#no wonder Aziraphale wants to fix heaven to get this smile back | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

doonarose · 7 months

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Fic dump. Rated M (I think, correct me?). Really dumb fluffy thing that entered my brain two hours ago because of all the tomfoolery/hanky panky/monkey business discourse on my dash. And then I wrote it and that's my last two hours.

*****

Crowley reckoned that saving the world (again) had been rather a good thing. Getting Aziraphale back from heaven having finally seen the light (insofar as discovering various shades of grey, seeing reason and subsequently pushing the Metatron into a lake, at least) had been very good indeed. And coming to realize that Aziraphale actually, really, very much did want to kiss him had been wonderful, if a little awkward and also quite over-whelming.

Things had progressed from there and that was all rather glorious. Long, languorous afternoons in bed together, exploring comfort and pleasure and intimacy they could scarcely believe they’d managed to go without for over six millennia. And then that gave way to several frantic, frenetic shags around the bookshop, invariably punctuated by laughter and embarrassingly vulnerable and high-pitched sounds.

Crowley quite enjoyed seducing Aziraphale, but he didn’t want to be pushy about it and so after pouncing on him mid-breakfast – resulting in spilt tea and the discovery of twin ticklish spots behind Aziraphale’s knees – Crowley decided to wait him out for the next round.

He didn’t have to wait long because the very next evening, Aziraphale was overly fidgety. He opened and closed three different books without ever reading a page and then stood up quite loudly to ask, “Shall we retire upstairs for some tomfoolery?”

Crowley’s face shifted automatically into a sneer which then tumbled into a grimace as his shoulders tightened with concern that Aziraphale would take his revulsion that wrong way. Crowley was very quick to say, “Don’t call it that.”

Aziraphale seemed entirely unaffected, supremely confident in Crowley’s acquiescence, and was already on his way up the stairs. “I think it’s a rather lovely euphemism.”

Crowley was already trailing him obediently. “’s not. No room for you, me and Tom in the bed, certainly nothing foolish.”

Aziraphale was pushing open the bedroom door and shrugging his jacket off, his eyes bright as he rather deliberately tried to annoy Crowley. “You know it’s meant to be derived from a Tom who was, indeed, either very foolish, or made others do foolish things.”

“See, nothing to do with sex.”

Aziraphale pulled a face and looked ready to argue. Crowley shut him up the very best way he could think of.

*****

Nina held on to their takeaway cups for a beat too long and fixed Crowley with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. “You two have been very holed up over there since you got back from wherever it was you went,” she remarked without handing over the beverages.

Crowley seethed silently and pulled his top lip back to bare some teeth. Aziraphale waited for a question.

“Lots of times I’ve walked past and it looks like you’re in, but the shop is closed. I mean, much more than it used to be.”

She handed over Aziraphale’s medium tea but, without any good reason, held onto Crowley’s four shots of espresso in a cup (he was cutting back).

“Not getting into any sort of trouble we should know about?” she finally asked.

Crowley still wasn’t sure how much she remembered of demons and angels, but clearly enough to have her a little worried. Or perhaps she was just being nosey.

Aziraphale smiled beatifically. “Oh, certainly not, my dear, nothing for you to worry about.” He did one of his bursting-with-excitement whole-body shimmies and Crowley’s embarrassment for him and for how ludicrously affectionate it made him feel turned the tips of his ears bright red. “Just spending some quality time together,” Aziraphale continued without any pretence whatsoever. Crowley discovered new depths to the embarrassment he could feel and to how deep underground he suddenly wanted to burrow. Nina hadn’t even so much as glanced at Aziraphale, instead she just stared down Crowley’s ever-growing grimace and red ears.

Aziraphale wasn’t done. “Discovering all sorts of shenanigans we can get up to,” he said, leaving absolutely no allusions as to what he euphemistically meant.

Nina grinned and Crowley bit out, “Don’t,” which may have been aimed at either or both of them. Beside him Aziraphale bounced on his feet and across the counter, Nina looked like she was thinking of a follow-up question. “Don’t,” he said again, warningly and reached for his coffee with urgently grabbing fingers.

Nina relented and handed it over so Crowley could take Aziraphale by the elbow and start pushing him towards the door. “Don’t tell people we’re discovering shenanigans,” he growled into Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale just wriggled like he was enjoying himself. This only made Crowley smile which he really didn’t want to be doing now. They had to side-step a gaggle of schoolgirls pouring through the door.

“Well, I couldn’t very well tell her we were… you know,” Aziraphale kept his voice low and Crowley bit back another smile to see the rose in his cheeks.

“Could tell them nothing,” Crowley explained, holding the door open and gently guiding Aziraphale through it. Of course, they were met by Maggie, on her way in, smiling, as always.

Behind them, Nina called out, loud enough for half the street to hear and in such a tone that probably half the street would immediately know exactly what type of shenanigans Crowley and Aziraphale were up to. “Good for you boys, about time.”

Maggie’s eyebrows shot up in understanding, a couple of the schoolgirls giggled, and Crowley just continued to push Aziraphale out the door as he gave up the fight and called back over his shoulder, “It is and we’re not!”

*****

“Were you up for a little monkey business tonight, dear?”

Crowley covered his entire face with both hands and leaned both elbows heavily on the table. Aziraphale had to be deliberately doing this, otherwise there was no hope for them. The sex the day before had been rather good, it was a shame it would be their last time, but Crowley really couldn’t go on with things like this.

Peeking out from between his fingers, through the dark shades he only ever wore in public, Aziraphale’s tight-lipped smile and squared shoulders confirmed he was teasing. Crowley dragged his hands down his cheeks, pulling at the skin and trying to rub some of the heat out of them. “Why must you vex me on purpose, angel?”

“I thought you might like to engage in a little amorous congress?”

“That one’s not even a euphemism, just sounds awful.”

“How about bumping uglies?”

Crowley reeled at that, casting himself right back in his seat and released a guffaw that drew a couple of glances from fellow dinners.

Aziraphale beamed at him.

Leaning back in close and contemplating a little demonic intervention to at least keep wandering eyes and ears away, Crowley hissed, “Just call it sex, angel.”

Aziraphale pretended to think on that, pressing another mouthful clearly worthy of its own moan of appreciation into his mouth. It would have been lucky if the terrible euphemisms balanced out the obscene noises he made when he ate, but unfortunately, at no point had Aziraphale’s language actually put Crowley off even a little bit, and, to date, there wasn’t a single shared meal that Crowley could recall that hadn’t turned him on quite a lot.

“It isn’t just sex though, is it?” Aziraphale eventually decided.

Crowley arched an eyebrow and resisted the urge to reach forward and run his fingers over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. They didn’t do that, not in public, not yet. “’s not?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “What we’re really doing, my dear, is making love.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled and he took another bite and Crowley groaned and leaned back in his chair once more. “Good fucking grief,” was all he could say (mostly because – and he’d never, ever, admit this to anyone – he entirely agreed, and hearing Aziraphale say it was actually kind of thrilling).

“But back to the point, were we intending on making whoopee this evening?”

“Angel, if you discorporate me with your dreadful language, there won’t be any whoopee for quite a while.” Aziraphale ignored him and just took another mouthful of his meal. Reluctantly, begrudgingly, Crowley answered: “But yes,” and then he bent right forward at the hips, across the table, as close as he could get, voice dropped low and rough and secret, as he tried something new and daring, and in his own way, rather vulnerable. “Yes, I would rather like to fuck you tonight. Ideally until you’ve lost the ability to speak.”

Even if Aziraphale couldn’t quite bring himself to say any such thing, Crowley was increasingly aware that he rather liked to hear it. In private at least. And at that moment, at their usual table at the Ritz, in the privacy of their heads bowed together, Crowley saw straight away that it was making the angel’s breath catch and his pulse speed up.

A small victory, then.

Aziraphale took another slow mouthful and Crowley slipped back into his seat to watch with his chin perched on his hand, his elbow on the table.

“Very good, then,” Aziraphale said, still satisfyingly breathless. He laid his knife and fork down on the plate. “I was enquiring as I thought, with that being the case, we could perhaps get dessert to go?”

“Sounds perfect, angel.”

“Since you’ve so gallantly promised to butter my crumpet.”

Aziraphale wriggled with his enjoyment at the way Crowley’s face crumpled.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Crowley griped and then simply followed up with, “I despise you.”

“You don’t,” Aziraphale replied, singsong and knowing.

*****

Crowley was in a ridiculously good mood. But he wasn’t thinking about it too much, lest he scare it off. It probably had a lot to do with Aziraphale, and it was probably rather unbecoming on his moody, sharp, dark frame.

Just the other day, Aziraphale had prodded him into bringing all his plants into the bookshop to find permanent spots for them; then he had taken him shopping to buy quite a few more. The day after that, Aziraphale had not only allowed Crowley to wedge a rather large flatscreen TV up against the wall in the spare bedroom, but had then snuggled up between his legs on the single bed and managed to watch all of Pride and Prejudice with only a handful of interjections about deviations from the book (Crowley had no idea if it would be a mistake to press the 1995 mini-series on him next).

And then Aziraphale had spent two hours this morning bent over his desk next to a mysterious man with a thick accent, ooohing and ahhhing at a simply sublime set of books they were on offer for purchase. He’d made a big show of asking Crowley if he thought the price was fair and Crowley had followed the prepared script and helped him haggle another ten percent off the first editions he’d selected. Why that particular interaction made Crowley extraordinarily happy was not something he was ready to contemplate.

All of this was to say that it wasn’t his fault what happened when he got bored of the book he’d been trying to read (Aziraphale had insisted he at least try reading novels) and slinked up the stairs to search out Aziraphale.

He found him sitting in the center of the four-poster bed in their bedroom (that was still unofficial, that it was theirs, but it was), his back against the pillows fluffed up on the headboard, ankles crossed with only thick woollen socks covering his feet. His waistcoat was all the way undone, as was his bowtie and top buttons. His shirt sleeves were folded back to the elbows and his wire-framed reading glasses were perched on his nose as his brow creased with concentration. Intermittently, he scribbled into a notebook propped open against his thigh and turned the pages of a stapled photocopy of some ancient text back and forth with his other hand.

Like this, especially before he even noticed Crowley lurking in the doorway, Aziraphale was devastatingly handsome. And rather likely to be Crowley’s undoing, he thought, still very happily.

He moved into the room and Aziraphale glanced up, casting him a smile as he continued to scribble.

Crowley rounded the bed and considered his options, although really there was just one: slip onto the mattress, beneath the sheets, and have his way with this perfect, delicious, delectable angel, precisely as lazy Tuesday afternoons and high thread count bedding were designed for. And if Aziraphale wanted to make him wait, to keep working, or even just to tease him, then he would wait. What else was there to do?

“Are you wearing sock garters again”? Crowley asked, trying very hard to sound unimpressed when really he was the opposite and already delighted at the thought of the extra touches and movements required to unclip and slide them down Aziraphale’s warm calves. The fact that Aziraphale must be the only man left on the planet that bothered with them was also infuriatingly endearing, in much the same way most of his endearing qualities infuriated Crowley.

“I am,” Aziraphale responded without looking up. “I’m afraid these socks require them and these are my most comfortable lounging socks.”

“Nobody has lounging socks, angel.”

Crowley knelt onto the mattress beside Aziraphale’s feet and Aziraphale finally looked up at him. “Did you want to take them off?” he asked, holding far too much control and expectation in his voice. Crowley rather liked that, too.

“If you want me to?” Crowley slipped one hand up Aziraphale’s right trouser-leg, over the warm scratchy wool to the skin between it and the smooth elastic material of the garter itself. He stroked his fingers back and forth.

“Are you trying to tempt me away from my work?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, I mean, ‘s my job, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale lips quirked up. “Trying to entice me into a little afternoon delight”?

Crowley didn’t entirely hate that one, or perhaps Aziraphale really had started to wear him down. And he was so very, very happy that afternoon, for whatever reason, deliriously so, which was the only explanation for why he next said: “A little hanky panky never hurt anyone.”

Aziraphale snorted and Crowley felt the euphemism trip dirtily off his tongue as though it was a proper blaspheme and as though blasphemy was a real thing. He tried to swallow it back down and spit it out at the same time, like it tasted truly awful and should never have been uttered, but it was all too late. He opened his mouth with a flinch, rolling his tongue and pulling a disgusted face that just made Aziraphale laugh.

“Shut up,” he said without venom and very quickly stripped Aziraphale’s right calf of sock and garter, scratching his nails through the hair across his shin as he did.

“Say it again and I’ll let you take my trousers off,” Aziraphale teased.

“Didn’t say anything,” Crowley grumbled, slipping his hands up the left trouser leg.

“What don’t you just ask me for a roll in the hay?”

Crowley said nothing but stripped the second sock and garter off, taking a moment to give Aziraphale’s naked foot a good, tight squeeze. Foot-rubs were a thing they did now, although Crowley was still making his mind up whether he preferred to give or to receive.

“Knocking boots?” Aziraphale tried. “The horizontal tango? A rendezvous beneath the sheets? What about making sweet, sweet music?” He was failing to keep the laughter out of his voice.

And Crowley was turning red in the face of it, he moved to crawl up the bed and put a stop to what should really be quite an off-putting monologue but Aziraphale stopped him with a foot against his chest.

Which in itself should certainly not have done what it did to Crowley’s stomach.

“Hanky panky,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed out. “Just fucking call it fucking, angel, you’ll find it freeing.”

Aziraphale did not look convinced but he also didn’t look like he didn’t quite enjoy Crowley’s dirty mouth. He’d admitted as much a couple of times by now, only ever in the dark, and only ever in between blissful, euphoric little moans.

Aziraphale let his foot drop back to the bed, moving his leg up and wide, inviting Crowley in. He seemed to search for a middle ground, “Fancy a shag?” he tried.

“What about a screw?” Crowley wasted no more time and crawled up the bed, slotting into place over and against him easily.

“You really are ridiculous,” Aziraphale told him.

“You are.”

#####

The war of the euphemisms waged for months. Aziraphale cheated by ordering in an entire book dedicated to the topic and once Crowley discovered this, there were moments in which he genuinely wondered when it would truly start to annoy him. Except it never did. There were many more moments where it served as a gateway to dalliances – to fucking, to, satan help him, making love – and, importantly, to talking about it. They got tremendously good at it, rather fast, as they very much deserved.

And in the end, Crowley had to admit, it was all worth it: the red-tipped ears and the giggles of Nina and Maggie, the way his whole body recoiled every time he heard Aziraphale’s latest bad euphemism, and his tongue tasted like cabbage every time he was tricked or enticed into uttering one of his own. And it was especially worth it for the moment when Aziraphale seemed to finally tire of the game, or perhaps, there was just something in the air.

Aziraphale sidled right up behind him, never one to be quiet about such things, and rested his hands on Crowley’s hips from behind. He hooked his chin over Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley learned back into the embrace automatically, entirely ready for whatever romantic, archaic, trivial thing Aziraphale felt the need to tell him.

Instead, Aziraphale whispered, hot breathed into his ear, “Darling, would you like to come upstairs and fuck me?” and that broke Crowley for quite a long while.

#doonas fic #this was meant to be a drabble #will title and tidy up to post tonight on ao3 #if you have a title for it that'd be amazing #any typos or tense issues should also be pointed out #who knows why i wrote this is past tense but i did

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lynfraser09 · 10 months

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Tell Me ~ Good Omens

Characters/pairings: Aziraphale / Crowley

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: G

Word count: 2,437

Summary: (SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2)

"Stay. Tell me you'll stay. Because I am not going."

An alternate version of the final scene. [Fix it]

Read on A03 Read on FF

There were only a few times in Crowley’s existence where he felt the entire universe shatter beneath him.

Once when he was cast out of Heaven.

And another when Aziraphale stood before him, grinning, exuding joy, but telling him that he wanted to go back to Heaven, become an Archangel and return Crowley to his former status as an angel.

“Tell me you said no.”

His body was tense with fear and rage as he stared at Aziraphale, whose smile was fading, confusion and disappointment in his eyes which only fueled the fire raging inside Crowley.

“Tell me you said no.”

Aziraphale was silent.

“I…I didn’t say no.” Aziraphale stuttered, his brow furrowing, and Crowley’s stomach dropped.

“I didn’t say yes either,” He quickly added and took a step towards Crowley, a desperate pleading smile forcing itself back onto his face and Crowley glared at him cautiously.

“Crowley, listen, if I’m in charge…I can make a difference.”

“A difference?” Crowley scoffed bitterly and Aziraphale’s face fell once more. “Angel, there is nothing you, or anyone can do to fix them.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, and he frowned. “I-I don’t believe that. Without Gabriel…”

Crowley let out a loud groan. “You think Gabriel is the only one who wasn’t good? It's the whole lot of them!”

Aziraphale huffed. “He was the one in charge, and now…now that can be me, and I can bring you with me…”

“I don’t want to go to Heaven!” Crowley hissed. “Why would you ever think I’d want that? We are fine here. We’ve been fine here.” he stared into Aziraphale’s shocked and pained expression and added, "Haven't we?"

"We've been fine but in Heaven…"

Crowley let out a frustrated growl, cutting him off, and turned away from Aziraphale quickly, pacing a few steps away.

"Alright, okay, before you continue with that…I need to say what I was going to say."

He turned back to Aziraphale with a shaky breath, summoning his courage.

“We’ve known each other a long time. We’ve been on this planet for a long time. I mean, you and me. I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. We’re a team, a group. Group of the two of us. And we’ve spent our existence pretending that we aren’t. I mean, the last few years, not really. And I would like to spend…” His voice cracked and he groaned and Aziraphale watched him with wide, shocked eyes.

“I mean if Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, go off together, then we can. Just the two of us. We don’t need Heaven, we don’t need Hell, they’re toxic. We need to get away from them, just be an us. You and me, what do you say?”

Aziraphale gaped at him, his heart pounding, trying to process everything Crowley had just confessed. That unspoken thing between them that had been growing between them just laid out before him.

Go off together, as Gabriel and Beelzebub had done. Gabriel and Beelzebub who risked everything just to be with one another. Who wanted nothing but the other. Who loved so fiercely, it was the only thing that mattered. Heaven didn’t matter, Hell didn’t matter.

But Crowley didn’t understand…

“We can be together…in Heaven.” Aziraphale said quietly and a deep scowl crossed Crowley’s face. “Crowley…”

“No, angel. No.” Crowley growled and then crossed the distance between them quickly. Aziraphale barely had time to wonder, predict what he would do before Crowley grabbed him by the lapels and slammed his mouth down onto this.

Aziraphale squeaked, his eyes widening in shock, hands waving around at his sides as he registered what was happening. Crowley’s mouth, hot and hard, was on his.

His hands found their way to Crowley’s back, shaking as they lingered there as he closed his eyes tightly, for a moment giving into the feeling that he’d wanted for longer than he’d ever really known.

Just as quickly, fear and panic bubbled within and his hands withdrew from Crowley as if he’d been burned, but he couldn’t remove himself from his lips.

The kiss broke and Aziraphale pulled back with a trembling gasp.

His eyes moved about the room, anywhere but Crowley, though Crowley kept his eyes focused intently on him.

His breathing was labored as he tried to catch his breath from the sheer amount of emotion that kiss flooded him with.

"Why did you do that?"

"I need you to think about this, angel."

"I am." Aziraphale responded indignantly, his voice cracking. "I have, I am thinking about us."

"No, you're not.” Crowley hissed. “Because if you knew me, if you knew us, what we've been to each other the last six thousand years, it wouldn't even have been a consideration."

"I…" Aziraphale began but quickly cut himself off with a sharp twist inside of him because deep down he knew…Crowley was right.

