass.

 “Do you know that this pathetic creature pleaded with us to spare you?  Begged me to keep you ignorant of what you’ve done?”

 Gabriel laughs behind him, sharp and grating, even as Aziraphale hunches in on himself, crushed by the weight of the damning words.  His fingers tremble splayed out against the awful wound, his focus slipping. He flicks his gaze up to his beloved’s face – ghostly pale now, its features hopelessly slack.  Blurred for him by the ever-thickening veil of tears that fogs his vision.

 “Why would you do this?” he whispers brokenly, pulling his hand away from the wound to brush a blood-covered finger against Crowley’s cheek. Flinches, his lips trembling, as he stares at the smudge of crimson his gentle touch left behind – so vivid, so nauseatingly stark against the near-translucent skin.  “Why would you–?”

 Another sob rips from his throat, cutting off the rest of the words, and he squeezes his eyes shut, tugging his lover’s too, too still form tighter against his chest.

 He knows why.  Of course, he knows.  Because it’s Crowley.  The demon who burned his feet on consecrated ground to rescue him.  The demon who defied Heaven and Hell time and time again for his sake.  The demon who… who loved him.  Enough to forgive him, enough to let him go.

 “It’s quite amusing, really.”

 Gabriel’s voice slithers once more into his grief-clouded consciousness, and he feels something inside him stir and shudder in response.  Something dark and ugly and terrifying – a dangerous savage beast, awoken after a millennia-long sleep.

 “Watching you skewer the serpent was entertaining enough, but watching you torment yourself over it now is just… well, it’s just so delicious!”

 There’s a loud, obnoxious cackle above his ear, a horrifyingly tasteless expression of perverted pleasure at the expense of his grief.  

The beast inside him roars in agony, slashes wildly at the chains of restraint holding it hostage within the shattered confines of his bleeding soul. He moans in anguished pain, arms and wings wrapping tighter around Crowley in a futile attempt to shield them both from the waves of twisted, noxious glee that permeate the room, poisoning its very air. Tries his best to ignore the archangel, to tune out the cruel words, his whole body trembling with the effort of reigning in the dark tempest of grief, rage and despair that brews inside him.

 It’s of no use.

 The metaphorical chains snap – the sound so loud in his ears, he’s sure everyone around him can hear it – and the beast breaks free in a powerful, blinding explosion of Light that bursts forth from him in every direction, furious, scorching, decimating.  A flashover of smiting angelic vengeance.

 He thinks he hears screaming, loud wails of pure agony. Gabriel’s, the other archangels’, perhaps even his own….  But it’s all lost, swallowed up in the searing maelstrom of Light, and the angel sways and cries at the epicenter of it, white wings wrapped protectively around a lifeless form that no longer requires his protection, shielding Crowley as Crowley had always shielded him, while the world around him burns, and burns, and burns.

 And then it’s over, and the Light goes out like a candle snuffed out by an abrupt gust of wind.

 Aziraphale slumps, drained, his cheeks wet, his throat raw from screaming he doesn’t remember having done. He isn’t aware of the sudden absence of their tormentors, of the scorched emptiness of the room.  Nothing exists for him anymore but Crowley, pale and lifeless in his arms. Dead.

 Three years.  Three years is all he’s been given to experience the true joy of living he hadn’t known in all of the millennia that came before it.  The joy he’d been denying himself and Crowley all that time.  Because he was a coward! A bloody coward who foolishly believed that what he was always taught was true; that Heaven was always right, as was the Great Plan they blindly followed; that demons were all inherently evil, soulless creatures, incapable of compassion, of empathy, of love…

 He knew… in his heart of hearts he’d always known… that Crowley was an exception.  No soulless creature would challenge so bluntly the Great Plan, appalled by the idea of wiping out thousands upon thousands of the human race, drowning everyone, including the…

 “Not the kids. You can’t kill kids!!!”

