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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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Hey, everyone! I’ve been saying for a bit I want to get some fics from prompts I’ve written onto AO3 but...it’s so hard...ok it’s not hard, Executive Dysfunction is just kicking my butt. I’m going to post some of them to Tumblr today. If you want to help these babies get on AO3, they need: titles, tags, you pestering me in the comments. If you don’t think they’re good enough for AO3 - fair enough, just hit the little heart if they make you smile!

Prompt: Aziraphale reading to Crowley

(Requested by @zadusk and @lyricwritesprose)

“Sorry, can’t help you,” the innkeeper said, “just rented out our last room.”

“What?” Crowley crossed his arms, huffing through his nose. This was Bethlehem all over again. “This town is in the middle of nowhere, it has three inns, how can they all be sold out?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” The innkeeper shut the ledger. “Everyone’s headed down to London, and we’re on the way. Now. I can offer you a hot meal, and for, let’s say, half the price of a room you can sleep in the stables. The hay loft is clean, apart from the mice—”

“Stablesss!” Crowley hissed, slapping his hand on the counter. “Do I look like someone who sleeps in stables?”

The innkeeper didn’t appear remotely impressed. “You look like someone who is going to be sleeping in a hedge. Looks like a storm tonight. Good evening.” And he spun away, calling out to the cook in the back room.

“Oi!” Crowley shouted. “Get back here, you—!”

“Crowley! Whatever are you doing here?” The familiar voice was half delighted, half scolding. Aziraphale appeared beside him, same white suit as the last time they’d met, top hat tucked under his arm. “I thought I made it clear we shouldn’t see each other so often. Since I opened the shop, it’s been—”

“Yes, I know.” Crowley waved a hand and turned away. “I’m not here for you, Angel, I have actual business in York.”

“Really?” Despite his words, Aziraphale trailed behind him. “How interesting. I’m just returning from York – oh, no, you don’t think they’ve sent you to undo all my work again, do you?”

Crowley snorted. “No bet.” He dropped his voice into a low whisper. “This is why we need to meet up more often. Look at all this time we’re wasting! And now I have to march through the bloody night in the rain because there’s no place to sleep—”

“Oh! Well, I wouldn’t dream of it. You can share my room.”

“Ngk?!” Crowley’s brain crashed into his skull with all the speed and grace of a train wreck. “Mf. Yk. No I can’t – Aziraphale!”

“Oh, my word – obviously, I’m not planning – that!” His voice dropped even lower and he tugged on Crowley’s elbow. “Don’t be crude, dear fellow. I have a room with a bed that I’m not intending to use. You can have it. I just need a chair to sit in while I read.”

“Jgk.” Crowley turned away, taking a deep breath through his nose. It made sense. He could sleep. Aziraphale could read. No getting soaked, or lost in the dark, or needing to fight off highwaymen or anything of the sort. “Fffine. We can. Er. Do that.”

“Jolly good.” He could practically hear the angel straightening his waistcoat. “Now that’s settled. I’ve already had my supper and was about to head up. Unless you’re hungry—”

“No, no, now is fine.” He still couldn’t quite meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Lead the way.”

The room, it turned out, was nearly as advertised.

A double-sized bed with a straw-tick and a quilt. A little stand with a pitcher of water and bowl for washing up. Windows that could be tightly shuttered to block out some of the city noise.

The only thing missing, really, was the chair.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s fingers tapped on his book and he glanced around, as if a seat might be hiding in the corner. “Well, er…”

“It’s fine. I can leave.” Crowley turned on his heel and reached for the latch.

“Absolutely not! I won’t hear of it. You get settled and I’ll – ah – I’ll miracle in a chair.” He peered around the narrow room. “Somewhere.”

“Look, I can—”

“No. Miracle yourself a nightgown or whatever it is you need.”

“I—”

“Hush!”

Resigning himself, Crowley waved his clothes into something more comfortable for sleeping and crawled under the blanket. It was…slightly better than sleeping in the stables, he supposed. The straw was lumpy and the sheet covering it coarse, but the pillow was well-stuffed with goose-down, a luxury he could get used to. He shifted onto his back, trying to find a comfortable angle.

Instead, he found Aziraphale, standing beside the bed, staring blankly at the wall. “There…well…it would appear there isn’t room for a chair,” he confessed. “Not one that will fit my, er…my current corporation comfortably, that is.”