Crowley let out a deep breath and approached him slowly. "Stay. Tell me you'll stay. Because I am not going."

Aziraphale’s lips trembled, and he glanced away from Crowley to the door where he knew Metatron was waiting.

His heart ached.

Heaven was….Heaven and he was an angel. He was being offered the chance to fix what was wrong, to change what had gone wrong, to restore Crowley to what he had previously been.

"Crowley, please, I don't want to go without you."

"Then don't."

He said it as if it were that easy.

Tears welled in his eyes.

"You're better than them, Aziraphale."

His eyes narrowed slightly. Better than Heaven? Well certainly the angels had their issues but Heaven as a whole…

"Better?"

"Yes, better. Eons better. Do you know…do you have any idea…" Crowley let out a growling sigh and stalked in circles and Aziraphale watched him carefully.

"No of course you bloody don't you weren't there."

"Weren't where?"

"In Heaven, Aziraphale." He turned to him sharply. "When we swapped and I went up there in your place." He pressed his lips together in a tight line. "They were going to kill you."

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. "What? No that…"

"All of them, not just Gabriel, all of them wanted to throw you into hellfire and because it was me," he angrily pushed his own finger into his chest and Aziraphale flinched, "because I'm a demon, I survived, you survived. And I just can't believe, after all of this," he growled and gestured around wildly to the now clean bookshop, "that they'd just forget all of it, change their minds because they won't. Because they don't and never have and I am not willing to risk your life for them."

"That's not…. that can't be….you're lying." His voice broke because he knew he wasn't. Crowley had never lied to him, but the truth hurt so much more.

Crowley took a deep breath in, his stare piercing through him and swallowed thickly. "Well, if you believe that then maybe you should go."

Aziraphale shook his head slowly. "Why would they…"

"Because you don't belong there."

Aziraphale took a deep breath and huffed out his nose. "Why would they offer this to me now?"

"I don't know but I don't trust it and if you had any good sense, you wouldn't either."

"I…" Aziraphale frowned and once again glanced out of the bookshop.

"We can figure it out together, just as we always have. Here."

Beyond those walls the Metatron was waiting for him to return with his answer. He had walked back into the bookshop so certain that he could make things right. That Heaven was the best thing he could hope for, for both him and Crowley. Yet now he wasn't sure. His stomach felt a little sick with the weight of the words Crowley had told him.

Crowley was a demon, but Crowley had no reason to lie. Aziraphale knew exactly what Heaven was capable of. He had lied to Heaven just to protect three innocent children from their own plan.

He knew he could make things better…but did he truly want to? And could he do it without Crowley?

"Aziraphale…" Crowley's voice drew his gaze back to him and his chest felt tight at the desperation in his eyes.

"We could…. we could just be us."

Seemingly of their own accord, his eyes dropped to Crowley's lips and Aziraphale could still feel the pressure and warmth of them against his own. He brought a trembling hand up to his own mouth and then dropped it just as fast, turning away from Crowley with a sudden gasp.

He closed his eyes tightly, fighting the tears. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he warred with the emotions that were threatening to consume him.

Could he really leave Crowley? Return to a place where he hadn't belonged for quite some time? A place where, according to Crowley, they'd wanted him dead.

A place he thought they'd be safe. A place where he could make it safe.

His eyes opened and a tear rolled down his cheek as he stared at the door.

Crowley wouldn't be safe there, no matter how hard Aziraphale may try.

He couldn't bring Crowley there and Crowley wouldn't go.

But the world…this precious planet he'd come to love so much. He could do so much to help it from Heaven. If…

If…

If they let him.

His eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze to the floor. After all this time, why now?

"Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale straightened up and cleared his throat. He glanced a little over his shoulder towards Crowley.

"I know what I must do."

Crowley furrowed his brow and shook his head. "What…? Aziraphale!"

He called after him, lurching forward, his heart in his throat as Aziraphale marched out of the bookshop.

He debated running after him, stopping him but something stopped him. He felt frozen to the bookshop, helpless as Aziraphale disappeared from view.

He growled under his breath, running his fingers through his hair as he whirled around, away from the door.

Agony. Waiting was agony. Worse than anything, he'd ever had to wait for before.

Each second seemed to tick by at a glacial pace and he stood with his eyes closed, afraid to turn around, afraid to face the very real idea that his best friend, his angel, his love could very well leave forever.

Too long. It had been far too long. He was gone too long.

And then the door opened.

He inhaled, held his breath, opened his eyes and slowly turned around.

Aziraphale was in the doorway, but his eyes were wide with deep emotion, tears welling there and Crowley's stomach dropped.

"Angel ..."

Aziraphale took a sharp breath, his eyes widening more for a moment and then he cleared his throat, took another deep breath, steeled his features.

"Crowley."

Crowley’s jaw tightened; his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

He'd come to say his final goodbye and Crowley didn't want to hear it.

Then Aziraphale crossed the distance between them, stopping just in front of him and met his eyes.

"You were right.” He said, his voice a little breathless, quick but decided. “I…I told Metatron I was declining the offer."

"You did." It was both a statement and a question as Crowley's dubious eyes looked him over, searching for the truth.

"Yes, I did. I couldn't…I…" Aziraphale grunted in self-frustration and reached out, grabbed Crowley's face in both hands, fixed on his surprised, widened golden eyes and then brought his mouth down to his.

Crowley stiffened in response, just as he had done the first time, but then quickly relaxed, melting into him, moving his mouth and kissing him back as his arms came around him.

Aziraphale let out a quiet whimper of pleasure and Crowley echoed with a growl of his own.

For millennia Aziraphale denied that he'd wanted this, but he could deny it no longer. He'd just denied Heaven for Crowley. To be with Crowley. To live on Earth, where he belonged.

He pulled away, still holding onto Crowley's face and let out a shaky breath, his eyes full of emotion.

"I choose you." Aziraphale said. "Crowley, it's been you…it was for you. I thought…incorrectly so, we could be together in Heaven, as angels but…" he tightened his grip on Crowley's face as Crowley frowned and began to shrink away. He held him in place, meeting his eyes. "I shouldn't have assumed that's what you'd want. It's not what I want, not really." Finally, he lowered his hands to Crowley's shoulders and averted his gaze, laughing nervously.

"It's my turn, I suppose, for a grandiose speech…" he cleared his throat and his hands fell to his sides where his hands twitched nervously.

"Angel…" Crowley's voice was soft, softer than he could ever remember hearing from him, and his eyes snapped back up to him in surprise. The look in his eyes stole his breath.

"I understand."

Aziraphale shook his head and swallowed thickly. "No, no you deserve to hear it. You risked everything just now and I almost threw it all away and I need you to know. My dear Crowley…you are, and always will be, the most important being in my life. I…" he paused, and Crowley lifted his brow, "I don't need you to be an angel. I thought that is what you wanted. I thought it'd make you happy, I thought…"

"You make me happy, Aziraphale. I don't need Heaven. I just need you."

Aziraphale’s lips twitched in a shaky smile. "Forgive me?"

Crowley stepped in slowly, once again closing the distance between them and lifting his hand to cradle Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale melted into his touch, giving in.

"Tell me you're staying."

Aziraphale’s hand lifted to cover his and he locked eyes on the golden ones he adored so much and couldn’t believe he almost left behind. "I'm staying."

"Then there's nothing to forgive." Crowley said before once again swooping down to capture his lips.

Aziraphale hummed against his mouth, smiled into the kiss and then languidly draped his arms around his neck. Warmth flooded through him, with the relief of finally. Finally, they were doing this.

“Let’s get out of here, Angel.” Crowley whispered against his mouth.

Aziraphale pulled back to look at him, blinking. “Go where?”

Crowley’s lips pulled into a grin. “There’s a table at the Ritz with our name on it and a ton of alcohol to be consumed.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up, his hands sliding to Crowley’s chest as his smile widened to match Crowley’s. “All for us?”

“Only for us.”

#good omens #good omens spoilers #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #fanfiction #mine #fix it fic

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aceofwhump · 12 days

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Hey ace! I was wondering if you had any recs for me for a somewhat specific whump. I was looking for Good Omens fics where Crowley gets whumped post s2 while Aziraphale is in heaven. It's okay if Aziraphale still ends up showing up (I'd prefer it actually) but ideally Aziraphale is still more or less unaccessible to Crowley at first. Wips acceptable

Than you!!

I do have a few recs for you to check out. Not sure how much they fit what you're looking for but they are post season 2 Crowley whump focused. Most are emotional whump. Sad depressed Crowley. After watching season 2 when it came out I immediately went looking for hurt Crowley post season 2 fics lol. Here's what I've found:

So Someone With Your Eyes Might Come In Time by risetherivermoon Summary: Really, Crowley has changed since Aziraphale returned. He wasn't expecting any different, he expected that Crowley would never speak to him again, actually. He had been more shocked when Crowley had gone back to their old routine, but Aziraphale went along with it. He didn't want to push him, if that was how they’d go about it, then well…he’d wait another 6,000 years for Crowley to be ready. But, after the conversation today, Aziraphale understands more. Crowley is…scared.

If You Need To, Darling, Lean Your Weight On me by risetherivermoon Summary: Crowley doesn't think, he doesn't even question why he does so. But he's standing in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop, with not a particular reason as to why. Outside, on the sidewalk of the busy London street, he glances a bit around, folding his arms to his chest. It's cold, the middle of fall, about to be winter. He's never taken a liking to the cold, he's a bit sensitive to it if he's honest. He's tired, even though he doesn't need to sleep, he feels exhausted. He really could go for a good nap in the Bentley right now, but for some reason, he's standing here, on the sidewalk. He looks to the coffee shop, ‘Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death!’ He can see Nina behind the counter, talking to a customer, the usual mildly pissed off expression on her face. She meets his eyes for a moment and waves politely. Crowley looks away, scowling at the ground. He glances at Maggie’s record store, and he doesn't see anyone inside, so he just shakes his head out, as if to shake any of the feelings left inside him. or; A post s2 ep6 fix it fic, with crowley coming into the bookstore after having a nightmare and aziracrow finally talk to eachother

the adventures of mr crowley and his new angel friend by enbymegumi Summary: Crowley doesn’t leave the sofa for three days. His mood gets suctioned into the weather and influences it to become a non-stop torrential downpour, lights flickering throughout all the shops on the street. Even the lilies Muriel had so lovingly decorated the bookshop with are wilting into messy heaps of rotting plant matter by the windowsills. “Anthony J. Crowley!” Muriel yells, on the morning of the fourth day. Startled out of his stupor, Crowley finally looks up from his pile of blankets. Muriel cracks a smile. “We’re having a holiday.” or, the author very violently and aggressively projects onto crowley, shakes him like a maraca and then holds him at gunpoint to find at least one other friend who isn't aziraphale. it works. kind of.

Meanwhile the World Goes On by lineslines Summary: Crowley looked at him. He was still wearing his suit, there was tartan in it, but it had become polished, the worn edges returned to pristine, boring perfection. He looked too prim. Proper. Perhaps this hurt most of all. (Crowley is on earth, Aziraphale is not. Meanwhile the world goes on. Plans, great and possibly ineffable, are set into motion. They are--always, inevitably--drawn back together. Long before reconciliation, long before they can bear it. The only thing they can bear less is staying apart. Oh, and Heaven seems to have misplaced Jesus.)

Growing Pains by hope_in_the_dark Summary: “So if he comes back, you’ll… what? Take him into your arms, let him back into your life? No questions asked?” Crowley grunted. The therapist — Mark, Nina had said — was sitting forward in his chair, looking at Crowley with a kind smile and wide eyes. He was what the humans would call ‘emotionally intelligent.’ Crowley was looking to tap into a little of that.————Crowley goes to therapy, because he needs it. This is a story of healing, learning, growing, and an eventual happy ending. Post-Season-2.

How's the View by Etheostoma Summary: “May I come in?” Crowley blinked. “No,” he declared, and slammed the door in Aziraphale’s face. “May I come in?” he mimicked, scrunching up his nose and raising his voice. “No you bloody well may not,” he yelled at the door, before dropping the glass to shatter across the unforgiving concrete floor.

Innocence died screaming (honey ask me, I should know) by dreadfullypanicked Summary: “Care about me? What a dumb thing to do, to care about a demon.” He grumbled, body going limp against the floor. Nina crouched beside him, attempting to look him in his serpent eyes. “We care about our friend, you dense fool. Demon or otherwise.” She stated, reaching up to grab the glass of water from the side table. Crowley’s head slowly rose to look at the group around him, taking in each of their worried expressions before turning to Nina. “Friend?” It was the only word he could force his blank mind to form. “Yes. Friend. Reverted to caveman days have we? Here, drink this.” Or, Soho residents try their best to make a local sad-boy demon learn how to live for himself before he sleeps himself into oblivion, but how will their efforts affect the ineffability of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship?

#good omens #crowley #mods fic recs #fic recs #fanfics #mod replies #ask

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topaziraphale · 3 years

Note

Love to imagine that there were a few close calls with Gabriel where aziraphale had to pretend to smite crowley, which involved a lot of aziraphale pinning him down and a lot of sword bearing. Crowley very quickly finds out he has one hell of a kink ;)

“Of course I’m letting you win,” Crowley answers, banishing the dirt and wrinkles from both his and Aziraphale’s clothes with a snap of his fingers. Then, on a whim, he clears off any lingering sweat beading on his skin. He can’t do anything about the flush on his face and neck, or the way his legs are still wobbling. “Can’t have you losing in front of your own lot, can we? They might try and help you out, y’know. Might be worse for me in the long run, ‘s only selfish.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepens at the implication. “Oh. I assume this means I’ll have to let you overtake me when your people show up, then?”

“Er, you won’t. Have to. Do that, I mean.” Crowley stammers. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “They won’t crawl all the way up here to talk to me,” he elaborates, “they’ve got the radio and telly for that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, fumbling with the lowest button on his waistcoat for a moment. “Yes, quite right.” He smiles nervously. “Erm...” Crowley pretends he doesn’t notice the blush subtly rising on Aziraphale’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Well, knowing that, I must say that is very—”

“—no—” Crowley groans in annoyance, knowing exactly where that sentence is going, throwing his head back and grimacing.

“—kind of you to do, to let me win even though it’s all a ruse,” Aziraphale continues, his smile changing from nervous to irritatingly fond and knowing. “Rather considerate.”

“Fantastic,” Crowley grumbles, his face burning brighter for a different reason now. “Really made my day with that one, you did.”

In the short silence that follows, Crowley sniffs and looks down at his shoes, pretending to inspect them for any clumps of dirt. He realizes, belatedly, that neither of them cared to fix the messy state of the greenery and soil beneath them. It clashes with the rest of the neat, freshly mown blades of grass in this conveniently empty section of the park — a stark reminder of what just happened. The sight of it makes Crowley shiver. Suddenly his resolve to stay cool and collected vanishes into thin air. He hastily looks back up to find Aziraphale fiddling with the chain of his pocket watch, and he gulps.

“Er,” he starts awkwardly, nearly freezing when Aziraphale makes eye contact with him. “Right, anyway, I just remembered I have something to do. It’s important. I’ll pick you up later, shall I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He spins on his heel, turning his back on Aziraphale and shoving his hands in his pockets, making his smoothest attempt at nonchalance as he starts walking away. “I’ll meet you in the front of the bookshop.”

“What? Wait,” Aziraphale calls. “You’re leaving already?”

Crowley stops in his tracks, shock still, his breath hitching in his chest. He couldn’t have been found out. He wasn’t that loud, was he? Aziraphale doesn’t know, can’t know. If he knew…

“Won’t be long,” says Crowley, gritting his teeth, hoping he doesn’t have to outright lie, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t push. “An hour, at most. We won’t miss our reservation.”

“I… er, very well,” Aziraphale eventually says, sounding confused and a little hurt. “But, before you go, I need to ask you about… just now.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, and Crowley holds his breath, chills cold as ice sliding from the back of his neck down along the knobs of his spine as fear builds in his lower gut. When Aziraphale speaks up again, his voice is slightly deeper than normal.

“I hurt you this time, didn’t I?”

Crowley blesses under his breath. It takes all he has in him not to react outwardly, to lose his carefully constructed neutrality right then and there. Instantly, his mind plays back the stunt Aziraphale pulled only minutes ago.

It’s practically routine for them at this point, really; it’s a way for them to get out of a damning situation in a pinch. If someone from work unexpectedly shows up, they pretend to be mortal enemies, doing what mortal enemies are obliged to do should they ever cross paths: fighting to the death. (Discorporation, in these cases — and even then, they only need to make the viewer think that a discorporation has taken place, should it ever go that far.) It’ll be seen as two adversaries busy with work, and whoever it was that checked in will usually leave within a minute or two to let them get back to it.

They were taking a leisurely walk and having a (slightly heated, in the angel’s case) conversation about some of the menu changes at the Criterion, when Aziraphale suddenly kicked Crowley’s feet out from under him, pinning him face-down into the ground with his knee pressed onto his back. He had yanked his hair, forcing his head up, and swiftly brought the edge of a sword — having manifested the weapon from thin air — onto Crowley’s exposed neck. Crowley was hard in his trousers before he even realized what was happening, before he could even guess that Gabriel or any other one of those wankers was probably nearby, watching, and that Aziraphale was faking the attack like he had done many times before to keep them both safe.

But for a moment, Crowley didn’t know that.

As Crowley had grabbed fistfuls of dirt and grass and writhed under the perfect weight of Aziraphale’s body, he had thought it was real, and that Aziraphale really was going to smite him this time, and that he was truly at his mercy, finally getting everything he wanted. It was too much, the ringing in his head from falling to the ground, the pain in his spine, the white-hot burn in his scalp. Crowley couldn’t move and the sword was cold and sharp on the delicate skin of his neck and Aziraphale put his lips to his ear to whisper something and it sounded harsh and commanding and he whimpered—

“Crowley?”

Crowley blinks back to himself, his eyes wide behind dark lenses. He hears Aziraphale’s footsteps approaching him, the soft crunching of the grass beneath two Oxfords deafening amongst the low rumble of blood rushing through his ears.

“No,” he blurts out, his voice thin. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

The footsteps stop. His entire body is trembling now, every inch of skin charged as if with electricity, surely to go off at the slightest touch. He clears his throat, vaguely wondering how much of a disaster it would be if he had to look Aziraphale in the face during all of this.

“I’m fine,” he repeats in a more natural tone. “Don’t make a fuss over it, you didn’t hurt me.” You did. “Same as always, nothing different about it this time.” Hurt me again. And again and again, until my throat is raw from screaming, until my face is wet with tears. Make me beg for it.

“It most certainly was not the same, you had no idea I was even going to attack you,” Aziraphale comments, sounding just this side of stern. Crowley’s stomach curls with something too close to pleasure from the tone of voice. Aziraphale sighs. “Are you quite sure I did not hurt you by accident?” he asks gently, because it’s just like him to have concern for Crowley’s well-being, even at the worst possible times. He takes one step closer, the space separating their bodies no bigger than an arm’s-length. Crowley can feel his stare burning right through his soul, can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “I only ask because, ah, when you cried out, just then, you seemed…”

Alarms blare in Crowley’s racing mind.

Cried out, cried out.

Aziraphale did hear him.

And now he’s asking about it.

Crowley goes from half-hard to fully erect so quickly that it makes him dizzy, his dick throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Aziraphale only has to take a couple steps toward him and circle around to his front, and then he’ll have full view of the state Crowley is in. Then Crowley would have to explain himself, and he would be mortified, he’d be so humiliated, and the fear of it only makes his cock harder. There’s just not enough self-preservation in his current, lust-crazed state of mind to not want anything more than that.

