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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

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Hello! Not the promised angst, but I needed to cheer myself up today, so here’s some cuteness, a touch of emotional hurt, and a soft ending.

(CW for discussion of drunken shenanigans, after the fact, extremely mild.)

The moment Crowley woke up, he knew something was wrong.

Even with his eyes closed – the room smelled too dusty, the air too dry. The pillows were too soft, the sheets nowhere near Egyptian cotton, and he was burrowed under a blanket that was thicker and heavier than anything he owned. It was comfortable, but it was wrong.

There was also someone moving nearby, footsteps treading softly near the bed.

Old instincts activated, bringing him from drowsy to alert in less than a second, without changing his posture in any way. Let the intruder think he still slept. He pictured the layout of his room, the distance to the door, the exact spot of the fancy lamp on his bedside table. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it should buy time. He’d need to roll over, it was behind him, and from the sound of it the intruder was…inside…the wall?

Pressing his face into the pillow, Crowley slowly cracked open one eye.

The wall was much farther away than he remembered, and the room much brighter, and filled with bookshelves, and…

“For Ssssssomeone’s sake, Angel,” he groaned, sitting up. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Aziraphale turned from where he was sliding books onto a shelf, blinking innocently. “I’m terribly sorry, did I wake you?”

“Obviously.” He glared around the room, which seemed identical to the rest of the shop, apart from the presence of the bed, and beside the door a wash table with pitcher, bowl, and pile of black towels below a small mirror. Everything else was floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with spines of bright leather, faded cloth, and even a few paperbacks. The tartan curtains in the windows were identical to those hanging from the four corners of the bed.

“Well, I didn’t mean to. Just tidying up a bit while you rested.”

“Hng.” Crowley abruptly realized those were not towels on the wash table, but a pile of neatly folded clothing. A quick – if hopefully unnoticed – search under the covers revealed he wasn’t wearing much. “What, mmmmh, what happened last night?”

“Last night?” Aziraphale sounded genuinely confused.

“Don’t—” He struggled to remember through the sleep-colored haze. “We went to the Ritz. Celebrating. Then came back here for some wine and…”

“Ah.” The angel set the rest of his books down and crossed the hardwood floor. He’d taken his shoes off, presumably to be quieter, but Crowley could still hear every pad of tartan-socked feet, every creak of old boards. “Yes, we had…quite a lot of wine. I dare say we’d earned it, after the day we’d had, but your mood went from celebratory to rather daring, to, I suppose…downright scandalous.”

“Ngk.” Crowley clutched at the mattress where Aziraphale couldn’t see, and kept his jaw locked and face neutral. He was sure he could have hidden is reaction completely, had he been wearing his blessed glasses. Still didn’t know where those had ended up.

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed, almost close enough to touch. “Somewhere around midnight you suddenly leapt to your feet and staggered across the floor, declaring you were…well…you wanted to do something you’d never done before, something you’d never have been allowed while we were still on our old sides.”

“Oh, no.” There was no hiding it now. Crowley’s hand shot out to cover his eyes. “Oh, no, no, Aziraphale…I…”

“It was all quite garbled and slurred,” the angel continued, “but I think it had something to do with teaching the Bentley to fly?”

“!”

Peeking over his hand, he caught a glimpse of Aziraphale’s shining eyes and amused smile. And, yes, now that he thought of it, he distinctly remembered his elaborate plan to miracle the engine and…

“Nnnnrrrrrg, tell me I didn’t crash into anything.”

“Now, really! I was hardly going to let you leave in that state.” Aziraphale quickly stood up, tugging the blankets smooth again. “No, I dragged you up here so that I could lock you in until you agreed to sober up and be sensible again.”

“Oh. Oh. Good.” There was no hiding his red face now. He lowered his hand and tried to subtly pull the blankets a little higher up his bare chest.

“You didn’t seem to think so at the time. Called me a self-righteous jailer, among other less-savory terms. I was worried you’d break the window and escape that way.”

A quick glance revealed that he hadn’t done that, at least. “Aziraphale, I – I—”

“I came in an hour later.” Now his eyebrow arched, an expression Crowley rarely saw. “You had removed most of your clothing and dropped yourself on the floor next to the bed. Claimed you were looking for the bathtub.”

That was it. Crowley was going to discorporate from sheer embarrassment. A perfect ending to their attempted defection. Hell wouldn’t even kill him for this, just make him retell the story over and over for their amusement…

“Actually…” He looked up again to find that Aziraphale’s face had gone serious. “Considering, well, what I’d seen that day…I didn’t find it very funny at all. So I helped you into the bed and told you to stay here until you’d recovered. And you. Ah.” He fidgeted, twisting the ring on his finger. “You asked me to join you. Because…because the forces of Hell were still after you. And nothing would stop them.”

“Nnnnnnnnh.” Crowley dropped back onto the bed, pulling blankets to his chin and turning his back on Aziraphale. He remembered, far too clearly, the two demons barging into his flat – Hastur suddenly appearing in his Bentley, which was more his home than anywhere else – a thousand intrusions of voices and faces over radio and television, whenever he least expected it – the ground rumbling as Satan himself approached—

Aziraphale continued, voice very soft. “You seemed…confused, but truly afraid.”

“Did…did you…?” Even turned away, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“No. I thought it would be, ah, inappropriate considering your…state. But…I did promise to stay in the room and watch over you until you woke.”

Somehow, knowing that made Crowley relax, just a little. “And…you were here all night?”

“All night? My dear fellow, that was three days ago. But, yes, I’ve been here the whole time. You talk in your sleep, you know. In dead languages. It was quite amusing.”

“Mmmmmnnnnnnrrrrrgk,” Crowley managed. Then, much softer, “Thanks.”

“It was my pleasure.” The sound of his fingers brushing the fabric of the blanket seemed too loud in the quiet room. “Are you…ah…you may sleep longer, if you wish?” He sounded uncertain.

Crowley shrugged.

“Perhaps I should give you privacy—”

“No.” He bit his lip. Stupid demon.

“Oh. Well. Would you like me to go back to what I was doing? I’ll try to be quieter this time.”

“No.” Stop that. “F’you want.”

“I see.”

A short pause, then the blankets stirred, the mattress sank under the new weight.

And then, pressed up against his back, a glorious warmth, a soft curve of stomach. Aziraphale’s arm draped across him, loose but secure, pulling him a little closer. Protecting him.

“This?”

“Yes.” Relax wasn’t the word for it; Crowley felt himself melt against his angel, a hundred creeping unnamed fears that were always with him suddenly dissolving into a warm glow.

“You rest, then. I’ll be right here.”

“Mmmmh.” He closed his eyes, the better to take in the sensations, the brush of breath on his neck, gentle pressure of fingers, the velvet softness of Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“Oh. Um. There was one other thing. When I put you in bed you, ah…you tried to kiss me.”

Crowley’s eyes flew open.

“I…I said…you could try again when you were awake. Ah. If you still wanted—”

Quick as only a snake could be – if he were any slower, he’d have time to talk himself out of it – Crowley twisted around and pressed his lips into Aziraphale’s cheek. Then he spun back, lips still tingling, entire body ready to burst into flames from sheer embarrassment.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Sweet dreams, my dearest.” And gently kissed Crowley’s shoulder blade.

“Nnnnnnnk.” He managed to find Aziraphale’s hand and clasp it, weaving their fingers together. “Good night, Angel.”

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #good omens ficlet #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale #crowley #soft #soft aziraphale #soft crowley #pointy demon just wants soft angel cuddles #sleepy cuddles #ineffable bed snuggles #my writing #tumblr fic #emotional hurt/comfort #mostly just #fluff #good omens fluff

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sparkkeyper · 4 years

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Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Word Count: 3,797

Warnings: None

Summary: Old habits die hard. Crowley and Aziraphale’s habits are very, very old. Building their own side is difficult when 6000 years of instincts won’t shut up.

(Originally very loosely-based on the song "Baby, It's Cold Outside" but then it kind of did its own thing, haha. I was originally going to post this for Advent Omens but uhhh you can see that didn’t quite happen. Written as ace but you can read it however you want, really. Guess what fools, it’s Soft Boi hours again!)

(Now on AO3!)

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The snow had started early in the day. When Aziraphale arrived at the Mayfair flat it was just a dusting. But the flurry had become a proper snowfall, and then quickly decided 'go big or go home' and transitioned into a flat-out storm.

This didn't phase the two immortals in the slightest, of course. If anything, the swirling flakes outside made it feel even cozier inside. Crowley's sleek, minimalist flat had grown a fireplace for the occasion, and a very surprised new chimney on the roof of the building found itself venting smoke that somehow managed to bypass three floors.

They sat together on the plush sofa (obtained at Aziraphale's insistence several months prior, on the grounds that he wasn't going to continue coming over if there was nowhere comfortable to sit, and Crowley couldn't have that) and drank wine and talked and laughed and reveled in the feeling of being cozy and warm on a cold, blustery day.

Time had traveled on in the usual manner since Armageddon failed to happen. The two of them were unwinding slowly. Thousands of years of looking over shoulders did not evaporate in an evening, benevolent Antichrist or no, and 'our side' was a concept they were still carefully exploring. But what a glorious exploration it was.

There was no limit to the amount of time they could spend together. It was a dizzying concept that they were both adjusting to, but one that carried a thrill through it all the same. Crowley had been sorely tempted to buy tickets to every concert, play, and musical revue London had to offer and do nothing but attend shows for the foreseeable future, the two of them together. In public. He very well might have done too, if Aziraphale hadn't talked him down amid giddy chuckles. "We have time," Aziraphale had reminded him, and Crowley was ecstatic to realize that it was true.

He had relented to two a week.

It was elating. They stood closer together, they sat beside each other on public transportation rather than one behind the other, they gave each other teasing nudges with elbows.

And sometimes - when they were both at least a bottle in - one of them might even bump their hand against the other's, and fingers might intertwine, and an electric tingle would flood Crowley like a live thing, and most importantly neither would pull away for at least two solid minutes and oh wasn't that alone worth saving the world for?

Crowley spent a previously-unheard-of amount of time at the bookshop and Aziraphale's face always lit up like the sun whenever he walked in. He arrived early, stayed late, sometimes didn't bother going home at all, often showed up with wine or snacks, and they were together and it was wonderful. He had fallen asleep on the bookshop couch in the past, but these months he got the impression that Aziraphale had zoned the piece of furniture as specifically his. There was a permanent place set aside for him in Aziraphale's home, in Aziraphale's life. It made a warmth pool in his stomach to think about it despite the creeping winter chill.

Aziraphale had begun to visit Crowley's flat in return. The angel had never once set foot in the place until the night after the airfield - Crowley had never given him the address, to be fair - but now that permission had been granted Aziraphale was here increasingly often. It was so like the easy evenings at the bookshop, just with more austere surroundings. Music, alcohol, debates and memories and slightly drunken speculation. The occasional temporary twining of fingers. It was good.

It was overwhelming sometimes, this new 'good'.

Aziraphale always left the flat at the end of the evening, usually around ten. He had no reservations whatsoever about chatting until dawn in the bookshop but the flat was a new environment, Crowley supposed. Possibly something to do with propriety.

Possibly something to do with thousands of years of distance that they were both still figuring out how to cross.

But that was Aziraphale, all right: as slow and steady as a glacier when it came to his set, comfortable ways. So much had changed in the past few months and the angel had had to adapt quickly. Crowley didn't begrudge him taking a few things slow. Old habits were hard to break and their habits were very, very old.

Crowley understood well how shadows could linger even in the bright daylight. It was all well and good to say he was off Hell's payroll. It was another thing entirely when instinct crept up on him screaming that he needed to watch his back, to sit a row behind Aziraphale on the bus, to have forty excuses ready for when Dagon came auditing. It took considerable effort to override those instincts and remind himself that 'together' was okay. It was allowed. And still he'd so far only managed to turn the volume down on them, not silence them completely. He didn't know if he ever would. Crowley didn't doubt Aziraphale had similar instincts of his own. If the angel felt better setting himself a curfew, Crowley certainly wasn't going to judge.

But tonight they were here, and warm, and sheltered from the blizzard. As 'retro' had begun to slide back into style, Crowley had picked up a sleek addition to his stereo system that was at once a record turntable, radio, tape deck, and CD player, with added Bluetooth capability for good measure. Strains of Vivaldi swam through the room from a vinyl, mingling with the crackling of the fire and the clinking of wine glasses. Aziraphale was settled deeply into the sofa, his posture several steps short of perfect which was how Crowley knew he was truly relaxed. Crowley, as per usual, was draped over the couch like he'd never seen one before in his life, as though he had too many limbs and didn't know what to do with them all. It was good.

Life was good.

It was a little after ten when Aziraphale spoke up. "It's getting late." His voice was a bit distant as he looked out the window, snow glinting in the reflected light as it fell. "I suppose I ought to be going."

There was a note of regret to his voice, a lack of conviction in his eyes, that Crowley had learned to read over the long years of the Arrangement. A smile pulled at the corner of the demon's mouth, covered up easily by another sip of wine. It was a very old game they played, treading carefully along the outside edges of things that could not or should not be said aloud. Expectations, angelic ones in particular, built a lot of barriers. Aziraphale wanted something that wasn't allowed him - or wasn't supposed to be allowed him - and couldn't bring himself to reach out and grasp it. It was Crowley's job to find ways for him to justify the forbidden something to himself.

In the subtle language they shared, the angel was asking Crowley to tempt him, and how could Crowley pass up a request like that?

"Awfully cold out there," the demon drawled, gesturing languidly toward the window with his wine glass. "Snowing like nobody's business. Wind and ice and subzero chill. Terrible night to be out in."

"I'm sure it's not so bad."

"Not so bad? It's been raging for hours! Look at it! It's knee-high! You expect me to try and drive my poor car out in that mess?"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the demon. "Ah yes. Imagine if humans invented other forms of transportation aside from your horrid car."

The demon's argument was all bluff and they both knew it. The Bentley could slice through the snowdrifts like a hot knife through butter if Crowley wanted it to. It wasn't the strength of the argument that mattered - it was whether or not Aziraphale could twist it to bypass the metaphorical roadblocks. Crowley rose to the challenge by sprawling back on the sofa with a smirk. "Other forms of transportation? You mean a bus, in weather like that? And good luck finding a cab out there, angel. City's practically shut down."

Aziraphale stood, giving his back a tentative stretch. "I could walk, of course. I've done it loads of times. It doesn't take much more than twenty minutes, not counting the care that has to be taken for ice."

"Walk, he says!" Crowley tossed back the remainder of his wine like a shot glass. "Think of it - the first angel in history to catch pneumonia! Bad job I'm not working for Hell anymore; they'd give me an award!"

"If doing those temptations in Qashliq for you didn't give me pneumonia, I'm quite sure nothing will."

"Are you ever going to let that go? It was over four hundred years ago!"

"It was February in Siberia, no I will not."

"Suppose you did stay a bit longer," Crowley ventured, changing tactics. It was a risk, coming at the problem from such a direct angle when they were both so used to ghosting along edges. "Bookshop wouldn't go anywhere, would it?"

Aziraphale blinked at the abrupt transition. "Well no, I shouldn't think so. It's just...I mean if I don't return home someone might notice of course and well...people will talk."

Crowley leaned forward over his knees, seriously. "Angel. When, in two hundred years in that bookshop, have you ever given a single fuck what your human neighbours think?"

Aziraphale drew himself up with a huff, and Crowley was delighted to see familiar indignation winning out over nerves. "I am an upstanding member of the community, I'll have you know. And it's not just my neighbours, of course - it's yours as well. That little old lady who lives on the floor below, for example. She always gives me that look when I pass her in the lift."

"What look?"

"You know! That look! Like she thinks she knows what's going on between the two of us."

The demon grinned like a Cheshire cat and gave a suggestive wiggle of his shoulders just for the expression it painted across the angel's face. "You're worried that my neighbours are going to think you and I took a tumble in the sheets?"

"They already suspect! Or at least she suspects." Aziraphale was trying so hard to keep a straight face, but mirth glinted behind his eyes. "Do you know what she said to me as she was getting out of the lift the other day? 'Don't forget to use protection; you don't know where he's been!'"

Crowley howled, leaning so far back in his laughter that he fell off the couch.

"I don't know what's more outlandish, the idea that we're in here having a lurid physical affair or the idea that I don't know exactly where you've been."

Crowley wiped his eyes dry and held out a hand so the angel could help pull him up from the floor. "Remind me to miracle her fridge so that all her milk keeps past its date. 'Don't know where he's been' indeed."

Aziraphale fought to get his own smile under control, for the sake of his argument if nothing else. "Yes, but it just goes to show, Crowley, people do notice. And they will talk, I'm sure of it."

"Let them," he waved it off. "I've seen tissue paper with more durability than human gossip. It'll all get forgotten in a day or two." Crowley leaned over and refilled both glasses.

"Right. I suppose it will." The angel took a tentative sip and sat back into the sofa again. "Silly thing to get worked up about, really."

On a regular night that might have been the end of it. They'd had their verbal tennis, they'd had a laugh, and Aziraphale had accepted another drink. But try as he might, the angel couldn't seem to settle. There was a stiffness, a tension to his spine that would not unwind. He fidgeted with the stemware, shooting furtive glances at the window, the fireplace, the clock.

The ceiling.

The final notes of Vivaldi faded out, leaving the room in silence, and Crowley rose to swap the record. The discomfort radiating off the angel was almost palpable and it made his own spine crawl. "Aziraphale--"

"Only, the wind really looks dreadful," Aziraphale blurted out, jolting to his feet and crossing to the window. "I really ought to go before it gets worse."