Crowley looked at the ceiling. He could sleep up there, but it would mean abandoning the pillow. Or. Or.

“Look, Angel,” he said as casually as he could. You can, um, you can sit on the bed. I’m not going to be offended or anything. It’s fine.”

“No, I couldn’t – couldn’t possibly—”

“Aziraphale. It’s really fine.”

The quilt tugged, folded back, and with a rustle of straw Aziraphale settled into the mattress. He sat straight, stiff, and so close to the edge he might topple off.

Even so, he was alarmingly close.

“You, um. You need the candle?”

“No, my own light will be sufficient, thank you.”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Crowley tossed his glasses onto the little table and waved a finger at the candle, which immediately snuffed out, leaving the room dark except for the soft glow of Aziraphale, gently illuminating his book.

Crowley closed his eyes and prepared to fall asleep.

He turned onto one side. No good, too close to the edge.

He turned the other way, or started to, freezing when he felt how close the angel’s warmth was.

Then he lay on his back again. The whole room fell very, very still.

“Bless it, Aziraphale, will you relax?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can practically hear your muscles creaking. How am I supposed to all asleep with all that – that tension barely six inches away!”

“I don’t know what you might be referring to. I am – am perfectly relaxed here, reading my book and you – you interrupt with these – these pointless accusations.”

Crowley gave up and turned on his side, facing Aziraphale, giving him as hard a stare as he could manage. “Your book is upside down, Angel.”

“Is it?” He swallowed. “I mean, of course it is. I am training myself to read upside-down text, a highly useful skill, which I’m sure—”

Crowley shut his eyes. “This was a terrible idea.” He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Look, Aziraphale, neither of us is actually comfortable with this. So I’m just going to head out. If I leave now, I might make it to the next town before the rain starts, and maybe they’ll have a room. You can have this one and—”

“Crowley,” he said, voice much softer than expected. “My dear fellow. I won’t be able to relax knowing you’re out there. I know you won’t be in – in any real danger but…I would rather know that you’re safe.”

He stared ahead, sitting perfectly still in the way that only beings who aren’t really alive can – no breath, no heartbeat, no tiny motions.

Then, slowly, Crowley pulled his legs back under the quilt and lay on his back.

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

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“It’ll help. Trust me. What is it – poetry? Ancient epics about glorious wars? Not Hamlet again, I hope, that play is a gloomy mess of—”

“No, nothing of the sort. It’s…well, it’s a sort of love story.”

That didn’t sound too bad. “Sort of?”

“Well, yes, it’s more a – a study of the manners and traditions of courtship. Our heroine is the second of five sisters, and there’s a great deal riding on finding them suitable husbands, but her choices are, well…not especially appealing.”

“Does she tell them to go jump in a lake?”

“Not in so many words,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly. “But yes, she has so far turned down two proposals quite bitingly. Although I think she was a bit hasty in her judgement of one of the young men.”

“I like it.” Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, and found the angel had relaxed, and moved just a little closer. “What’s it called, anyway?”

“Pride and Prejudice.” His fingers tapped against it. “Just released last year. I must try and find the author’s other work when I finish.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me how it ends.”

“Oh, are you…interested?”

“Hmm,” Crowley settled his head a little further into the pillow. “I do like a good drawing room drama. Perhaps I should pick out a few dresses and spend a year or two back in those circles.”

“As I recall, you were always deceitful and wicked and caused many a scandal.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Aziraphale smiled down at him, and it made Crowley feel light-headed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “Then I imagine you’ll be brilliant at it.” He suddenly turned away, looking at the shuttered window. “Oh! Do you hear that? The rain has started.” The first drops were tapping against the shutters fitfully.

“Good thing I didn’t go out.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked at the book again. “Er, would you like me to…to read it to you? Just the first part, until you fall asleep.”

“I…” Crowley cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean, your voice puts me to sleep half the time anyway, so…”

“Oh, yes, absolutely wonderful. Let me just get the first volume.” He hopped out of bed and hurried over to his jacket, rummaging in the pocket to pull out another hardcover book. When he returned to the bed, it was with almost no self-consciousness, wriggling comfortably against his pillow only a few inches away from Crowley.

“Now, let’s see…yes, here. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife…’”

It was strange, seeing the angel from this angle, round face slightly lit by his own glow, little smile curving up his lips as the words bubbled out excitedly. His voice rose and fell as he read, trying to paint a picture of Longbourne and Netherfield and the lives of the Bennet sisters. Crowley could get used to it, the look, the sound, the soft familiarity of it all. Not that he was likely to have an opportunity.