“— truly distressed,” Aziraphale continues, pronouncing the words with the same caution one would use when walking on a tightrope. Crowley hears the faintest of wavers in his voice only because he’s known the bastard for too long. “I was afraid I used too much force this time.”

You could have used more. Used all of it. Put me in my place. Burned me with your light until I’m nothing, until I’m dust at your feet. Please, angel…

Crowley holds his breath again, the muscles in his neck tightening and his jaw aching with the effort it takes to kill the moan forcing its way up into his throat. His legs feel like jelly. The temptation to fall on his knees and admit it is palpable. He might as well come clean. Even if nothing happens now, Aziraphale will bring it up again later. That’s just how he is. Better to get it over with…

“No,” he croaks. He’s blushing so hard that the skin on his face and scalp itches furiously. “I wasn’t, I didn’t…”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, I told you I’m alright,” Crowley snaps. More than alright. Crowley knows he’s going to revel in the ache for days, but he also knows, acutely, that he’s only jeopardizing himself more the longer he stays in this blasted park. He’s sure he wouldn’t be able to survive another round of questions; he can already feel his admittedly weak resolve slipping in the face of those warm, seaglass eyes, beckoning him to spill his guts and spew the awful, contemptible fantasies of being taken right there in the dirt, like he deserves, with a sword trained on his back and the angel’s name in his mouth. The only thing keeping him from doing it is his knowing how said angel would react — with an upturned nose and a look of disgust only reserved for the lowest of scum. He can’t do that to him, can’t be that to him.

“Oh, right then, that’s good,” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly pulls him out of his reverie, sounding disappointed, “that’s a relief.”

Crowley then hears the telltale rustle of clothes as Aziraphale fidgets, probably adjusting his waistcoat, before he calls out, “Well then, don’t let me keep you, dear fellow. Do mind how you go.”

“Same to you,” he says back, feeling moderately guilty.

He snaps his fingers, bringing himself to his flat. He lands on his back on his luxurious bed. The cool satin sheets do nothing to calm his rapid pulse or the lick of shame that follows as he claws at his belt, the zip’s teeth not daring to catch as he shoves his trousers down and takes himself in hand. The guilt instantly melts away, but the shame stays, however it only proves to spur him on even more.

Aziraphale will forgive him by the time they meet back up for dinner.

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((I originally meant to use a couple lines of dialogue as an answer to this ask but then it turned into a small little fic, thingy, yeah. Huge thanks to @divinehedonism for beta reading this for me!!))

#SURPRISE I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME #hiiiiii anon your ask has been in my drafts for months but i never forgot about you!!!! i was just nervous to post a little fic lol!#good omens nsft #nsft #bottom crowley #top aziraphale #derpy answers #derpy writes #high chance of me posting this on ao3 later #it literally took me 3 months building up courage to post this now i see why a/c took 6k years to hold hands lol #minors dni #don't think in my absence i won't check new followers i got for ages in bios #if ur a minor here might as well leave and save me the trouble of blocking you if you'd be so kind

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superwho-am-i-kidding · 3 years

Text

Too Late (PART TWO)

Once again, I'm sorry for how long this took! Life has been rather busy lately, and I couldn't find the time to write. But now I have. And oh boy, is it angsty. It's also quite long! PART ONE IS HERE.

I pride myself with ending stories happily, though it doesn't always happen… yet, anything is possible.

Thanks to @theregoesstevie for letting me word vomit based on this haunting image. Hope it lives up to expectations!

The end came with less fanfare than Aziraphale had expected. There was a world one moment, and nothing the next. The antichrist, Adam, had made un-existing as painless as possible, it seemed. There was no doubt in the angel’s mind that Satan was celebrating his triumphing victory over Heaven.

Aziraphale had been standing in the apartment of a dead demon, until he suddenly wasn’t. He found himself completely alone on an empty Earth. He had felt alone before, but it was nothing compared to now.

There were no nightingales singing in Berkley Square, no soft piano emanating from the Ritz, no ducks in the ponds of Saint James’ Park. Aziraphale decided he was tired. His gaze passed jadedly around him until it came to a stop on the only building remaining around him. A corporate tower that was as blank on the outside as it was on the inside. A tugging sensation pulled Aziraphale towards the building. He let it drag him to the escalators that lay in wait for both ethereal and occult forces.

Aziraphale’s eyes looked up towards the escalator that led to Heaven, the unwelcoming home he had known for the past six thousand years. But his instinct led him to the other escalator. He stepped onto the moving staircase for the second time in his long life (well, he wasn’t sure one could call it a “life” anymore) and stared blankly ahead as his corporation was taken lower and lower into Hell.

When he stepped into the dirty and musty hallway, he was surprised to once again find himself alone. He followed the sound of cheers and yelling down the hall until he entered a large room. Dagon was standing on a table in the center of thousands of demons, encouraging them in preparation of the coming war. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how, with plenty of other eyes to choose from, but Dagon locked gazes with him. “You,” she said, the room falling silent as the demons all turned towards Aziraphale. “What are you doing here? Come to spy on us, have you?” She laughed heartily, “Well, it seems they haven’t taught you the art of stealth!” She nodded towards a pair of large demons to grab Aziraphale’s arms and hold him in place. It was hardly necessary, as he wasn’t sure he could move, even if they wanted him to.

“You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Beelzebub worked her way through the crowd, shoving demons apart to reach Aziraphale. She stopped in front of him, flies buzzing around the corporation that held no warmth. Her eyes flit across every inch of him, narrowing in thought as she sniffed the air a couple of times. “He’s… fallen,” she declared slowly. Shocked murmurs spread throughout the demonic hoard.

“May you be forgiven.”

“I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. That’s part of a demon’s job description. Unforgivable. That’s what I am.”

“This must be a trick,” Dagon said.

Beelzebub stared into the grief-stricken eyes that held no spark. She shook her head, “No, it’s no trick.”

“I forgive you.”

“In fact, this is exactly what we need. He knows how Heaven fights. We will win the war with his help.” Beelzebub waved for Aziraphale to be released. Aziraphale just stood, not bothering to fix the rumples on his jacket sleeves. “You’re going to be in charge of training the troops,” she said.

Aziraphale spared a blank glance around the room. “I’m not fighting.”

“What?” the flies stopped buzzing for a moment to hear Aziraphale repeat himself.

“I said, I’m not fighting,” he said. Beelzebub laughed and Aziraphale was ushered into a new room that had line after line of demons ready to fight. His head slowly raised to meet the eyes of the battalion waiting for his orders. One of the demons handed him a weapon he was all too familiar with, though he never bothered to wonder how Hell had gotten ahold of it. The sword roared to life, the divine flames burning at Aziraphale’s unholy hands.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the flames as they danced across the pointed blade. “Aren’t you going to teach us something?” a demon shattered the trance the fire had created.

“No,” he said. Simple and to the point; Crowley would have been proud.

“No?” the demon scoffed. “Do you expect us to just know this stuff? Sorry to break it to you, Halo, but we don’t have all the fancy things down here that you bastards have upstairs. Just the broken, sloppy seconds.” He pursed his lips and circled Aziraphale in an achingly haunting way. “But I suppose it’s no surprise that you’ve become one of us. You are broken and sloppy, after all. Just like Crawly was.”

Aziraphale didn’t know there was more in him that could break. But there was, and it shattered. Without thinking, his grip tightened on the hilt of the blade and he swung. Screams and sizzles told him that he had hit his mark. The rest of the battalion watched in shock as Aziraphale coldly watched the demon die. Aziraphale looked up, his dark eyes challenging anyone brave enough to a duel.

Some of the larger demons charged him, but Aziraphale dodged easily. It hadn’t been angelic that he had learned how to dance, though it seemed to come in handy now. He side-stepped and spun around his attackers, landing jabs and slashes on their corporations with his sword. One by one, they all fell, screaming in pain. Aziraphale looked up, his skin glistening with sweat, but with no flush. He was a dampened corpse walking around and swinging to kill.

The remaining demons turned and fled, leaving Aziraphale to glance at the bodies surrounding him. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t disappear, as he would have expected with utter extinction, but he didn’t really care. He stepped across them, ignoring the cracking and squishing of the bodies beneath his heels. Aziraphale walked down the corridor back towards the escalator that lead to an empty Earth.

He trailed the sword along the wall, igniting the posters and mold with holy flame. He caught sight of Beelzebub and Dagon surrounded by the surviving demons of his battalion. Beelzebub moved to intercept Aziraphale before he could get to the stairway. Their eyes locked, and she stepped back after a moment of contemplation.

“I should like to be left alone,” Aziraphale said quietly. He knew they had heard him, based on the nervous nods that were sent his way. He began the climb towards the surface and emerged into the blank canvas that the world had become. He took the opportunity to mold this new Earth into a tall hill that buried him within the clouds. A small patch of grass erupted from the top of the mound, yellow flowers popping out of the soil as well.

Aziraphale picked up a long stone that had not been there a moment before and drove it into the ground. It just so happened to have a lovely flat surface, perfect for carving. Aziraphale only wrote one word, one name. He wasn’t sure which one Anthony J. Crowley would have preferred, so he chose the name that Aziraphale always wanted to call him: Love.

“Aziraphale, former principality and guardian of the eastern gate of Eden, fallen angel of Heaven,” a voice appeared behind him. “I had always hoped it would come to this.”

Aziraphale turned from the headstone to stare down Sandalphon as he stood at the edge of the newly-formed hill. The angel smiled, gold shining through his teeth. “You will lose,” Aziraphale said, his grip tightening imperceptibly upon the hilt of his sword.

“I’m not worried,” Sandalphon smiled. “I’ve brought help.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and felt for the ethereal forces that were surrounding him. There were dozens of them. All waiting to land a blow upon the single demon, standing alone on a hilltop with a sword in one hand and flowers in the other. “This was your choice,” Aziraphale said. He stared at Sandalphon for a moment longer before he lunged.

His first swing against Sandalphon missed, and several angels flew in to retaliate. Aziraphale tore each of them down. He almost wished there was literal blood to be spilled, the angels were falling back to Earth too much intact for his liking. Crowley would be horrified at what he had become in such a short time. Aziraphale would have been horrified himself if he stopped to think about what he was actually doing.

But the angels kept coming, and Aziraphale never put more thought into the actions that were defending the grave of the only being he had ever loved. Soon enough, demons had appeared as well, hungry for revenge against those Aziraphale had slaughtered. Aziraphale had always thought about how lovely it would be if Heaven and Hell would put their differences aside and get along for a change. It didn’t even register in his mind that they were doing exactly that; putting aside their own agendas in order to kill Aziraphale.

They didn’t know it, but there was no killing this particular demon. Aziraphale tore through each wave, the bodies piling higher and higher around his once solitary hill. He wasn’t sure how long it took for them to get the message, but it eventually arrived. Fewer and fewer angels and demons approached the hill to challenge Aziraphale. Then, there were no more. Aziraphale felt something stir deep within him. Satisfaction, he supposed, and pride.

He looked over the new hills that surrounded his own, wings of both black and white broken together. Aziraphale looked to the sword in his hand, willing the flame to die. The blade slowly cooled and Aziraphale briefly contemplated joining Crowley in whatever was beyond their infinite lives. His ultimate decision was to toss the sword over the side of the hill, into the pile of bodies that encircled him.

Aziraphale willed a pair of Crowley’s sunglasses and a vase into existence at the base of the headstone. He filled the vase with a fresh gathering of the yellow flowers, ones that he didn’t know the name of, but was certain Crowley would have. That’s where he remained for the rest of the war. The decades passed within the blink of an eye, though the flowers adorning Crowley’s grave were as fresh as the day they were cut.

When it happened, Aziraphale felt the war end with every fiber of his being. He knew the fighting was done, but he didn’t bother to find out which side triumphed over the other. It was of little importance to him now. His gaze swept across the piles of angels and demons, a spark of something flashing in his heart. Tears began to fall from his eyes, blurring the image of a figure appearing before him.

“Angel?” a horrified voice whispered.

Aziraphale blinked to clear the tears from his vision. A black-clad figure with flaming hair came into focus, one that he never thought he would see again. “Crow…” his voice failed him after all the years of silence. “The empty flask…” Aziraphale saw Crowley’s eyes flash with dismay as he put together what Aziraphale was implying. “You weren’t dead?”

Crowley looked around the two of them, eyes never lingering too long on the bodies around them. He turned his gaze back to the tear-stricken face of his best friend. “I went to Alpha Centauri.”

“I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving. And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you.”

“What have you done, angel?” he whispered. Aziraphale looked down at the grave as he unfurled his black wings into the emptiness behind him.

#too late #part two!#finally!#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fic #good omens angst #probably some trigger warnings #my writing #fallen!aziraphale

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witches-and-cows · 3 years

Text

Kisses and Cocoa

pairing: aziracrow (or ineffable wives) / fem!child!reader

requested? no but i do have requests to do djsiggfb

synopsis: just a little down time in the snow with our favorite angel and demon, and their baby girl

warning(s): fem!reader, it’s the wives cuz honestly i love them and they deserve more, a little blood, reader is like, 5

a/n: i gotta do those requests jdishrv so know that i’ve got a peter parker x reader in the works, and a crowley x platonic!reader; school’s overwhelming so

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Aziraphale was awoken by your childish excitement. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, sitting up and subconsciously carding her fingers through her partner’s vibrant ginger hair.

“Mmm....five more minutes, Angel. It’s cold.”

Crowley snuggled further into her lover’s chest, kissing her collarbone. Aziraphale yawned, and started counting down, waiting for you to burst through the door.

“And 3, 2, 1--”

“Mum! Mummy, snow! There’s snow!” You climbed up on the bed, your chubby toddler hands grasping the blankets excitedly. Crowley kissed her teeth, sitting up. “Good morning, Giggles. How’d you sleep?” She pecked your forehead, and sat you in her lap. “Fine, mummy, but there’s snow!” You wiggled out of her grasp, and pressed your face up to the cold, foggy window, your eyes full of wonder.

Aziraphale set her feet on the floor, and gasped softly, the cold shocking her. “Good heavens, it’s freezing!” You barely registered your mummy’s voice, now drawing in the fog of the window and humming to yourself. Aziraphale felt the overwhelming love she had for you bubble up into her throat, and she quickly wiped at her eyes.

Crowley watched her with an amused smile gracing her lips. She’d never thought she’d get to have days like this with the angel, curled up in bed, watching their daughter grow up, and experience her first snow.

She loved Aziraphale, so damned much it nearly made her double over. And she loved you, with your wide [e/c] eyes and bubbly laughter (thus why they called you ‘Giggles’), and your love of cookies and Scooby Doo. She had her little family. She was, dare she say, grateful for you two everyday.

She was taken out of her little reverie by Aziraphale leaving a kiss on her cheek. “I’m going to brush my teeth, and help [Name] make up her bed and get ready for the day. Would you be so kind as to make breakfast?”

“Of course, Angel. Any requests?”

You turned and faced your moms, a wide smile gracing your features. “Can we have [pick a breakfast food]?” Crowley winked, saying, “Are angels real?”

“Yes! Thank you, mum!”

She chuckled, watching you tug on Aziraphale’s robe sleeve as you both walked out.

Aziraphale enjoyed helping you get ready; It was one of those domestic activities that she’d miss as you got older. She picked out a cream colored shirt with seafoam green accents, and a pair of black overalls, humming softly along to the children’s program on the television (some magical ‘girl power!’ type cartoon that she also enjoyed; it was called Lollipop? No, LoliRock. She found it quite entertaining.)

You flitted into the room, allowing Aziraphale to help you into the clothes, and talked about the dream you’d had (something about the Cars franchise and unicorns battling to the death over the Eiffel Tower), adding in little ‘oohs’ and ‘oh, dear!’s to indicate she was listening.

Once you were dressed and your hair was done, she had you wait downstairs in the living room of their cottage, letting Crowley entertain you with stories about mythical beings and the stars. Crowley was flipping a pancake when she sat next to you at the table, placing a napkin in your lap.

She set a plate of food in front of you, smiling as you stared out the window, singing about how you’d like to go outside and build a snowman. “Do you want to go outside, Giggles?”

You nodded excitedly, practically bouncing in your seat. “Can we? I really want to!” Aziraphale bobbed her head in agreement, putting the juice Crowley poured for you on your placemat, and taking her cup of Earl Gray out of her hands. “Yes, we can, but eat first.” You went to work, not noticing the small smiles and brief touches that your mothers shared across the table.

You finished your juice, and hopped out of your seat, impatiently waiting for one of your moms to finish. “C’mon, we’re busting daytime!” Crowley threw her head back, a raucous laugh leaving her mouth. “D’you mean burning daylight, [Name]?”

“Oh, yeah,” You responded, giggling.

Crowley stood, and watched you run ahead to your room, screaming, “SNOW SNOW SNOW!” as you went along. She turned to Aziraphale, wiping tears from her eyes. “Busting daytime, that’s funny.” Aziraphale looked at her partner lovingly. “Go on, then. She’ll need help getting into her snow gear.” She said, amusement laced in her words. Crowley sauntered down the hall, whistling the tune of Lazing On a Sunday Afternoon.

You were already mostly undressed when she got to you, hastily tugging on your thermal underwear. “Oh, you’re quick,” She quipped as she picked up the clothes you discarded and placing them on the bed. “You know Mummy doesn’t like you leaving your clothes everywhere.”

“I know, but you said once or twice it’s okay.”

Crowley, looked over at the toys lining your shelves, raising a brow at the Lightning McQueen car, before going to help you button up your snow pants. “Fair enough; You’ve got to have a smidge of demonic influence, don’t you, [Name]?”

You giggled, letting her pull a jumper over your head, and put on your bubble coat. “Damned zipper,” She muttered, eyes narrowed in concentration. She eventually got it and then moved on to put your hat on your head, and wrap a scarf around your neck. You stopped her as she picked up your gloves, saying, “I can do it, Mum! Look!”

She watched, pride glinting in her golden eyes as you successfully pulled the fingers of the gloves over your fingers. “That’s my girl, [Name]!” You let her put on the boots, though, saying, “I can’t do the boots, can you help?” She nodded, and did them for you, then letting you run off to find Aziraphale. Her attention then drifted to the toys again, and she fixed them to go in order of franchise then size. “Gosh, you really like Cars,” She mumbled.

Aziraphale had just gotten her own boots on, and was pulling on her hat as you hopped toward her. “Ready!” She picked you up, walking you to the front of the house, setting you in the snow. You fell back, making a snow angel and laughing. “Look, Mummy! It’s you!”

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

A while later, Crowley came up behind Aziraphale, examining the snow angel from earlier, and a smiley face you made by walking in circles. “Wow, kiddo, that’s really good!” She then held out a carrot, and the buttons she’d picked up, saying, “I thought we wanted to build a snowman, Giggles?” You got to work, rolling the base and dodging snowballs from Crowley. Aziraphale worked on the midsection, snapping her fingers discreetly.

You put the snowman’s head on, and Crowley lifted you so you could stick the nose in. Aziraphale stuck on the eyes, and put a bowtie on the divide between it’s head and middle. Crowley snapped a leather jacket on it, and you put some mittens on it’s “hands”. Then you all admired your handiwork.

“They’re perfect,” Crowley confirmed, nodding her head. Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “Now what?”

“I saw a tutorial on how to build snow forts. We can try it?”

Crowley looked around, before snapping her fingers and watching an igloo build itself. Aziraphale made sure you didn’t get hit by ice blocks as the structure formed.

You squealed, and went into the fort, laughing. Your laugh however, was cut off by a sneeze. Aziraphale perked up, brows furrowed. “Maybe we should head in,” She muttered, Crowley agreeing and gathering you up in her arms. “C’mon then, in we go.”