"Can't get much worse than it is, I think," Crowley countered carefully. "Best stay where it's warm."

"I don't..." Aziraphale stared out at the London skyline, nearly invisible in the storm. Pale fingers worried absently at the hem of his waistcoat. His mouth was down to a thin line and there was quite a lot behind his eyes. He looked pained. "I shouldn't impose."

"You're not imposing if I'm offering."

"It isn't...it isn't right for me to stay!"

The demon set down the vinyl he was holding, something dangerous layering his words. "Says who?"

"I've been ignoring protocol too much as it is--"

Crowley gritted his teeth, a growl rising in his throat. "There is no protocol on our side!"

"I know!" Aziraphale snapped. There was a beat of silence and the anger in the angel's face melted as suddenly as it had come, leaving his expression frustrated and upset. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, almost apologetically. "I...I really can't...surely you understand why I can't just..." He ran a hand through his hair helplessly, eyes darting to the ceiling.

The demon set his glass down and moved over to the window.

It was a very old game they played. Crowley was good at his job and Aziraphale was good at the mental gymnastics required to fit through some of the more dubious loopholes. But every now and then they still lost.

He positioned himself in front of the principality, forcing Aziraphale to look at him.

"Angel," he said quietly, as though someone might overhear. "If you want to head home, I'll take you. You know I will. I'd just rather it be because you want to rather than because they would want you to."

Aziraphale looked truly miserable. "Crowley, you've been a marvelous host, you really have, but...I'm so sorry, I..."

Crowley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. For just a moment the demon's face was soft, genuine. A bit sad but still impossibly fond. "Don't be." He gave the shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's late. Get your coat, angel, it's cold out there." He doused the fireplace with a wave and stretched his back out. "Give me a moment to sober up and I'll start the car."

Aziraphale sighed, clearly frustrated at a great many things, but headed for the coat rack while the demon forced the alcohol from his system. "It ought to be fine," he muttered as the wine bottles in the corner finished refilling. "It ought to be fine. I can't explain it, I..."

"It's like someone's standing too close inside your personal space," Crowley finished for him quietly, pulling a coat of his own from the ether. "Like you're driving on the motorway and you end up in the blind spot of a lorry. There's no great outward change but all of a sudden the hairs are up on the back of your neck and your skin is crawling. And you just have this overwhelming sense of this is not a good place to be, get out."

"Yes," Aziraphale murmured unsteadily. "Yes, that's it exactly." His eyes found Crowley's, apologetic, searching.

"It is what it is, angel," he assured him softly. "We have time."

A weight seemed to lift from Aziraphale's shoulders. "I...thank you. Truly." There were things unspoken that Crowley could hear beneath that simple phrase. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for being patient with me.

Don't say that, hesitated on the tip of Crowley's tongue. Instinct was, of course, very old and very strong. He swallowed down the words and searched for new ones to replace them.

"You're welcome," he said quietly. The syllables tasted foreign in his mouth.

There was silence in the flat as he buttoned up his coat. Despite the passing months they truly had only moved the barest steps away from where they had been.

They had so very far to go yet.

But it was true. They had time.

"Right." He tried to break the mood as casually as he could, slipping dark glasses on and turning his voice into something light and easy. "Shall we be off then? After you, angel."

The lift ride down was silent, subdued. Something complicated was warring behind the blue eyes and Crowley wasn't going to even begin to touch on it until they were in the car. Aziraphale's steps faltered as he reached the glass doors of the lobby, and Crowley was halfway down the outside stairs before he realized he wasn't following.

"Oi, you coming?"

Aziraphale stared down at the space beyond the door with a peculiar expression: uncertainty and determination and anger and hurt. "I - I don't..." There was a moment of indecision, of frantic debate on his face, then he backed quickly over to the lobby bench and sat down hard.

Crowley pulled his coat tighter about himself as the wind bit through his clothes and ducked back into the building.

Aziraphale held very still, eyes closed and fingers gripping the edge of the bench.

"Angel?"

"Give me a moment. Please."

Crowley paced a cautious half-circle around him, instinctively scanning the principality for damage and the storm beyond the glass wall for threats. Another old habit - nearly useless now but one he wasn't going to be able to drop any time soon. He sat down beside the angel and the lobby was quiet for a very, very long time.

"I think," murmured Aziraphale at last, "if it's all right with you, I'd like to stay."

Crowley studied him closely. "Are you sure?"

"No." Aziraphale met his gaze. "I haven't been sure of much of anything, recently. Not since Tadfield. But I do not want to be forced back to the bookshop tonight."

"Shouldn't force yourself to stay if you're only going to be miserable."

"It's not so bad down here, that's the silly thing. But for some reason the idea of going back upstairs is just..." He laughed wryly. "What a mess I've made of the evening."

"It was a fine evening," Crowley told him earnestly.

"I thought so too, at least until the end there." He straightened, and looked a bit more like himself to Crowley's eyes. "And it's my most sincere hope that, with some more wine and another record, it might be again. Give me a few minutes. I think I can work up to it."

The demon took his glasses off and studied him closely. The determination in those eyes, the set of that jaw, were so familiar they hurt. There was a nervousness there, but there was a stubbornness as well. Like the glacier: slow, steady, but deep down so, so strong.

Crowley reached behind himself and retrieved a pair of full wine glasses that suddenly and thoughtfully decided to exist. "You know, I reckon..." he said quietly, handing one to Aziraphale, "that these will taste just as good right here as they would upstairs."

Aziraphale blinked. Glanced from his glass to the demon to the lift and back again. And his expression softened considerably.

"And if music and wine is what it takes to hang onto your company for a little longer, I s'pose that's the sacrifice I'll have to make, won't I?" He sat his phone down beside him and with a few taps Mozart began to play from its speakers.

Aziraphale stared deep into his wine glass, a smile spreading across his face that he didn't seem quite ready to share with the world yet. "A little unorthodox, isn't it?"

"And?" Crowley shrugged. "Last I checked, there's no protocol on our side."

"So there isn't. Do you know, I think I like that about it."

The demon lowered his voice. "Say the word any time, you know. We'll go, no questions asked."

"I know." Aziraphale let out a long breath and settled back onto cushions that were suddenly far more plush than anything the lobby bench had seen before. "But at the moment I'd rather be here."

The storm howled beyond the glass wall but the central heating vent behind them kept any stray chills at bay. They sat in gentle silence for a long time.

Piano Sonata No. 14 wound through the room, mingling with the warmth and the wine to kindle a sense of calm: a concoction of human magic that miracles, for all their power, could never replicate. Clever things, those humans.

Crowley traced a finger around the rim of his glass. "Can I ask what changed your mind?" he asked softly.

Aziraphale gazed off into the distance for a moment before looking back to his companion. "It was the 'you're welcome', funnily enough. You've always objected so vehemently to being thanked before."

"Yeah, well..." Crowley took another sip of his drink so as not to meet Aziraphale's eyes. "Like being in the blind spot of a lorry."

Aziraphale nodded. "It's..." He trailed off. Took a swig of wine and swallowed it down hard, as though for courage. "It's a comfort," he admitted so quietly that Crowley had to strain to hear him. "To know that it's not just me."

Crowley pursed his lips. "Not by a long shot, no" he confessed, equally quiet.

"I know accepting gratitude doesn't come easy to you. But you managed, tonight."

"It isn't a footrace, angel. I'm not asking you to keep pace with me."

"I know that. And I'm grateful. It's just... seeing you be brave makes me feel like...like I can be as well."

That smile was tugging at the edge of Crowley's mouth again. He reached out and clinked the edge of his glass with Aziraphale's. "Course you can be. Always have been."

The angel smiled back at him, warm and glowing and grateful, just the faintest hint of pink darkening his cheeks. With a daring Crowley had only seen behind the safety of closed doors and wine bottles, he placed a hand on the bench between them, palm up.

Crowley took it.

Meeting him in the middle, as always.

"Careful, angel," the demon murmured in his ear. "Remember, you don't know where I've been."

Aziraphale gave an undignified snort into his wine glass and their laughter echoed throughout the lobby.

The storm raged cold outside, but here, in their own little in-between place, they were warm.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #my fic #my writing #soft husbands all the time #sneaking in under the deadline like a boss #asexual ineffable husbands #Good omens heaven is full of assholes #they'll be okay they just need a little time and practice

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

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Good Omens one-shot “At the End” (Rated PG)

Summary: When the angels and demons finally succeed in having their war, there's only one thing that Aziraphale and Crowley can do with the time Earth has left...

Say goodbye to their home. (1408 words)

Notes: I wrote this hoping I would be accepted into a zine that ended up being canceled. The theme was basically what happens after Armageddon.

Read on AO3.

"Wot do you think you'll miss most about Earth?"

"Really, my dear?" Aziraphale clicks his tongue in disgust, but he can't bring himself to look away from the chaos ensuing below them to berate his companion properly. "What a question to ask at a time like this!"

"I think this is the perfect time to ask that question," Crowley says, but without his teasing edge. He offers it sympathetically. They both have a similar connection to this planet, had an investment in it thriving, but Crowley feels Aziraphale's heart breaking more than his. "When you lose something, you mourn it."

"It's not entirely lost! N-not yet." Aziraphale chokes around the words. Even though they leave his mouth passionately, he knows he has sinned by saying them.

Not lost yet may be the biggest lie he's ever told.

The first few hours had been soul-crushing.

The moment Holy rays broke through the clouds and shone down from above, ethereal voices announcing the arrival of God's angelic army, a flock of the faithful came out in droves to greet them. They prayed, sang joyously, raised their voices to the Heavens, invoked every one of God's Holy monickers. It should have been a huge stroke to Her ego... if She had been paying attention.

From Aziraphale and Crowley's perch atop St. Paul's Cathedral, that doesn't appear to be the case.

Those God-fearing mortals were the first to get trodden underfoot as angels barreled over them to confront their enemy - an extremely vulgar and unnecessary display when one considers that angelic footsoldiers can fly.

Hordes of evil-doers emerged from hiding as well, in lesser, but equally exuberant, numbers. They seemed suspiciously more eager for the fight, proving that those who call themselves 'Christian' might outnumber worshippers of Lucifer, but demons had their zealots better prepared for what the end of times would actually entail.

Either way, it didn't matter.

Those humans willing to spill blood at the drop of a hat, even their own, were used as cannon fodder against a foe they couldn't possibly hope to defeat. Within seconds, thousands lay dead on the streets of London and, Aziraphale suspected, all over the world.

For their part, Aziraphale and Crowley refused to join the battle, but no one paid them a lick of attention. An angel cavorting with a demon was no longer an issue. They could finally do as they pleased without fear of retribution, albeit on a planet whose hours were numbered.

"I would have to say I'm going to miss my car," Crowley continues, provoking conversation in an effort to allay his angel's anxiety. "And my flat. And alcohol. Hell's bells am I going to miss alcohol."

"Pity we don't have some now. I think a hull full would find itself useful," Aziraphale adds in a weak attempt at humor.

"Wot about you? Will you miss the food? Your bookshop?"

Aziraphale sighs. "Humanity."

Crowley raises a brow. "Humanity?"

"Yes. Without humanity, the rest of it wouldn't have been possible." Aziraphale scans the carnage below, trying not to focus for too long on any one thing... or any one person. He's already seen too many faces he recognizes, twisted from agony. "Without humanity, it wouldn't have meant anything."

"I suppose."

A tortured voice rings out, but it's snuffed out quickly. Aziraphale doesn't know which side does it, but he shakes his head in shame all the same. “I thought She’d show them mercy. I thought that, in the end, She’d come through. Spare them. That She wouldn't allow them to suffer as bystanders in all of this.”

“I hate to be the one to say I told you so, but… ”

“Then don’t, my dear.” Aziraphale reaches out and takes Crowley's hand, pleading wordlessly for him to stop, but also needing him for comfort. “Where is She? Where has She gone? Why has She abandoned them?”

"You've been asking that question for generations. I would think, by now, you'd know the answer."

"But I don't. Perhaps I should... " Aziraphale swallows heavily, his attention pulled to the skies by a streak of gold, then one of violet, passing overhead. "They know," he spits bitterly. Crowley follows his angel's gaze to the trails above them, one which he assumes must be Gabriel's. "She's obviously told them."

"Perhaps not," Crowley says, not in an attempt to defend Her, but to soothe his angel. "Just like last time, they're doing wot they think is right. Following wot they believe."

"And what do they believe? I don't know! They've never told me!"

"You'd think you'd all be on the same page. I mean, there's a book about it and all."

Aziraphale scoffs at that. "I think you and I both know that the archangels, Gabriel in particular, have never held any stock in books. Books are primitive, human things. They have nothing to do with angels. Not even the Bible... " A host more gold streaks zip by, and Aziraphale's words trail off into nothingness. Of all the books in Aziraphale's collection, his Bibles have always been his favorites. And not just the misprinted ones. The words inside gave him comfort, especially during those long stretches when he didn't hear from God at all. Though written by man, they were imparted by Her (if he overlooked the dodgy editing).

But they're gone. Not a single one remains, not even in the church where they stand, its insides crackling, burning beneath their feet.

Earth had become Aziraphale's Eden. Now, so many things he held dear are disappearing before his eyes.

Crowley squeezes the hand holding his. "Come, my love. It’s time to leave the garden.”

Aziraphale's eyes snap his way. They linger on his face for a moment, then drop to their clasped hands. “6000 years on this planet and you choose today of all days to call me your love?”

“I'm sorry." Crowley inches closer, lifts Aziraphale's hand to his mouth and kisses it. "I really am. I should have said it sooner. But I’m going to take you to a place where I’ll say it every day. I promise.” He wraps an arm around his angel's shoulders, gently urging Aziraphale to leave before the battle brewing, showing no sign of slowing down until it has consumed every last brick, every last breath of air, swallows them, too.

But Aziraphale hesitates. "C-can't we take them with us?" He gestures down to a tattered group of frightened survivors - a shivering young woman, no older than twenty-five if she's a day, and three children, all under the age of ten - huddled in a narrow crevice created by a metal door off its hinges, sheltering them among the rubble of the church's ruined stairs.

They've found themselves a decent hideaway, Aziraphale thinks. But he knows they're simply delaying the inevitable. They'll be found out before too long, become collateral damage.

Like everyone else.

"We can't just leave them to die, Crowley."

"We have no other choice." Crowley's need to escape intensifies as he watches the poor humans, tastes their fear rise with the heat of the flames. "Besides, perhaps they'll pull through. You never know. Humans have always been resourceful. They might find a way."

"Do you honestly think so?"

"Yes," Crowley lies. He would give his angel anything in the universe, anything within his power. He's trying to give him faith.

Because he can't give him this.

They can't save anyone but themselves.

Crowley turns Aziraphale away, blocks his view by unfurling his dark wings, ready to lift his angel into the air on his own if Aziraphale refuses. "I'm sorry, my love. We must leave them behind."

Aziraphale relents, unfurling his own white wings and heading for the upper atmosphere, watery eyes focused on the where in front of him and not the destruction behind him, with Crowley's shard of hope keeping his heart pinned in place.

Crowley should do the same. Ignorance is bliss, after all. But like Lot's wife, Crowley peeks behind him one last time to say goodbye to this place that has been his home for most of his existence.

It was a wonderful existence, but mostly because he had Aziraphale there to muddle through with him.

At least Crowley will still have him when all is said and done.

The last thing Crowley sees before they breach the clouds is St. Paul's Cathedral crumble in on itself, leaving behind a mound of ash.

And nothing more.

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

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ethereal-not-occult · 3 years

Text

patience and the mulberry

"With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown."

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Character(s) of Color, Sericulture, silkworms, past religious trauma, but nothing bad happens in this fic I promise, mixed bookverse w/ TV elements, references to Chinese culture Notes: Originally written for the @goodomensfashionzine !

“I'll only be a minute, dear.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek as he opened the door of the Bentley. “You don't have to see me to the door if you don't want to.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel. “Sure, angel. Sounds good to me.” The sibilants slid far too quickly past his clenched jaw, and he bit his tongue to stop the instinctive hiss from escaping.

Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic look, but shut the Bentley's door behind him and soon disappeared through the doors of the church. Once he was out of sight, Crowley slumped forward slightly, sliding his sunglasses up and rubbing at his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he felt composed enough to exit the Bentley himself in blatant disregard for the “NO PARKING” sign on the curb.¹

[¹ Given his new job position (or lack thereof), lawbreaking was no longer a necessity, but old habits die hard.]

The bright afternoon sun made him wince a bit, and two robins in a nearby bush were getting frisky in a way he would never be able to unhear, but they made it easier to forget the distant wail of air sirens. Even standing out on the road, Crowley's skin prickled faintly with the remembered sting of consecrated ground.

He pushed the feeling aside and walked resolutely forward. Aziraphale was bound to take his sweet time as he mooned over the church's dusty old tomes, but Crowley had his own investigations to conduct while he waited. No rest for the wicked and all that.

The concrete pavement under his snakeskin shoes gave way to grass, and the tingling sensation in his soles faded. Soon he found himself at his intended destination—an Edenic grove of mulberry trees, clustered together in a ring in the church's backyard. He'd spotted them on the drive over and couldn't resist the temptation of a closer look.

Crowley wandered into the garden with a scrutinizing eye. They were young, for trees, but growing well despite their callowness. A particularly stocky sapling hardly flinched when Crowley gave it a token glare, much to his disappointment. Then again, outdoor plants were rarely as well-behaved as properly cowed houseplants. It seemed this attitude persisted even in ecclesiastic gardens such as these.