 Wouldn’t look so devastated, so sickened by the sight of that young carpenter from Galilee getting nailed to the cross for nothing more than trying to get humans to love one another.

 Wouldn’t risk his own life over and over to save Aziraphale’s.

 Wouldn’t… wouldn’t have that look in his eyes whenever he glanced toward Aziraphale, the look of love – pure, unadulterated, beautiful love. The kind Aziraphale was always told demons weren’t capable of.  And yet Aziraphale felt it from Crowley. In abundance.

 And he pushed it away. Pushed Crowley away.  Despite the fact that every fiber of his being longed to be closer. Warded himself away from both Crowley and his love because he was too afraid of what Heaven would do if they ever found out.  Cowardly protecting himself from what he was sure would be a wrathful reprimand.  

 And he hurt Crowley in the process.

 He wasn’t blind. He saw the brutal impact his rejections had on his then friend.

 “Friends? We’re not friends. We’re an angel and a demon. We have nothing in common. I don’t even like you!”

 Saw every poorly hidden flinch, every dejected droop of the thin shoulders, every pained twist of the lips that didn’t quite manage to form a smile, every note of anguish in the tired voice disguised by the ever-crumbling mask of sarcasm.

He saw.  And he hated himself for every moment of pain he had inflicted so cruelly on the demon.  Vowed to himself, once he finally worked up the courage to do what he should have done thousands of years ago, that he would spend the next millennia making it up to him.

 He got three years...

 His hand trembles as he cups the back Crowley’s head.  Gently, reverently lifts it up to press an equally trembling kiss against the sweat-stained temple.  A benediction, a plea for forgiveness, a final goodbye.

 “I’m sorry, my love,” he chokes out, taking a moment to bury his tear-stained face in the matted auburn hair, to breathe in Crowley’s scent for one last time.  “I am so, so sorry…”

 He doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. Doesn’t know if there’s anything left for him to do. His one true constant, his anchor in this vast, tumultuous universe, the heart and soul of his existence is gone, and there’s nothing tethering him to this earthly world.  Nothing left for him in Heaven either. Not anymore. Not after this.

 Perhaps it would have been better if he Fell.

 “Aziraphale.” The voice that calls his name is achingly familiar and one he hasn’t heard in over 6,000 years.  One he yearned to talk to all those years he’s been on Earth.  One he begged would answer him when… before it was too late.

One he no longer wishes to hear.

 “Aziraphale,” She repeats, softer this time, and he can feel Her heavenly light even through his tightly squeezed eyelids, “angel of the Eastern Gate.”

 Slowly he raises his head, squints toward Her with a tired glare.  “Why are You here?”

 She smiles at him – a soft crinkle in the otherwise flawless glowing skin.  “It isn’t often one of my children erases three archangels from existence,” She says, and his eyes widen momentarily in stunned disbelief.

 He glances behind him, as if to make sure, even though he knows She wouldn’t lie to him.  Not about something like this.  

Turns back to her, head raised in defiance.

 “You’re here to cast me out then?” he challenges. Because he’s ready for this. Willing even. Would gladly embrace the pain that comes with the Fall with both arms if it would drown out even a little bit of the agony that’s tearing apart his soul.

 She raises an eyebrow at that.  “No,” She denies, sounding surprised.

 He shakes his head. Raises his hand to wipe away another errant tear that trails down his cheek.  “I believed in You,” he murmurs dully.  “I trusted in Your Plan, in the goodness of it, even when others… when he…” He glances briefly down at Crowley, tucked safely against his chest. Blinks away another tear.  “…when he questioned the goodness of destroying thousands of innocent souls.”  Admits in a quieter voice, “Even when I myself questioned it.”

 He looks toward Her again, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. He knows he’s pushing it.  Knows he shouldn’t speak like this to Her. And some part of him wonders with morbid glee whether She might just smite him on the spot instead if he pushes hard enough. He finds himself craving the instant relief that would bring.