“But--”

“You’re freezing, kiddo. We can go make hot chocolate, watch a movie.”

That quietted your protest, and you burrowed your face in your Mum’s neck, your time outside wearing you out.

Aziraphale opened the door, making sure the heat was up, before shedding her winter gear. She took you out of Crowley’s arms, letting her take hers off, then the both of them got to work on you.

You let them strip you of the wet clothes, and put a towel on your shivering form. “C’mon, let’s get you into a warm bath, then we can watch [favorite kid movie].” Aziraphale cooed, as your head lolled. “Dearest you get the bath going, I’ll get the cocoa.”

Crowley nodded. “Alright, Angel.” She made her way to the bathroom, snapping her fingers so that the tub filled with warm water. “Step in for me, Giggles.” You did so, and Crowley quickly bathed you, humming Queen’s greatest hits, chuckling when you tried to join in with her.

You finished up, and she wrapped you in your fluffy Winnie the Pooh hooded towel. (it was Tigger; Since you happened to hop around like him often, when Aziraphale saw it, she immediately thought of you, so she bought it.)

She put you together, and carried you to the living room, where Aziraphale was putting a tray of cocoa and cookies on the coffee table. “Oh, dear, you look adorable, [Name]! I love your Stitch onesie.” You made grabby hands at your Mummy, and she smiled sweetly, taking you into her arms and kissing your cheek.

“My little [Name]. My dearest,” She muttered into your head, taking in the scent of your body wash and your natural scent. You reveled in the affection, mumbling, “I’m not little.” Crowley sat down, patting the seat next to her. “Of course not. You’re our big girl, [Name].” You bobbed your head, content with that.

Crowley put on your movie, putting an arm around the back of the couch. Aziraphale snuggled into her side. As you slowly drifted off, Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s lips softly, “I love you, Angel.”

“I love you more, my dear.”

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

please i love them sm we’re craving this domestic shit

#aziracrow #ineffable wives #ineffable wives x reader #ineffable wives x child!reader #crowley #fem!crowley #fem!aziraphale #ineffable partners x reader #x child!reader #x fem!reader #domestic ineffable spouses>>>>>>>>#good omens x reader #good omens x child!reader #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader good omens #crowley x reader x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley x reader #aziraphale x reader x crowley #good omens

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

Text

Good Omens - “Risks and Consequences” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Crowley surprises Aziraphale with a surprise skating excursion on Christmas night during a suspicious snowstorm. (1436 words)

Read on AO3.

“You do enjoy shoving me headfirst out of my comfort zones. Don’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, warily watching his husband strap a stiff black boot to his foot.

“Poppycock,” Crowley grumbles, struggling to unknot long laces he accidentally macramed while attempting to navigate the rows of eyelets and hooks. “Consider this an adventure.”

“This is certifiable! You do know that?”

“How? You’re an angel! What on Earth could happen to you?”

“A great many things, I imagine,” Aziraphale replies. It’s a thin response. Crowley can tell Aziraphale has a thought, a vivid one, of something plausible.

Something that has him concerned.

Crowley stops messing with the skate and looks into Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale's gaze ducks and dodges, bouncing from his hands to his knees to other random things inside the confines of Crowley’s Bentley. But Aziraphale can’t avoid Crowley’s gaze, nor Crowley himself, for too long. “Sometimes, I feel as if, one of these days, I’m going to snap my fingers, and nothing will happen. Heaven will have found a way to make me mortal or …”

“Or abandoned you altogether?”

Aziraphale nods sadly. “Yes.”

“I get those thoughts, too, sometimes,” Crowley admits, going back to fixing his angel’s skate. “Too often, really. Which probably explains why you use your magic so rarely, and I use mine all the time.”

“You’re always double-checking."

“And you’d rather not know.”

“Losing my powers wouldn’t be the worst part. Inconvenient, yes, but not terrible. Abandoned by Heaven …” Aziraphale's words drift off, but their meaning lingers, clinging to Crowley's heart and building like the snow outside their windows.

Crowley winks at his husband, trying to get him to smile, to laugh, to roll his eyes and groan Oh Lord! “It’s not so bad ..."

“... once you get used to it. So you keep telling me,” Aziraphale teases, gifting his husband with the tiniest of grins, gone all too swiftly. “Are you truly afraid of being abandoned by Hell?”

"Ngk ..." Crowley’s shoulders bounce a shrug back and forth as he thinks over his answer “... nah. Not really. They've already tried to exterminate me once, haven't they? It’s the consequences that come with it that would really suck: being mortal, having no powers, growing old …” Crowley’s eyes meet Aziraphale’s - melancholy blue eyes exposing those same fears, a subject his angel hasn’t felt comfortable bringing up before tonight. He still doesn’t seem comfortable with it, tight-lipped as an oyster. “But let’s not talk about that now,” Crowley suggests. “Tonight is for having ridiculous amounts of fun. Stirring up a little mayhem.”

“We’re going to get into trouble,” Aziraphale laments. “With the humans, I mean.”

“Nonsense. They'll never even know we were here."

“There are security cameras everywhere!”

“When was the last time you got caught doing anything on CCTV? It would be all over the Internet if you had! I'll fix it. You'll see.”

“By wasting another miracle? Or do you have a small army of rodents positioned on light poles, waiting to do your bidding?”

“Besides,” Crowley continues, overlooking the jab at what was one of his more masterfully executed, if not elaborate, schemes, “I’m not sure this is actually illegal. As long as we abide by all traffic laws and posted speed limits.”

“Where did you even get this idea?”

“From YouTube. The youths do it - barrel down frozen roads wearing bicycle helmets and hockey skates.”

"You're getting your evil ideas from children?" Aziraphale tuts. “Aren’t you supposed to be the bad influence? Not the other way around?”

“No shame in finding inspiration outside your own head.”

“Yes, well, I hope you skate better than you drive.”

“Oi! I am an excellent driver!”

“I know two rabbits and a squirrel who might disagree with you.”

“That wasn’t my fault! You’d think they’d know to get the Hell outta the way of a moving vehicle!”

“Speaking of which, we’re going to get hit by a car.”

“What car?” Crowley stops fiddling with Aziraphale’s skate to wipe down a fogged window and take a look around. Beneath the glow of the street lamps, he sees nothing but snow - a veil of flakes wafting down from the sky, pushed into swirls by the frigid wind. “No one’s out here! It’s three in the bloody morning after one of the worst storms London has had in years! You’d have to be insane to be outside!”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aziraphale mutters. “Bit early for a storm like this though, isn’t it?”

“Uh … maybe,” Crowley says, abruptly returning to his task.

“London isn’t due for snow until January.”

“Is that so? Strange.”

Aziraphale's brow furrows as he watches his husband focus intensely on basically nothing. “Crowley …”

“Wot?”

“Are you responsible for this?”

"Wot would make you think that?"

"Crowley. Look at me."

Crowley's head slowly lifts, eyes aimed everywhere but Aziraphale's face. At one point, he even closes them, assuming that, behind his dark lenses, Aziraphale won't notice.

But Aziraphale does notice. Even if Crowley were speaking to him from a completely different room, Aziraphale would notice.

Because, for a demon, Crowley happens to be an atrocious liar.

“It’s Christmas night!" Crowley pleads, unable to hold back any longer. "The perfect time for a lock-yourself-indoors-and-get-sloshed sort of snowstorm, a'right?"

“So why are we not inside getting sloshed then?”

“Because this is something I’ve wanted to do for a while! And I was gettin' tired of waiting for Mother Nature to accommodate. Plus, with climate change and global warming, nothing's guaranteed, is it?” Crowley moves on from Aziraphale's right foot and begins sliding his reluctant left foot into its skate. “Live a little!”

“I aim to live a lot, which specifically requires avoiding activities such as this." Aziraphale pauses his complaining to watch Crowley work, beyond curious what was going on inside his husband's demonic mind when he hatched this plan. "So," he says, working through the mystery out loud, "you conjured up a snowstorm, froze the streets, are in the process of strapping these awful contraptions to my feet ... would you like to tell me why?”

"Do I have to?"

"It would be nice."

"I'm a demon. I'm not nice."

"Crowley ..."

“Alright! It's because I wanted us to be together like this."

"Like what?"

Crowley sighs. "Like humans. And do the stupidly wonderful things humans do when they’re in love: take moonlit strolls, hold hands, kiss in the rain, all that sappy shite. Humans go skating at Christmas! It's, like, number three on their list of Yuletide activities. It's almost a requirement! Even if they can't stand steady in regular shoes, they go skating. And they cling to one another, and they laugh, and they kiss, and I … I didn't want to take the chance that if I waited, I might miss ..."

Nothing's guaranteed, Aziraphale thinks as he watches Crowley sink in on himself, head bowed over Aziraphale's feet, curling as if he wants to disappear. And Aziraphale begins to understand.

Crowley has been a ball of anxious energy for as long as Aziraphale can remember. Aziraphale doesn't blame him. Crowley has been tiptoeing through minefields since the beginning - making innocent mistakes and paying huge prices for them. As supernatural entities, it's easy to get lulled into the false sense of security that nothing bad can happen to you.

But that's not true.

Not at all true.

Because even a demon and an angel with magical powers aren't anywhere near the top of the food chain.

Crowley destroying Ligur with Holy Water proved that.

So did his belief that Aziraphale had been extinguished by Hellfire.

The fact that he hadn't been didn't prove Crowley wrong.

Hellfire would most definitely annihilate his angel from the face of the planet.

Crowley and Aziraphale helped save Earth for humanity, but every day, the humans work harder and harder towards their own destruction.

Nothing's guaranteed.

Not for anyone.

"If you don’t want to go skating, that’s fine. I know it’s risky. Probably the last way in the world you’d want to discorporate."

"I can think of worse ways," Aziraphale says with a chuckle.

"We can go back to your bookshop, make hot cocoa, listen to your gramophone or ... or something.”

“The biggest risk I’ve taken is sitting right here with me. And that’s worked out so far. For 6000 years, as a matter of fact. I don’t mind taking another one. Just … try not to let me fall.”

“Just hold on tight.” Crowley scoots down the bench towards his husband and wraps his arms around him. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”

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

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pendragyn · 3 years

Text

Darkness and Light

This is an excerpt of my WIP Ineffable Bastards (the entirety of chapter 3 lol) that I felt really fits with the 'Dark' and 'Light' themes of this year's Good Omens Celebration.

(sorry for the formatting errors, tumblr being tumblr. adding a readmore since it's 4k words, also the real angst is below the cut. Hopefully it works! if not you can read it all at AO3)

Chapter 3: Tuesday ∞ Unbinding

A brief stab of pain jolted Crowley awake, and they froze for a moment to get their bearings. The shop was wreathed in deep shadows, lit only by the lamp by Aziraphale’s desk, and the only sounds were of Aziraphale working on the manuscript and a clock ticking faintly in the dimness. The back of their neck tingled with uneasiness.

Ignoring the sensation, Crowley eased upright and bit back a curse, too distracted by the ache in their back to notice the pale tartan blanket they’d been tucked under. Ugh, is this couch made of rocks? They prodded at the cushion, but it was as lofty as the day they had miracled it into being some thirty years earlier. At least, they assumed it was still only thirty year ago. Just how long did I sleep for?

As they could both go days without shifting a muscle, only knowing it was night wasn’t a particularly useful metric. Crowley had slept for the better part of a century after all, though that had been on purpose, while this... They checked their watch, but couldn’t seem to focus on the face so checked their phone’s time instead, and still had to squint and rub at their eyes before the time and date finally swam into focus. Midnight. Just hours, not days.

They stood and stretched to try to relieve the ache in their back, but if anything that only made it feel worse. While demons might not be able to instantly heal themselves the way angels could, they did heal at a far faster rate than humans did, and weren’t exactly prone to chronic back pain, or any pain at all, if injury wasn’t involved. It was becoming obvious that something was very wrong, but Crowley still hesitated to bring it up.

Haven’t I dragged them through enough? They turned to watch Aziraphale, highlighted in the darkness by the glow from the lamp. They were wearing their favourite old cardigan instead of their coat, which was as informally dressed as Crowley ever saw them in recent memory, and looked like nothing more than the contented bookshop keeper they played at being. They looked serene, happy even, and utterly enthralled by their project.

Just tell them about the spells and go,Crowley decided. “Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?”

“How long ‘til you’re done?”

“Just… there, finished. Perhaps we could go get dinner at the café while things dry?” Aziraphale suggested hopefully, looking up from the manuscript and blinking a few times when they saw how dark it was. “Oh, I was at that a while, wasn’t I? Dreadfully sorry.”

Crowley shook their head at the apology. “It’s after midnight.”

“Oh, they’re long closed then. Well. Perhaps another time.” There was something in Crowley’s expression that made a lump of dread form in the bottom of Aziraphale’s stomach. They dragged their eyes away to focus on putting things away, not wanting to waste any of the precious materials through carelessness, while a million things clamoured in their mind to be said. It felt like everything was going wrong again and they hurried to fill the silence. “I do hope I did right in not waking you earlier? You seemed quite exhausted and…” I didn’t want you to go. Aziraphale swallowed the words down and gave Crowley a smile. “I do have to concede that you were right about today, well yesterday now, I suppose. It did turn out to be a rather good day after all.”

Crowley blinked, taken a little off guard by the admission, and tried to figure out how to broach the subject of the alarms. “Oh, er, yeah? I mean, yeah, it was good. But I, er-”

Aziraphale ploughed on, almost afraid to know what Crowley was going to say. “Having my hands occupied helps ground me, I’ve found, helps me sort through things that otherwise seem too big a mess. Not that we’re out of this mess, I know, but taking the time to let things settle really helps me put things into perspective. I just need a little breathing room sometimes and-”

“And alarms.”

Aziraphale looked up in confusion. “Alarms?”

“I mean, I, uh, I set up some alarms around the shop while you were working, to warn you, us, of intruders. Passive alarms,” Crowley hastened to assure the angel when they frowned, “nothing dangerous. Just… You know, in case.”

Aziraphale was momentarily at a loss for words. They felt it would be inexcusably rude to ask what had motivated Crowley to do such a thing, though that was the second thought that came to mind. First was just how nice kind an act it was. “I… that is, well, that, that was very kind of you. I hadn’t even considered, but I suppose it is best to be prepared for retaliation of some sort. But you… you’ll have to at least let me treat you to dinner to repay-”

“No.” Aziraphale’s face fell at the blunt denial but Crowley explained, “I mean it’s too late. Now. Tonight. But…” Crowley hesitated. Although things hadn’t gone the way they hadn’t even let themself admit to hoping for, they knew Aziraphale would want to help them if they needed it. Another sharp stab of pain decided them. Whatever they were dealing with, they had to deal with it soon, and the shop was not secure enough in it’s current state. “How would you feel about going to the flat? I’ve got plenty to tide us over and, I, uh, I’ve got something I need your opinion on.”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale quickly stood up and grabbed their coat, but made a token protest, wanting to give Crowley an out of their clearly impulsive offer. “But I wouldn’t want to impose-”

“’Snever an imposition, Aziraphale, to share a meal with you,” Crowley murmured, moving towards the door when Aziraphale looked up in surprise at their serious tone. “’Sides, you’ve been slouched at that desk too long.”

Aziraphale trailed along behind them and tried to puzzle out what was really going on. “As long as you’re quite sure, Crowley.”

“Always.” Crowley could see Aziraphale’s confusion but ignored it, slipping into the driver’s seat and clasping very tightly to the wheel while the angel got in the passenger’s side. The ache was getting worse and a headache was beginning to pound behind their eyes. Unsure what else to do, Crowley sped off towards the safety of the flat.

Aziraphale watched Crowley with a small frown of concern, but could tell from their expression that they weren’t in the mood to answer questions. As it was, the strange foreboding itchy ache in their back was distraction enough, and when a surreptitious healing failed to alleviate the sensation, a worrying thought popped up. If this isn’t a physical injury, then it must be metaphysical in nature. Could this be from what we did? From what happened? Did I… could I have absorbed some of Crowley’s… demon-ness while borrowing their corporeal form? Or been poisoned by some remnant of the hellfire? Or from just being in Hell at all? But that means-

Aziraphale risked a glance at Crowley. The demon pressed back against the cushion and shifted uncomfortably in their seat, like there was an itch along their spine that couldn’t be reached. -Heaven or the holy water or my angel-ness contaminated,poisoned, Crowley in the same way. Oh, oh no. I didn’t even think to do more than a cursory cleansing before we switched back! What to do, what to do? They whirled through a dozen ideas but just as quickly discarded them all as unless, a knot of grief forming over their heart.

There must be something! But nothing came to mind. They wiped at their stinging eyes, refusing to let the tears fall and returned to twisting the golden ring on their pinky, before they were struck by an idea. Maybe I can fix this.

“Hey.”

Aziraphale jumped when Crowley spoke, quickly shoving their balled up fists into their coat pockets, and tried to smile reassuringly when Crowley frowned. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Just wondering where you were. We’ve been parked for like five minutes.” Crowley tried to tease, to keep up appearances should anyone be observing, but the aching itch was making it almost impossible to think. Another stab of pain had Crowley pressing a hand to their throbbing tattoo with a hiss. When they pulled their hand away, there was a smear of blood on their fingers. Shit. Outta time.

Aziraphale’s heart dropped at the sight and they instantly reached out, but Crowley shook their head and shoved out of the car before they could attempt a healing. Aziraphale hurried after them, up to the flat, jumping a little when Crowley slammed the door shut behind them and set all the locks with a snap. “Crowley-”

Another jolt of pain sent Crowley reeling back against the door but they shook their head again when Aziraphale reached out to heal them, their bleak expression showing they also knew it wouldn’t be enough. They were out of options and the little voice said, Last chance to fix it. Now or never. Crowley pulled off their glasses and spoke the words they never thought they’d say again, to the only being they’d ever trusted enough to say them to. “I desire a boon, Aziraphale.” The Celestial words crackled with power in spite of the pain in Crowley’s voice.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the shocked gasp that escaped but didn’t hesitate to reply in kind. “Ask and be heard, Crowley, I attend you.”

There was so much that needed to be said, that Crowley desperately wanted to say but the ceremony didn’t allow for deviation and the pain was worsening. They stared into their best friend’s wide golden-green eyes and hoped they would understand. “I seek to mend all rifts and reforge our bond.”

After everything, they still… Aziraphale nodded, eyes stinging with tears, and it took a second to swallow down everything they couldn’t say to be able to say the proper response, “Such forged has lain quiescent but was never sundered. By our efforts combined shall these rifts be mended.”

It was never unspoken. They never broke it, even after... Crowley’s eyes burned with tears they’d been cursed to never let fall and they offered their hand in agreement. “Shoulder to shoulder?”

Mind brimming with words there was clearly no time left for, Aziraphale clasped Crowley’s hand and spoke the final phrase. “My wings to yours.”

Occult power swept through them, renewing the bond and knocking the breath from both of them. Unable to wait a second longer, Crowley bolted through the flat, stumbling into the spacious marble bathroom mortared with every type of magic against scrying and magical attacks and filled to the brim with all manner of tropical plants. Their own little replica of the Garden.

With a ragged gasp Crowley activated the spells and let their wings flash into being. The ink-dark feathers repelled the warm light shining down from the false sky-lights, and they flapped, once, twice, but neither the spells nor the movement did anything to ease the sensation that was going from searing itch to freezing ache. Desperate, feeling as though they were suffocating inside an icebox, they flung off their clothes and slapped on the water, wings spread wide as droplets began to pour from the ceiling.