He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, then reached a hand up into the tree's umbrella-like branches and tugged. The season wasn't quite right for fruits, but he still withdrew clutching a handful of dark ripe mulberries. Hardly apples, but his lips twitched upwards nonetheless. He plucked a berry from the pile and raised it to his lips.

“Zaoshang hao!”

Only a hasty miracle saved Crowley from choking as he jumped and swiveled around. Hovering right outside the churchyard was a middle-aged human, well-dressed and smiling pleasantly at him. Judging by her formal clothing and the Bible she carried, she was a part of the congregation, maybe even the priest herself. Crowley swallowed and stepped backwards.

“Ni shi jiaohui de xinshou ma?” the human called again, picking her way across the dewy grass in his direction. Crowley eyed the Bible she held, willing himself not to break out into hives.

“Um. Wo bu—er, no. I'm not new. Not here for church at all, actually.” He fidgeted and clasped his hands, still full of pilfered mulberries, behind his back. “Just waiting for someone.”

The human raised an eyebrow. “You're welcome to wait inside, if you like,” she said, also switching to English. “I reckon we still have biscuits left from the children's morning service—”

“No!” Crowley said too quickly, and perhaps too sharply. He winced. “I mean. That won't be necessary. I'd much rather stay out here, if it isn't too much trouble.”

The human gave him a Look. Crowley's cheeks heated and he averted his eyes, willing his sunglasses a few shades darker.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Crowley's head shot back up. The human had turned her back to him and was running a hand through the glossy green leaves of the nearest mulberry tree. Crowley could practically see the branches stretch out in delight beneath her touch, like a purring cat.

“Volunteers from our congregation take care of them,” the human continued, smiling at the young tree. “The kids here like raising silkworms, you see, and we welcome them to pick leaves from the trees each week to feed them.”

Silkworms. Of course. Despite himself, a hazy memory rose to the forefront of his mind: Sichuan, China, several hundreds of years ago. A family farm, weathered and cozy and oozing enough sheer goodness to make the average demon ill with it. Crowley wouldn't normally be caught dead in such a place, but he had owed a favour to the angel. His fingers twitched at the phantom memory of butter-soft silk fibres against his skin; long, winding threads that stretched out thin and fine, tangling so easily around his uncertain fingers. With this memory came the golden, moon-round face of a child he hadn't thought about in centuries, grinning toothily as they held out a box to him, a box filled with small pale larvae that wriggled among the spade-shaped leaves. “Zhe jiao can.”

Crowley forced himself to return to the present. The human was speaking to him.

“—waiting on Mr. Fell?” she asked.

Crowley blinked. Shook himself a little. “Yeah. He's helping out with the restoration of some old manuscript or other.”

The human smiled again. It was an unnervingly piercing expression. “I'm aware. I was the one who requested his help. Such a lovely man. Are you a friend of his?”

Crowley tensed. “His husband, actually.”

He braced himself, but the human only brightened. “Goodness, then you must be Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell talks ever so much about you. Finally gone and tied the knot then, have you?”

Before Crowley could stammer out a reply, something dinged loudly, making him jump. The human pulled a phone out from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

“Sorry, I have to run back inside. But it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Crowley.” She stuck out a hand—thankfully not the one that had been holding the Bible—and after a brief hesitation, Crowley shook it. As quickly as she had arrived, the human disappeared from the garden, leaving Crowley alone and off-kilter amid a grove of mulberry trees.

---

Aziraphale emerged from the church around an hour later to find Crowley seated on the curb next to the Bentley, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun as he scrolled through his phone.

“My dear,” the angel sighed. His joints creaked as he eased himself down to sit next to Crowley on the roadside. “Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. “I toured the gardens for a bit. Swiped some fruits, too. The mulberries aren’t half-bad, for a bunch of church plants, but they’ll need a good deal more threatening before they're really up to snuff.”

Crowley stopped when he saw Aziraphale chewing his lip, brow furrowed as he studied Crowley's face. Now it was Crowley's turn to sigh.

“Really, angel. It's fine. I was hardly bored.”

The expression didn't leave Aziraphale's face. A soft brown hand reached out and brushed aside stray wisps of hair from Crowley's forehead. The demon hadn't bothered to cut it since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and it was growing longer and more unruly by the day.

“I'm fine.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand and held it, carefully. He pressed his lips against the well-manicured fingers. “It was years ago, angel, and we both came out of it all right. You don't need to worry about me.”

Aziraphale still looked vaguely distressed as Crowley drew him close. With the sun setting behind him, framing his face and curly dark hair in a golden halo, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

He kissed him then, right there on the road, in full sight of the church and probably Someone Else, too, if She happened to be watching at that particular moment. Once, he would've been terrified of such a public display, but he hadn't gone through hellfire and holy water to care anymore about what others thought of them.

As he helped Aziraphale into the Bentley, he noticed abruptly that the angel was carrying what appeared to be a shoebox, of all things, along with his usual camelhair coat.

“What on Earth is that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale carefully pushed the box over to Crowley. “Mrs. Lao gave it to me once I'd finished with those manuscripts. She said it was a gift for you, actually. Have the two of you met before?”

Crowley stared down at the box, baffled. “We talked for a bit in the gardens just now, but I can’t imagine why…”

He trailed off, and his mouth dropped open as Aziraphale eased open the lid and beheld the contents with a raised eyebrow.

“Good heavens. Are those caterpillars?”

“Silkworms,” Crowley corrected automatically, leaning in for a closer look. There were so many of them, somehow both smaller and larger than he remembered, all white and wiggly and chomping away busily at the layers of mulberry leaves filling their box. None of them paid any attention whatsoever to their occult observers hovering above them.

“Why would she give you such a thing? Not that they aren't dear little creatures,” Aziraphale added hastily, glancing into the box, “but I doubt I have the means to keep them in the bookshop.”

“No need,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “I can raise 'em in my flat.”

Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “You know how to care for these… insects?”

“Yeah.” Crowley gently shut the lid of the inhabited shoebox and curled a hand around the Bentley's stick-shift. “I've done something like this, before. I know what I'm doing.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly Aziraphale chuckled. At Crowley's affronted look, he demurred, “I'm not making fun, my dear. It's only that you still manage to surprise me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pecked Crowley's cheek, making him blush red and sputter. Much to his disgruntlement, the Bentley chirped a light-hearted rendition of Haydn's Crazy Little Thing Called Love all the way home.

---

Crowley had spent the past eleven years co-parenting the Antichrist with Aziraphale.² They had faced this challenge head-on, and in his opinion, it hadn’t gone too shabbily. Now, without the threat of the Apocalypse hanging over his head, becoming a surrogate parent was far less daunting the second time around.

[² Even if young Warlock hadn't really been the son of Satan, it was the principle of the thing.]

Still, Crowley worried. He had always been something of a worrier, and that hadn't changed even after the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

After dropping off Aziraphale at the bookshop, Crowley returned to his flat, where he commenced the preparations for introducing his unexpected twenty-odd guests to their new home. This was accomplished by miracling up a small glass aquarium onto his desk, lining the bottom with paper towels, and carefully (read: nervously) placing the silkworms one by one into the tank. Once this was done, Crowley scattered the half-eaten mulberry leaves from the box around the aquarium. The silkworms set upon their interrupted lunch with all the enthusiasm of Aziraphale devouring a meringue pie at the Ritz.

Crowley slumped into his chair, took off his sunglasses with a wince, and rested his chin on his desk, staring into the glass tank.

“I raised your ancestors once, you know,” Crowley informed the wriggling creatures. “Tiny farm in China several centuries back. We'd weave branches together into a tray and let you loose inside. Bit like how manmade beehives work, or something.”

Crowley paused. Watched one silkworm slowly inch its way across a stem to tackle a new section of leaf. “‘Course, humans use wire mesh nowadays, but the general premise is the same. Always thought it was bloody clever, what humans could come up with. If you gave me a bunch of moth larvae and told me to make a living out of them, I definitely wouldn't think to make clothes.” He snorted. “Whoever came up with that, I'd like a glass of whatever they were drinking.”

The silkworms munched on. They ate much faster than they crawled, that was certain. In the quiet walls of his flat, away from prying human eyes, Crowley loosened the knot of his silk tie and tugged it off, easing the tightness around his neck.

“You're the ones who made this, in a sense,” he said, waving the tie at them. He laid the tie beside one glass wall of the tank at just the right angle for the inhabitants within to see. Several silkworms looked up curiously.

Crowley tossed his suit jacket aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. He had always prided himself on his sharp, modern attire over the years, the better to tempt humans with—or so he claimed. Despite repeated scoldings from his superiors, his Lust quotas had never been quite up to par.

Sufficiently dishevelled, and feeling all the freer for it, Crowley sank back into his chair to watch the silkworms.

“The only thing I didn't like about the process was the boiling,” he murmured. “Logically, I can see why it was done. And you would all be in cocoons, so it's not like you'd be in any pain. Not like I was.” He exhaled, the sound becoming a low hiss. “But still. Never liked it. Always felt like an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of some silk threads.”

One particularly adventurous silkworm had nosed its way upwards and was now creeping over the edge of the tank opening. Crowley made a mental note to devise a lid of some kind and stuck his finger against the lip of the tank. The silkworm crawled onto his hand without any hesitation. Tentatively, he drew it closer. Its many feet stuck stubbornly to his skin, and it reared up as he approached, swaying slightly, its mandibles twitching.

Crowley stared at the silkworm. The silkworm stared back, and seemed disappointed when Crowley had nothing else to offer. Just to prove it wrong, Crowley materialized a single large mulberry leaf in his other hand and presented it to the insect, who fell upon it with gluttonous enthusiasm.

Staring at the miracled leaf, an idea formed in Crowley's mind. He smiled, slowly.

“I need a hobby, now that I'm jobless,” he said aloud to the silkworm, letting it creep onto his palm. He ran a careful finger over its smooth back. “I think I'll take up sericulture again, for old time's sake.” He reached back into the tank and gently encouraged the silkworm to crawl back inside.

“Humans have to boil you alive to get those nice unbroken threads off your cocoons,” Crowley mused, withdrawing his hand. “Fortunately, I don't have to do things the human way.” He lowered himself until he was eye-level with the inhabitants of the tank. The silkworm he had carried paused in its perpetual eating and turned its head, almost like it was looking at him.

“How's this?” Crowley asked. “You'll be able to grow into a fuzzy, fully grown silk-moth, and I can take your cocoon after you've finished with it and miracle the threads whole again.” He paused and mulled it over. “I guess I could take it a step further and just miracle the finished silk together, but there's still something to be said about the human way of doing things.”

The silkworm bobbed the front half of its body as though in agreement. Crowley smiled again.

“We can make silk, and no one gets hurt. I'm a few hundred years out of practice, but I'm sure I could make it work, somehow.”

The silkworm turned its attention back to its meal. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy wondering if Aziraphale had any old texts on silk-weaving that he could borrow, just so he could refresh his memory.

The angel would appreciate having a new silk bowtie to add to his collection.

---

Thank you for reading! Replies and reblogs are always much appreciated. <3

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #go fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #go tv #otp: ineffable #li writes #zine fic #insects tw

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lineffability · 5 years

Text

// and the angel said unto them, do not be afraid // Luke 2:10

Aziraphale was in a good mood. Which was sort of his State Of Being, what with him being an angel and goodness incarnate and generally Holier Than Thou.

That was the way he liked to think of himself, anyways. He didn’t like to look past that thin, fragile layer into the burning depths out of which he had been forged. His goodness was the crust of the earth, the protective layer that made life possible on the surface.

What lay beneath was both life-giving and deeply destructive. Like God herself, in that way. Shaped in Her image.

Hellfire was not the most cataclysmic force around.

Like most angels, it was a part of him he kept under lock and had mostly forgotten (denied). Aziraphale had worked hard to shape himself into who he wanted himself to be. Who he had consciously chosen to be.

He was a being of love, at the end of it all.

And the things he loved and surrounded himself with were like the homemade, cross-stitched fabric of his soul: food and books and warm colours; softness and fondness and contentment; and Crowley.

(Woe betide the fool who might try and rip a hole into this fabric, to snatch a thread and force it to unravel--to reveal what lay neatly tucked away underneath.)

Currently, Aziraphale was in particularly high spirits, because he had struck a most pleasing book deal, and was on his way back to his shop with a pack of chocolates under his arm, and was also very much looking forward to Crowley returning tonight from his little trip over to Wales where he was wreaking some Moderate Inconvenience for old time’s sake.

He entered his shop with a smile on his face: a smile that died when he saw the tall, broad man clad in a perfectly-fitting grey suit standing right there in the centre of the room, waiting for him on the carpet that he knew hid a rather occult chalk sketch.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale fixed his bowtie, smiling a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This is a... surprise?”

Behind the angel, Aziraphale could see the answering machine blinking at him from under a pile of books--an ugly device, really, but Crowley had pestered him to get one set up so much he had to give in at some point, that wily old serpent--and his thoughts involuntarily wandered off to the demon. Not exactly an appropriate moment.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel smiled his business smile, play-punching Aziraphale on his shoulder as he came up to him. The angels had kept their distance ever since The Hellfire Incident; this was the first time Aziraphale had seen the Archangel since that day, a few months ago now. “Old boy! Just dropped by to update you on some stuff; keep in touch, right? Well, anyways, about the demon Crowley--”

Aziraphale straightened, lips parting slightly.

“--well, about him, you’ll have to manage without him for a bit, nothing serious. No harm done, right? Well, no permanent harm, anyways.” He laughed, as if he’d made a little joke. He had, only Aziraphale was not in on it yet.

“What?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded weak to his own ears.

“Oh, come on! You know we’re big on vengeance!” Gabriel beamed. “Of course, we honour our agreements, but a well-placed little discorporation has never hurt anyone, now, has it? Actually, scratch that, it hurts a little. Anyways, we acquired some fine murderers--aren’t humans just great? Murder by purchase, hilarious! They should be on their way to eliminate his earthly shell as we speak, just wanted to let you know.”

Aziraphale was barely listening anymore. The red light of the answering machine glowered at him from the depths of his consciousness like beastly eyes in the dark, its happy promise turned to bone-deep, spine-chilling dread.

Crowley, discorporated? His knees felt weak.

"Oh don’t look so upset, now. He’ll be back in no time, the paperwork only takes a few years down there. Anyways, I gotta run, duty calls, and--”

He stopped dead when he caught the look in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale had never looked at him like that. Perhaps Aziraphale had never looked at anyone like that. Gone was the pudgy little man with eyes so blue they must’ve been taken right from the perfect sky of a picture book. He looked like rainclouds, like a cold desert, like a stormy sea about to come crashing down to drown the entire world. He looked like The Fury Of God, and Gabriel took a step backwards, involuntarily.

But just as suddenly as it had come on, the wave subsided (but oh, the dark sea remained). “It has not happened yet, you say?” His voice sounded strained.

“Oh, no,” Gabriel started, but Aziraphale, staring at the floor, merely snapped his fingers, and the Archangel disappeared as the carpet below him incinerated and the chalk beneath glowed white.

Another snap, and the answering machine started playing by itself.

“Aziraphale!” A chipper voice piped up, and the angel suddenly felt so scared he wanted to sink down onto the floor. “So, I was wondering, since I can’t quite recall--was Wales one of yours or ours? I mean,” and here he laughed, “I do know who’s responsible for Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch--still proud of that one. Anyways, come over to my place tonight at 7, I’ve brought you some bara brith and a bottle blanc de blancs.”

The rest of the tape ran empty. “Dammit, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, trying to convince himself that he was not about to cry. He rushed to the phone, and picked up the receiver. The right number started dialing by itself.

The clock showed 6.

“Angel? I know you miss me, but--”

“Crowley! Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale closed his eyes, the relief was so big.

“--really, gotta be patient only a little while longer.” Crowley’s voice was mischievous, a sentiment that currently went right over the angel’s head. “I still got some business to attend to in Hackney.”

“Wait, are you back in London?!”

“Oh yeah, just about to meet up with some shady people, y’know, my favourite kind, they wanted to strike some sorta deal and--oh, gotta go!”

“Crowley, wait!”

“Toodeloo!”

The line went dead, and Aziraphale, aggravated, threw the receiver down. It fell to the ground, so he picked it back up and put it on the holder, angrily. He felt like swearing.

He had to get to Crowley. Before they did.

Crowley was expecting nothing. If they really were trained assassins, and if they acted fast enough, there was a real chance his demon was in serious trouble.

It took half an hour to get from Soho to Hackney by cab or public transport. For a human.

Aziraphale had been out of shape for six thousand years, but right now he didn’t have time to acknowledge that fact. Reality would just have to deal with it. So he ran. He ran as if the devil was on his heels, even though it was in fact quite the opposite. After a few steps he was barely touching the ground anymore, while an Old power deep inside him reared its tired head. Nobody took notice of him, nor of the flash of white feathers that flickered in and out of existence around him as he moved, ever faster, dragging his body along for the ride.

Ten minutes later he stood in a dark alley, gasping for breath as he tried to put himself back together: literally; rearranging his atoms and reattaching the patches of Soul that had spilled over like water out of an overflowing cup, like cotton out of a crude and frayed doll.

He was close enough now, to feel him. Could sense the demonic aura.

(That was good, right? That meant he still had an aura.)

It didn’t take long to track him down.

Through a broken fence and along a wall full of horrendous graffiti and towards the entrance of an abandoned warehouse. It was a truly sinister place; no person in their right mind would meet up with strangers here. Except Crowley was no person (and quite possibly never in his right mind.)

(I don’t have a right mind, angel, Aziraphale could almost hear him say, I have a wrong mind. And I’m very much in it. Duh.)

The doors crumbled before him, evaporated into thin air that he could feel against his wings. He hadn’t bothered putting them away.