He didn’t close his eyes. Not yet.

“‘But I can assure you,’ she added,” Aziraphale was quite enjoying the voice he had chosen for Mrs. Bennet, raising it now in slightly erratic excitement. “‘that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing.’” He shifted again, raising his arm to better articulate the dialogue. “‘So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with!’” He dropped his voice into a vicious hiss. “‘I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man.’”

He glanced to his left, grinning, hoping to see Crowley’s reaction to his bit of acting, but the demon had at some point fallen asleep. He lay half on his back, still facing Aziraphale, shock of red hair across the white pillow. His mouth hung slightly open and something emerged that was almost a snore, but rather too small to really qualify. It was drowned out by the wind and rain outside, rattling the shutters. Now and then, in the distance, thunder rumbled.

“Well. I suppose…yes, you sleep now.” Aziraphale turned to put the book down, thinking to find the second volume and pick up where he’d left off.

“Nf.” Crowley turned onto his side, one arm flinging out towards Aziraphale’s waist. “D’n stp,” he mumbled. “Jus’ gettn gud.”

“Er, are you…awake?” The arm tightened slightly, and Crowley pulled closer, pressing himself against Aziraphale’s side. “Crowley, er, dear…you’re…”

“M’fine.” He sighed, not seeming aware of the world at all. “S’nice.”

For a long moment, Aziraphale stared at the demon who had – had invaded his space. Had settled against him in a most – most awkward and undignified way.

Well. There was really only one thing to do.

Aziraphale slid a little lower against the pillow, until he’d surrounded Crowley in the crook of his arm. “Is that better, dear?”

“St’ry.” But he settled into that space between Aziraphale’s side and his arm with a content sigh, arm now draped across the angel’s chest.

Oh, dear. This is not going to be easy to explain when he wakes up. But that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least, and right now, there was a very small smile on Crowley’s lips.

“Well. Chapter four. ‘When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him…’”

Thanks for reading! Pride and Prejudice was initially published in three volumes, in 1813, attributed simply to “The Author of Sense and Sensibility.” I have no idea what was going on in York in 1814 - I mostly needed someplace they could walk to but would take several days - so feel free to attribute whatever historical events you can think of to these dummies!

#good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #there's only one bed #aziraphale and his books #sleepy cuddles #sleepy snusband #short and sweet #fluff #good omens fluff #my writing #writing prompt #good omens prompts

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aziraphale-rights · 4 years

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Happy Wednesday, follower-types! (I just hit a follower milestone this week, thank you so much!)

I’ve been taking part in the Soft Omens Guess The Author game over on Discord. My ficlet this round: Aziraphale playing midwife in the sixteenth century!

Read it, read the rest of the collection, enjoy the Softe...

Title: kindness prevails

Rating: G

Words: 500

Tags: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens), Historical, Soft, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), References to difficulties in childbirth, Prompt Fic

Summary:

Aziraphale goes out of his way to help a human in distress, and gets a treasured memory in return.

#good omens #good omens fic #YUP i'm on those joanna newsom fic titles again

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azirafuck · 5 years

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Aziraphale likes their ketchup and fries separate so they can dip them. If they accidentally pour ketchup on their fries, Crowley does the blowy thing to separate them so their sof bb may enjoy their meal 😎🍟

OooOoOOOhhHh soft

aziraphale's that bitch that needs to CONTROL THE SAUCE

#real powerful beings (like me) pour that sweet shit everywhere #and also fills every hole between the fries with it so it reaches the ones below #i still control the sauce. i control chaos. im powerful

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yourangle-yuordevil · 8 months

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First time they make an effort (because going to the bathhouses Barbie style™ would have raised more questions than necessary...)

#good omens #crowley #Thermae and chill #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #Aziraphale hear's Crowley's voice and turns to him #only to see him suddenly miracle his clothes away and make an effort so he be like *surprised Pikachu*#while Crowley is like oh i always look at Aziraphale lovingly because he's the most precious bean in all existence and i love him so much #but with the new addition he is WAIT WAIT THESE EMOTIONS ARE STRONGER WAIT NO IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A SECRET; BODY WTF!!!!#sof questo è per te e per l'headcanon delle terme - by vane #also la capigliatura greco romana è QUASI decente (by vane)#fare i tag dal telefono è ORRIBILE #wake me up wake me up inside #🤗🔥🤗#good omens comic #historical husbands

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ialwayscomewhenyoucall · 5 years

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A World So Newly Born

aziraphale x crowley ~1.4k

Aziraphale opens his eyes in an unfamiliar room.