Aziraphale paused only long enough to set a very unpleasant surprise by the door for anyone who tried to break in before following the sound of running water through the sparse bedroom to the gleaming bathroom. “Crowley?” They were horrified to find Crowley shivering under the downpour, hair and feathers drenched, blood seeping from the mark on their temple. They dashed to catch Crowley before they could collapse to the floor, unfurling their own wings to shelter them from the downpour. “Hold on! Talk to me!” Knowing it was futile Aziraphale tried another healing anyway, swearing when all that changed was the rapidly worsening ache in their own back and wings.

The sound Crowley made was both bitter laugh and heartbroken sob. “Sorry, angel. Guesss they found a way after all. Sssshould’ve known… they wouldn’t… let us get away.”

Aziraphale cradled Crowley close, shaking their head in denial, mind full of recriminations. Do something you stupid angel! Anything! But they couldn’t think past the pain of their heart breaking. “Crowley, please-”

“Never meant… t’hurt… you.” The burning frost was pervasive and growing, seeking the soul embedded within the living vessel that trembled from the freezing cold searing pain. It seeped through muscles and around bones, piercing eyes and lungs and heart, which failed under the onslaught.

“NO!” Aziraphale’s wail turned into a roar of rage and anguish when Crowley’s lovely eyes went dull and sightless. For the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale didn’t hold back, didn’t toe the line, didn’t do what was expected of them, and power the colour of a bronze sword sharpened with noonlight coruscated around them and their rapidly greying wings. “You can’t take Crowley from me again! I won’t allow it!” Those quick clever hands darted towards the now obvious source of Crowley’s torment, into inky feathers gone heavy and grey with icy embers of sanctified hellfire. “Fuck. You. All.”

If either side had seen Aziraphale at that moment, they might have understood why they were the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

Crowley was wreathed in pain and loneliness and despair, on the verge of losing themself to the agonizing emptiness, when a brilliant ray of golden-bronze light slashed through the void from a glimmering horizon that hadn’t existed until that moment. They wasted no time hurling themself towards the familiar shining beacon until it overwhelmed their senses with light, and eventually the light resolved itself into the fixture in the ceiling of their bathroom. They soon became aware of the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands raking urgently through their feathers and swamped with the terrible understanding that it was already too late, slurred, “Azsheraph, no...”

But Aziraphale was implacable and continued to extinguish the freezing embers clinging to Crowley’s feathers. “I must.” They ignored the pain of handling the sanctified hellfire and the building cold fire of Heaven’s unholy judgment, only giving in when they sensed the last of the embers vanish in a pathetic puff of smoke.

Crowley marshalled enough energy to move just in time to break Aziraphale’s fall. “Wha-, Aziraphale, did they-” The angel nodded, eyes pressed shut as a shudder passed through their failing body. “No no nononono.” Thoughts still muddled Crowley had sense enough to do one thing.

snap

Water, stopped, midair, crystalline and gleaming in the odd light of out-time.

Aziraphale reached up to press a shaking hand to Crowley’s right cheek, the tips of their fingers resting over the still bleeding hellish brand on Crowley’s temple. Too much left to say, to do, to make up for. Time enough for just one last thing...They stared into Crowley’s lovely eyes, irises blown wide with shock, and as their last desperate heartbeat passed, breathed out, “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale was gone before Crowley could respond, having used the last of their power to remove the binding mark on Crowley’s temple, and Crowley’s face crumpled and contorted with fury and despair, eyes burning like a star gone nova. “You can’t leave me, you bassstard, not now, not after all thisss!” They called up power from the core of their being, power they didn’t even know they had, and dragged lightning-edged talons through Aziraphale’s ice-rimed feathers, shredding the unholy acidic coating while leaving the feathers untouched. “I won’t let you go! Not like this! Aziraphale! Don’t go! Stay, bless you, stay!” The words devolved into snarled half-spoken curses and pleas as their assault against the Heavenly whatever-the-hell-it-was escalated into a frenzy.

“Ha!” Crowley yelled with sense of triumph when the last of the shreds fell away and dissolved with a ‘pft’, but triumph vanished when Aziraphale’s eyes remained closed, and the fragile corporeal heart remained still, persisting only because of the timelessness of the moment. No no no no no, spiralled in Crowley’s mind as they kissed those blued lips, pushing breath and life back into the dying vessel, reaching with the entirety of their being into the accursed void that Aziraphale had just pulled them from, ready to follow them back into oblivion if need be. Aziraphale!

The crushing emptiness of the void that held Aziraphale was suddenly filled by welcoming darkness, lifting the hopeless despair that they were lost within. Crowley! A shimmering auroral veil unfurled and a hundred million distant lights glimmered into view, warm and gloriously alive, and they flew towards where they sensed Crowley until the darkness resolved into just the familiar dimness held beneath closed eyelids.

Time slammed back into place, no longer held at bay by Crowley’s exhausted power, and the former demon cursed and sputtered as the suddenly far-too-hot-for-comfort water poured over them. It took a bit of flailing around to turn off the taps and afterward Crowley sat slouched against the wall, wings half unfurled and quivering as they tried to catch their breath.

Aziraphale laid utterly still as they regained their senses, drained beyond anything they could ever recall. They finally found the energy to suck in a slow shuddering breath and croak, “Crowley?” A shuddering sob of relief escaped when Crowley took their hand.

“I’m here, Aziraphale.” The reformed angel’s eyes opened, revealing they had shifted to blue-green, and Crowley realized that drowning in them wasn’t half bad really, all things considered. The itch and that building sense of doom were finally gone. ”I’m still here.”

Aziraphale blinked to clear their vision, and took in the sight of poor bedraggled Crowley wilting listlessly against the tile wall. They looked about as bad as Aziraphale felt, but they were there, wonderfully, blessedly alive. “Glad to hear it. You had me quite worried my dear.”

Crowley couldn’t help but snort out a laugh and helped Aziraphale sit up when they struggled against clothes and wings saturated with water and the glutinous but inert ashy grey residue. “Yeah, same. I’ll be very cross with you if you ever do that again, angel.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale gave them an exhausted but triumphant smile. “But you started it.”

“Me?! I-! Wot-! You-!”

The fondly exasperated sputtering of a Celestial Serpent at a loss for words warmed Aziraphale’s heart as nothing else could, and laughter, joyous in a way the former angel realized they hadn’t felt in a very long time, bubbled up, silencing the former demon’s protests. “What would I ever do without you?”

“Don’t you even think about trying to find out!” Crowley scolded, voice breaking, and caught Aziraphale in a nearly-crushing hug. Aziraphale tiredly hugged them back and Crowley rested their forehead against Aziraphale’s for a moment before pulling away to glare. “You barmy bastard, what were you thinking!?”

“Couldn’t let you go, my dear. Very selfish of me, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale murmured, stunned to see tears running down Crowley’s face. “Had to try.”

“You feather-brained do-gooder, you died! You died and I couldn’t save you!” Crowley crushed them in another hug, only easing up when Aziraphale squeaked. “Sorry, sorry-”

“But you did save me,” Aziraphale whispered, needing to tell Crowley what had happened, feeling the memory already beginning to fade. “It was so painful and dark and cold. It was beyond darkness, beyond… I was so afraid, so alone.”

Crowley held them tight, heart breaking. My fault. “Aziraphale...”

Tears welled, offset by a fond smile. “But a million stars exploded into being and I was in the Garden, and I sensed you and I wasn’t afraid any more.” Aziraphale stroked a finger over Crowley’s nearest wing-edge, considering as bits of sodden ash flaked away and disintegrated into nothingness. “I heard you call my name.” Another gentle touch, more ash dropping away from inky feathers that seemed to have gained an odd sheen. “My wings to yours. Always.”

Crowley frowned, pulling away from Aziraphale’s touch, unable to deal with the feelings those words and gentle caresses were stirring up. “C’mon, let’s get you warmed up.” Crowley banished their wings back into the astral plane with a spatter of displaced ash and water and the slight frown on Aziraphale’s face melted into a surprised gasp when Crowley lifted them up.

“I can walk.” Aziraphale held on tightly to Crowley’s shoulders and banished their own wings, though it took far more effort than usual. “...Probably.”

“You’re exhausted. And you just died to save me. Let me do this for you,” said Crowley gruffly, only moving towards the bedroom when Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley gently set Aziraphale down by the bed. “Let me tend your feathers, eh?” they urged, shrugging into a certain plush robe under Aziraphale’s heavy-lidded stare before carefully helping them from their ruined clothes. “Made rather a mess of them, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale didn’t have much will to resist temptation. What had happened on Sunday felt like a dream, a lifetime ago, and it had been so very long since Crowley had helped care for their wings... It had only ever been Crowley. They nodded as Crowley helped them into the nightshirt they’d used just a few nights earlier, and bundled them under the covers and clicked on the electric blanket. “T’would be lovely, thank you.”

Crowley clicked off the lights, grabbed a towel and once they had unfurled their wings, started gently grooming the grimy feathers, smirking as Aziraphale went boneless with a heavy sigh. “Relax any more and you might just fall asleep for once,” Crowley teased, but there was an ache over their heart. It had been a very long time since they had allowed themself to tend Aziraphale, and after the all too brief interlude before they’d gone to play with fire, Crowley had feared they’d never have the chance to do it again.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hummed in agreement, too tired to even bother with full sentences any more. Apparently dying took a lot out of a being, once the adrenaline wore off. “Feels lovely. Hadn’t had them out... since forty-one.”

Since the church, since they’d gotten utterly drunk on cursed cider and each other in the shop’s back room and — Crowley’s gentle grooming faltered for a moment, but Aziraphale didn’t notice. “Why not? Thought it was a big deal upstairs, grooming each other?”

“Dangerous.” Aziraphale rubbed a knuckle against Crowley’s leg, wanting to soothe away the bitterness in their voice, thinking about the communal grooming gatherings that were the most boring but also ridiculously fraught office parties in creation. Out of self preservation Aziraphale had created a ‘show up, make nice, make excuse, vanish’ routine that had kept them from ever having to reveal their wings. Being dismissed as inconsequential occasionally had its uses. “You know. Awful. Nosy buggers. Better with you, even without...”

“Aziraphale.” There was a world of meaning in that one word, and they lapsed into silence in the dimness. Crowley gently tended Aziraphale’s wings from top to bottom, confounded by the strange residue that sublimated from cold sandy grit to smoke in their hands. The wings felt normal, well, as normal as the corporeal manifestation of a Celestial being’s power could feel, but every once in a while the oblique light from the doorway would strike them just right to make them seem gold instead of white, with a faint sheen of what might be iridescence. But it was dark and Crowley didn’t want to look too closely, nor think about any more surprises.

By the time Aziraphale’s feathers were back in order Crowley felt as though they were buzzing with energy yet at the same time exhausted. “All done,” they murmured, and Aziraphale furled their wings away into the ether and curled sleepily onto their side towards Crowley with a few mumbled words of gratitude.

Crowley sat in the dark for a long while, doing their best to not think as they listened to Aziraphale’s quiet even breathing that spoke of true sleep. Eventually they slipped from the bed and dressed and retreated to the office. With a snap they miracled up a couch and turned on the TV, letting themself be lulled into a thoughtful stupor that eventually slipped into sleep.

Start at the beginning> Chapter 1 | Chapter 4 < Next Chapter

#good omens celebration #goc2021 #good omens #good omens fanfic #aziraphale/crowley #BAMF Crowley #BAMF Aziraphale #angst #angst but it turns out okay I swear #they kinda die #but they also bring each other back #trust me ;}#long post #readmore #Ineffable Bastards

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ineffable-snowman · 3 years

Text

Fic: For Want of Snow

Hi @smeltster, this is your gift for the GO Events gift exchange @good-snowmens. Happy Good Snowmens to you!

Thank you very much to @artemis for beta-reading!

***

For Want of Snow

“You don’t have snow anymore in London,” Aziraphale had said wistfully one day while they were strolling through St. James’s Park, Crowley with a black umbrella and Aziraphale with a tartan one to protect themselves against the steady drizzle.

Personally, Crowley could do without the snow. The usual London weather in December – grey, cold, rainy – was bad enough. Nevertheless, he had filed that information away for later, and when he came across a snow globe in a shop (as you do), he bought one for Aziraphale.

“Oh, how delightful,” Aziraphale said happily as Crowley presented him with the snow globe and removed a stack of books from the coffee table to place the snow globe there. Crowley, in turn, removed the books from the floor and squeezed them onto the shelves.

“Need to keep things tidy,” he offered as a mumbled explanation at Aziraphale’s questioning glance, all the while trying to forget how, just a few months ago, all the books and sheets of paper on the floor had so quickly caught fire. Then he flopped down on his sofa, half listening to Aziraphale prattle on about some theatre production he wanted to see, but mostly glaring at the blessed fireplace to make it very clear that it was never meant to host a fire again.

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale’s voice jolted him out of his glaring.

“Yeah, sure. Just cold.” Nothing unusual about snakes disliking the cold, right?

Aziraphale immediately got up to fuss, offered him a woollen tartan blanket (which he naturally refused), and a cup of tea (which he allowed).

“I could light a fire,” Aziraphale suggested.

“No! No, not necessary, I’m already much warmer, this-” Crowley sloshed some tea over his trousers and suppressed a hiss “-works wonders. What were you saying about that musical play?”

The distraction worked – for now. It did nothing to make the images of the bookshop on fire in Crowley’s mind disappear, though.

Crowley’s gaze kept drifting to the snow globe where the snowflakes floated dreamily down onto the little house between pine trees. The brightly lit windows looked cosy, and an idea started to form in Crowley’s head.

***

Hell used to hold Crowley up as an example for efficient evil deeds organisation. What he was planning now was not exactly evil but it warranted the same kind of attention to detail (maybe even more).

He started subtly, making the Bentley play White Christmas whenever he drove Aziraphale somewhere. Then he placed adverts at the places Aziraphale frequented: picturesque images of snowy villages and woods, vacation homes, cottages to rent, property for sale.

“You know, it would be nice to have a White Christmas again,” Aziraphale said when they were sitting, once again wet from the London rain, in the Bentley and the song Winter Wonderland began to play.

Crowley hummed his agreement. “Makes it really Christmassy, snow. Very festive.”

“It’s a shame neither of us took weather management courses, back in Heaven.”

“Yeah, would’ve been more helpful than choir practice.”

“Oh, don’t remind me!”

Any other day Crowley gladly would have taken this chance to bitch about Heaven with Aziraphale but now he needed to focus on his mission. The car in front of them stopped without knowing why, right next to a travel agency with a big poster in their shop window that showed a cottage in a winter landscape.

“You know,” Crowley said offhandedly, “there are places where you could have a White Christmas.”

“Yes, in Lappland or Siberia. I’m sure it would be wonderful to go there but you know how I love the English Christmas traditions.”

“There are English places where you could have a White Christmas.”

“Oh? Where would that be?”

“Tadfield. For example.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Uh.” From very thorough research about which part of the UK had the highest probability of a White Christmas. “Had a chat with the Antichrist’s father. Not Satan, obviously, still not on speaking terms since you know. His human father. Anyway, they’ve had White Christmases for several years now, he said.”

“How lovely. Tadfield is not very far, maybe we could go there on Christmas Day for a walk in the snow.”

Crowley shrugged. “Could rent a cottage for Christmas.”

Aziraphale turned to him, a worried look on his face, and shit, shit, shit, too fast. The song changed midway (I’m dreaming of ice in the sunshine) and the snowy cottage on the poster turned into a tropical island. Crowley wanted to hit himself for being such an idiot. Why couldn’t he leave things be? Things were fine now, why couldn’t he just be satisfied with what he had?

“I meant only so we could have a place to warm up,” he said quickly and honked at the car in front of him to finally get moving, for Heaven’s sake! “You know, after a walk in the snow, you need a warm place where you can have a hot drink and I don’t think they have cafés in Tadfield, so.”

“Oh. Yes.” Aziraphale hesitated. “Good.” He cleared his throat. “We could do that.”

***

It took careful planning. First of all he needed to rent a cottage. Not just any cottage, the perfect cottage in the perfect location. A cottage that was also potentially for sale.

Then he kidnapped the holiday decorator at Harrods (but paid him generously, so it wasn’t really kidnapping) to hang up Christmas lights, holly, garlands, and of course to put up and decorate a huge Christmas tree. Crowley visited the cottage himself to make sure the decorations were appropriate, paying special attention to the angel ornaments because they must not resemble certain archangels. While he was there, he also gave the Christmas tree a very strong talking to not to shed a single needle.

Then he brought everything you needed for a perfect Christmas, which was mostly food and drinks. There was some minor blackmail involved when he bullied the waitress at Aziraphale’s favourite café to give away their hot chocolate recipe. He needed three days of practice and several cartons of milk until he got it right without any miracles. (It was the first and hopefully last time his kitchen ever experienced any real cooking.)

On the morning of the 25th, Crowley was thoroughly exhausted but positive that his demonic plan was flawless. What could go wrong? Still he hovered in front of the bookshop’s door, wondering if he should ring the bell, if Aziraphale had forgotten their plan, if all of this was a phenomenally bad idea, if –

Aziraphale opened the door and smiled at him. “Ah, good morning.” He was wrapped in a thick coat and a fluffy woollen scarf. “Merry Christmas!” He handed Crowley a present.

“Ah.” Crowley’s hands moved of their own accord and took it. So that was a thing now. They gave each other Christmas presents now. “Thanks.” Why had no one informed him? He did not have anything for Aziraphale. (Did a cottage count?)

“Open it. You’re going to need it today.”

Crowley carefully opened the golden wrapping paper. He was not prepared for this, the idea that Aziraphale had chosen something for him and then wrapped it and put a bow on it. It was not even midday and things were already getting out of his control.

Inside the box were a thick red scarf and a pair of earmuffs. Crowley would have complained about the fluffiness of the earmuffs but at least they were black and it was his first ever Christmas present from Aziraphale, meaning he would kill anyone who tried to take the earmuffs away from him.

“Ah-hm, guess they could be useful,” he said and Aziraphale’s face erupted into a happy smile.

“Oh, I hoped you would like the colour. You never wear proper winter clothing. It’s no wonder you’re always cold…”

Crowley drove them out of the city while Aziraphale prattled on about bearskins and muffs. Crowley would occasionally comment with a hum but was mostly wondering what it meant that Aziraphale had decided to give him a Christmas present and worried about him staying warm and had gone to the trouble of choosing colours which Crowley liked.

“Oh dear, is the tape deck not working again?”

“Hm?” Crowley startled. The Bentley was playing Crazy Little Thing Called Love. As it had when they had driven off, thirty minutes ago. Crazy Little Thing Called Love was not a thirty-minute-long song, was it?

“I thought Adam had repaired it,” Aziraphale said.

“No, it should-” Crowley thumped against the disc compartment until it played Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture “-definitely be working.”

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

The music that was dramatic enough for this day had not been composed yet but Crowley let Aziraphale choose another CD and resolved to pay more attention to the music from now on.

Fortunately, the drive was not that long and they soon arrived at the outskirts of Tadfield where the cottage was located. The village was in walking distance but far enough away so they had their privacy.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley suppressed a flinch. Did the cottage look too similar to the house in the snow globe? Was it too obvious? “You don’t like it?”

“No, I mean, yes, I like it, it is absolutely wonderful. What a lovely place you have found!”

Crowley let out the breath he had been holding. Aziraphale liked it. He thought the place Crowley had found absolutely wonderful. His plan was working.

“Right! Let’s have a look inside?” Crowley got out of the car and winced when he stepped into the snow. He had forgotten to miracle his shoes waterproof. He would fix them later. For now he opened the front door for Aziraphale, proud to show him the festively decorated interior.

“Oh, look at that, how gorgeous! But who decorated the place like this?”