“Crowley?” he called.

And Crowley turned around, surprise on his face, and as if they had been waiting for this moment the two people he was now facing away from drew their guns.

Two shots echoed through the empty hall.

They never reached their target. Aziraphale lifted his hand, and for a moment everything stopped. The wave of his righteous fury came crashing down all over again, and this time there was no stopping it. When reality resumed, the bullets had found new targets.

With twin screams, the two henchpeople went down and writhed on the ground, their kneecaps shattered. When they looked up, they wished they hadn’t.

All they saw was bright white blinding fury, a vast nothingness so incomprehensible to the human mind that it burned their eyes and their souls, and inside that nothingness a million eyes staring right through them. There were whispers, in that place, echoes and ghosts and memories of worlds, and as the angel spread its wings they started screaming.

They stopped, abruptly, when the demon Crowley let them fall into merciful unconsciousness.

“Angel, that’s enough.”

The sound of Crowley’s voice reached him through a haze, and Aziraphale faltered. He turned towards the demon, and saw shock and worry on his face.

Crowley saw something else entirely: He saw Both. There was Aziraphale, tired and dishevelled and unbearably horrified and so very Human; and there was Aziraphale, blinding and manifold and unbearably Holy, and not human at all.

“Aziraphale,” he murmured, “it’s enough, now. It’s okay.”

And Aziraphale closed his eyes, and stood there as the light receded, and when he opened his eyes he was One again. And he looked terrified.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said, and his voice almost broke, it sounded so feeble. “You’re, you’re alright.”

Crowley, on the other hand--now that he had his angel back, he knew it, saw it--looked at him... almost a little smitten. He stepped closer, steadying the angel before he could ask. Though he tried to look Casual, he still scanned the angel’s face intently, until Aziraphale looked away.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he finally said, and after another moment: “Should I thank you?”

“Better not,” Aziraphale answered with a weak smile. “I could get into all sorts of trouble...”

Crowley smiled: faintly, softly. (Almost, very almost, he touched a hand to the angel’s cheek.)

“So, care to tell me what this is all about?” he asked instead, carefully circling around Aziraphale, his touch never quite leaving him.

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a fine line. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Silence settled around them, and both their gazes landed on the poor unconscious souls lying in a heap on the ground.

“Well uhhh, alright, then,” Crowley spoke up, “So... Let’s get you home? I still have that sparkling wine in my Bentley, y’know the one.”

“Wait.” Aziraphale sighed, taking a few exhausted steps towards the two murderers acquired by Gabriel. “Do not be afraid,” he murmured as he took to healing their knees, “ When you wake up, you migth want to re-evaluate your choice of profession. And try not to believe what you saw.”

(Forgetting, he knew, was impossible. They would have to carry this burden for life. As did he.)

Crowley stood waiting, and then wordlessly walked by his side (his arm brushing against Aziraphale’s now and again, close enough to offer comfort with his presence, but keeping to himself.) He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this situation, wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he knew Aziraphale well enough to give him time.

He’d always needed time.

As they stepped outside, someone was waiting for them.

He was Gabriel--but not quite. A few inches smaller, a little lop-sided, with less of his perfect hair on his head. He looked like he’d been run through a pastry machine. And he looked pissed.

“You’ve really done it now, Aziraphale,” he snapped. “Discorporating an Archangel! Look at the fucking body they gave me!”

“You what?!” Crowley wheezed, incredulous and, not to his credit, looking absolutely delighted.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and straightened his shoulders, and suddenly looked like his old self. Like his softness was his armour.

“I thought, despite everything, that you were still one of us... but I must have been wrong.” Cold anger sat deep in Gabriel’s eyes, and behind that, hidden, something like disappointment.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, instinctively, ready to go No, no, of course I still am, but then he glanced sideways at Crowley. And that was that. He knew.

They were still His Side... but right now, though he would never say the words out loud despite it all, there was only one thought burning inside him and it was:

Fuck My Side.

“No, I don’t suppose I am.” He said it as if he was realizing it only as he spoke, and a part of him did. Another part had known it for a long, long time. He looked Gabriel right in the eyes, holding his furious gaze with his own.

Beside him, he saw (felt) Crowley’s head snap around, just impercetibly, a motion so small that Gabriel would never notice, but Aziraphale did. Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes had gone wide.

So this was it. The moment he had been so very scared of for so very long, but now that it was happening he suddenly was not scared anymore at all. Determined, he took a step forward, positioning himself slightly closer and slightly in front of Crowley. He thought he saw the demon smile softly, for just a second, a little unsure twitch in his cheek.

“I would appreciate it if you never did that again,” Aziraphale said, and somehow it sounded both like a polite request and a Threat.

And Gabriel, The Trial still present in his mind--the image of Azirapahle standing in Hellfire and basking in it--thought he saw that same Aziraphale again now. The Archangel smiled, a short and humourless smile that was mere acknowledgement, and then he snapped his fingers and was gone.

Crowley waved after him, a little wiggle of his fingers that he very much enjoyed.

Aziraphale felt all his strength leave him, yet at the same time he’d never felt stronger in his life. He exhaled, trying to wrap his mind around all that had happened. He had truly chosen his allegiance once and for all, and he knew it was the only decision he ever could have made.

The power that had so forcefully reminded him of its existence, never quite forgotten, still tingled beneath his skin, but it was only a soft stream now, and Aziraphale gently led it back down. The fabric of Himself was still intact. With a little smile, and an even littler glance to the demon by his side, he clasped his hands contentedly in front of his stomach.

Aziraphale knew who he had to thank for that. Wily old serpent, always meddling in his affairs. He’d better never stop.

“He’s a real jerk, that one, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale gasped, looking scandalized, and completely missed the irony of that. Then he grinned, and laughed, and looked at the ground and then back up into Crowley’s face, a little unsure.

“I guess you might, on occasion, have a point,” he conceded.

He smiled broadly, warmly, one of his best smiles, and Crowley, a little stricken, reciprocated. Suddenly nervous, he took off his sunglasses and tried to clean them with the hem of his shirt, before giving up and slipping them into his pocket, as had been his (very secret) intention all along.

They locked eyes, in the twilight, and almost seemed like bashful teenagers, ready to come of age but feeling very shy about it.

“What’s this horrible feeling all around here?” the demon asked suddenly, looking around. “It’s making my stomach all upset.”

“That would be love, my dear.” Unadulterated.

“Oh.” Crowley said nothing more.

But his hand brushed against the back of Aziraphale’s, just lightly grazing it, and the angel, as if by serendipity, turned his hand to face his--not quite taking it, but letting their fingers touch, and not pulling away.

_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_

tagging the people in the OP who sounded like they would want to be tagged:

@idinink @aangelphale @ohblessit @armoredavengers @e3105eb @ineffable-bisexual @cake-cow @snake-in-the-bookshop @crowleysscaredplants @the-best-pilot-in-the-resistance @crowleys--angel @qfantasydragon @aduckwithears @jesuisfabulous @azirafuck @snakecrowleyy @foolish-principalitee @crowleyraejepsen @azfellandco @on-our-own-side @imlowercasemad

#good omens #ineffable husbands #a/c #aziraphale x crowley #my omens #my writing #inefficable #why do i hurt the ones i love #the one in which aziraphale has had Enough

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asublimehimbo · 4 years

Text

Crowley’s just sad, okay?

Crowley’s voice is jagged and charred when he speaks now. His hair has grown out. His eyes are still that stunningly intense amber-yellow, but Aziraphale, after knowing him for all the eternity that has existed for this planet, can see the set of his brow has changed, the way he holds himself has deflated just a little bit. His lips don’t twitch upwards like they used to. Now they just hang off his teeth like plastic bags caught in a poor frail tree. Aziraphale can tell he wants to cry when he sees the angel. From the whirlwind pretty glimmer in his eyes, Aziraphale can see how it hurts Crowley to witness his face. How he wants to turn around and walk away. He wonders vaguely if he should leave, but he feels much too selfish at the moment to do that.

Aziraphale and Crowley are sitting together in the backroom of his bookstore and drinking for the purpose of getting drunk. There’s no happy chatter, though, not like usual. There hasn’t been in awhile, really. It’s hard to have happy chatter when you’re not happy. Crowley breathes in deeply and winces at the sound, somehow too loud even though it’s so soft. His head pounds even though he’s barely drunk anything yet. Aziraphale is nailing him to the couch with a worried stare.

“Angel?” he asks, and it comes out like a promise. Aziraphale knows this is the right time to ask him anything.

“Dear, what happened to you?” Crowley’s face twists up into something between rage and shame and wonders if he’s been that obvious.

“What d’you mean?”

Aziraphale frowns deeper. Crowley groans internally. He was never good at playing it cool, not with Aziraphale. Not when the angel was talking like this.

“I mean why… what is making you hurt these days? Why is there so much pain in the way you look at me? Do you need me to leave Soho?”

This startles Crowley enormously, so much that a jolt of adrenaline runs through him and he sits up suddenly, like he’s been shocked.

“No! Please,” he says, and it is unequivocally a beg. “Don’t leave me. Never leave. I just feel things deeply, angel. I always have. You know that.”

“What thing are you feeling right now, Crowley? Please tell me.” Aziraphale stands as he speaks, and his voice is dragged-along-the-ground desperate. He walks slowly over to Crowley, ever so carefully, as if the demon is a butterfly and he’s terrified he might fly away or disappear, somehow. Crowley considers this for a moment, but no longer, because he can’t deny Aziraphale much of anything these days. He was never good at it before, particularly when he used that voice, and now… Well, now, he just doesn’t have that kind of energy. There’s no point, he decides, in lying right now.

“Love. Pain.”

Aziraphale takes another unsteady step towards Crowley and nearly laughs, his face contorting in morbid joy for just a moment. “Those two do go hand in hand so often, don’t they?” Crowley nods, feeling just a little bit more comfortable. Then he blinks and all of a sudden there’s tears in his eyes, because Aziraphale is beautiful, and Crowley feels too much for this damned body, even for his damned soul to hold, to keep its grip on. The depth of his pain is too big, the breadth of his love too wide. Just too much. Everything is.

Aziraphale is close enough to him now for him to feel the heat coming off his body. The angel is gesturing from Crowley to scoot over and so he does, with more than enough room for Aziraphale. Aziraphale, however, takes the opportunity to sit close to Crowley, close enough for their shoulders to touch. Crowley closes his eyes for a moment, letting the sensation -warm and a little bit rough from the cotton on Aziraphale’s shirt- sink in as long as he can.

“Why are you in pain?” The question is soft, but insistent still.

“Because. I am. That’s just how it is, I think.” Crowley opened his eyes and leaned back against the couch, letting his long hair plume outwards like a sail. “How could I be anything else?”

“How can I help?”

“I’m not sure you can. I don’t think anyone can. Talking is hard now,” Crowley says, and he sounds like he’s got a few extra teeth in his mouth. So Aziraphale falls silent, and so does he, letting their velvet company pour over his soul and remind him of the stars. Always back to the stars, he thought. It was okay like that. It felt like a knife in his stomach, but an okay knife in his stomach. Okay, okay, okay, okay.

“I’m okay,” he said, and didn’t mean it. Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed and Crowley wanted to cry. He breathes out and it echoes like a drumbeat inside his own body, this feeling that he is alive, and suddenly he’s crying again, his tears trickling down his cheek like dew on a leaf.

“Dear, may I?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley catches him puckering his lips ever so slightly.

“Are we still friends?” Crowley gets out before he feels himself nod, shakily.

Aziraphale pauses. “Of course, Crowley. You’re my best friend.”

“Were you going to kiss me?” Aziraphale’s cheeks tint with red roses.

“I’m sorry. I-” And then Aziraphale is the one loosing his cool, crying like a child who just skinned his knee. His hands are balled up into fists, pressed against his cheeks. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he very nearly wails. “I just got overwhelmed, and I want you to feel good so bad, and I didn’t know but it was worth a shot, dear. I thought it was, I’m so sorry. I’m so-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, softly, simply, his lips forming around the word as it poured out of his mouth. Aziraphale paused, unused to hearing his name said in Crowley’s ragged way. “Stop saying sorry. You’re worth more than constant apologies.” Aziraphale looks at him through a haze of tears and awe.

“How can you be so-” he almost giggles, out of hysteria. “Nice even when you’re so sad?” Crowley barely has the energy to make an annoyed face.

“I want you to kiss me,” he says, instead of responding, because any kind of response would be too open, too inviting for Aziraphale, who was generally curious, to come get a nice long look at the gaping hole in his chest. Aziraphale looks like his mind is short-circuiting.

“You do?”

Crowley makes an affirmative sound and turns so he’s more fully facing Aziraphale.

And then they kiss. It’s everything Crowley ever wanted and nothing he was expecting. Aziraphale, for one, tastes how strawberries smell. It’s delicious, and his mouth is delightfully warm and pliable against Crowley’s. The angel’s hands are woven through his hair, crawling over his cheeks and neck and back, like he doesn’t quite know what to do, and just his touch makes Crowley feel like he is worth something again. Makes him bloom, like a flower. Explode into light that will last for years from the Earth’s perspective, like one of the stars he made. Always back to the stars. He curls his fingers around Aziraphale’s neck and pulls him closer, close enough to be assured that he won’t leave. Aziraphale pulled away, then, after a moment of kissing, his cheeks painted redder than before.

“How can it be that I feel so whole with you?” Crowley whispers, before the angel can say a word, and he just shakes his head. “How can I feel so much when I’m alone with you?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, brushing his fingers across his red red red lips. “But I know exactly what you mean. Are you feeling better now?” Crowley shook his head.

“It takes a lot more than that to cure whatever this brooding sunlight is inside my mind, but I’ll be alright sometime. It helps to know you love me, too.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, still keeping his voice low to match Crowley’s. “I’ll love you in whatever way you need. However you need. Just tell me what to do.” Crowley almost finds himself laughing at that. As if he knows what he needs, or even wants. It’s a sweet statement, though, and so he leans against the angel’s body of gentle curves and lets himself breathe, lets himself relax into Aziraphale’s touch.

“Time heals all wounds,” Crowley said, repeating it from somewhere he heard a long time ago. “And I think we’ve got plenny of that.”

Days wind on like this. Kisses and softness and it is so abnormal for Crowley, with all his sharp angles and his past that cuts through his present like a knife, made to draw blood, that he almost finds himself resisting. With time he learns to lean into the touches, how to find his way home without all the noisy light blocking his better judgement. With time he learns how to love.

#i didn't mean to make this so long #but it just kind of kept going #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #good omens #antony j crowley #good omens fanfic #fanfiction #i couldve made it a lot longer too #it was just really satisfying to write #but its already like 1500 words so #oops #crowley's depressed #depression

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booleman · 3 years

Text

[ for @colorful-core, even if she did technically ask for this on twitter (but i haven’t posted here in a while, so. you get a tumblr post as well). inspired by two queens in a king sized bed by girl in red. ]

“It’s cold,” the redhead said, snuggling a bit closer to their partner, who just chuckled and smiled at the little bump in the blankets that was supposed to be her wife.

“Of course it would be cold, dear girl, it’s Christmas day, and we are in Tadfield.”

With Adam becoming fully human, they thought the whole perfect-weather-for-the-right-time-of-the-year would end, but apparently his reality bending powers were still powerful enough to give every child in Tadfield a dream-like Christmas.

Crowley shook her head, the hair -that was longer than it usually was, even when they found themselves using more feminine pronouns- lazily falling in front of her eyes, that were closed anyways; she was completely under the blankets and didn’t need to see anything.

Well, anything but Aziraphale, but the blonde’s head was not under the blankets so, they didn’t have to see anything.

“’sss true,” the hissing was always worse when her snakey part was cold, or in any way uncomfortable, really, “that doessss’t mean that i can’t complain about it, angel. And you were getting up. That meansss that i was about to be even more cold, which of course issss not good for a cold-blooded creature sssuch as myssssself.”

Aziraphale, while the demon was complaining, was wordlessly stroking her hair, trying to get them out of the covers. Partly because it was getting relatively late and Adam and his parents -who had been kind enough to house them in Tadfield while their cottage in the South Downs was still its last owner’s possession for a few days (they were moving but their new house wasn’t ready yet; Aziraphale had told them is was okay and that they had a friend who could house them for a while and then Adam had invited them for Christmas)- were surely awake and ready to start the day already.

The other reason was because she was -sue her- missing her wife’s face. Sure, they saw eachother everyday, that's what you get for living together, but after years and years of pining it was more than okay for her to miss and wanting to kiss the freckled face of the person she had married.

Crowley made another sound, this time without a real meaning, right before murmuring a little “okay”, and throwing the covers off their bodies in one swift movement, as if to rip off the band aid. when both the wives shivered, and then smiled at eachother, it was as if nothing but them was present in the whole world.

Aziraphale decide to move first, and so her hand was on Crowley’s face before the other one had the opportunity to even think about doing something about the small but still unbearable distance that was between their bodies, which was an offence that none of them wanted to condone.

Crowley’s smile only grew and she decided to slither up in the bed and, finally, be with their head on the same pillow that Aziraphale herself was on, somehow tangling their legs in the process. When she decided to speak, her voice sounded more rough, and a bit more deep than it was before -Aziraphale made a mental note to ask their pronouns after all this- “well, hello, angel. come here oft—”

Aziraphale was very interested in what Crowley had to say, of course she was, but at the same time her wife's face was too close to just let the moment slip -they had a talk about this some days before their wedding, about consent and other stuff, and Crowley had happily told the angel that they were more than happy being silenced with a kiss at any time. This doesn’t mean that they don’t ask for consent ever, of course they do, they just don’t need to ask every time- away, and so she had cut the redhead off with a kiss, that was happily returned by her wife.