 “I believed in Your Love and Your Mercy.  But I was a fool.” His chin wobbles ever so slightly, words sticking in his tear-swollen throat. “You’re not merciful… at all.  You’re cruel.  You watch humans commit atrocities against one another, and You do nothing.  You encourage your archangels to be callous and vengeful, allow them to go about plotting the destruction of an entire human species just for the sake of settling an old score. And You do nothing! And the one archangel who loved Your creations, the one archangel who cared… You cast him out and tossed him into a pit of boiling sulfur for nothing more than questioning the righteousness of Your actions.”

 He sucks in a breath, arms tightening impossibly around Crowley’s still form, and words continue to pour out of him – an unstoppable torrent of rage and grief.

 “And when he came to Earth, a demon, and You saw that he still cared despite all odds, that he still had the capacity to love, which You told us none of the demons do, You abandoned him!  You made him think he wasn’t worthy of Your love.”

 “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. … Unforgivable, that’s what I am...”

 “You let Your other children torture him and… and kill him and… and I... I…”

 “I won’t make you Fall, Aziraphale.” Her calm, soothing voice interrupts the sob-broken ramble of his words.  

 She’s standing right before him now, Her warm, motherly gaze soft and inexplicably, apologetically sad. She seems tired somehow, he thinks absurdly as he watches Her shift Her attention to Crowley, reach a delicate glowing hand toward him.

 He tenses despite himself, moving to pull Crowley out of harm’s way, but Her touch doesn’t burn the demon, doesn’t engulf him in smiting, punishing Light.  She merely smoothes Her fingers over the unruly flame-red locks, slowly and lovingly as a mother would when she soothes her child to sleep for the night.  Smiles down at him with that same gentle, wistful smile.

 “I never meant for him to Fall either,” She confides, Her smile growing brittle as She rests her hand against Crowley’s cheek.  “It was a different time back then.  I was… young. I thought I knew everything, had it all figured out, everything set in motion as it was to be.”

 Absently, She runs her thumb along the smear of blood on Crowley’s cheek, the stain disappearing underneath her touch.

 “And this… bright, bright child of mine, he challenged me, asked me questions no one’s ever asked before, questions I realized I wasn’t ready to answer. And it… embarrassed me, made me angry.”

 Her hand drops back down to Her side, softly shimmering blue eyes rising to meet Aziraphale’s, and he’s surprised to see a hint of tears there, a pained flash of remorse.

 “I reacted poorly,” She admits, regret creasing Her features, making Her appear older, careworn.  “And it took me a little while to realize that.”

 “A few millennia?” he quips, but there’s no bite to his words, just an overwhelming weariness. Because none of this matters anymore, does it. Because Crowley’s still dead.

 Her lips twitch again, sorrowful.  “Something like that.”

 Aziraphale nods, closing his eyes against that unbearable softness he sees in Hers, a softness that looks and feels too much like pity. Swallows thickly against an ever-present bitter swell of tears.  “Why tell me all this now?” he wonders, voice empty. “Where were You when I… when he… when we both needed you,” he thinks, bitter.  “What is the point?”

 Warm fingers brush the side of his face, the touch – a soothing balm against his ravaged nerves, and he jolts, his eyes flying open in surprise as he feels that divine warmth flood into him, melting away all traces of anger and despair and filling those spaces with reassurance and hope.

 “I can’t change the mistakes of the past, Aziraphale,” She acknowledges in a regretful murmur, her fingers still lingering against his skin as flecks of golden light fall from Her hair, dancing in a shimmering mesmerizing veil in the air around Her.  “But I can make a clean slate for the future.”

 She leans down a bit to Crowley’s level, brings her lips to the demon’s forehead, pressing a light kiss against the cold, pale skin.  Gentle and chaste like the blessing of a mother’s love.

 She pulls away, the skin around Her eyes crinkling with contentment as She watches a speckle of golden light dance on the surface of the demon’s skin where Her lips have touched him a moment ago.  The light lingers for another heartbeat or two before it slowly begins to seep deeper into the skin until it disappears altogether.