Oh no. Too much? “Er, it was just…a Christmas…special…deal. To get the house like this. Didn’t know it would be so bright and festive.” Crowley made sure to make a properly disgusted face.

“It is marvellous. Makes you want to stay inside all day. But we are here for the snow, of course. But we must sit down here and have a drink later and really appreciate the decorations.”

Good, Aziraphale liked the interior and wanted to stay, just like he was supposed to. Crowley ticked it off his mental list.

Now to the unpleasant part: snow.

At least Crowley had his new scarf and earmuffs. That did not keep his fingers warm or stop his nose from running, though. Also, walking in the snow was a nuisance. It was exhausting, his shoes and trousers got wet and he stumbled or slipped every few meters. But Aziraphale had flushed cheeks and commented happily on this and that, and it was really annoying and ridiculous what Crowley was willing to do to make that bastard smile.

Aziraphale, naturally, walked on the snow, almost gliding over it as if it was nothing, just leaving the faintest of footprints whereas Crowley trudged a few feet behind, wheezing and sometimes blessing at the bloody snow. Crowley knew that, technically, he should be able to do the same, what with angels and demons being of the same stock. But he also knew that he really needed to know that fact for it to work, and his brain refused to cooperate. Stupid brain, stupid snow.

“It has been some time, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale had stopped and was waiting for Crowley to catch up. He offered Crowley his arm, and Crowley was not against linking arms or holding hands, not at all, but this was humiliating and he wanted to be the one to extend a hand… but there was no way he was going to decline such an offer. Grumbling, he linked arms with Aziraphale and let the angel pull him up.

“There you go.” Aziraphale patted his arm and smiled at him and Crowley was glad he was wearing his sunglasses because getting such an open smile from up so close was shocking. (Also because the snow was blinding.) “You’ve done it before, so there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work now. You just have to believe in it.”

Crowley snorted. Believe in it, that was really the core of the problem. Demons weren’t supposed to – the fickle snow under his feet already gave in at the barest hint of that thought but Aziraphale tightened his hold just in time. An angelic miracle surged through Crowley’s body, making him shudder. It should work now, being supported by the angel’s powers. It did, he stayed on top of the snow even though his legs were a bit wobbly.

“Now, that’s better,” said Aziraphale. “See, it’s just like – what is the saying – riding a bicycle.”

“Never really liked those either. Not enough wheels.”

They discussed vehicles of transportation while they walked towards the forest. It was exhausting to make conversation and at the same time keep his senses tuned for any humans along their way who needed to be distracted. Not to mention the permanent miracle to keep his body temperature up and not succumb to the temptation of hibernation. Then there were the snow-covered branches that got into his face. Why had any human ever thought it a good idea to go for a walk through a snowy forest for fun?

When they had finally spent the scheduled amount of time in the forest, Crowley directed their steps towards the village and made sure to pass the bookshop in a side street with the FOR SALE sign in its window. (As the owner had not known she owned a bookshop 24 hours ago, she was all the more happy for that sign, not least of all because it would bring her unexpected money.)

“Oh, nice bookshop.” Crowley slowed down his steps in front of it. “Would be a shame if someone bought it who’d turn it into a mobile phone shop. Or an estate agency.”

Aziraphale looked pained at the mere idea. Good.

Next stop: the bakery, which for miraculous reasons was opened on Christmas Day.

“How about a little snack?” Crowley suggested.

“Oh, yes, it smells heavenly.”

Crowley harrumphed because the fact that Aziraphale’s favourite bakery had, at short notice, decided to open a branch in Tadfield had nothing at all to do with heavenly influences. He urged Aziraphale to try the ciabatta with roasted garlic and fennel because Aziraphale always insisted that he had never eaten better ciabatta.

“This is good,” Aziraphale said when he tried it. “Mm, I think it’s almost as good as Francesco’s.”

Almost as good?! Who in this bakery had screwed up? Did Crowley have to kidnap Francesco, too? Aziraphale kept on praising the bakery but Crowley was already drawing up new plans on how to insure there was the perfect ciabatta in Tadfield.

Back in the cottage, Crowley immediately went to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. This was the tricky part of the plan. The milk could not be trusted. And the cream could be a real bitch.

Right, he could do this. He had succeeded in his kitchen, so he could do it here as well. Saucepan, milk, cocoa powder, sugar, cream, chocolate chips, a pinch of vanilla, a pinch of cinnamon, miracle, pray, hope that it would not boil over. Well, he had nine more cartons of milk, just in case, and enough cocoa powder for at least a year, but he did not want to keep Aziraphale waiting for too long.

After a few minutes, he proudly poured the hot chocolate into a mug. Now for the garnish. Whipped cream, marshmallows, chopped chocolate, candy cane, flake, cinnamon stick – the mug was too small.

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley hissed at it but he refrained from using a miracle because Aziraphale was snobbish about miracled food.

His hands were sticky with a mix of hot chocolate, whipped cream and marshmallows (because naturally he had spilled something) when bringing Aziraphale the mug but Aziraphale’s delighted and grateful expression made up for it. Another successful stage of his plan!

“This is very good. Where did you learn how to make it?”

“Not that difficult, really.” Crowley dropped down on the sofa in exhaustion.

“Won’t you have some, too?”

Oh, right. That was a thing, drinking hot chocolate together after a walk in the snow. “Of course, just getting mine…”

So, back to the kitchen. Saucepan, milk, cocoa powder, miracle, candy cane, done.

Hot chocolate was not Crowley’s favourite drink (especially not with hurried demonic miracle flavour) but it warmed him up. That, and watching Aziraphale with his flushed cheeks and content smile savour his drink.

“So. This place isn’t half bad,” Crowley said.

“It is absolutely lovely. Maybe we could, I don’t know… return here next year for a day or two?”

Returning sounded good, a day or two not good enough. Time to fortify the temptation.

“We could stay for tonight. Go for another walk. Could go at night, snow in the moonlight – looks nice, doesn’t it? Or tomorrow we could go to – to – to the hill. It’ll be a nice view from there, all the snow and…trees!”

“That does sound rather nice. But we couldn’t just stay here, could we?”

“Why not?”

“Well, it must belong to a human.”

“Yeah, it does. But the owner said it’s free for the next few…” centuries, decades, years “…months.”

“I see. In that case...” Aziraphale gave him a questioning glance as if waiting for Crowley to say it.

“Yes?” Crowley leant forward, waiting for Aziraphale to say it.

“I mean, as it is already getting dark…”

“Yes, very dark.”

“I mean, we could stay for one more…day, I suppose. Go for another walk in the snow.”

“Great.” Crowley gulped down the rest of his hot chocolate (and offered Aziraphale the candy cane). Everything was going according to plan, he had reached his goal for today. He would initiate the next stage of the plan tomorrow. For now, he could relax for a bit, and he really needed the break from all the minor or major miracles of the last few days, and the bloody snow. He sagged down further into the cushions of the couch. Warmth started to crawl back into his body, from his hands, which had held the mug with the hot drink, to his core until finally his whole corporation felt pleasantly heavy. Aziraphale seemed perfectly content, nibbling on his candy cane, and so Crowley could be, too. His breathing slowed down and he closed his eyes for a bit. Everything was so warm and nice and safe and… wait, what was that? He did not remember getting under a blanket. But it was a nice blanket. Very soft and very warm. He slowly blinked his eyes open. Everything was brighter. Where were his – ah. His glasses had been placed on the coffee table, next to five empty mugs and a stack of books. Oh no, was he back in the bookshop? But no, the bookshop was more dusty and stuffy. He was still in the cottage. They were still in the cottage. Aziraphale was sitting in the chair opposite Crowley, entirely engrossed in the book in his lap. Sometimes the hint of a smile would tug at the corners of his lips.

This was what Crowley had imagined. Well, not completely, to be honest. For example, he had not envisioned being covered with a woollen tartan blanket but the damage was done, no need to throw it away now. Besides, he was so very comfy in his cocoon of warmth. He stretched sleepily and wrapped the blanket more firmly around himself.

Aziraphale looked up from his book and the hint of a smile turned into a full smile when he caught Crowley’s eye. “Oh, you’re awake.”

That was food for thought, that Crowley got a bigger smile than the books. Crowley was not prepared for this – this – this four-letter word, all of it directed at him so openly.

“How long have I been…?”

“A bit more than two weeks, I think. Ah, maybe three. I haven’t been keeping track of time very thoroughly.”

“Two or three-?” Crowley sat up and got tangled up in the blanket. “But…” All of his careful laid out plans and he had simply overslept!

“It’s fine. I contacted the owner of this cottage. She said she did not have any other bookings and that we could stay for as long as we wanted. In fact, she seemed to be under the impression that we were going to stay for a bit longer anyway.”

And now that woman had messed it up even more! What was Aziraphale thinking? “Ah. Humans. Don’t really have a grasp on time,” Crowley tried to play it down.

Aziraphale placed a bookmark into the book, closed it and put it on the table. “I’ve been thinking.”

Oh no. “We need to talk?” Crowley ventured, dread growing, because those words were just as ominous.

“Yes.” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. Then he looked back up at Crowley. “Do you want to stay here?”

Of course he had worked it all out. Clever bastard. Stupid of Crowley to think otherwise, stupid of him to fall asleep and let Aziraphale overthink it for two or three weeks instead of being distracted and tempted by hot chocolate, ciabatta and little bookshops for sale.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prodded.

How could he get out of this situation with both of them keeping their dignity intact? “Er, mnk. It’s not that bad here? I guess I could see myself staying here. Just, nhm, sleeping for a bit, you know.”

“And…do you want us to stay here…together?” Aziraphale’s voice had gone almost inaudible on the last word.

Crowley gave a big, hopefully very casual shrug that was meant to communicate just how unaffected he was by all of this. “I wouldn’t mind. Only if you want to, of course. Do you? Want to?”

“No, Crowley, I asked you if you wanted to stay here together.” Aziraphale’s voice had grown louder again, almost resolute now.

There was no way out of this. No shrugs, no half-answers, not even falling asleep for another few weeks could get him out of this situation. Right, be brave now.

He looked at Aziraphale and Aziraphale looked calmly back at him. It suddenly did not seem so frightening anymore. It would be fine, whatever he said. Aziraphale would still shelter him from the rain or help him walk on snow; would never cast him away.

Crowley gave a jerky nod.

“Good.” Aziraphale smiled tentatively. “Then we will stay here.” He nodded, as if to confirm it to himself, then grabbed his book with trembling fingers.

“Your hands are shaking,” Crowley said.

“Indeed, they are.” Aziraphale watched his own fingers as they opened the book on the page he had marked. “It’s just a lot.”

“I get that.” Crowley really did. He knew that Aziraphale by now had probably worked out the details of his plan with the numerous miracles to get them here and it should be humiliating but somehow it was okay because Aziraphale was just as nervous and was willing to do this with Crowley. “We don’t have to right now, we could just come here on vacation once a year or-”

“No, I want to.”

Huh. That had been easier than expected. Several stages of the plan were suddenly redundant. “What about your bookshop?”

“I was under the impression that you had already purchased that little bookshop in town?”

“Not yet but…I could.”

“Right.”

Crowley noticed how tensely Aziraphale’s fingers held the book, almost crumpling its pages. He knew how much Aziraphale loved his bookshop, and although it was flattering to think that Aziraphale would give it up for him, he never wanted Aziraphale to give anything up. “Or you could keep your bookshop. London’s not that far. We could go there once a week so you can open it every Tuesday or so. Won’t make much of a difference for the customers.”

Aziraphale considered it for a moment but then he shook his head. “No. I want to live here, I really do. It is perfect. Thank you for bringing me here.”

Crowley was lost for words. They were here, together, and they were going to stay. What else was there for him to say or do? Perfect, yes.

“I hope you’re well rested?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I’m planning on taking you up on that promise of a moonlight walk in the snow.”

“There’s still snow?!” Hadn’t he slept long enough?

“Indeed there is, and it looks marvellous.”

“Guess I owe you.”

After being asleep for so long in the warmth of the cottage, the cold outside was a bit of a shock. Aziraphale offered his arm again to assist Crowley, who, after a few uncoordinated steps, got the hang of walking on snow much quicker this time.

“Still hate snow,” he grumbled but it wasn’t that bad really. Yes, it was bloody cold but there were some upsides. Like the snow glistening in the moonlight and Aziraphale still holding him close, which wasn’t strictly necessary anymore and therefore even better.

They were on their own, not a sound to be heard but their breathing and the rustling of their coats. In the distance, the village laid asleep, no lights to be seen, just the smoke from the chimneys showed that humans lived there.

They walked towards the forest. The snow covering the ground was untouched but for some tracks that animals had left. The branches of the trees were hanging low with the weight of the snow. Everything felt a little unreal, it couldn’t be further from London’s hectic and loud atmosphere. It made Crowley all the more aware of everything, like how close they were pressed together. Aziraphale with his thick winter coat felt like a big comfy cushion against Crowley’s side.

They kept walking for hours like this, sometimes exchanging a few hushed words but mostly just enjoying the stillness of the world. Just walking and being here, no deeds to be done, no need to tempt or plan or work miracles. They kept walking until the break of dawn. Without discussing it, they directed their steps towards the village where one by one the lights in the houses went on.

“How do-ooaah!” Something hit Crowley right in the face and he staggered, lost his footing and landed on his bottom in the snow. “What was that?”

“I believe a-” Aziraphale ducked to avoid the next missile “-snowball. How rude.”

“Snowball.” The best thing about snow. Crowley was already sculpting his own snowballs and then started the counter attack. He liked sleeping, good food and moonlight walks well enough but he was still a demon, and using that annoying, squishy, cold stuff for snowball fights – brilliant idea. He was chasing the screaming kids around, bombarding them with his snowballs, ignoring Aziraphale’s complaints (“Crowley, you can’t use miracles against children!”).

“He’s the Antichrist, he can defend himself!” And his friends could just as well. Only when Crowley let snowballs the sizes of snowmen rain down on them, did they retreat.

“Was that really necessary?” Aziraphale admonished him while patting down the snow from Crowley’s coat, scarf and hair.

Crowley cackled. “That was fun.” He snapped his fingers for a new pair of sunglasses because the other one had been lost in the fight and was now probably buried somewhere in the snow.

“You look frozen. Let’s head back and warm you up. Maybe with some of that delicious hot chocolate you made. Are there still ingredients left or do we need to buy something?”

“I think we still have some,” Crowley said, thinking of the nine cartons of milk in the Bentley’s boot.

Back in the cottage, Crowley miracled his clothes dry and headed for the kitchen. Aziraphale followed him.

“How did you learn to make such scrumptious hot chocolate? Can you show me? What’s the secret?”

“Uh, possibly the milk.”

“What’s with the milk?”

“You heat it.”

“Yes?”

“It’s bloody difficult! Milk’s always trying to boil over and it makes a mess…”

“Yes, it sometimes does that.” Aziraphale stepped next to Crowley and examined the stove and the saucepan. “I think I can handle the milk.”

Aziraphale turned out to be a natural in heating milk. No boiling over, no stench, no flames, no ruined saucepan, not even spilled milk on the floor.

“You’re good at that,” Crowley said in surprise and added the cocoa powder.

“Oh, well, it’s not the first time I’ve made hot chocolate. Would you pass me the whisk, love?”

Crowley crashed into the countertop and spilled half of the sugar he had meant to add next. He stared at Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled bashfully, his cheeks flushed red. He knew what he was doing, that bastard. He meant it.

“The whisk.” Crowley cleared his throat because his voice had come out very undemonic. “Right, yes, sure.” He passed it to Aziraphale and then got more sugar and the other ingredients.

Emboldened by Aziraphale’s bravery, he stepped a little closer so their shoulders brushed against each other. Aziraphale stopped breathing but he did not flinch away. He was still smiling when he whisked the milk and the cocoa powder. Crowley took his time adding the sugar and chocolate chips. And afterwards, he just stayed where he was and even dared to, very lightly, place a hand in the small of Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale wriggled a little closer and suddenly it was very easy to place his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Crowley could not tell how long they stayed like this, Aziraphale whisking the hot chocolate and Crowley staring almost transfixed into the saucepan, inhaling the chocolaty scent and the warmth and Aziraphale’s closeness. What did it matter, they were not in a hurry, and the milk behaved for once.

#good snowmens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #fic #my writing

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pengychan · 3 years

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Isaiah 40:31

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: well, shit hits the fan and the end is near.

***

As the boy who was most assuredly Not The Antichrist - but who had nonetheless been their charge for about the first eleven years of his life - walked towards the front door of the bookshop in Soho, entirely unaware of being stalked by a man with a pocket knife, Aziraphale stood in the bedroom of a lovely cottage in the South Downs, not far from the Devil’s Dyke.

He knew it was rather rude, being roughly seventy-five miles away from the place where you happen to have an appointment in about five minutes’ time, but surely it was not too much of an issue, given that they would be right back in the bookshop by crossing the threshold of a rather miraculous door they had installed between the two places. And besides, Crowley had really wanted to show him something.

That something being a luxurious, huge and hugely gaudy canopy bed with gold-plated columns and red velvet drapes that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in Versailles, before revolutionaries took most of its contents to an uncertain fate. As a piece of furniture still occasionally turned up in flea markets, Aziraphale wouldn’t put it beyond the realm of possibilities.

Said bed now occupied the greater part of the bedroom that Crowley had insisted they ought to have in the cottage, against Aziraphale’s suggestion to turn it into another room for his books.

“We already have the loft for those, and the bookshop on the other side of the door,” he’d pointed out. “We need a bedroom.”

Aziraphale, who had actually last slept sometime in the nineteenth century and solely out of boredom while watching an especially poor performance of Troilus and Cressida - in itself far from Shakespeare’s best work, and the lead actor’s lisp had done it no favors - had been slightly taken aback. “But, my dear, we don’t need sleep,” he’d said, getting a snort out of Crowley.

“We don’t need to eat either. So what?”

Aziraphale had to concede he had a point, although he didn’t quite see the allure of laying in a semi-comatose state for several hours while hallucinating the same way he saw the allure of a slice of red velvet cake, and agreed that the cottage would indeed have a bedroom. It was only fair considering the space he had for his books, so that was a compromise he did not regret.

Telling Crowley he was welcome to choose whatever bed he liked himself, however, was something Aziraphale did regret. He knew that Crowley’s taste when it came to furniture ranged from dreadfully minimalistic to unbearably garish, but this - the golden columns, the red heavy velvet - was… a little too much.

“Well, what do you think?” Crowley was asking, looking as proud of himself as he had after moving that golden monstrosity he called a throne right next to Aziraphale’s old trusty armchair in the loft, entirely ignoring the way Aziraphale’s right eyebrow had twitched.

This time, it was the left eyebrow to twitch.

“Well, it is-- rather…” Aziraphale raked his brain for a polite way to put it. “Eye-catching.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Crowley grinned, even prouder. Aziraphale suspected his euphemism had been a little too subtle. “I remembered what you said when I came to save your butt in France.”

“... That I wanted crêpes?”

“That you had standards. French royalty standards.”

“Well, it was not quite royalty level, more along the lines of a noble--”

“This beauty comes straight from Versailles.”

Ah, of course. Of course it did.

“Or, well, not so straight. It went around across Europe quite a bit. But here it is, as you see.”

“Yes. I… I do see.” Aziraphale managed a smile. No harm done, he thought - he didn’t have a habit to sleep as Crowley did, so he would hardly ever need to be in that room at all. He would just entirely forget about that bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

“The mattress is new, clearly. You’ll like it. Real plush.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That sounds nice, but I am not in the habit of sleeping.”

“You should try. Nothing better than some time spent in a semi-comatose state while vividly hallucinating.”