[ hmu on twitter or send me an ask on here with a song and i will write you a drabble or a one shot! ]

#they/them pronouns for crowley #she/her pronouns for crowley #she/her pronouns for aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable wives #ineffable idiots #crowley #aziraphale x crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #:)#boolswriting

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braver-stronger-smarter · 4 years

Text

Good Omens - Over the Garden Wall (OTGW) AU

Hello all! This excerpt was inspired by @penbwl‘s lovely post found here! I plan to do a full chapter for each episode as a fun little side project when my current WIPs are wearing me down and I need a quick break. This isn’t the whole chapter, just the first part to introduce Aziraphale, Warlock, and Crowley.

I absolutely love this show and when I saw a lovely drawing for this AU pop up on my dash, I just knew I had to write it. I hope you all enjoy this sneak peek. First chapter should be up on my Ao3 page by the end of the week.

Thank you again to penbwl for coming up with this brilliant idea and allowing me to take a stab at it. I’m having a load of fun so far :)

Excerpt below:

The forest was dark. Much darker than it ought to be, and quiet too. Shouldn’t forests have birds singing high up in the branches? Or cute little critters scuttling about in the underbrush, foraging of nuts and berries and the like? The darkness seemed to imply that it was nighttime. Would that not suggest the presence of at least an owl or two hiding in the dense treetops?

There was nothing. Not a single sound except for the crunch of dead leaves beneath his feet and that of the boy walking beside him.

Warlock. The child’s name was Warlock. An adventurous boy of six who had a love for asking the most ridiculous questions and a predisposition to not do as he was told. It was for this very reason the pair had found themselves in this predicament, he was sure of it.

He was...a pause. A glance. What was their predicament, exactly? Alone, in an unfamiliar forest? How did they get here? What had been the events leading up to this? Why was he so certain this boy was the driving force behind it all?

Yes. The boy, Warlock. This boy was named Warlock. And he was Aziraphale. Simple gardener for the estate and sometimes caretaker for the child as well, when his parents were too busy to mind him themselves. Which was often, now that he stopped to think about it.

“...Bartholomew, Curtis, Razzle Dazzle, Mr. McStiggins, Pete, Steve. But I think the very worst name for this frog is - ”

Aziraphale’s hand shot out reflexively, nearly slapping the child in his face and stopping them both in their tracks. The silence drifted in like a dense fog and Aziraphale found himself straining to catch a glimpse of anything that might seem familiar. Anything that might clue him in on which direction to go.

“Wait,” he chastised as a faint noise echoed at the edge of his hearing. Was that a bird taking off in the sky? The wind rustling through the thick foliage? “Wait a second, Warlock.” He paused, looking down at the boy beside him, dressed in his olive overalls and long-sleeved white shirt. His normally unruly dark hair was mostly hidden from view, with only the ends sticking out from underneath an old silver teapot that was, for some reason, perched securely on the child’s head. “Where are we?”

“In the woods,” the boy responded, shifting the frog he was carrying from one arm to the other. Aziraphale blinked. Where had Warlock gotten a frog? He didn’t remember the child stopping to pick one up. And why was this one so big? It was unlike any frog he had ever seen before, and yet, that was certainly what it was. There could be no denying it. A frog, bigger than his outstretched hand, lay dangling from Warlock’s arms like it hadn’t a care in the world. How very strange.

“Yes, my dear, I can see that,” the gardener replied, glancing around them one more time. There was something about this place. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but it made Aziraphale think that nothing in the world could be better right now than to curl up in his cottage, surrounded by his many books and nestled under a warm blanket, with a nice mug of fresh cocoa. “I meant, what are we doing out here?”

“We’re walking home,” Warlock stated so matter-of-factly that Aziraphale would have laughed were he not currently so unsettled by this bizarre situation they had found themselves in.

Looking around once more, Aziraphale reached down to take the child’s hand in his, a sense of dread slowly starting to creep in. thunder rumbled in the distance and the man suddenly had a certain feeling that they shouldn’t be here. “Warlock, dear.” He paused, not sure if he should continue. Aziraphale didn’t want to scare the child, but he needed to make the boy understand that this was no laughing matter. “I think we may have gotten a bit turned around.”

What to do, what to do? A frown made its way onto the gardeners face. What was one supposed to do in situations like this? He turned to look behind them, images of a familiar children’s tale filling his mind. Two small children wandering through a wood just like this one, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs behind as they marched toward their doom.

“We should have left a trail…” the man muttered to himself. Beside him, Warlock shifted, tugging his hand from Aziraphale’s grasp as he reached into his pockets.

“Don’t worry!” The small, yet boisterous voice declared as he tossed a fist full of candy at the path behind them. “I can leave a trail of candy. From my pants! See?”

Once again, Aziraphale felt the temptation to laugh, and once again, he stifled it. No reason to let his guard down now. Not until they were safely back at the Dowling Estate.

A dull thud sounded nearby and Aziraphale nearly leapt with fright. He spun around, peering in the direction of the noise, trying to ignore how his heart was currently trying to climb up and out of his throat. “Did you hear that?” he asked, hoping Warlock might say that he hadn’t and it had all been in the gardener’s mind.

“Yeah,” Warlock nodded his head in affirmation and Aziraphale once again took him by the hand and slowly moved them forward, keeping them mostly hidden behind the large trunk of a nearby tree.

There, just on the other side of the treeline, stood a man. He was dressed head to toe in black, pants tucked down into his boots, a rather tall hat atop his head. From here, Aziraphale couldn’t make out most of his features. The forest was dark, and the only light nearby was coming from a single lamp resting on the ground by his feet.

The thudding noise they had heard, it turns out, was the sound of the man’s axe, whacking repeatedly into the fallen tree in front of him. He was humming a soft tune to himself as he gathered the finely chopped pieces, kneeling down to ensure he gathered up every last bit. Aziraphale’s eyes drifted over the scene, trying to gather any bit of information he might have missed. Other than the sticky shadows of what looked to be sap upon the fallen tree, there appeared to be nothing of use here.

“We should ask him for help,” Warlock announced with all the innocence of a child that had not yet been taught to be hesitant around strangers. His frog croaked in what sounded like agreement and Aziraphale shot it a glare before realizing how ridiculous an action that was.

“No,” he cautioned his young charge, eyes returning to the strange man once more. “We should not ask him for help.”

“But - “

“Shush,” Aziraphale snapped, feeling immediately guilty at how harsh he sounded. He didn’t want to scare Warlock, or make him cry, but the longer they lingered here, the more nervous Aziraphale became. What they needed to do was stop wasting time and find their way back to someplace familiar. A street with cars or a neighborhood, perhaps, where they could borrow a telephone and call for help.

“You shush,” Warlock argued, tugging his hand free to bring a single finger to his lips like he’d seen his mother do a thousand times before.

“No,” Aziraphale was almost at his wit’s end. “You shush.”

The boy glowered, but there was a teasing glint in his dark brown eyes. “You shush.”

As the pair argued, the light around them grew dimmer and dimmer. By the time Aziraphale looked up to take stock of their situation, the woodsman was walking away, the light from his lamp slowly disappearing behind the trees up ahead until it was over the hill and out of sight, leaving them in darkness once more.

“Ah,” Aziraphale sighed, feeling that all-too-familiar uneasiness return to his stomach. His gaze lingered on the space where the man had been. “Perhaps we should have asked him for help.”

“Maybe I can help you.”

The voice, sounding from behind them, was soft and low. Not deep, like a bass, but warm and gentle, and just a bit sultry. Aziraphale turned and saw, to his absolute horror, a serpent, nearly seven feet long with inky black scales and a red underbelly staring at them from a nearby tree. He’d managed to climb his way up to the branches level with the top of Aziraphale’s head and was gazing over at the pair of them with bright amber eyes.

“I mean,” the serpent continued, never once averting his gaze, “you two are lost, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale gasped, reaching up a hand to slap himself in the face, now certain that this was a dream. Some kind of twisted nightmare he’d found himself in - one that he desperately needed to wake up from. When the action did not banish the snake or the darkness or the wood at all, he spluttered, hoping some sort of answer might be provided. “What in the world is going on here?”

“Well,” Warlock piped up, clearly tickled that someone had thought to ask him. “You’re slapping yourself, and I’m answering your question, and - “

Aziraphale heaved out a heavy sigh. Now was really not the time. “No, Warlock, dear boy. This isn’t real. A snake’s brain isn’t big enough for cognizant speech,” he explained, forgetting for a moment that the six-year-old wouldn’t have the slightest idea what that meant.

Before he could amend his statement, the serpent’s head drifted closer. “Excussssse me? What was that?”

Blue eyes widened. “I mean - “ boy, had he gotten himself into a puzzle. “I’m just trying to say that you’re, well, you’re abnormal, is all. Out of the ordinary, as it were. Completely unexpected, and rather a bit alarming and - “ Goodness, he was rambling now, wasn’t he? Aziraphale had a tendency to do that when he was nervous.

“Good heavens, Aziraphale,” the man muttered, breaking eye contact for the first time. “Stop talking to it.”

“It?” He had never heard a snake, or any animal for that matter, sound so offended in his entire life. “I beg your pardon?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed back up to the luminous yellow orbs. “Uh - well, the thing is - “

Suddenly, the sharp snap of a twig sounded behind them. Aziraphale whirled around, his heart leaping from his chest when he realized Warlock had wandered several paces off to examine a slow moving turtle that he had decided to balance a piece of candy upon. There, standing before them, was the woodsman. Brown eyes wide, shadows etched into the deepest crevices of his face. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, voice thundering in the space around them, sending Aziraphale scrambling to bring Warlock back by his side, despite the boy’s protests to remain with his new friend. “Explain yourselves!”

“Aaaaand that’sss my cue,” the snake hissed, coiling up on himself as he disappeared out of the light and into the treetops, his striking golden eyes, the only part remaining visible. For a moment, the luminous orbs lingered, casting a final wink in Aziraphale’s direction before disappearing completely into the darkness “Ciao.”

#good omens #Ineffable Husbands #Aziraphale #crowley #serpent crowley #warlock #over the garden wall #otgw #good omens otgw au #penbwl #good omens fic #wip

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metaphorical-love-for-a-car · 5 years

Text

Godfathers-- Crowley x Aziraphale x Reader (Part 1)

Request; “Could I get a plantonic X Reader where the reader is pregnant (with a ex-boyfriend’s baby) and Aziraphale and Crowley are very protective of them and the reader unexpectly goes into labor at Azzy’s shop and Crowley attempts to drive everyone to to hospital. And I say attempt as Reader ends up giving birth in Crowley’s car due to traffic.” (anon)

Warnings; language, alcohol, bit of domestic violence

Word Count; 1.5k

Notes; I didn’t plan to flesh this out into a multi-part fic but here we are! lol I’m really enjoying writing this one

You had known the Dynamic Duo for quite some time. It all began when you first moved into your boyfriend's apartment. You wanted to be friendly and be on your neighbors' good sides, so you baked a pan of brownies and cut it up into tiny squares. You placed a handful of them into plastic bags, having just enough to give to your closest neighbors while saving some for yourself.

You made your rounds, knocking on nearby doors and hoping to get a response. Most of them were home and appreciative of the desserts. After spending several minutes talking to the neighbors on either side of your apartment, you finally ventured across the hall. Unlike the others, this one was eerily quiet. You could hear muffled sounds coming from the others, indicating some form of life inside. But this one? Utter and complete silence. It was unnaturally quiet, and you wondered if anyone was even home. Nevertheless, you raised a fist and knocked on the door. You waited in the hall for a moment, just to see if you would receive any response. You were about to leave when the door was snatched open by a disgruntled looking man with fiery hair and a small plant in his hand. Even from behind the sunglasses, you could tell he eyeing you suspiciously. You put on your best customer-service smile. "Hi! I'm (Y/N), the new neighbor across the hall. I just wanted to introduce myself and bring you these," you chirped, holding out the bag of brownies. The man's eyebrows shot up, and he stumbled over his words for a moment.

"Crowley. I- er- thanks?" He carefully took the bag from you then glanced around. "Uh, here. Take this." Crowley shoved the small, potted plant into your arms. He gave you a curt nod. "Welcome to the neighborhood," he said quickly, disappearing behind the door once more. You blinked slowly before inspecting the plant. One of its leaves was beginning to turn yellow.

"Well, he was certainly interesting," you hummed as you returned to your own apartment.

Over the following months, you found yourself talking to Crowley more often, and it became a regular thing for him to give you plants. Why? You had no clue. You once tried to ask about it, but he just mumbled something about how they needed to grow better. You could have sworn you saw the plant actually start shivering at the words.

Your relationship started to get rocky, but you kept brushing it off. You reminded yourself that every relationship goes through rough patches. It was just a matter of working through it together. The two of you would fight, give each other a few hours to cool off, then return and talk about it. You thought that things would get better, especially after he proposed.

Then he started drinking.

At first, it wasn't too bad, just a couple of beers or glasses of wine in the evening with dinner. Then the drinks started getting heavier, and he started 'going out' more often. There were times where he would disappear for days. You couldn't handle it, so you tried to confront him about it. You asked him to be home for dinner, telling him that you were making his favorite meal. As the two of you ate in stiff silence, you cleared your throat, not wanting to dance around the subject for too much longer.

"Love, I've noticed you've... been drinking a lot lately, and I think maybe you should try to cut back just a little?"

"Why?" he grumbled.

"It just..." You paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "It makes me uncomfortable." He scoffed before shoveling more food in his mouth.

"Well, that sounds like a you problem. Maybe you should sort yourself out before you start coming after me."

"I'm sorry?" you scoffed.

"Always bitchin' about something or another. Nothing is ever good enough for you."

"Now, you know that's not true. Look, I'm just bringing this up because I love you and I don't want you to turn into an alcoholic!" That's when shit hit the fan, and you regretted the words almost as soon as they left your mouth.

"Oh, you think I'm an alcoholic? So that's what this is about?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he got to his feet. "I'm not a fucking alcoholic, (Y/N). Tell me, have I ever hurt you? Put my hands on you like that?" You shook your head, trying to keep the tears from building up in your eyes. You didn't want another fight. Not today.

"Being an alcoholic doesn't always mean being abusive. It's about addiction." He scoffed, picking up his plate and carrying it over to the kitchen.

"I'm not addicted. And I'm a grown-ass man. I can do whatever the hell I want. Why does it matter so much to you?"

"Because I'm pregnant." Your voice was barely above a whisper. He dropped his plate into the sink, and your gaze flickered over to where he stood. He leaned against the counter, rubbing his face with his hand. "Happy anniversary?" you said with a weak laugh. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you quickly wiped it away before he could see.

"How long have you known?"

"About a week and a half... that's why I wanted us to have dinner together tonight. So we could talk and figure stuff out." He pinched the bridge of his nose before lowering his hand. His gaze suddenly darkened.

"You're seriously not thinking about keeping it, are you?" Your jaw dropped at the question. He barked out a laugh and ran a hand through his hair. "This is perfect. Just fucking perfect!" he shouted, slamming his hands down on the counter. You flinched at the sound.

"Please stop yelling before the neighbors hear."

"Who gives a fucking shit what they think? We are not keeping this baby!" That's when you got to your feet.

"Excuse me? You can't make that decision without me!"

"I can, and I have. I'll schedule your abortion appointment for the first one available." He went to grab his cellphone, but you snatched it up before he could reach it. "What the hell are you doing? Give it back!" You shook your head, cradling the phone closer to your chest.

"I'm keeping the baby."

"I'm the man in this relationship, so if I say we're not having a baby, then we're not having a fucking baby!" He stepped towards you and held out a hand. "Now give me my goddamn phone back." When you didn't move, he lunged forward. On instinct, you tried to run away, but in an apartment, there really wasn't anywhere you could go.

He wrapped a hand around your wrist and snatched you towards himself. As he pulled you closer, the phone slipped from your grasp and clattered to the floor. He grabbed your jaw, causing you to wince in pain. "Listen carefully," he said in a dangerously low voice, "I want you to get your stuff and get out of here. I don't want to see or hear from you ever again, especially if you have that kid. Understood?" Your throat tightened, and your lips quivered. Fear and grief prevented you from speaking. Instead, you nodded your head as best you could against his grip. His eyes scanned your features for a brief moment before he finally let you go. He stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind himself. You sank to the floor as a quiet sob shook your shoulders.

A few minutes passed, and you had yet pulled yourself from the floor. You heard a soft knock from the door. You quickly wiped your face and glanced into the closest mirror. Your eyes were puffy, face all red and blotchy, but you didn't have time to fix any of that. Taking a deep breath, you pulled the door open to reveal Crowley, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, hello, Crowley," you chirped, trying to sound as normal as possible. "Got any more plants for me?" He shook his head.

"You don't have to act like everything is fine, (Y/N). I heard all of it." Your shoulders sank, and your fake grin faltered. "But! I- er- I'm going to try to... help." It almost looked as if it pained him to say it. You nodded, giving him a small, grateful smile. You opened the door wider, allowing him to step inside. He glanced around before turning to face you. "And, if it makes you feel any better, I think the bastard just fell down a flight of stairs due to a conveniently placed banana peel." You snorted, a full smile crossing your face as you sniffled.

"That would have been amazing." Crowley gave you a grin. Little did you know that he pulled off a little demonic miracle, and the bastard was, in fact, sitting at the bottom of the stairs with a bruised ass.