Grey walls, not much light… Right. He stayed at Crowley’s flat last night. The world didn’t end, but the bookshop…

In the dim light he sees red hair--familiar red hair--just a few centimeters away. And feels a cool body pressed against his chest.

Oh.

Crowley. He’s in bed with Crowley. His arm is draped across Crowley’s torso, pulling the lanky demon snugly to his chest.

He’d spent the night with Crowley.

Not that he’d spent the night with Crowley. There’d been rather a lot of what these English folk call snogging, and their hands had explored a bit, but this morning they’re still wearing their pyjamas. Though Crowley seems to have lost his shirt at some point--did Aziraphale do that? He can’t seem to remember. Although he does remember kissing Crowley’s neck more than once. Can one leave marks on the neck of a demon? His face flushes, awash with memories.

Apparently six thousand years dancing around each other isn’t quite enough foreplay.

There’s a warmth inside Aziraphale. It’s been growing there for centuries, though he hadn’t truly realized until the blitz. Not enough to save his life, Crowley had also saved the books. The books! “A little demonic miracle of my own,” he’d said. And the glow deep down in Aziraphale had welled up to overflowing, like stepping into the sun after months of rain. If Crowley had been watching he’d surely have seen.

But Crowley had already been walking away.

Without moving Aziraphale lets his eyes take in every bit of Crowley he can see--the disheveled hair, the curve of his neck, the lightly freckled shoulders. Crowley has freckles! It takes every bit of his willpower not to laugh with delight. They’ve never done this before, this waking up together thing, but Aziraphale instinctively knows Crowley isn’t a morning being. He takes even breaths, revelling in the scent of Crowley all around him, willing himself to be still. Best to let Crowley sleep.

. + . + . + .

Crowley wakes slowly, feeling comfortable. Warm.

Loved.

Aziraphale. He’s being held by Aziraphale.

He’d been longing for this for centuries. More than centuries. But he’d never truly let himself hope--being a demon, he’s always known the follies of hope. Hope isn’t the glorious thing the angels extol; no, hope leads almost exclusively to disappointment and pain. How many times had he exploited that in the humans around him? So he’d forced himself to be content with being with his best friend--and calling him nothing more than “best friend”, even to himself--whenever he could, and being there to rescue him as often as possible. Because that’s what friends do, right? Rescue each other from untimely discorporation and unnecessary paperwork?

What a fool he’d been. Dinners at the Ritz, feeding the ducks at the park, drinking wine at the bookshop--how could he have ever thought that was enough? It had all been good, to be near Aziraphale, to be with him was always the goal--but actually kissing him, and falling asleep together, and waking up like this… Overall, it’s like driving the Bentley after a lifetime of driving a tricycle.

He can’t ever go back.

All this goes through his mind in less than three seconds, after which he unconsciously pushes himself closer to Aziraphale, who hums with contentment. “Good morning,” he says into Crowley’s shoulder. After a pause the shoulder is peppered with kisses.

“What’s that, then,” says Crowley, his voice rough with sleep.

Aziraphale actually giggles. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so I could kiss your freckles.”

Crowley bristles, slightly more awake. “I don’t have freckles.”

“Yes you have, and they’re just precious. Every last one.”

Precious? Did Aziraphale just call his (clearly imaginary) freckles precious? He might be kissing an angel now--and, ah, hoping for more in the future--but he hasn’t turned into a pile of marshmallows, for Satan’s sake!

“Now see here, I’m still a demon!” He rolls over still in Aziraphale’s arms, the better to make his point face to face. “You can’t just go saying things like that! I’ve got a reputata--”

Aziraphale stops him with a kiss.

A few minutes later, both of them slightly more rumpled than before, Crowley says, “So is that how it’s going to go from now on? When you want me to stop talking you just shut me up with a kiss?”

Aziraphale kisses the tip of his nose. “Quite likely.”

“Argh,” says Crowley, but his mouth quirks up in a smile. “I’m...I’m actually all for that.” His smile widens, and with a wink he says, “But you know that’s pretty much a guarantee I’m going to get even more obnoxious, right?”