 She nods, pleased; turns Her gaze back to Aziraphale, who’s been following Her movements with bated breath and desperate timorous hope.

 “Be well, my children,” She tells him, “be… Loved.” And then She’s gone – a blinding supernova that flashes instantly out of their plane of existence, leaving behind a halo of golden flecks that flutter about, shimmering, as their light, too, slowly fades away.

 Aziraphale pays them no heed.  For in that moment, in that very moment, he feels a small shudder go through the lifeless form in his frantic embrace, and his breath hitches on a sob of gasp as he watches the deadly wound knit itself closed, the gaunt chest beginning to move, haltingly at first, but steadier and steadier with every subsequent breath.

 “Crowley?” he calls, a pitifully hopeful squeak of a whisper. “Crowley?”  And nearly chokes in giddy, dizzying relief when the dark eyelashes flutter weakly in response, a thin sliver of yellow peaking out.

 “Oh, Crowley, oh, my darling, oh, thank God!”

Crowley shifts slightly within his grasp, his hand rising feebly to touch the angel’s face, a barely audible moan of frustration slipping past his lips when his hand drops will-lessly back down before making contact.

 Aziraphale catches it mid-fall, captures it gently in his own. Raises it to his lips to press a deep, reverent kiss into the trembling palm.

 “I love you,” he murmurs, leaning in to lay more grateful, tearful kisses on the dear face. “I love you s..so much!”

 His voice catches, unsteady, and he buries his face unashamedly in Crowley’s neck, his body shaking so hard, he barely registers the equally unsteady, clumsy brush of Crowley’s fingers against the back of his head as the demon tries to comfort him the best he can.

 “S’okay now, angel,” he huffs out breathlessly above Aziraphale’s ear.  “S’a…all gonna be okay.”

 He nods mutely against the side of the demon’s neck, feeling the reassuring hum of life underneath his skin.  “Thank You!” he whispers fervently in his mind, hoping that She can hear him, hoping She knows, sees how much it truly means.  

He lifts up his head once more, hungrily drinking in the sight of his beloved – still weak, still alarmingly pale, but alive, alive, alive!  Moves in to seal an embarrassingly wet, lingering kiss against his lips, his soul quivering with pure, unbridled joy when those lips move feebly in response.    

“Thank You!”

[awesomehoggirl]

the five w’s (and one h) of journalism and how to use them; as demonstrated by a. j. crowley, demon

ineffable husbands | set some short time after the apocawasn’t | literally just a drabble i wrote on the train | warnings: earthquake mention, alcohol, implied nfsw | 1261 words

they’re working steadily through the wine, joking and laughing together on the sofa when aziraphale, downy and heathersoft, wipes his eyes and sighs:

‘oh, crowley, whatever do you want from me?’

now, that’s quite a big question, especially for one so spectacularly drunk, so crowley cannot quite answer it in that moment. probably, he laughs it off, maybe he makes a flirtatious comment, but he doesn’t answer it.

later, though, he does, to his bedroom ceiling, to his lonely apartment, to himself. he lies down, shuts his eyes and answers.

x x x

to answer the question in short: i want you.

to answer the question in medium: for god’s sake, for satan’s sake, for whatever menial sake sam who works in the co-op down the road holds, for the sake of the earth you love so much, for the sake of all the old bookshops and tumbledown florists in london, i fucking want you.

to answer the question in long: here is a small essay on what i want, which is - spoiler alert - you.

the five w’s of journalism, sometimes referred to as five w’s (and one h), or 5w1h, or the six w’s, are the most basic questions used to gather and present information. they are who, what, when, where, and why (and how). often used for police investigations or news-style writing, the five w’s (and one h) are said to have originated from the work of artistotle and his nicomachean ethics, credited as the source of the elements of circumstance (or septem circumstantiae). i won’t get into their history, as i’m sure you already know all about it. you remember aristotle, don’t you? funny bloke.