~*~*~

Good Omens / Crowley Tag List;

@fatbottomedboi

@kawaiiusagichansan

@groupies-do-it-better

#request #good omens #good omens x reader #good omens crowley #good omens crowley x reader #anthony j crowley #anthony crowley x reader #crowley x reader #good omens aziraphale #aziraphale x reader #david tennant #david tennant x reader #michael sheen #michael sheen x reader

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seehowsupplethespineis · 4 years

Text

Lift Home

(Here we have my first Good Omens fanfiction! Well, the first Good Omens fanfiction I’m posting; I’ve got plenty of WIPs for this fandom that I will one day share with the world. I wanted to cover all the things I’ve been wanting to write for this fandom in this one piece so expect lots of pining, bickering, and a car chase.)

(Warnings: Nazis, a tiny bit of blood, explosion, guns, accidental murder (of Nazis))

(Note: This story takes place directly after the scene at the bombed church, if that isn’t immediately made clear enough.)

The rubble of the razed church lay piled up around the angel, illuminated by fires that had sprung up from the ruins. The flickering flames cast haunting shadows over jagged edges of stone. An air raid siren in the distance, along with the far off screams of people nearby, added an ominous layer to the already depressing scene.

Aziraphale honestly couldn’t care less. He was a little too preoccupied with the demon sauntering off into the gathering darkness, the very demon who had, just moments ago, rescued him and his precious books in an undeniably selfless and courageous act of pure kindness. It was a hard concept to process in itself without the odd feeling of warmth and giddiness spreading from his chest to the hand holding his precious cargo. Adding that to the jolt of panic these sudden emotions brought, Aziraphale could hardly breathe, let alone move.

“Hurry it up, angel!” Crowley’s lazy voice made something twist in Aziraphale’s gut, “Don’t know how many Nazis might be lurking around! Should probably get a move on!”

Aziraphale took a few moments to find his voice, “R-Right! I’m...right behind you!”

Crowley spun back around and strolled unhurriedly yet with a few cautious glances into the darkness to the car he’d parked somewhere in the distance. Aziraphale took one step after him, then two. When he didn’t immediately combust in a shower of sparks, the angel found enough confidence to jog after the demon, clutching his books protectively to his chest and slipping and sliding over bits of rock as he went.

Being the unusually considerate demon he was, Crowley paused to allow Aziraphale to catch up to him. Aziraphale flashed the demon a nervous smile as he neared and averted his gaze for the remainder of the walk. He found himself in an odd state of being where he deeply wished he were alone in his bookshop while also wanting to never leave Crowley’s side. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way, though this time he had to reckon with the strange flips his stomach was doing.

Aziraphale wasn’t an idiot. He was an angel, and angels knew a thing or two about love, or at least were very good at detecting it. Right now, Aziraphale could feel it in himself, and the feeling was directed at Crowley. The feeling was strong, too strong, so strong that the angel tried to suppress it for fear it would come off of him in waves that would wash over Crowley and give him away. But Crowley just kept walking, oblivious, hands tucked leisurely in his pockets.

The angel and the demon eventually stepped over the last of the rubble and crossed the road to reach the car parked on the other side. It was a black car, sleek and well-looked after. Aziraphale wasn’t much of an expert on vehicles not involving horses, but it seemed of a good design and make.

He was about to say as much to Crowley in an effort to relieve the oppressive silence between them, when a gunshot went off nearby. Aziraphale winced as something whistled past the demon and him. He barely had time to realize that someone was shooting at them before Crowley was dragging him roughly by the elbow.

“Blasted Nazis!” Crowley hissed through clenched teeth. He yanked Aziraphale round to the front of the car, “Get in, angel!”

Aziraphale ducked down and hurried around the car to the passenger side while Crowley fumbled to open the driver’s side door. Another gunshot went off, closer this time. Aziraphale threw open the car door and dove inside, his bag of books still clutched firmly to himself. The angel noted as Crowley clambered in that the demon’s hat was missing from his head.

“Bloody close.” The demon growled as the car sprang to life beneath them.

Aziraphale twisted in his seat to see a car speeding up behind them, “I thought the Nazis I met in the church were the only ones here!”

“They were,” The car engine roared, “But some tailed me as I came here. Been keeping track of my movements for a while.”

“Why?” A bullet cracked against the glass windows of the car. Crowley muttered a curse.

“I’m kind of a big deal at the moment. Hang on!”

“Hang on to wha-?” The car surged beneath them and took off at a speed Aziraphale had never before experienced. An involuntary yelp escaped him as the vehicle accelerated, fast leaving the car full of Nazis behind. Aziraphale fumbled for something to hold onto and eventually just latched onto his seat.

“Crowley!” The angel didn’t mean for his voice to sound so shrill.

Crowley glanced at him, “Oh, right! Never been in the Bentley before, have you?”

“S-Slow down- Watch the road!”

“We’re fleeing from Nazis, angel! Not exactly a good time to take it easy!”

“You’re going to get us killed!”

“Those Nazis are going to kill us if we don’t keep moving!”

Crowley turned his head to look through the back window, “Speak of the devils.”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut as the Bentley took a left turn at a velocity that defied whatever scientific laws God had placed on the Earth. He tipped dangerously in his seat and briefly made contact with Crowley’s tensed shoulder before snapping back to his seat once the car continued straight. More bullets rained on the car, burying themselves in glass and metal.

“Can’t concentrate enough while driving like this!” Crowley made a wild gesture with his left hand, “Do something, angel!”

“Like what?” Aziraphale shrieked as a bullet zipped past his face and narrowly missed Crowley’s hand. It transfixed itself in the front windshield.

“Anything!” Crowley shouted, “Just make them stop shooting holes in my car before they shoot holes in us!”

Aziraphale’s mind raced through all the miracles he could use. Make the car invulnerable? Turn their guns into toys? Miracle a flock of birds to blind them?

Another bullet whizzed through the now shattered back window. It moved too fast for Aziraphale to see but he heard the cry of pain Crowley gave a mere half second before the bullet crashed through the front window. The cry sent a jolt of something through Aziraphale and before he knew what he was doing he had raised his fingers and snapped.

The Nazi car exploded in a cloud of flame. The metal frame of the vehicle shot up into the air like a phoenix rising from the ashes only to crash back down to the ground on its head. The melting tires pointed upward to Heaven as a last means of salvation, but of course an agent of Heaven had caused it.

Crowley lowered the hand he’d pressed to the gash in his cheek to stare open-mouthed at the destruction behind them, the car slowing to a halt. Aziraphale stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the orange light of the flames that danced around the inside of the Bentley.

The stunned silence went on impossibly longer until Crowley jerked back to face Aziraphale, looking from him to the fiery wreck and back again, “I...You... I didn’t...Uh...Good job.”

The angel refused to meet his gaze, “I didn’t mean to go that far. But you startled me when you...and...well...it’s done now.”

Crowley stared at him, the gaze made no less intense by his dark glasses. Aziraphale would have turned away, but the blood seeping from the wound on the demon’s cheek held his attention.

“Are you alright?” When Crowley seemed confused, Aziraphale gestured to his face.

“What? Oh, right. Yeah, I’m fine.” He smeared a hand over the injury and it healed up instantly, “Just a scratch.”

“Ah. Thank goodness for that.”

“Yeah…” Crowley didn’t take his eyes from the angel, “Thank goodness.”

Aziraphale glanced out the window and took a deep breath, “Well, we’d best be off, then. It’s getting late.”

Crowley reluctantly looked away from Aziraphale to glance at the sky, “Yeah…”

After miracling the car back to it’s original intact condition, Crowley sped away from the flaming wreck, though thankfully remained slow enough not to make Aziraphale fear for their corporations. More sirens blared in the distance, likely from fire trucks coming to put out the numerous fires the two entities had caused. It was best they make themselves scarce.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the Bentley as Crowley drove to Aziraphale’s bookshop. The demon was the first to break it, “So...tonight’s just been a night for blowing up Nazis, hasn’t it?”

Aziraphale sighed, “I didn’t mean to blow them up, not that I’m…”

Crowley turned to face him, “Not that you’re what?”

The angel gestured for him to keep his eyes on the road before responding, “Not that I’m upset about the whole matter. I’m sure Heaven won’t be upset with me for relieving the world of a few Nazis, especially in self defense.”

The barest smirk twitched across Crowley’s lips but he didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale looked at him. The demon’s glasses hid his eyes from view, and the angel wanted nothing more than to remove them to see the beautiful golden eyes beneath. Such a thought should have caused him to go up in smoke just as the Nazi car had done, but miraculously- er, luckily it didn’t.

“Are you sure no one else is following us?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley took a right turn that was still a little fast for Aziraphale’s liking but not too much as to worry him, “Pretty sure. I only counted one car following me when I drove here.”

That statement made another question spring up in the angel’s mind, “How did you know I was in the church?”

The demon shrugged, though Aziraphale noted the action was a little forced, “Like I said, pretty popular at the moment. Word reached me about some Nazis planning to double cross an old bookseller and I figured it was you.”

Aziraphale glanced at his bag and allowed himself to relax his hold on it. He nodded to Crowley, “I know I already expressed my thanks, but-”

“Don’t mention it, really.” Crowley waved the gratitude aside, “I should thank you for taking care of those other Nazis.”

“It was my pleasure.” Aziraphale gave a small smile.

Crowley simply nodded and the drive continued in a comfortable silence.

Aziraphale was far more reluctant than he should have been to bid good night to Crowley. The demon stopped the car right at his bookshop entrance. The sight of the darkened shelves sent a wave of loneliness through the angel. The sudden urge to invite Crowley inside seized hold of him and he spun to face the demon.

Crowley’s hair glowed red in the light of the streetlamps. One arm was thrown casually over the steering wheel and the other rested on his seat so he could face Aziraphale. His eyebrows raised as he sensed the question forming on the angel’s lips, his lips parting slightly in surprise and some emotion Aziraphale couldn’t read.

The angel instantly panicked and choked on his words, “Thank you for taking me home!”

Crowley sat still as stone for a few seconds before he gave his head an almost imperceptible shake and averted his gaze, “Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

Fumbling with the door, Aziraphale pushed it open and stepped out into the chill night. He placed his hat on his head and held his bag in a two-handed grip. Without a backward glance, he marched up to his bookshop, threw the door open, and slammed it behind him. After a couple of seconds, the Bentley’s engine roared and quickly faded out of earshot.

The bookshop felt dark and empty despite the mass of his beloved books surrounding the angel. Aziraphale leaned against the door, not wishing to trek any further into this lonely establishment. But trek he did, with a thud in his step and an ache in his heart.

I’m an angel. He’s a demon. We’re hereditary enemies. Get that through your head, you stupid principality!

Aziraphale set his bag down and collapsed into an armchair, throwing his hat haphazardly into the gloom.

He had made the right decision, at least that’s what he continued to tell himself in order to stifle the intense yearning he felt. If he had let Crowley into his shop, Aziraphale was sure he couldn’t have endured it. He loved Crowley. That fact wasn’t something he could ignore, however much he wanted to. It was something he needed to repress until it was rendered inert. That wasn’t how emotions worked, the angel knew, but he had no other choice. It was simply impossible for Crowley and he to be anything other than what they were so there was no point in loving him at all. Their relationship at the moment was already a forbidden one without adding love into the mix.

What kind of an angel am I? Aziraphale was forced to conclude he was a lousy one. With a sigh that came from nearly 6,000 years worth of wariness and one night of harrowing action and new discoveries, the angel popped open the first bottle he saw and poured himself a glass.

#Good Omens #Aziraphale #Crowley #Ineffable Husbands #Writing Entity #TW Nazis #TW Blood #TW Murder #TW Guns

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Vulnerable

I haven’t done any #ButterOmens contributions in a while, and none my own start points, so here’s a fic that didn’t quite work out. It was meant to be the first part of a 5+1, but I only got the 1 out of it. (If you must know, things got really derailed on the Ark.)

Butter Omens Explained

Fic length: 1150 words

Continuations: Any medium of art or fic! No word limits, but it would be nice if this turned into a round-robin 5+1... (tag me if you continue!)

Content: This one is a pretty straightforward G, and while it doesn’t need to stay there in continuations, I’d prefer no NSFW.

“Is it true?” the angel asked suddenly, white wing spread to shield Crawley from the rain. “Are demons really…vulnerable to water?”

“I – what?” Crawley’s thoughts had not been moving in that direction at all. He’d been thinking that it seemed to be shaping up to be a funny old world, what with forbidden trees and angels who gave away their swords, and he’d quite like a chance to see more of it, even if this rain thing was turning out to be a bit chilly and unpleasant. He’d wanted to ask the angel if he’d ever heard of something called a fjord, and if they were supposed to be in the north or perhaps the far west?

And here was the angel, asking about…vulnerabilities.

“Water.” He gestured to the rain, as if Crawley might not know what it was. “Only there’s a rumor in Heaven that, because demons are made of fire, they have a weakness to water. I thought that might be why you…well.” He lifted his wing slightly, but not enough to let the falling water through.

Crawley was nearly as speechless as when the angel confessed to giving away his sword, though for a very different reason. “Are you serious?” he finally managed.

“Oh, yes,” said the angel.

“Alright, look. Angel.” He held up his arms, feeling some sort of gesture was in order, but it was his first time having arms and he couldn’t imagine what he was supposed to do next. Wiggle some fingers? “I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you. First,” he held out one hand. “I’m not going to walk around telling my…my vulnerabilities to an angel I just met. I don’t even know your name, for Satan’s sake.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Uh…”

“The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Huh.” Crawley gestured towards their feet. “I hadn’t actually noticed, you know, any gates down there.”

“It’s a, er, honorary title.”

“Ah.” Crawley shook his head, trying to get back to his earlier train of thought. “Right. Well, second,” he held up his other hand. “I’m very obviously not made of fire.”

“It could be under your skin. Clever place to hide fire. No one would ever look there.”

For only the second time in his existence, Crawley very nearly blinked. “That’s…why would you…I don’t know how to respond to that.” The angel – Aziraphale – smiled, looking very pleased with himself. “No, no I don’t have fire under my skin. And anyway, third…” he looked at his hands, realized he’d run out already, and let them fall. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing here. I’m sure it’s very kind and all but…my feet are still pretty soaked. As are yours.”

Aziraphale glanced down, grey-white tendrils of hair that used to be curls dripping into his eyes. Sure enough, water was pooling all along the wall around them, already deep enough to splash a little when they moved. Crawley lifted one foot and wiggled his toes, noticeably undissolved by the rain.

“So if I did have some sort of weakness to water, I wouldn’t still be standing around here.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tilted his head, clearly thinking. He still hadn’t moved his wing.

The wind shifted, blowing a smattering of cold drops across Crawley’s face, and he quickly folded up his arms, hoping that contracting would bring a bit of warmth. He glanced again at the angel beside him, with the open, trusting face. “When, exactly, were you created, anyway?”

“The Sixth Day. I was made to guard this wall, you know.” A bit of the earlier misery reappeared. “Not that I’ve done a very good job. But I’m sure I’ll do better on my next assignment. You?”

“Fourth Day. No wonder. You’re very young.”

“That’s only two days difference!”

“A lot happened in those two days.” Crawley shivered again, this time only partly from the cold. “Did…I mean, were a lot of angels made on the Sixth Day?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s tone was light, eyes scanning the horizon. “Had to get our numbers back up, you know. Reallocate duties, all that.”

Crawley’s breath ripped through him. He had to turn his face away so that Aziraphale wouldn’t see his pain, his weakness.

It wasn’t that he’d hoped to return to his role in Heaven. He was done with that lot, forever. He just wanted his rebellion to mean something. But his questions had fallen on deaf ears. His attempts to change things from the inside had gone unnoticed. Now even his Fall could be forgotten, his stars assigned to some new angel.

“Crawley? Is the rain taking effect? Are you feeling…compromised?”

He took another deep, shaking breath, forcing his expression back to whatever it had been before. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m just a little cold.”

“Ah, so cold is –”

“I didn’t mean that.” He shivered, shuffling his feet in the puddle. “It was just nicer when I could feel the sun is all.” He didn’t need it, the way he did in his serpent form, but he still missed it.

The angel’s wing moved.

It lowered, just slightly, settling closer to Crawley, so the soft white feathers brushed his hair and shoulders. It was a little wetter like this, but much warmer. “Better?” Aziraphale asked.

“Um. Yes. Better.”

The angel nodded and turned back to look eastward, into the storm.

“So…all that talk about vulnerabilities…”

“I noticed you were shivering, but I wasn’t about to let you get wet if it would harm you.” Grey-blue eyes shot a glare in his direction “What did you think I meant?”

“I thought you were, er, interrogating me. Badly.” The eyes rolled as Aziraphale turned away. “Well why wouldn’t you? We are enemies.”

“I suppose.” The angel shivered slightly. “But I don’t see any reason to be, well, rude about it.”

They stood and watched the rain a while longer, seeing the desert turn to muddy rivulets, the sky fill with the flash of lighting, and the thunder booming in response.

Aziraphale shivered again. And again. His hands stayed clasped tightly in front of him, and his wing over Crawley never wavered, but the shivers were slowly getting worse.

A black wing flicked out and settled behind him.

Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed as he leaned, ever so slightly, back into Crawley’s feathers. “Oh, thank you.” A smile grew across his face. “That is ever so kind –”

“Shut up.” He almost tugged the wing away. “I’m a demon. I’m not kind. I just – wanted to stretch before I got stiff. And…” He glanced up at the white feathers framing his own face. “And I don’t like to owe anyone anything. So we’re even.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The smile disappeared into a very serious frown. “Though, you know. Your feathers are quite warm. Do you keep fires in them or –”

“Angel!” snapped the exasperated demon, and Aziraphale laughed.