A chuckle. “You’re not making it sound very alluring.”

“Ah, I should up my temptation game. I’m out of practice. When was the last time I tempted you into anything?”

“This morning, actually, you--”

The chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs - a very tasteful eighteenth century clock Aziraphale had long debated whether to move in the cottage or keep in the bookshop - cut him off, and reminded him of… well, of the time.

“I believe Warlock should arrive any moment now - we should head back,” he said, and they did. It looked like the boy might get there before Gabriel popped in to return the book, and if that turned out to be the case… well, Aziraphale really hoped he had enough sense to put the book in a bag or something like it. If not, they may need to have a few words.

There were things an eleven-year-old boy really didn’t need to see.

***

“Ugh, c’mon, they knew I was coming…” Warlock Dowling huffed, taking a couple of steps away from the door of the bookshop which had stayed closed, no matter how hard he knocked. He glanced at the sign in the window; it made just as little sense as it did the first time he read it.

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays). A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

Warlock briefly wondered who A. Z. Fell was, really - the founder? A co-owner? It definitely was not Brother Francis’ name, but he had claimed to be the owner, which was a leap from working as a gardener but not a claim Warlock had any reason to doubt. Brother Francis did not lie, after all. He hated lies and got really cross with him whenever he caught him lying, usually after Nanny-- after Crowley suggested he did.

“Pair of weirdos. Always been,” Warlock muttered, but it wasn’t really a complaint; they were a fun pair of weirdos to grow up around, or else he wouldn’t have tracked them down in London. After checking through the window to see if anyone was in, and seeing, no one, Warlock reached in his pocket for his phone and began looking for Crowley’s number.

Focused as he was on the screen, he failed to notice the man approaching with a hand in his pocket, eyes fixed on him and pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black. On the opposite side of the road Hastur, Duke of Hell, retreated from the mortal’s mind with a smirk and prepared to enjoy the scene with eyes just as black.

***

“... So no, I really doubt the London Dungeon holds prisoners anymore, but it would be an interesting thing to--”

“Silence,” Beelzebub spoke suddenly, stopping abruptly in their tracks and causing Gabriel to almost bump into them and drop the book, something for which Aziraphale would probably be very, very cross with him. He frowned.

“It’s not my fault that they have stopped using the dungeons, if that’s such an issue I suppose we could change plans and--”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you sense-- ah. No, you can’t anymore,” Beelzebub muttered, and looked around with a scowl. “A demon is at work. It was my order that no one was to approach the traitors.”

Gabriel blinked. “Maybe it’s Crowley--”

“It’s not,” Beelzebub all but snarled, staring at someone some distance away. Further down the pavement stood a man that looked… wrong, for the lack of a better word; something not human who made a passingly decent job at masquerading as human, but not quite good enough. Gabriel may not be able to sense demonic or angelic presences anymore, but he could see as much.

“Hastur,” Beelzebub scoffed.

Ah, Gabriel was vaguely familiar with the name - Hastur, Duke of Hell. Not someone he’d be pleased to meet anywhere in general, but seeing him there was especially worrying. He recalled Michael mentioning that out of all demons, he held a particular grudge against Crowley. Was that grudge really so great that he would ignore a direct order from Beelzebub to find Crowley in Soho and… and do what, exactly? “What is he doing here?”

“I’m about to find out. Wait here,” Beelzebub muttered, and walked - no, marched - directly towards the demon. “Hastur, Duke of Hell. What in Heaven are you doing here?”

Their voice caused the demon to recoil and turn his attention away from… whatever they had been staring at on the other side of the road. He was already deathly pale, but he seemed to grow just a tad paler as his gaze rested on a decidedly annoyed Prince of Hell planting themselves before him, arms crossed and clearly looking for a very good explanation why he would defy a direct order not to be anywhere near the traitorous demon that holy water could not destroy.

As he stammered some sort of reply, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the street. A man was walking towards the bookshop coming from the opposite direction, and he was… wait. Wait, he looked familiar - Gabriel had seen him before, a few months earlier, near the church where Daniel’s funeral service had just been held. He’d given him his coat because it was raining and talked briefly with him, and he had found it funny because his name was… his name…

“Noah!” Gabriel called out with a smile, walking towards him. “How are you doing? How’s your--”

The next word - dog? - died on his lips when he got to look, to really look, at Noah’s eyes. They looked no more human than those of the Duke of Hell currently getting a tongue-lashing only a few steps away, and they were fixed dead ahead of him as he kept walking, giving no sign of having heard or seen him. Walking towards the bookshop… and towards a boy fumbling with his phone right in front of it, back turned to them all. Something was off. Something was wrong.

A demon is at work, Beelzebub had said. Gabriel opened his mouth to cry out, to demand that Hastur, Duke of Hell, released that mortal from whatever hold he had on him - but before he could force out a single word, Noah’s hand came out of his pocket and something gleamed in the sunlight.

There was no time to cry out. No time for words, no time to think, no time to demand action from anyone other than himself. Gabriel knew there was one thing he ought to do now, one thing only. Ever since finding himself without plan or purpose, choices had not always come easy to him - the terror of choosing wrong often paralyzing him. But this one came with no effort: it was no choice at all. As a dark shadow fell on a boy he didn’t even know, Gabriel dropped the book he had come to return, and ran.

“NOAH! STOP!”

Noah did not turn, but the boy did. He lifted his gaze from his phone to glance over at Gabriel, clearly confused - then his confusion turned into alarm when Gabriel suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him away.

“Hey! The hell?” the boy yelled, just as the knife descended on the spot he’d been standing only an instant before, narrowly missing the back of his neck. He tried to pull away from Gabriel’s grip, turning to call out for someone to get that madman off him - and froze when he finally saw the man standing behind him, eyes all black and lips pulled back in a snarl, swinging something at him.

Somewhere in his brain, he registered it was a knife. He tried once again to scream - mom, he thought, but if he’d managed to force out his voice he probably would have said something more along the lines of ‘shit’. Gabriel, from his part, didn’t try to speak again; he could tell Noah was beyond hearing him.

So he yanked the boy back once again, and threw himself between him and Noah. The result was, all things considered, extremely predictable.

Four and a half inches of steel buried themselves into Gabriel’s gut with a wet sound that went almost entirely unheard. There was a sense of heat, the pressure of a handle against his flesh and, at first, no pain. Gabriel found himself staring straight into pitch-black eyes for a moment before the pupils shrank to a normal size again, revealing the human eyes, light blue and filled with confusion. Somewhere behind Gabriel, the boy screamed and turned to bang on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

People around them stopped walking to turn, not quite having caught up what was going on but slowly getting there. On the other side of the road, a panicked Duke of Hell disappeared in a cloud of smoke as soon as the Lord of the Flies turned to see what the commotion was about.

Gabriel tried to speak, to call out for Beelzebub - don’t hurt him, he didn’t know what he was doing - but a gurgling sound was all that left him, and something dripped down his chin.

“What…?” Noah muttered, blinking at him, and looked down. “Oh-- oh God, oh Jesus Christ, oh shit-- !” he cried out, voice high and panicked, and staggered back with the knife still in hand, dislodging from Gabriel’s flesh with another wet sound.

Blood came rushing forth, coldness set in, and so did pain. Gabriel’s knees folded, and he hit the ground just as the bloodied knife did. Noah stepped back again, shaking like a newborn calf.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry-- someone call an ambulance, I’m sorry, oh God…!”

Don’t bother calling out for God. They don’t answer. Not for me.

“Gabriel!” Beelzebub’s voice filled his ears, drowning out all the rest. There was a hand on the back of his head, lifting it, and he opened his eyes again to see them looking down at him, wide-eyed and scared in a way he had never seen them.

And Gabriel was scared, too, filled to the brim with the most primal, human terror - the most ancient sort of despair known to man. He suddenly knew why even Yeshua had faltered that night in the Garden of Gethsemane, pleading to escape the fate before him and avoid what he knew was unavoidable.

I don’t want to die.

He tried to speak, choking on his own blood. Somewhere behind him, a heavy door was thrown open and Aziraphale’s voice reached him as though from miles away.

“Warlock! My boy, what is-- oh. Oh dear, what…?”

“What the Heaven is going on?” Crowley’s voice was a couple octaves higher than usual, and suddenly there was silence, time itself stilled; the crowd all around them, Noah, even a bird flying past right above them remained fixed in time like so many statues. The boy was talking frantically to Crowley and Aziraphale, but Gabriel was unable to pay his words any mind. His gaze remained fixed on Beelzebub, and on Beelzebub only.

“Heal me,” he choked out. He felt cold all over, even with the wound itself throbbing in heat and pain the way the wounds on his back had, the day his wings were torn off. “Please.”

“Hastur will pay for this, he-- I-- of course, you idiot, be still--” their hand hovered above the blood-soaked shirt, and suddenly they hesitated. Their gaze found Gabriel’s, and held it. “... Sacrifice,” the Prince of Hell murmured.

“What…?”

“You sacrificed your life for another. That’s it. It’s your ticket back home, Gabriel.”

Home. Back in Heaven, where he belonged. Not quite in his old position - a mortal soul - but still, home. Except that… except that if he returned there as a mere mortal soul...

“No,” Gabriel wheezed. “No. I can’t. I-- would never-- be able to leave it-- again.”

“You never wished to leave it in the first pla--”

“Never see you-- again--” Gabriel coughed, and let out a weak groan at the excruciating pain. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it down his throat, pooling down on the pavement around him; he felt his strength draining away with it. The back of Beelzebub’s free hand wiped some of it off his chin; the other still cupped the back of his head.

“... You will die either way in the end. You do not wish to reside in Hell and I will not force you.” Their plan of leaving behind Hell for good seemed to be far from their mind now. “This may be--” the Prince of Hell paused, and let out a shaky breath. “This may be your best chance, Gabriel.”

“No. Not now. Not yet,” Gabriel managed a smile. His vision was growing blurry. “I will take… all the time I can get. With you.” However little it may be. Such short life spans, but I will make it worth it. I must. I only get one shot. “So don’t-- let me die-- yet.”

For a moment Beelzebub only stared, their hand hovering above his wound. They swallowed, and opened their mouth to say something - only that someone else spoke first. Aziraphale.

“Oh, oh dear, what a dreadful mess-- Gabriel? It’s all right, hold on, I will heal you--”

“Keep away from him!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously, shooting a glare at Aziraphale, at Crowley, at the boy who was currently glued to Crowley’s side, staring with wide eyes at the scene before him and at the crowd frozen in time. The angel reared back, but did not give up.

“I mean to help him. Heal him.”

“I can heal him myself!” the Prince of Hell snapped, and pressed their hand on the bleeding wound. Pain shot up Gabriel’s body and he ground his teeth, waiting for relief, for healing, for the end of suffering… but none of it came.

Beelzebub pulled away a now bloodied hand, taken aback, struggling to comprehend what they were seeing. “It’s… it isn’t working. It won’t heal.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, despair sinking in his chest.

No. It cannot be. Not now, God, please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t let me die now that I have learned to live. Don’t take them from me again.

“... May I try, Lord Beelzebub?” Aziraphale spoke again, ever respectful, but the hesitation in his voice made it plain that he didn’t think they could succeed where Beelzebub had failed. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, and felt something trickling down his temples.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why--

GABRIEL.

That voice, in the back of his mind and yet everywhere. Gabriel hadn’t heard it in such a long, long time, but hadn't forgotten it. His chest shuddered in a gasp, and he tried to speak again, to respond to the call - whether to cry, to beg, to curse he didn’t know. Before he could force out a single sound, another voice rose. Very familiar and decidedly concerned.

“Uuh, angel? Any idea what that is?”

“What-- oh. That might be our cue to move out of the way. Move away-- you too, Warlock, move back, my boy…”

What…?

Gabriel opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Precisely above him, the blue of it was gone; clouds of blinding white had gathered in a circle, and within that circle was only light. The air around him seemed to crackle, and he knew what that meant. Gabriel tried to speak, to warn Beelzebub, but he could only cough up another mouthful of blood. On his tongue, he could now taste something else.

Ozone.

From a distance, once again came Aziraphale’s voice. “Lord Beelzebub, you ought to let go and--”

“No.” Beelzebub’s grip on Gabriel tightened, vicious and desperate at the same time. The air crackled, the clouds swirled, and Gabriel’s vision began to fade. His hand weakly gripped their jacket, but he was unable to do anything else. Beelzebub’s face was but a blur, but ah, their grip was unyielding. His eyes slipped shut, his head rolled against their chest.

“I refuse to let go. God cannot tell me what to do and neither can you.”

Don’t take them from me again. Please, please, please--

“Brother Francis, what the hell--”

“We’ll explain later, my boy - step back now, cover your eyes - don’t look, Crowley, make sure he doesn’t look--”

The crack of thunder covered his next words, filling the world, drowning out all noise. Gabriel felt the grip around him tightening, heard Beelzebub choke out something that sounded a lot like ‘you idiot’, and he opened his eyes.

And then there was only light.

***

In the instant before lighting struck, three things happened in quick succession.

First, Crowley pulled Warlock’s face to his chest to make sure he wouldn’t be blinded as many mortals had been before Heaven learned to somewhat tone it down; second, Crowley turned his back to the scene to avoid looking himself, and shield the boy while he was at it.

And third, Aziraphale’s wings unfolded to shield them both.

There was no heat, which was rather typical of Heavenly things: light without warmth, utterly unlike the darkness and heat - humid heat rather than raging flames, but all the more uncomfortable - that Aziraphale had experienced in his first, and hopefully only, visit to Hell.

Shielded by Aziraphale’s wings, Crowley kept his eyes tightly shut behind his glasses and Warlock’s face pressed against his shirt for several more moments after the last echo of the deafening thunder faded.

“Is it safe to turn, angel?” he asked, while Warlock kept muttering against his shirt a litany of words that mostly sounded like ‘what’, ‘the’ and ‘fuck’, in the order.

This time Aziraphale didn’t bother to make a mental note of talking with the boy about his language. Aside from being relieved the boy had not been stabbed, turned into salt, incinerated, blinded or deprived of his sanity, Aziraphale suspected they would have different, more pressing matters to discuss very shortly. “I’ll check. Don’t look yet,” he replied, and finally looked back.

The crowd of mortals was still around them, frozen in time, unscathed and unaware. The clouds were gone, quick as they had come - but there was a sphere of light before him, crackling with electricity where Beelzebub and Gabriel had been until moments earlier. In that light, there was… something. At first Aziraphale couldn’t make it out, but as he stepped closer and the light began to dull, he could see something all right.

And that something was a pair of folded wings.

At first, Aziraphale thought he must be looking at the wings of a demon and wondered how Beelzebub could survive the full might of the Lord; then, as the light pulsed and faded little by little, he realized that was not it. The wings were not the pure white of angels, but neither were they midnight black. Deep brown with a golden sheen, mottled with darker brown, black, specks of white. The wings of an eagle.

And they did not belong to Beelzebub.

One last crackle of pure energy, and the pulsing light dissolved. Aziraphale worked his jaw a moment, mouth dry, before he finally called out.

“... Gabriel?”

The wings shifted, and slowly parted. Gabriel was kneeling on the pavement, eyes blinking open as though he struggled to comprehend what was happening. In his arms, held tightly against his chest, was the Prince of Hell; their eyes were screwed shut as though they were waiting to be smited still, but they were in one piece - shielded from the full might of God by the Archangel Gabriel himself, who seemed to be just now beginning to process precisely what had transpired.

“What…?” he muttered, and the sound of his voice caused Beelzebub’s eyes to snap open. They pulled back from his chest, on their knees themselves, and looked up at Gabriel - and at the wings spread behind him. They opened their mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again.

“You have wings again,” they finally said. “But they don’t look like--”

Gabriel didn’t so much turn to look at them. “You are all right,” he muttered, and cupped their cheek with a long breath, smiling widely. “Thank-- whoever there is to thank, you’re--”

Beelzebub’s hand grasped the collar of Gabriel’s shirt before he could say another word, and yanked his head down in a sudden kiss. It was definitely not something Aziraphale had expected to happen and neither had Gabriel, by the looks of it, but he seemed… far from displeased. Actually he leaned into it rather enthusiastically, arms slipping around the Lord of the Flies’ waist.

Aziraphale stepped back, feeling just a touch awkward.

“Angel, is it safe to look or no--” Crowley finally spoke up, and turned without waiting for an answer. A rather unwise move, that. His gaze fell on the scene before him, and he let out a groan. “Uuuugh! No it’s not safe, not it’s not, for Satan’s sake it’s seared in my brain now, why didn’t you warn...”

He turned again and took a few steps away, rubbing his eyes beneath the glasses. Warlock, on the other hand, remained exactly where he was - eyes shifting slowly between Gabriel’s brand new wings and Aziraphale’s own, still in full display.

“... Brother Francis, I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” he finally said. “But what, pray tell, the fuck.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, knowing he couldn’t count on Crowley stepping in for an explanation for at least another ten minutes, busy as he was trying to jab his eyes out of their sockets. In the end, he said nothing and turned to survey the scene.

Time stood still and so did every single living being in sight, including the man who had wielded the knife, a horrified expression frozen on his face. Gabriel and Beelzebub didn’t seem to plan on letting their mouths part ways anytime soon, still on the very spot where Gabriel had nearly bled out to death minutes earlier. A few steps away, in the middle of the road, was Aziraphale’s antique pornography book.

With a sigh, Aziraphale went to pick it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure to hide the cover from Warlock’s sight.

“I believe,” he finally spoke, “that we all could use a nice cup of tea right about now.”

***

"But those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall soar on wings like eagles; they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not be faint." -- Isaiah 40:31

***

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#good omens #ineffable beurocracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #warlock dowling #winging it

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warcats-cat · 3 years

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Fragile

I’m so glad I got to participate in the @goloveday exchange! I don’t do fic exchanges often, but this one was a lot of fun! Special thanks to @miniaturefern for beta'ing this for me. @saer-m, I really hope you enjoy your gift! It was wonderful to write this for you!! <3

Also cross posted on Ao3!

TW: a little bit of insecurity, crying, references to past trauma. It’s that good good hurt/comfort tho. <3

Crowley had everything planned perfectly. Really. He’d tagged along on one of angel’s trips for some special book that Crowley didn’t fully care about; he just liked to hear Aziraphale’s voice. He liked the way the angel’s face literally lit up, he started almost glowing out his eyeballs, when he got excited. Crowley liked it when Aziraphale was happy. Crowley would damn his soul all over again to see that glowing smile forever. So he’d come with Aziraphale on a little trip, listening to his angel babble about botched phrasing and hilariously disastrous typos and watching from the corner of his eye as the fluffy head bounced and soft hands jittered.

And of course, as soon as Crowley found out they were going on a trip of any kind, he started planning. This was their first trip, after all.

Well, their first as a couple at least.

And it was a little weird, being officially a thing and having the freedom to hold hands or press into each other’s sides at night; knowing that, for once, they didn’t have to worry about “them” watching. If “they” were watching, it didn’t really matter. And Crowley wanted to celebrate the idea.

So he had driven his angel out to Satan-Knows-Where in the middle of autumn. He had watched his angel barter and chat with people milling about in shop fronts and street market stalls. He had listened to his angel prattle on and almost drifted away on the sound of his voice.

God just wasn’t interested in his happiness, apparently.

See, the opposite of that exciting feeling of holding hands was being able to feel Aziraphale’s hand tense when they got dirty looks from passersby. The opposite of the warmth coming from Aziraphale’s soft side was the coldness he felt when the angel tensed, just slightly, and pulled the nearest breadth away. "They" may not have been watching, but the humans certainly were. And the humans around them lately were making Aziraphale upset. And Crowley didn’t really know why.