so here, angel, is my answer: what i want, and who i want and where i want and when i want and why i want and how i want. here are my five w’s (and one h).

who do i want? i want the angel aziraphale, and i want all of him. i want him round and golden on a summer afternoon, dandelion-clock, weeping willow, dusty sunlight. i want him freshly-fallen snow in the winter, i want him a slice of pale sky, edges coloured dark with the weight of the weather. i want him thunderstorm. i want him lightning bright and rain soft and cloudy grey. i want him winged, i want him fallen. i want age-old hands and a heavy brow and it’s cheesy, i know. i know.

when and where do i want you? anytime, anywhere, as long as you’re with me. i want you with me in the earliest strains of the morning and i want you with me under the cool shade of the night. i want you for breakfast and lunch and dinner and dessert. be with me, in eden, in ancient rome, medieval london, paris, oh, all the times and all the places in between. frown when i make a clumsy baker leave the oven on, pout when the city’s in ashes, smile at me with your eyes when you walk through the plague hospital one final time. mouth thank you, but don’t slip away. we’ll accept our commendations and go home together. please don’t go, okay?

what do i actually want with you? that’s easy. a life, on earth, together. we could buy a cottage in the south downs and start an allotment and be beautifully mundane. we could travel the globe, never stick in one place for too long, buy a boat and breathe the sea. we could make ourselves kings - i could wage war and plunder for gold, you could heal and build and grow. we could rearrange the stars. we could make a new city. we could stay right where we are forever and ever. i want a house with you, with a bed we share, and a greenhouse full of my plants, and a library for all your books that you’ll probably never leave, and a back garden and a freezer and an oven and i’ll learn to cook. i want to get pointlessly married. i want a life with you.

why do i want you? that’s harder, because there are billions and squillions of reasons why (and we may have eternity but i don’t want to spend it listing all the reasons why). an easier question to ask would be, why wouldn’t i want you? because the answer would be two words: anyone would.

but how come i want you? you, as in an angel. we’re enemies, opposite ends on a magnet, pitted against each other from the very start. well, truth be told, i don’t really know - either i’m a really shitty demon, or you’re a really shitty angel. probably both, actually. definitely both. we’re great humans, though, so we’ve got that going for us.

i don’t know how it’s going to be. i have this image in my mind: we’ll kiss, and the earth will shake. we’ll touch, and heaven and hell themselves will snarl and raise their hackles and unleash armageddon all over again. what happens when a demon and an angel fall love? does the sky fall and rain down on the earth? does the ground explode? do tectonic plates tremble in their earthy sockets? do buildings fall, do people die? it’s scaring me shitless. i don’t even think i want to know, but i suppose we’ll find out - there’s a first time for everything, after all.

so, in conclusion, what do i want from you? i want you, aziraphale, i want you.

x x x

he tells aziraphale this, well, a rough version of this: a rather jumbled version, lacking somewhat in elcoquence, also he’s fairly drunk (again) on red, and they’re sitting in the bentley. it’s very late (or is it early?) and aziraphale, who is sober in more ways than one, rubs the backs his shivering hands as he sobs, hard and sour, the words falling off his twisted tongue in clumps, in clots. he doesn’t let the angel touch his shades. he doesn’t want to show his eyes, not right now.

and as he chokes out the last shaking ‘i want you,’ aziraphale cuts him off with a gentle kiss.

the world does not crumble. reality does not fall in on itself. the sky does not collapse and the tectonic plates stay perfectly still aside from the usual shifting and the ground does not explode. heaven and hell continue to pace, unaware. the night is still and quiet, honeysuckled, inkblack and full.

the world does not end when the demon and the angel part for breath then fall back into each other. it doesn’t end when jackets are removed, when hands brush curving spines, when eyelashes flutter. the bentley’s seats are slightly scorched and there’s a strange smell hanging, like candyfloss and sulphur, but the universe remains intact.

contrary to popular belief, the five w’s (and one h) of journalism did not originate from the ethical writings of aristotle. they’d existed, way back before him, before the first thought of ethics had even been thunked, since day one. there’s been six thousand years of them so far - six thousand years of whos and whats and whens and wheres and whys (and hows). of course there have been. they were one of crowley’s.