Thanks for reading! I hope someone is interested in picking this up, or at least feels somewhat inspired. Thanks to @n0nb1narydemon and @acuteangleaziraphale who came up with Butter Omens!

Will likely post to AO3 later...

#ButterOmens #good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #ButterOmensAethelflaedLadyofMercia #my writing #aziraphale #crowley #wall of eden #in the beginning #round robin #wings

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trellanyx · 5 years

Text

Aim Your Arrow at the Sky

AO3 LINK

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Time slowed to a crawl without any help from Crowley. Every bit of movement and sound heightened to match his growing panic: the crunch of wet sand under his boot; the waves rolling rhythmically against the shore; the unrhythmic, staccato beating of Crowley’s useless heart; and there, standing on the water, was Gabriel, his long, pristine coat flapping around his ankles like wings in the wind.

“Nice place,” Gabriel continued, unbothered by Crowley’s silence. Hell’s sake, he was probably enjoying it. Gabriel looked around the empty beach, taking in the expanse of shore and sea and sky that Crowley and Aziraphale had claimed as their own. “Open, quiet, private. Dull as shit, but then, you’ve never been one for taste. I mean.” Gabriel laughed like an old friend. “Just look at who you hang out with.”

Crowley turned to face Gabriel openly, stepping to the side until he blocked Gabriel’s line of sight. The cottage was still half a mile away, but Crowley would be blessed and damned if he was going to let Gabriel a single inch closer to the angel inside.

“You get one warning,” he snarled. His eyes flashed poison-gold, pupils thin as a virgin guillotine blade. “Fuck. Off.”

“Tsk. That’s not very nice.”

“We had an agreement.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. “We did?” he asked, with all the shallow grandeur of a carnival conman. “That’s news to me. You sure you’re not thinking of…?” He nodded downward. “I know they’re too cowardly to come after you twice, but you and me? We haven’t spoken since the airfield. Am I right?”

Gabriel grinned, and a thin layer of his joviality slipped away with the tide. Crowley could see a thousand years of bloody crusades, swelling with corpse-rot and worship, living in the curve of Gabriel’s smile.

“Y’know, funny thing happened a few years ago, after you two betrayed the Almighty,” he continued. “We tried to execute Aziraphale, you know, and it didn’t take. Flames wouldn’t touch him. Very unsettling.”

Shut your stupid mouth and die already.

Crowley hissed hate through his sharpening teeth.

“Then we hear from Downstairs that they tried the same thing with you, and you survived holy water.” Gabriel shook his head. “And I’m thinking, nah, that can’t be right. Those two idiots?”

Heat began to boil in Crowley’s veins, blurring the air around him and causing the sand under his feet to steam as the water seeped inside began to evaporate.

Gabriel raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Not quite idiots, though, are you? I’ll give you credit—it was a clever trick.”

“Weird,” Crowley mused, like he was contemplating an unfamiliar menu item, not seething with hatred and panic. “I didn’t think your head was small enough to be pulled back outside your own arse. Is that why you’re here now?” Crowley tsked in fake sympathy. “Did it take that long, Gabe?”

Gabriel’s smile froze, and his stolen eyes became diamond-hard with barely controlled disgust.

“I imagine it’s difficult, being wretched longer than you’ve ever been divine.” Gabriel’s voice was soft, like feathers inside a pillow he was about to smother you with. “Your memory’s fuzzy—I get that. Still, though, I’d think this one would’ve stuck. Aziraphale at least had the decency to be properly afraid of it.”

“Is there a rest stop between now and the fucking point?” snapped Crowley. He jerked back in revulsion at the sound of Gabriel’s laughter.

“Surveillance, dumbass! Every second the earth has existed has a record. We didn’t have a reason to look before, but now, well.” Gabriel spread out his hands with a shrug. The warmth was back in his smile; a spray of blood from a mortal wound, cordiality and cruelty trickling down the grain of the cross.

Bless it, Crowley thought, but he was an idiot. Because he’d known. Gabriel, for all his inanity and pompousness, had never been stupid. No, worse than that—Gabriel was apathetic. He didn’t bother to learn or observe anything outside his own interests, and this made him appear bumbling, full of hot air and nothing substantive.

But when he did decide to pay attention…

Crowley’s wings shattered the barrier of their prison ad cracked the air like a shot. Gabriel watched placidly as they extended to their full height and wingspan. The air around Crowley was already distorting itself as reality broke down, unable to keep the demon’s true form from answering its master’s summons.

“I will kill you,” Crowley promised, his voice echoing with void and devastation. “I don’t care if I go down with you. You’ll face oblivion before you can even step in Aziraphale’s direction.”

“Oh…” Gabriel chuckled. “I know you will, A̸̧̼̦̭͇̞̰͎̙̮͎̒̃̌̚͝m̵͉̦̞̩̗͔̿̔̆̄͗̊̆̈́̀̓͂̀͊r̵̡̗̻͉̪͚̼̹͉̭̒̒̋͐̑̊̃͆̓͂̚̚ỉ̸̛̹͇͓̙͍͚̭̯͈̻̓̃̊̆͝ͅe̷̡̢̧̛̼͈̜̻͙̰̳̾̊͛͐͌̿̓̕͜ͅͅͅl̵̳̞̎̍̅͒̎͒͌͋́͌̾̔̕.”

Crowley screamed from the abrupt shock of divinity lancing through his chest, scattering light between his atoms like shrapnel. A high note, unbearably terrible and beautiful, rang in his ears and splintered his bones, sending Crowley to his knees in an acolyte’s post. He gasped as it passed through him and stared at Gabriel with mounting horror.

The first thing that was burned away from fallen angels was their name. It was the word She used to call them into existence, each letter encrusted like jewels in the crown of Her Glory. To lose their name was to lose themselves. Crowley couldn’t remember his holy name; sometimes, if he tried hard, he could see the shape of it in his mind’s eye, but it was smudged with pain. He’d always assumed the names of the Fallen were taken back into Her essence, no longer fit for creation or memory.

“Surprised?” Gabriel asked. “Oh, A̸̧̼̦̭͇̞̰͎̙̮͎̒̃̌̚͝m̵͉̦̞̩̗͔̿̔̆̄͗̊̆̈́̀̓͂̀͊r̵̡̗̻͉̪͚̼̹͉̭̒̒̋͐̑̊̃͆̓͂̚̚ỉ̸̛̹͇͓̙͍͚̭̯͈̻̓̃̊̆͝ͅe̷̡̢̧̛̼͈̜̻͙̰̳̾̊͛͐͌̿̓̕͜ͅͅͅl̵̳̞̎̍̅͒̎͒͌͋́͌̾̔̕—” Crowley gagged as blood filled his mouth. “—did you really think we’d forgotten you? When a demon’s former celestial name can cause this amount of damage, why the hell would we ever erase them?” Gabriel clucked his tongue. “Poor, stupid A̸̧̼̦̭͇̞̰͎̙̮͎̒̃̌̚͝m̵͉̦̞̩̗͔̿̔̆̄͗̊̆̈́̀̓͂̀͊r̵̡̗̻͉̪͚̼̹͉̭̒̒̋͐̑̊̃͆̓͂̚̚ỉ̸̛̹͇͓̙͍͚̭̯͈̻̓̃̊̆͝ͅe̷̡̢̧̛̼͈̜̻͙̰̳̾̊͛͐͌̿̓̕͜ͅͅͅl̵̳̞̎̍̅͒̎͒͌͋́͌̾̔̕.”

Crowley clutched his chest as the hole where Her Grace used to be was seared with divinity that was no longer his. Stupid indeed. Even the humans knew that names had power; why should the first names in all creation be any exception?

When he raised his head to hiss at Gabriel, black ichor dripped from Crowley’s eyes.

“Enjoying your little party trick? Go ahead.” Crowley staggered to his feet. “Say my name. Say it as much as you fucking want. I want you to.” He smile-snarled at the Archangel. “Let my name be the last thing you ever fucking say before I punt you into a black hole.”

“You still don’t get it.” Gabriel sighed. “Here’s the thing, A̸̧̼̦̭͇̞̰͎̙̮͎̒̃̌̚͝m̵͉̦̞̩̗͔̿̔̆̄͗̊̆̈́̀̓͂̀͊r̵̡̗̻͉̪͚̼̹͉̭̒̒̋͐̑̊̃͆̓͂̚̚ỉ̸̛̹͇͓̙͍͚̭̯͈̻̓̃̊̆͝ͅe̷̡̢̧̛̼͈̜̻͙̰̳̾̊͛͐͌̿̓̕͜ͅͅͅl̵̳̞̎̍̅͒̎͒͌͋́͌̾̔̕—” Crowley flipped his middle finger as he shook with a fresh wave of pain. “I didn’t actually come here to kill you.”

“Bullshit,” Crowley spat.

“It’s true! I just came for a chat.” Gabriel jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He came to kill you.”

In the space between heartbeat and thought, Sandalphon slipped out from behind Gabriel like an oil spill. The churning waves died beneath his shoes, becoming glass-smooth to match the patch of ocean Gabriel stood on. His smile didn’t bother with the pretense of friendship that Gabriel’s did; it held only the horrifying truth of belief, the kind that made martyrs out of the unwilling and called it just.

Crowley reared like a hooded cobra, cornered but desperate, and furious enough to attack anything that so much as twitched in its direction.

“Can’t even handle killing a demon on your own, can you, you piece of shit?”

Gabriel hummed like he was actually giving it some thought. “I prefer to think of it as not getting my hands dirty.”

“Hello, Crawley,” Sandalphon simpered. His golden teeth reminded Crowley of long abandoned treasures in a skeleton’s graveyard. Awareness coiled sickly in his gut.

Crowley could take Gabriel, or even Sandalphon, on his own. Whether he’d win was up for debate—an angel’s powers were, by design, made to cancel out a demon’s—but Crowley knew that he could at least cause one of the archangels severe damage. But two of them?

He had to try. If he could stall them even a minute, Aziraphale could—

“But you know what, I’m a sporting angel.” Gabriel clapped his hand on Sandalphon’s shoulder, whose eyes were beginning to glow. “How about I give you a chance to prove me wrong?”

Sandalphon held his hands out in front of him like an offering, and the water immediately began to churn. When he breathed in, the tide drained away from the shore into a growing whirlpool blackening the water beneath his feet. Sandalphon raised his arms in a conductor’s stance, his eyes glowing lightning-bright and salt-white.

The flames under Crowley’s scales froze with horror as a wave grew behind Sandalphon. And grew…and grew…

And then it began to glow.

Gabriel whistled appreciatively at the literal tidal wave rising above their heads—every atom of which was vibrating with celestial blessing. Even the scent of seawater in the air was poisoned with divinity; Crowley felt his right eye start to twitch.

“Survive this, demon,” Gabriel intoned. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Survive this, and I swear by the Grace inside me that I’ll leave you two alone.”

Fragments of ideas and plans rattled around Crowley’s mind like dice, and every one of them came up snake-eyes.

The wave had swelled too large to dodge. He could run, fly, crawl through the sand, but he wasn’t fast enough to get out of range before Sandalphon brought the flood down on his head. It would be the same if he attacked. No amount of hellfire would touch the angels so long as they were surrounded by their watery barrier. Even trying to stop time, as he did in Tadfield, would be useless to him. There was no reality-bending Antichrist to aid him, no angel…

Oh.

Aziraphale.

I’m…I’m about to die, aren’t I?

The roar of water dulled and muffled, suddenly far away, as if it was respecting Crowley’s privacy in his last moments. Realization skinned him raw; if Crowley was gone, who would protect Aziraphale? Who would listen to him read his favorite poetry aloud? Who would groom his wings? Who would take him to dinner, to the theater, to the stars and to bed and everywhere in between?

Who would love him?

I’m fucked. I’m fucked and I can’t stay and I’m going to hurt you, Aziraphale. I’m going to make you cry. I’m sorry. I only ever wanted to love you.

Gabriel waved. “So long!”

I know I said I’d be happy with whatever I could get, and I meant that, I did, I meant it because it was you. But angel, angel, I’m too fucking selfish. It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, I want more, Aziraphale.

I want more time.

“Farewell,” sneered Sandalphon.

I want to talk with you more, drink with you more, I want more mornings where you’re the first thing I see when I wake up.

The tidal wave rose until it blocked the sun’s light, casting Crowley in a long tombstone-shadow. He should attack them. He should at least try, deny them the satisfaction of striking him down without resistance.

“Auf wiedersehen!”

But Crowley’s mind wasn’t on the beach anymore. It was back in their cottage, curled in Aziraphale’s lap with a deathbed confession.

I want more lunches, more dinners, more desserts, I want more walks and drives and I want to tease you more, kiss and hug and fuck and love you, I want to love you so much more Aziraphale, I want I want I WANT—!

“Goodbye.”

…I don’t want to go.

Sandalphon’s arms surged forward to bring down the wave, and several things happened at once.

A white-gold missile of light slammed into Sandalphon with enough force to send him barreling into Gabriel’s side and shoot them both away from Crowley like a torpedo.

The wave collapsed in on itself and flooded the beach.

Crowley threw his arms in front of his face, hissing as the holy spray connected like a thousand paper cuts in a salt bath.

He only had seconds to register the pain before something grabbed Crowley around the middle and rocketed him above the saturated sand.

Crowley panicked when he felt the heavenly aura surround him, instinctively squirming and kicking until he was flipped onto his back and saw his favorite shade of blue beseeching him to be still.

“It’s me!” Aziraphale shouted over the water. “Crowley, it’s me!”

A gallows moan pulled from Crowley’s chest.

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale crushed Crowley to his chest at the same time Crowley’s arms strangled the angel in a python’s grip. Aziraphale stroke-dragged shaking fingers through Crowley’s hair; his desperate whispers of darling darling darling kept rhythm with Crowley’s racing heart. He whined when Aziraphale pulled away to look him over.

“Are you hurt?” Aziraphale demanded. “Did it touch you?” His eyes followed Crowley’s down to the sizzling freckles on his arms, and Aziraphale growled.

“Monsters.”

Belatedly, Crowley registered that Aziraphale was holding him in a bridal carry. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his vest was unbuttoned, and his bowtie was loose; he’d hadn’t even bothered to miracle his appearance, he’d been too much in a hurry to save Crowley from—

“We have to get out of here!” Crowley scrambled to fly on his own, holding Aziraphale’s hand the whole time. “Angel, we’ve gotta—”

“No.”

Crowley’s neck snapped back to Aziraphale fast enough to give a human a severe case of whiplash. “The fuck you mean no?!”

“They won’t stop,” said Aziraphale. “Not unless we make them.”

Now that he was sure of Crowley’s safety, the abrupt serenity settling around Aziraphale’s shoulders made Crowley bristle with terror.

“Aziraphale, they want to kill you!”

“Oh good.” Aziraphale turned to look over the horizon Gabriel and Sandalphon had been thrown beyond. “It’s always nice to be on the same page.”

His wrist twisted, and Crowley did a double take when he saw that Aziraphale was swinging a fucking umbrella like a broadsword. As it spun, the umbrella came alive with ice-blue fire, licking its way down to Aziraphale’s fingers and sparking like a blacksmith’s forge.

“Aziraphale, what—”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

A pillar of seawater erupted into the air. Crowley reeled back, but Aziraphale was already in front of him, the umbrella wide open and shield-wide, causing any stray drops of water to evaporate before the fire.

“Promise me something right now,” muttered Aziraphale.

“What is it?”

Aziraphale closed the umbrella and shifted into a combative posture.

“Do not interfere. Please.”

“Azira–”

“Promise me, Crowley.”

“No!” Crowley ripped his glasses off and threw them into the sand like a gauntlet. “You’re out of your blessed mind if you think I’m gonna let you—”

“My dear, in just a minute quite a lot of ethereal seawater is going to be slung around.” Aziraphale’s warrior eyes softened when they looked at Crowley’s incredulous face. “Please, love. I don’t want you in the crossfire.”

Unable to refute him, but unwilling to back down, Crowley jabbed his finger at Aziraphale’s flaming umbrella. “What are you even going to do with that, anyway?”

“Something I should have done long ago.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s cheek, and all protests shriveled in the demon’s throat. “I love you, Crowley. Wait for me.”

Aziraphale floated down to where Gabriel and Sandalphon reappeared on the water, enraged and sporting several extra sets of wings and eyes.

“Y’know what, I am sick of your shit,” Gabriel spat. “I was trying to be nice about this, show a little mercy by not making you watch Sandalphon kill your–”

A shower of water exploded in Gabriel’s face. He swore and sputtered, leaping back…and gaping at what he saw. As did Crowley.

Aziraphale had impaled his umbrella-sword through Sandalphon’s chest. He lifted Sandalphon until only the tips of his loafers skimmed the water. Sandalphon looked too stunned to try to retaliate, even when his wings fell slack and his extra eyes rolled back into nothingness.

Aziraphale radiated contempt as he unceremoniously yanked his weapon out of Sandalphon’s chest and stepped away.

With his face still frozen in a look of utter shock, Sandalphon’s knees splashed into the water. He pitched forward until he was face down in the ocean, bobbing listlessly as he bled out. Moments later, the rest of his mortal vessel sank with the finality of a suicide.

Discorporated.

Aziraphale’s fire was still burning through Sandalphon’s flesh; Crowley could see a pale blue glow under the waves as Aziraphale turned to fully face Gabriel.

“…So that’s how you want to do this, Aziraphale?” All emotion, satiric or sincere, abandoned Gabriel’s face in favor of cold-iron fury. “You cowered before the apocalypse, and now, now you choose to fight? For this infested world? For him?”

Gabriel jerked his chin upward, disgusted by the mere reference of Crowley on his lips.