Patting him on the cheek, Aziraphale says, “Oh, I think I can handle you, Crowley.”

Before Crowley can respond Aziraphale slips out of bed and out the door, announcing brightly that he’s “off to put the kettle on!”

Crowley flops back on the bed, slightly bewildered. “He can handle me?” Then he hurries to follow. It’s too early to be awake and out of bed--he doesn’t actually know what time it is, he only declares it too early on principle--but this whatever-it-is with Aziraphale is too new for Crowley to want to be separated. Sentiment, Crowley? he chides himself. But he’s grown accustomed to ignoring himself over the millenia, and easily pushes this thought aside.

Leaning on the kitchen doorway, Crowley takes in the all too domestic sight of Aziraphale making tea. Crowley knows there had been no tea in the cupboard, and the shiny copper kettle looks strikingly similar to one he’s seen countless times in the bookshop kitchenette. There are also scones--actual blueberry scones--in the oven.

“A little early morning miracle-making?” Crowley drawls.

Aziraphale jumps, then titters. “Ah, well, there wasn’t much to work with here. What did you expect me to serve, freshly brewed houseplant?”

From the corner of his eye, Crowley sees the plants begin to shiver. His eyebrows draw down. “Best stay away from my houseplants, angel.” The leaves still.

And now I’m standing up for the plants. They’re going to think I’ve gone soft. It’ll be spots all around by next week.

“Scones will be done in a tick,” Aziraphale says as the teakettle whistles.

“You’re miracling everything else, why not finish the scones now?”

Aziraphale turns, a hand on his hip. “Honestly, Crowley, you have no respect for craftsmanship. They taste much better made the old-fashioned way.”

Crowley takes in the sight of pyjama-clad Aziraphale in his kitchen, making tea and scolding him. He can’t help but marvel at the whole thing. Then he catches sight of something out of place, something that makes him grin. He saunters into the kitchen, close enough to wrap an arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

“You’ve got feathers in your hair, angel.”

Flustered, Aziraphale says, “Yes, well, that will happen sometimes. Wings, you know. Feathers everywhere.”

Drawing them even closer together, Crowley says, “I know. Happens to me all the time. But these--” he plucks one out of Aziraphale’s hair and holds it in front of his face, his voice low and his lips almost touching the angel’s ear, “--are black. These are mine.”

Aziraphale licks his lips. “That… Well, that’s certainly never happened before.”

And before Crowley can say anything, Aziraphale turns his face to him, so they are only a breath apart. Crowley forgets to breathe, then remembers he doesn’t actually require breath. Good thing.

“There are probably white feathers in your bed, you know,” Aziraphale says. “And there will likely be more. I mean to say, the bookshop is gone, and I don’t have anywhere else to go at the moment. Although I suppose I could sleep on the sof--mmm”

His words are lost in a low hum of pleasure when Crowley finally stops his rambling on with a kiss.

. + . + . + .

Before long the kitchen is well-stocked with food and tea.

Not long after that there are both white and black feathers everywhere. Unavoidable, really, with both an angel and a demon in the flat.

Aziraphale does not sleep on the sofa.

Crowley finds the occasional spot on his houseplants, but he always frightens them back into submission again. They never make the mistake of thinking he’s gone soft.

Which, of course, he has.

Just a bit.

*****

The title is from ‘39 by Queen. 😇😈

#lirael writes #ineffable husbands #good omens fic #fluff #introspection #missing scene #the morning after the world didn't end #i just love these two dorks #and i had to write about wings eventually #even if i came at it a bit sideways...#😉

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why-not-go-with-style · 5 years

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So correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t really see anyone actually flying in this series, do we? And what’s the point of characters with wings if they don’t fly at least once? I thought to myself, and then proceeded to write a fic where... nobody actually flies either. But there’s a lot of talking about it!

I wrote this while sitting on a ledge looking down onto the concrete two stories below whenever I needed a reason to be sufficiently scared. (Method acting? Watch me method write instead).

Word count: 1789

———

Crowley’s wings are pitch-black, and well-groomed, and never-used.

If one were to find out about this and ask questions – they wouldn’t, because Crowley knew how to keep his secrets, but there are always hypotheticals – he had a list of excuses catalogued neatly at the back of his mind.