‘what do you want from me?’ an angel once asked.

the night is still, as crowley answers, blissfully, lovingly, again and again and again.

i want you.

x x x

can u tell i’m a lonely pining 15 year old full of hormones

hope u enjoyed this it’s very unedited and probs shit but hey i wrote something! and finished it! in under a day!

have a good morning/afternoon/evening :)

- prim

[ohhpersephone]

I know it’s almost March and I probably should have done this sooner, but I didn’t think about it so I’m doing it now! Here’s a mostly complete list of things that I wrote in 2019! I’ll put it below the cut so I don’t spam anyone, but if you’re interested in any of the following, click the cut :)

My Hero Academia - Bakugo/Midoriya

Harry Potter - Draco/Harry

Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley

Person of Interest - Finch/Reese

Poetry!

Personal Essays touching on humor! lesbians! mental illness! An argument for rereading books! Why fic is important!

POETRY

Poetry Tumblr Poetry Instagram

FIC

Good Omens

you had your soul with you Rating: General Audiences Wordcount: 3,339 Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Fluff, with a little demonic angst

After the world is supposed to end but doesn't, Crowley and Aziraphale have a conversation about a certain book of prophecy.

back in your body Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Not Rated Wordcount: 2,336 Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Light Angst, Coda

Looking at the bookshop and drinking scene from Crowley's POV.

I’ll be your rabbit in the headlights Rating: Mature Wordcount: 7,185 Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Praise Kink

"The demon absentmindedly ran his hand through his hair, the fifth such time he’d done so in the past half hour. A low thrum of anxiety had taken residence in his stomach after Armaged-Not and refused to leave, even after the complete radio silence from the respective offices of Heaven and Hell that had followed the trials. Part of Crowley reveled in the newfound freedom, but another whispering part thought this can’t be over." Crowley has some fears and Aziraphale tracks him down, looking for answers.

My Hero Academia

SERIES: you’re always on my mind whisper in your ear Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Wordcount: 6,628 Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Additional Tags: Getting Together, Aged-Up Character(s), Post-Canon, Light Angst, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Mild Language, Pro Hero Midoriya Izuku, Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki, Pining Bakugou Katsuki, pining like a motherfucker "Katsuki Bakugou has never been accused of emotional intelligence. A hardworking student, of course. An overpowered little shit with the quirk control of a seasoned pro? Absolutely, emphasis on the little shit. But understanding emotions beyond anger and annoyance? That is not Bakugou’s wheelhouse." After graduation Bakugou heads to America. A nudge from Kirishima leads him to look back towards home.

I think about you and wonder if you are awake Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Wordcount: 9,526 Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Additional Tags: Pro Hero Midoriya Izuku, Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki, Aged-Up Character(s), Getting Together, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Midoriya Izuku is Bad at Feelings, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Pining, so much pining, Mutual Pining, Mentions of Sex "So Izuku lies in bed and stares at the ceiling, trying to avoid thinking and thinking entirely too much. As often happens when he has too much time and not enough distractions, his mind flashes images in front of his eyes of blond hair, a snarling grin, controlled but wild red eyes. He wonders where Kacchan is now, wonders what he’s doing, misses him with a ferocity that threatens to drown him." whisper in your ear from Izuku's point of view.

a letter a day keeps the heartache away Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Wordcount: 2,627 Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Additional Tags: Epistolary, Light Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Bakugou Katsuki Needs a Hug, Insecurity, Happy Ending "There is a shoebox in the back of the closet. Katsuki doesn't think much of it the first time he sees it, he's looking for his nice shoes and they're in a hurry. It’s not labeled or marked as special in any way, but he knows how much of an emotional hoarder Izuku is. The man would save anything and everything given to him, small pieces that remind him of people and times that are important to him." When Katsuki finds something in the closet, a necessary conversation happens.