So Crowley had taken to planning things. A picnic in the park near their hotel, late evening, and maybe some stargazing (since Aziraphale seemed to love Crowley’s stories as much as the demon enjoyed his angel’s.) Quiet and away from prying, judgmental eyes. Crowley only hoped it made Aziraphale feel safer.

It didn’t.

Crowley could feel it right off. Aziraphale was tense; he chose to carry the basket instead of holding Crowley’s hand. He kept himself carefully apart, not even bumping Crowley’s shoulder affectionately as he had the morning before. Crowley was chilly in the warm night air, feeling alone despite the angel at his side.

The picnic went carefully; Aziraphale sat opposite the demon, and resolutely fixed his eyes just above Crowley’s glasses. He poured wine and nibbled bread and cheese and very purposefully made small talk, as if Crowley wouldn’t notice something amiss after six thousand years of knowing the bastard.

After almost a hundred years of loving him.

After almost a full year of getting to say it out loud.

“Angel, what the Heaven is wrong with you?” Crowley finally blurted, interrupting Aziraphale’s droll observations on cicadas or some such insect with all the grace of a newborn elephant. Aziraphale’s face sunk as the angel huddled into himself, and Crowley began tripping over his own tongue in an effort to course-correct. “No. That’s not- I said that wrong. Uh. Yeah. I don’t mean it like, ‘what’s wrong with you’, but like, ‘you’ve been weird lately and I don’t know if I did something’ but if I did do something you know you can tell me because I want to fix it, right?” Crowley stammered out, as if trying to catch Aziraphale’s heart as it sank.

Aziraphale stayed quiet for a long time after that, staying in his little hunched position, looking like the picture of sadness to the demon in front of him. This was not going to plan. He’d brought the angel’s favorites and yet Aziraphale had barely eaten or drank anything. He’d tried to have a nice outdoor meeting because Aziraphale loved picnics, but the angel had shuttered at every passerby for the last fifteen minutes. He’d talked about nothing more in-depth than the weather, and had ignored all of Crowley’s digs and efforts to start debates in favor of remaining passive and demure. Finally, Crowley couldn’t stand the quiet; whispering softly into the darkness before him. “Angel?

The angel swallowed and took a light, steadying breath, before leaning in and softly pressing his forehead to Crowley’s.

“My dearest, I think I should like to go inside…” he said, barely murmuring himself. Crowley could feel the bridge of his angel’s nose pressing the bridge of his glasses. He could feel the warmth from the angel’s skin on his forehead. And he could feel the barest tremble of the body underneath.

“Okay, angel; anything you want.” He replied quietly. “Do you want to walk there, or..?” When Aziraphale’s answer wasn’t forthcoming, Crowley chose to snap his fingers, bringing them right into their room and onto the plush bed, barely a pop to denote the change. And yet, Aziraphale didn’t move for several minutes.

Crowley knew, of course, that Aziraphale didn’t do well being rushed, but he was also acutely aware of warm tears dropping down between the pair. So the demon chose instead to tilt his head, just slightly, and gently nuzzle the angel’s face, hoping to bring comfort. Aziraphale’s cheek twitched, and he let out a soft, shaken sigh.

“I’m old.” he said quietly.

Once again, Crowley’s handling of the situation was eloquent and sensitive;

“Well duh, we’ve both been around for six millennia! They could be studying us in the Royal Museum, angel!”

Aziraphale let out a wet “Ha!” and started to cry harder, at which point Crowley realized he hadn’t quite soothed the situation like he’d thought, and wrapped his arms around the angel tightly.

“Oh, you know I don’t know what to say you prissy bastard. I haven’t got near the high-and-mighty education you do.” That brought a more earnest chuckle out of Aziraphale, and the angel reached to wipe the tears from his cheeks, wiggling from Crowley’s grasp for a moment. “You’ve gotta tell me what you mean, when you say something like that,” the demon continued.

“I suppose I mean old-fashioned,” Aziraphale began, “And really even then I can’t explain.” He sat quietly for a moment, trying to recompose himself. Crowley moved to pull Aziraphale into his chest, wanting to hold the angel. Once again, however, Aziraphale tried to pull away.

“I’m afraid.” Aziraphale said softly. “I’m afraid because I feel the archangels' eyes on me even when I know they aren’t, and that lot have plenty of other things to do. And I’m afraid because I love you very much, but I worry I’m not right.”

Crowley’s heart leapt at hearing the little ‘I love you’ in the angel’s confession, since the pair had only said it out loud a few times since their retirement; but it sank right down again at hearing the rest of what Aziraphale had to say. He tried to give the confession the appropriate amount of time for consideration, before finally asking, “I don’t know what you mean?”

The angel’s eyes became wet again, and he let out a heavy sigh; “Oh, Crowley.” He had a sad but fond smile, and pulled Crowley back onto the bed, finally cuddling up into the demon’s side.

“You’re you, my dear. You’re clever and tall and fantastically dapper, and you’re constantly swaying about as if you haven’t got a care in the world for what the people around us think, and I’m most certain you really don’t . And I suppose it’s not really my worry what the humans think of us. But…” He quieted once more, and all but buried his face in Crowley’s side. “I can’t just let go. They were my family, Crowley, and they said such awful things to me, and I want to just forget but I can’t and I’m afraid I never will and I don’t want to just be your constant reminder of my own problems that I can’t solve. I don’t want to do that to you.”

“So you’ve been thinking about the self-obsessed pigeon again,” Crowley teased. Aziraphale turned delightfully red at that, and smacked Crowley’s chest, smiling despite himself.

“You really mustn’t call him that. It's terribly rude.” Aziraphale said, sniffling.

“Oh! Rude! You didn’t tell me he didn’t like the nickname!” Crowley teased back. He snuggled closer and planted a kiss right on Aziraphale’s cheekbone. “I didn’t know we were being nice to the pigeon now! After he's treated my dove so terribly!” Crowley attempted another nuzzle and won a beautiful little wet laugh from the angel.

“Look, angel. Angel, I..." He looked up at the ceiling, then back down. "Angel," he said, "my love is not fragile. Do you really think I care if you still wake me up in the middle of the night because you’re feeling insecure a thousand years from now? Granted, I might be a little grumpy about it. 'Gotta get my beauty sleep in after all. But..." he paused, suddenly a little self-conscious, "I'll... I'll still love you. No matter how many times I have to remind you.”

Aziraphale’s tears were soaking Crowley’s shirt, but the demon couldn’t bring himself to care. He could sense the change; they weren’t borne strictly of sadness any longer. Crowley held his angel for a long time after that, letting the night wrap around them. They could picnic and stargaze tomorrow. Drive back to London later in the week. Tomorrow Aziraphale would brew tea and Crowley would tease him about the new book. Right now, Crowley was exactly where he wanted to be, planning be blessed.

The demon pulled a hand up, for just a moment, and snapped his fingers. The pair became cocooned in soft, heavy blankets. They held onto each other, two stars so close they might as well have been one.

#warcats writes #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #goloveday2021 #hurt/comfort #good omens fluff #tw insecurity #tw references to trauma #tw crying

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leilakalomi · 4 years

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A Vessel to Bear Me Home (pt. 1)

for Day 9, Possession of @racketghost‘s Halloween prompts

When the Order of the Chattering Nuns reopened, it was more than 20 years later, and none of the women remembered the original incarnation of their order. None of them knew why their order, a Satanic order, needed, of all things, an exorcist.

Even so, Father Crowley was much sought after. He was tall, thin—almost wiry—and very flustered. No one could quite say why. No one could say why, when he went home in the evenings, he sat awake all night, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but drink Talisker until dawn, then purge it from his system, and start all over again, always the same sort of day: Waiting.

But then, no one knew about that.

To them, Father Crowley was an upstanding (Well, as upstanding as a member of a Satanic order might be), member of their community. To them, Father Crowley was a beacon of the kind of demonic blessing that might fall upon a truly devoted member. His serpentine eyes, which he often hid behind a pair of sunglasses, were a blessing, to be sure, even if they were haunted, occasionally dazed even.

He had been there for some three years now. He had noticed a pattern. In those early days, when it had first happened, he been bereft, unable to cope. Those had been, in some ways, the good days, when he could at least look to the comfort of sleep, when he still had hope and the acquaintance of others who remembered the angel, when he could still remember the time before the accident, so close he felt he could reach out and touch it, that if, perhaps, he could just wind things up a little harder, he could not only stop time, but push it back just enough. Then he’d stop it if he had to, and hold on forever, if it was the only way to keep the angel with him. Ironic, it was, that it hadn’t been Crowley’s driving, but Aziraphale’s desire to get out of the car that had done it, some speeding human, tearing too close to the side of the road, Aziraphale not looking, Crowley not looking, which seemed unthinkable now. How could he have been with the angel and not looking at him? Ungrateful, he had been, stupid, not to see the gift of every moment they’d had. The human had been distraught. Crowley’d let him get arrested, hauled away. He felt hollow. They had no idea what they’d done, what heaven would do to Aziraphale. They’d push him into Hellfire now, for sure, and with no body to hide inside, no way Crowley could protect him.

But now, it had been too long. Crowley grew weaker, no longer sure of his ability to hold on to time at all, much less to wind it back—something he’d never done to begin with.

And now, there was the other thing. The thing that brought him both hope and misery. The exorcisms. Or, well, perhaps it was more accurate to say, the possessions. Plural.

Because they happened around him. Other people didn’t notice the pattern, the way when he was called in to fix one, others sprung up around him. The first one had been different, as if the angel was only finding his way. Crowley had only noticed it at all because he felt something, something that couldn't be, something he found in Tadfield.

He remembered the woman, a Mary Hodges, used to be one of those embarrassing Satanic nuns. She’d gone all funny when some of her former nun friends had come to visit and they’d already started to put out the alarm. Crowley held it off. It felt like Aziraphale. And he wasn’t risking that, not when he’d spent the last week curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth and wondering what he’d do if Hell tried to take him back now. Might not have the strength to resist.

But as soon as he’d walked in, he’d known. Mary Hodges face lit up with Aziraphale’s smile.

“Crowley,” came his voice.

“Master Crowley!” one of the other women cried. Crowley snapped his fingers, silencing her, silencing the lot of them. He lifted Aziraphale into his arms.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he snarled, squeezing him too tight for the human body he was in.

“Darling! Do be careful. It won’t do to leave her with broken bones.”

“Leave her?” And just like that, Crowley’s relief was ebbing, sliding into panic. “What are you—we’ll find you a—”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale shook Mary Hodges’s head. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

“No!”

“I’m so sorry, my dear. I know it...it wasn’t long, in the end. But it was something, wasn’t it? To be together without fear.”

They hadn’t though. Not the way Crowley had wanted. He’d never told him how he felt, not really. Aziraphale had always seemed so happy just the way things were, and that was really what was important, he’d told himself. And now...the thought that he hadn’t even known how loved he’d been.

“Are they...going to keep you up there?” it was the only way he could think of to ask it. He couldn’t bring himself to mention the fire.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, and he cupped Crowley’s face. “I waited a long time,” he said, “She’ll be ill, I’m afraid. She was...quite difficult to possess. I’m so sorry, dearest.”

And he was gone.

#day 9 #possession #racket's 13 days of halloween #good omens #good omens fic #angst

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29-pieces · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 25 - Good Omens

Day 25: Disoriented Fandom/setting: Good Omens, post-series Read on AO3 Read on ff.net

~*~

"Crowley, I want to help, I just don't know how!"

"You're a witch, aren't you? Do something... witchy!"

Crowley yanked his dark glasses off so that Anathema would get the full benefit of his terrifying snake-ish scowl, forgetting for a second that they had saved the world together and she was altogether unafraid of him.

The witch in question sighed and rubbed her forehead. "We've been over this," she reminded him. "I'm an occultist and most of my 'witchiness' came from a book of someone else's prophecies, which I don't have anymore! And anything I ever learned... Crowley, nothing would have prepared me to deal with this."

She gestured at the "this" she was referring to as Aziraphale wandered up to them with a brilliant smile. He was carrying a frog in his palms, holding it out to them with delight.

"Look at what I found, isn't it wonderful, Crowley?"

"No," Crowley snapped, too anxious to be nice. "Looks too much like Hastur."

"Who's that, my dear?"

Crowley stared at the angel in alarm, then gestured wildly at Anathema. "You see what I mean?" he demanded. "He's forgetting more and more every minute! He didn't know where the bookshop was. He didn't know he had a bookshop!"

Anathema winced. "Oh dear."

"Oh shit, more like! Listen, it was witchcraft that did this to him, it's witchcraft that should be able to fix him. Now are you going to help us or not?"

"Still no luck, then?" Newt asked, poking his head into the kitchen. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help?"

"He's not a computer," Crowley grumbled back, more waspish than he'd intended. He growled when Newt ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he gritted out. "Just..."

Newt nodded his understanding, leaning against the doorframe. The frog in Aziraphale's hands croaked once, making the angel chuckle, before he held it out once again towards Anathema.

"Do you want to hold him?" he asked. "You seem like a lovely young lady. I'm Aziraphale, by the by, terribly sorry, I should have introduced myself right off."

Crowley froze, sharing a horrified look with Anathema. Throat dry, he reached towards the angel and took his arm in a firm grip. "Angel," he said slowly. "You- you remember Anathema."

"Oh, is that her name? Pleasure to meet you, my dear."

Crowley let go and turned his back, trying not to hyperventilate in panic. Aziraphale had known exactly who their witch friend was when they arrived ten minutes ago. Whatever the spell was that was taking the angel's memories, it was only getting worse. If it kept progressing...

"Crowley," Anathema said gently.

"He's going to forget," Crowley whispered, sliding down the wall to sit heavily on the floor. "He's all I've got and he's going to forget..."

"We'll fix this," she said. A rustle of skirts preceded her crouching down in front of him, dark eyes earnest. "I want to help. If we can figure out what spell the witch used on him, maybe- maybe I can undo it."

"And what happens when he doesn't remember we're not enemies like we're supposed to be?" Crowley asked, voice hoarse with fear. His jaw clenched and he scrambled to his feet. "I should go- if he sees me and doesn't know I'm a friend- if I put you two in danger because he attacks me-"

"Crowley!" Anathema hushed, holding out her hands and taking both of his. "He's not going to attack you. Or us. This is Aziraphale we're talking about-"

"This was Aziraphale!" Crowley was on the verge of a full meltdown, he could feel it coming, only it wasn't going to help and he had to do something to help. He could not lose his best friend, not like this, not after everything. He needed to keep his head, he knew it, but-

"Miss, please stand aside."

Crowley's heart clenched as Anathema was firmly guided aside, and then he was face to face with an angel who held not a single trace of recognition in his eyes. His breath caught in his throat as his entire world came crashing down. Aziraphale was gone, and now he was just an angel, and angels did not look on demons with kindness, or mercy, or friendship, or love.

"Hmm," The Angel said, peering at Crowley in open curiosity. "You're a demon, aren't you?"

Crowley swallowed and unconsciously pressed himself as close to the wall as he could. "Aziraphale," he whispered. "You- you have to remember me. I..."

"Aziraphale," The Angel repeated slowly, tasting the name like the sweetest crepe in Paris. "Oh, I do like that. Aziraphale." He smiled briefly, then turned his attention back to the demon at hand. The Angel's eyes narrowed, only for an instant, then widened with the same innocence Crowley had always known in him. "My word, you feel like so much love. I do beg your pardon if I seem forward, only that's not what we were led to expect, you see. You have a good heart, I can feel it. Although it- it seems to be quite broken. I wouldn't presume to overstep my bounds, but- is there anything I can do to help?"

Crowley's mouth opened in shock and then—because he simply couldn't help it—he choked out a strangled, sobbing laugh. The Angel was still Aziraphale after all. Of course he was. A very confused, very disoriented Angel, but his angel nonetheless. That fact was the only bit of encouragement Crowley needed to replenish his stores of hopefulness. They could figure this out, they'd figured out the Apocalypse after all, they just had to-

SMACK!

Crowley and Anathema both jumped as Aziraphale crumpled to the floor before their eyes. They stared in shock, first at the downed angel, then at each other, then at Newt.

"What did you do!?" Crowley practically screeched, leaping towards Newt, who backpedaled frantically. "Did you just knock him out with a dictionary?"

"Cookbook," Newt replied, holding the book up as evidence and also to keep as a barrier between himself and the furious demon.

"WHY!?"

Newt shrugged, finally ducking behind Anathema to protect him. "Factory reset!" he exclaimed. "Maybe all he needed-"

"Factory- I said he wasn't a computer!"

With another shrug, Newt explained, "I know... that's why I thought it might actually work. It wouldn't, if he was, because, well, it's me-"

"If you hurt him," Crowley seethed, holding up his hand in preparation to snap his fingers and cause something dreadful to happen, but Anathema quickly covered his hand with her own.

"He's an angel, Crowley. A knock over the head isn't going to hurt him- see, look, he's moving."

Still fixing a glower at Newt, Crowley quickly crouched down beside the now stirring angel and took his shoulder.

"Aziraphale?" he called, trying not to grip too tight but needing something to steady himself. "You okay?"

The angel groaned and raised a hand to rub the back of his hand, wincing where the book had hit him. "Oh, my head..." he groaned, peeling his eyes open slowly to see Crowley and the two humans crowding around him. He blinked. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Newt called down, still hiding behind Anathema. "I only wanted to help."

Aziraphale stared at him, and the glazed look in his eyes was no better at all in Crowley's mind than the blank ones from before. The demon growled, silently swearing a downpour of dead fish to follow Newt for the rest of his days, but that would come later. For now, he kept his attention on Aziraphale.

"Hey... you with us? Angel?"

The glazed, disoriented gaze turned towards him next, and it cost Crowley a tremendous chunk of his heart to see the utter lack of any recognition there, but then Aziraphale blinked and shook his head.

"Terribly sorry," he said, blinking again and then several more times as he rubbed his head. "Goodness, I don't know what came over me."

Crowley swallowed. If it had worked, he would forgive Newt everything. Carefully, he asked, "Do you... remember me?"

Aziraphale laughed. "Heavens, Crowley, I didn't hit my head that hard."

"Oh!" Crowley couldn't help but gasp, sinking back to sit on the floor, relief washing over him like a breath of fresh air. He fished a pair of sunglasses from his inner pocket and plopped them on his face so no one would notice if he happened to be tearing up a little bit. Beside him, Anathema smiled and offered Aziraphale a hand.

"You gave us a scare," she explained. "It seems a witch knocked you with some kind of memory spell. Newt saved you."

"Good thing," Crowley grumbled from the floor. "I'd have killed him otherwise."

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured disapprovingly, and it was so Aziraphale that Crowley only smiled happily about it. "Memory spell, hmm... I don't recall anything beyond fighting the witch. What did I..." He trailed off and looked back down at Crowley.

The demon, who after all had known him for over six thousand years now, saw every single emotion the angel passed through in the various expressions of his face. It landed eventually on sorrow, which Crowley always hated to see there.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, crouching down beside his friend. "Crowley..."

"You're better now," the demon pointed out, shrugging like it was no big deal, like his world hadn't been ending only minutes before. "That's what matters."

He could tell Aziraphale wasn't buying it, but was relieved that the angel didn't push the issue. Not here, not in front of other people, not when Crowley was still feeling shaken and vulnerable. They'd end up talking about it later over a good vintage, no doubt, but for now Crowley was going to just sink into the fact that he still had Aziraphale.

Everything was going to be okay.

#whumptober2020 #no.25 #disorientation #good omens #fanfiction #Aziraphale whump #amnesia #anxious Crowley #Newt to the rescue #Anathema Device

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