The list went as such:

1. No thanks. Humans have all matter of surveillance technology nowadays. You think you’re alone, and the next thing you know there’s a video of a flying man being discussed on every news station.

2. There’s nowhere to fly, recently. London’s got all these antennae and chimneys and phone lines. One can go out into a field somewhere if one were so inclined, of course, but refer to point one.

3. The birds get real defensive when you try to share their airspace, and you don’t want to antagonise the birds. (Look what happened to Spider).

4. Us snakes aren’t made for flying, really. You ever seen a flying snake before? Yeah, didn’t think so. We’re meant to slither and suchlike.

5. None of your bloody business, that’s why!

They were all good excuses, and each one on its own would, no doubt, appease the poor curious soul which dared to question a demon. When blurted out all at once, in rapid progression, in an ever more alarmed tone, however, they raised far more questions than they answered.

Another circumstance that made the excuses slightly less convincing was when the questions were asked by an equally ancient being with a pair of wings of his own. Foam-white, and all-ruffled, and well-used.

Because Crowley, of course, knew how to keep secrets, but every rule had an exception, and for all Crowley’s rules the exception was the same. It liked crepes, and Chateau Lafitte 1875, and – horror of horrors – tartan.

And flying, too. Can’t forget flying.

As such, Aziraphale asked a question – the question, really, for it was one of the few questions Crowley (who appreciated questions with all his being) could stand not being asked. It happened one fine evening in the flat above the bookshop, a bottle of wine opened on the wooden table between them, but not yet even half-empty (or half-full, depending on which one of the beings in the room you asked). They were sitting there, and they were drinking, and then Aziraphale tilted his head to the side in that way he always did when he was curious about something.

“You know, my dear, I’ve always wondered,” he said, sloshing the liquid around in the bottom of his mug. “Why is it that you never fly?”

And in Crowley’s defense, he hasn’t expected it. Not today, not out of the blue like that, not so soon after the turmoils of averting the Apocalypse and other side hustles. So Aziraphale asked, and Crowley’s brain short-circuited.

“Well,” he blurted out. “Well, you see – no thanks. Humans have all matter of surveillance technology nowadays. You think you’re alone–“

It was a well-practiced list, and Crowley knew it word for word. Still, Aziraphale’s eyebrows proceeded to creep higher and higher at the increasing levels of alarm in his voice. The angel set his mug aside and leaned forward in his armchair, watching the demon flail.

“None of your bloody business, that’s why!” Crowley finished, huffing in frustration and emptying his own glass at a swallow. “Why are you asking, anyway?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, carefully. He blinked a few times, coaxed his facial expression back into a neutral state. “I will admit to having been curious. I can’t say I expected... that sort of response.”

“Oh shut up,” Crowley scowled, making an effort to keep in as good a nature as he could manage. “It’s complicated, angel. Drop it.”

“Well, all right,” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley remembered, suddenly, that making him drop subjects when he got that sort of a puzzled look on his face has never worked out for him before. Sure enough: “But still – it’s not that you can’t fly, certainly?”

“Of course I can fly, who do you think I am?” Crowley huffed. “I’ll have you know I’m one hell of a flier, me. Barrel rolls, Cuban eights, all sorts of things, really!”

“So..?” Aziraphale prompted. Crowley grimaced at him.

“So what? I gave you a whole list of reasons, angel, was that not enough?”

“Oh no, it was very... comprehensive,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just that I have a hard time imagining any of them would actually hold you down if you wanted to fly. The snake thing, perhaps – but then, you are usually quite adamant on insisting that just because you are a serpent, it doesn’t mean you can’t do human things. I can’t see why flying would be any different.”

“I can’t see why flying would be any different,” Crowley repeated in an attempt at a mocking voice (a failed attempt, really, judging by the quirk of Aziraphale’s eyebrows). “Of course it’s different! Flying is– flying is– You know!”

He gestured around wildly, knocking a couple of books off the shelves behind him. Aziraphale miracled them back to their respective spots before they even hit the ground, sending Crowley one of his ever-patient looks.

“I don’t know, my dear”, he said. “But I want to understand, if you’d let me.”

Crowley hissed at him. Then thought about his behaviour for a moment and cringed to himself, forcing his arms back at his sides.

“Sorry,” he said. Aziraphale shook his head, a shadow of an amused smile flickering on his face for a moment before it morphed back to attention. “Well – the snake thing is a part of it, really. I belong on the ground, crawling and whatnot.”