ONESHOTS here comes a thought Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Wordcount: 4,007 Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Aged-Up Character(s), Pro Hero Midoriya Izuku, Pro Hero Uraraka Ochako, Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki, Getting Together, Naked making out, Quirk Accident (My Hero Academia)

It should have been an easy day. Izuku woke before his alarm and the sun is shining, he’d even snagged the last spicy pork bun at the stall he usually stops at for breakfast. There had been no major events while he’d slept and his desk is—by rare chance—empty of reports when he gets in. He spends the morning with a smile on his face, relaxed.Of course it doesn’t last. When Bakugou and Midoriya get hit with an unexpected quirk, a new world opens before him.

an end, once and for all Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 7,531 Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Additional Tags: Major Character Injury, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Pro Hero Midoriya Izuku, Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki, Future Fic, Near Death Experiences, Final Battle, Getting Together, Anal Sex, First Time, Protective Midoriya Izuku, Protective Bakugou Katsuki, mentions of death of all might

Izuku is so tired. He’s overused his quirk and he’s separated from the other heroes. He knows he’s so far past his limits, but there’s a whisper in his heart that knows this has to be it. This is his chance to end everything, to finally bring the villain down. There is no other option. The final fight with All For One ensues and Izuku is hard pressed when Bakugo arrives. Then there's the aftermath.

how close am I to losing you Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Wordcount: 3,341 Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Quirk Accident (My Hero Academia), Minor Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Pro Hero Midoriya Izuku, Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki, Pro Hero Kirishima Eijirou, Future Fic, Aged-Up Character(s)

It’s a simple enough plan: they’ve been tracking the source of several riots that have occurred in the recent weeks and came to the conclusion it had to be a quirk. The lack of memory from the riot victims, no traces of chemicals or any environmental causes found, and the spontaneous explosion of violence that preceded each event narrowed possible inciting incident quite a bit. Then in reviewing security footage of the events, a single, fire-red head was spotted floating in and out of the chaos at each location. In trying to take down a villain with a rage-inducing quirk, Katsuki gets hit and Izuku has to protect him from himself.

Other Fandom Oneshots

what hides in the past Fandom: Harry Potter Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Wordcount: 3,541 Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy

Draco is doing some unpacking while Harry's at work and stumbles across something that makes him question what he really knows about Harry's childhood.

live with me Fandom: Person of Interest Rating: Mature Wordcount: 6,207 Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Truth Serum, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Harold Finch, Protective Harold Finch, Hurt John Reese, Getting Together, Kidnapping

"The summer heat had settled over New York weeks ago, and while crimes of passion had spiked with the temperature, premeditated attacks had dropped off while people took shelter and tried to conserve energy. There hadn’t been a number in days, something that caused Reese both to pace restlessly while trying to encourage Finch to take a break." It's supposed to be an easy day. No one counts on Reese being taken by a previous number's enemies.

Personal Essays

On the Importance of Bailing In a world that idolizes individual strength, bailing is not a positive thing. But it’s something we need, and we need to talk about it.

Why We Should Be Teaching Fanfiction Fanfiction is not a lesser form of writing. It can teach us so much about what it means to be human, if we’re willing to listen.

If the night is too dark, read this. It’s so hard to find reasons to keep going sometimes. This isn’t a reason, but it is a message from someone who’s been there and still is.

How I Came Out Twice Coming out can be a stressful experience full of unknowns. Here’s the story of why I did it twice.

An Argument for Rereading Books Many things in our society are very “one and done”, not necessary to revisit once done. But should we reread books? Here’s why I say yeah.

When Your Eating Disorder Isn’t About Food At All I love food, but this was never about the food, was it?

the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had You know the song Mad World by Gary Jules? Funnily enough, for me it’s the truth.

My Level Up Moment Becoming an adult is not a continuous process, it comes in fits and spurts. Here’s a moment where I felt myself grow up.