“Crowley–“

“Yes, yes, I know,” he wrinkled his nose. “When has that ever stopped me? Well, if you really must know, angel...”

He clutched his fists around the woollen quilt, which Aziraphale insisted on draping over his sofa because he maintained it was much more comfortable than leather. (It was, of course, but in Crowley’s humble opinion it utterly ruined the purpose of a leather sofa, which is to look expensive and be as uncomfortable as possible). The angel opposite him tipped his head to the side.

“If you really must know,” Crowley repeated, his voice wavering only a little, which was an achievement in its own right, “it’s the heights.”

“The... heights?” Aziraphale echoed, his brows knitting together. Crowley looked down at his hands, unclenched his fists, and straightened the quilt again.

“Yes, the heights,” he huffed. “Well, the falling, I guess, but it’s all kinda a packaged deal, ain’t it? Listen – you aren’t the one who took a freestyle dive from the top of the pearly gates down into boiling sulphur!”

“There are no–“

“Pearly gates in Heaven, yes, I know, I’ve been there, angel! That’s not my point!” Crowley exclaimed. “My point is that I’m done falling, thank you kindly! There is a limit on how much falling a being can take in their life, and I rather think that I’ve exhausted it!”

He refilled his glass with a snap of his fingers and drained it again, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. The angel followed suit, pouring himself some wine from the bottle. Crowley saluted in his direction and made a remarkably decent attempt at a smirk.

“Anyways, whatever,” he drawled. “Just... forget it, angel. Doesn’t matter.

“Doesn’t ma– of course it matters!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I mean – I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to do something you don’t want to, my dear, but don’t you ever get... you know..?”

“No, I don’t know, angel,” Crowley snorted. Aziraphale bit down on the inside of his cheek, fidgeting with his fingers in frustration.

“If I stay on the ground too long, I feel so... earthbound,” he said, searching for words. “Heavy. Not in the literal sense of the word, I am, of course– anyway. Flying, it’s – freeing. The wind, and the sky, and the earth below – don’t tell me you’ve never missed it. I mean, Before, you must have–“

“Before,” Crowley sneered, “was Before. Now is now. You’re an angel, angel, of course it’s freeing for you! I haven’t flown for millennia – you can’t in all honestly believe I wouldn’t tumble down the moment I tried it even if I wanted to!”

Aziraphale shrugged, keeping his eyes focused just above Crowley’s right shoulder. Were he a human, Crowley would suspect he’s avoiding eye contact. As it stood, however, he was pretty confident the angel was straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the black feathers. Crowley scoffed and twitched his shoulders upwards, letting his wings show.

“See?” he said. “Mint condition. Never used.”

Aziraphale’s gaze slid back towards his face, even as his own wings shimmered into existence behind him.

“I think it is rather like riding a bicycle,” he said softly. “You never quite forget how to do it. I mean – you have a car, of course, you hardly need bicycles, or any other methods of transportation, for the matter, which– Ah.” He wrinkled his nose in the adorable manner he had when he realised his rambling has gotten slightly too off-topic (not that Crowley ever objected to listening). “Never mind that. My point is, if you don’t want to fly, it’s perfectly fine, my dear. But – well, if you ever do, I hope you know there is always someone who’d be willing to catch you.”

A flustered shiver cascaded down Aziraphale’s unkempt feathers, and although Crowley couldn’t see them, he suspected that his were doing much the same. He wanted to turn around, tell them to stop this traitorous behaviour, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare look away either, trying to soak in all the warmth of Aziraphale’s gaze like a serpent on a particularly cold winter day, and failing even in that, for there seemed to be no end to it. He snapped his fingers again, a soft sound, barely there in the swish of feathers, and reached for his glass, fumbling across the table and still refusing to look down to find it.

“Well then,” he said, and he found his voice to be suddenly awfully hoarse. “I’ll... think about the offer.” And then, lifting the glass up, fumbling over his words and his thoughts just as much: “To... bicycles?”

If Aziraphale’s gaze was a campfire, then his smile, as he lifted his mug by its own ceramic wings, was nothing short of the binary stars of Alpha Centauri.

“To bicycles,” he agreed, clinking it against the glass. “In any case, if the worst comes to worst, I did make a scooter fly once, didn’t I?”

Crowley choked on his wine, and then laughed, and didn’t stop laughing for a long time.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #otp: ineffable #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fic #allie scribbles

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