“There didn’t have to be a war, Gabriel,” said Aziraphale. With his raised head and squared shoulders, he reminded Crowley of a well-fortified bulwark. “Not between Heaven and Hell, nor between us. Crowley and I have only ever asked for peace.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Without the flood, the olive branch has no meaning. You understood that once, Aziraphale.”

“No, I didn’t,” murmured Aziraphale. “I never did. I had only hope that one day, I would. No more.” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. “I’m done blindly attacking whatever is put in front of me, and I’m done hiding like that’s something shameful.” He pointed his makeshift weapon at Gabriel; its calm, defensive blue a far cry from Aziraphale’s original sword—the weapon that fit so perfectly in the hands of War.

Gabriel spread his wings like he was baring his teeth. “You understand what will happen, don’t you? Attacking a superior?”

Aziraphale mimicked the action. “I answer to two voices in this universe, Gabriel, and yours isn’t one of them. None of you are. Not anymore.”

“You’ll Fall for this.”

Aziraphale’s form shimmered and bled until it was little more than sun and steel covered in a thousand glaring, resolute eyes.

“So be it.”

Aziraphale and Gabriel’s magic slammed against each other before their bodies did. The water crested from the shock waves and began to glow again, completely baptized by the unfiltered celestial energies rippling through its currents.

Crowley’s corporeal form tore from his body as he took off towards the fighting. He was never a soldier before he Fell—Crowley’s purpose was that of creation, of forming the precious galaxy that angels like Aziraphale fought to protect—but one didn’t roost in the bowels of hell for a couple millennia without learning how to fight dirty. Crowley swallowed what remained of earthly light into the hollow maw where Grace once shone, his fangs and claws dripping liquid nightmares. Even the broken shards of his halo were sharp enough to pierce an angel’s skin if Crowley just got close enough—

A geyser of holy water shot up and nearly took out one of his wings. Crowley reared back with a hateful shriek as more bless-bright jets rose around the warring angels like a cage. Crowley circled them agitatedly, trying to find Aziraphale in the fight. They were moving too fast and too bright; even Crowley’s supernatural gaze could only pick up afterimages, like a video with delayed audio. He pushed his consciousness out, seeking Aziraphale’s aura in the midst of the chaos.

All of Gabriel’s heads and wings were out, surging towards Aziraphale’s core to gouge him clean. Aziraphale met him blow for blow with his umbrella, the ludicrous sight at odds with how Gabriel snarled at it every time Aziraphale swung towards him.

What on earth had he done to it? It repelled Gabriel’s magic whenever Aziraphale opened it to use as a shield, and its blue flames greedily clung to Gabriel’s face and feathers whenever Aziraphale landed a hit. It didn’t cause the same amount of damage as hellfire might, but the force with which Aziraphale choreographed his blows was enough to knock Gabriel back, if only for a second.

Lightning shot down from above at Gabriel’s command, crackling through their watery battlefield like spiderweb veins. Aziraphale lost his footing as electricity surrounded his legs like barbed wire, and Gabriel struck, knocking Aziraphale backwards into the water. He reared back, teeth gleaming, and surged towards Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale threw up his umbrella with both hands and caught it inside Gabriel’s mouth, inches away from Aziraphale’s nose. The flames flared in Gabriel’s face, covering his head. Gabriel howled, and swung out with his claws.

Aziraphale screamed.

“ANGEL!” Crowley surged forward, water be damned, when—

“STAY BACK!”

Aziraphale staggered to his feet; half of his eyes were lidded or shut, dripping with golden blood. One of his wings was bent out of shape, claw marks breaking up the trail of snowy feathers.

Gabriel covered half of his face, his own lustrous blood spilling through his claws from the lashes Aziraphale’s magic scored across his Grace. Gabriel glanced at Crowley through the fire still licking his face, and Crowley could feel the archangel’s viciousness in the back of his throat, choking him like his tongue was swelling.

That feeling was all the warning Crowley had before the geyser bars exploded like a supernova. Aziraphale’s magic slammed Crowley backwards, burning like acid through Crowley’s teeth and rings, but with enough force to knock him almost entirely back to the other end of the beach, away from the water. Crowley writhed in the air, holding onto Aziraphale’s magic even as it burned, trying to get a sense of its strength from this small sample alone.

Up ahead the angels were clashing again. Starbursts of water rose and exploded like fireworks around them.

Aziraphale was strong, every inch of him exuding the strength and sharpness of an angel entrusted with an entire platoon of soldiers by the Almighty herself. He wielded the umbrella like it was truly steel, parrying and stabbing, smashing his good wings into Gabriel’s face and essence to knock him back. Streaks of golden blood splattered around them like paint, mixing with the shining water. Crowley couldn’t tell whose was whose anymore.

Crowley swelled and spun his rings in terror and tried to keep track of Aziraphale, to pick his essence apart from Gabriel’s own holy energy. It was almost impossible to lock onto thanks to the speed with which it was being thrown around, but after six thousand years and counting, Crowley was finely attuned to Aziraphale’s magic. The difference was faint; Aziraphale’s magic was warmer, shaded with gold. Gabriel, due to his higher rank, had a much brighter aura, a blinding white that hurt Crowley’s infernal eyes when he looked upon it for too long. It was much brighter than Aziraphale’s, pulled from a well of magic deeper and purer than any other angel—

With sickening clarity, Crowley realized what Gabriel was doing.

He was stalling.

By nature, Aziraphale was blessed with less endurance than Gabriel had. Despite how strong and determined his angel was, Crowley knew that Aziraphale’s pool of magic would run dry long before Gabriel’s did. And Gabriel knew that too, because he’d switched to a more defensive style, dodging and blocking, and timing his strikes with a luxury Aziraphale was never created for. Gabriel intended to wait Aziraphale out, to strike him down when Aziraphale’s magical strength abandoned him. Crowley had no doubt Aziraphale could still fight even then—he’d certainly try, anyway—using his muscle memory to attack Gabriel without ethereality, but a Principality with a sword was laughably outclassed by an Archangel with deep reserves of magic left. Aziraphale would lose.

Aziraphale saw it too. His attacks grew more vicious, more aggressive, as he tried to end Gabriel quickly, before his own form betrayed him. But despite the blows that did land against Gabriel, the archangel showed no signs of tiring.

Gabriel swung the clubbed tips of his wings at Aziraphale’s blind side. Aziraphale allowed himself to take the hit so that he could lure Gabriel close enough to smash the handle of his umbrella against Gabriel’s temple, hard enough that even Crowley could hear the sound of crunching bone. Light poured out of the gash on Gabriel’s head as he locked his magic around Aziraphale, beating at him with his expansive wings and causing a swirl of water to cyclone up and around them, obscuring Crowley’s view even further.

Crowley couldn’t stand it anymore; if being drowned in holy water meant the difference between Aziraphale’s victory and death, then it wasn’t even a choice worth thinking about. Crowley wrestled his magic back into his corporeal form and held it tight under his breast. His skin split, and scales flickered up and down his body as his magic frayed the edges of Crowley’s human-shaped form, not meant to be drawn so close and held back in such a way. Crowley grit his teeth with enough force to crack his fangs. He felt on the edge of a seizure, a destruction all his own, but there was nothing for it; Crowley would need to be small for this, lithe and nimble. They only had one shot.

Crowley drew back his hands as he flew towards the angels, and a growing ball of hellfire and dark energy formed between his palms. The fire had to be strong enough to pass through the holy water without losing its shape or power—power that would be needed to knock Gabriel back and give Aziraphale an opening.

Pain throbbed behind Crowley’s eyes; his pupils were disappeared, leaving behind a glowing sulfur-yellow stare. The water was overcharged with holiness, and there was enough of it flying around that it would take all of Crowley’s reserves to create something infernal enough to pass through it. If he was struck down before then...if he missed...if he hit Aziraphale instead...

It was impossible to avoid the spray; Crowley jerked in flight as hundreds of tiny burns connected with his body, like standing over a pan spitting hot grease. It hurt like Heaven, but not enough to keep him back.

Aziraphale’s magic was flagging under Gabriel’s, making it even harder to untangle from the threads of Gabriel’s power. But he was still there, Crowley’s brave, fierce angel, and it was enough. Wherever Aziraphale was, Crowley would come to him. Always.

Crowley weaved between the ribbons of water whipping through the sky, laser-focused on Aziraphale as he lined up his shot. This needed to be timed just right, or he would lose the element of surprise and Gabriel would destroy them both.

Thankfully, time and Crowley were on friendly terms.

He couldn’t spare the energy to pause time completely, but he could break off the barest sliver to slow the seconds around them. Just enough for him to see the forms previously hidden by light.

It would be up to Aziraphale to take advantage of the split-second Crowley was about to give him, because Crowley would be unable to dodge or block anything Gabriel might throw at him after he recovered. Even twist-sick with terror, he never feared that Aziraphale would miss his chance. Crowley trusted Aziraphale to save them both.

He trusted Aziraphale more than anything in creation.

As Gabriel twitched in his direction, Crowley poured everything he had and was into his attack and blasted the ball of hellfire and dark matter into Gabriel’s side. Gabriel stumbled off balance for a single second, and it was all Aziraphale needed.

With an almighty scream, Aziraphale stabbed Gabriel through the eye with the sharp tip of his umbrella.

The water instantly splashed down, leaving Aziraphale and Gabriel in a pool of luminescence. Gabriel dropped to one knee, then the other, and gripped the umbrella embedded in his skull with both hands. He snarled at Aziraphale who, without breaking eye contact, slowly pushed the umbrella, fire and all, through Gabriel’s eye socket.

“Traitor,” Gabriel spat.

“There are worse things to be,” said Aziraphale. “Deliver my message, Gabriel. To the angels, to the demons, to the Metatron and Beelzebub themselves. Tell them what happened to Sandalphon. Tell them what happened to you.”

Gabriel convulsed as Aziraphale deliberately pushed the umbrella deeper until it broke out the back of Gabriel’s skull.

“And tell them that if they ever threaten us again, I will make them wish for something so sweet as discorporation.”

Bleeding out at Aziraphale’s feet, Gabriel cursed Aziraphale in a language Crowley hadn’t heard since the Beginning. His grip began to slacken on the umbrella, and Crowley dared to relax.

Then, without warning, Gabriel’s left arm threw back in Crowley’s direction to hit him square in the chest with the last of Gabriel’s power. Caught off guard and too depleted to respond quickly enough, Crowley arched through the air and landed square on his back on the now consecrated beach.

Crowley screamed as the holy water soaked up by the sand seeped through his shirt and wings and skull. The last thing he saw before his eyes rolled back was Aziraphale’s horrified face.

The scent of clean linen pulled Crowley from unconsciousness with merciful gentleness. There was no more briny smell of wet sand and saltsea. Nothing of ozone or blood. Just clean cotton and an imprint of Aziraphale’s cologne. Crowley breathed in deep, searching for traces of his angel like an experienced perfumer: saffron and sandalwood, juniper berries and sage, and sometimes, if it was a good night, the warmth of cocoa that Crowley could still taste sweet as cream on Aziraphale’s tongue.

“Sssh.” Aziraphale brushed Crowley’s hair out of his eyes. “Not so sudden. I’ve done all I could, but you’re likely to be sore for a few more days.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open, seized with desperation to confirm—and there he was.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, trembling with relief and reverence. He took Aziraphale’s hand and turned it palm-up to run his lips over the lifeline.

“My love,” Aziraphale whispered, sounding as helpless as Crowley felt. He squeezed Crowley’s hand with a strength that would’ve broken mortal bones; Crowley only shuddered and held Aziraphale tighter, grounding himself in his angel’s touch. He kissed each of Aziraphale’s knuckles twice before he could drag his eyes back up.

“Are you okay?”

Aziraphale laughed wetly. “He asks, after half his backside melted away.”

“Hey, I saw a lot of eyes out of commission,” Crowley reminded him.

“You shouldn’t have been close enough to see in the first place!” Aziraphale snapped. His face twisted and broke down, and he bowed over their joined hands like he—Aziraphale!—was seeking penance. “You foolish, wretched—I told you to stay back!”

“You also tell me to drive slower and be nice to my plants.” Crowley’s voice was gentle, but he couldn’t make himself sound apologetic. “You needed the opening, angel. He would’ve worn you down eventually.”

“Don’t you dare spout logic at me, Anthony Crowley. You almost died.”

Every time you took a blow. Every time he came an inch closer to destroying you. Do you think I could ever separate my survival from yours, Aziraphale? Now? Still?

Crowley bit his split tongue and propped himself up on an elbow. He was on his stomach, his wings still out and brushing against the floor. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to look at them yet, to count lost feathers and new scars. He cleared his throat to dislodge the misery choking him with every hitch of Aziraphale’s breath.

“…And Gabriel?”

Aziraphale sniffled. “Gone. Discorporated, I think, or possibly dead.” He raised his head enough to half-heartedly glare at Crowley. “I was a bit too distracted to watch his exit at the time.”

“I’m sorry.” Crowley traced the curve of Aziraphale’s skull, down his neck and across his jaw. When Aziraphale closed his eyes to the touch, Crowley kissed both of his eyelids. What else was left to say? “I’m sorry, angel, I’m so, so sorry—”

“Hush,” whispered Aziraphale. He held Crowley’s palm to his cheek, and ran his thumb in circles atop Crowley’s pulse point. He looked thinner than he’d been before Crowley left him for a morning flight—

(how many mornings ago now? how long had Aziraphale sat in a vigil he was never meant to keep?)

—and bruise-dark circles hung below his eyes. Crowley’s gaze sidestepped reality to see the mantle of magic draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Its light was weak and watery, stretched thin as tracing paper over the angel’s essence.

“You look exhausted,” Crowley murmured.

“Battle will do that. Fear will do that.” Aziraphale opened his swimming eyes (Crowley was starting to hate the sight of water). “Crowley, you were so empty when I reached you. I thought—I thought you were—”

The dam broke and Aziraphale bit his free hand, trying to muffle his sobs as tears rolled down his cheeks. He never let go of Crowley, who felt his fingers become slick when Aziraphale nuzzled his palm and smeared tears across the half-scaled flesh.

“C’mere. Aziraphale, hey.” Crowley tugged at Aziraphale’s grip until he could once again see the sky blue of Aziraphale’s eyes. “Come lie beside me.”

Swiping at his tears, Aziraphale shed his clothes and climbed in nude beside Crowley, who immediately shifted until he could rest his ear over Aziraphale’s heart.

“You can’t possibly think I’d let you face any of them alone,” he murmured. “No more than you could abandon me.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s chest, followed by his cheek and salt-tipped lips. “Angels don’t get the monopoly on protection, sweetheart.”

Aziraphale shakily laughed. “Well. That might become a moot point soon, anyway.”

Crowley’s heart plummeted in horror. “You haven’t—”

“No, not yet.” Aziraphale cast a bitter glance at the ceiling. “Gabriel’s always loved to pull rank, but even he doesn’t have the power to make those decisions.”

“They can’t.” Crowley reared backward, onto his knees. “You were defending yourself!”

Aziraphale gave him an odd look, but Crowley was too petrified at the thought of Aziraphale actually Falling for him to appreciate the absurdity of expecting Heaven to actually play fair.

“I was defending you,” Aziraphale corrected. “And there’s still the matter of Head Office finding out we defied them twice—”

“Aziraphale—”

“Vis a vis apocalypses and executions that weren’t, well, executed—”

“Stop sounding so calm about this!”

Crowley’s ears might’ve rung from the sound of his own scream, but he couldn’t hear anything over the drumbeat of his wild heart, panic twisting like a noose around its ventricles and chambers. Aziraphale only looked at him for a moment before shifting to sit upright. His wings were also out, and they wrapped around Crowley’s damaged back, mingling with his feathers.

“Crowley. I meant what I said when I challenged him.” Aziraphale took both of Crowley’s hands and brought them to his lips. “I’ve already disowned them in every way that counts, anyway.”

“You can’t Fall,” Crowley protested.

“I’m not afraid anymore, dearest.”

“I can’t be the reason you Fall, Aziraphale!” Crowley ripped his hands from Aziraphale’s in favor of dragging them across his scalp; his nails, still halfway stormblack and clawed, opened the way for blood to lose itself in his slaughterhouse hair.

“You, you don’t know what it’s like, you don’t know how agonizing it is, to have everything you were broken down and put back together in the wrong order. You don’t know how it feels to have that phantom pain follow you for the rest of eternity. You don’t know how it feels to be worth less than ash. Angel, angel…”

He reached for Aziraphale, aborted the movement, and curled in on himself, irrationally afraid that one more demonic touch would be enough to push Aziraphale over the edge. “I can’t condemn you to that. I could never so much as look you in the eye again.”

The clean scent was gone. All he could smell was burning flesh, burning feathers, burning hair and burning soul and Aziraphale, Aziraphale stinking of brimstone just as Crowley did, his wings turning black as disease and his halo shattering to form something twisted and ugly.

If You’d ever listen, listen to me now. Don’t put him through this. He’s the greatest thing You ever made.

Don’t drag him down to my level.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley shook his head. “I love you. I love you so much. Please.”

Aziraphale’s hands wrapped around Crowley, slowly tugging him back into his embrace; Crowley followed helplessly, but kept his shameful tears buried in the soft white curls across Aziraphale’s chest.

“Crowley. Crowley look at me.” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair. “Please, dearest.”

A golden eye blinked miserably up at him. Aziraphale smiled.

“You’re right. You can’t be the reason I Fall. Because if I do, it will be because I chose to do so. Because I choose this life, here, with you. Because I have never felt so happy, or so good, than I feel when I’m by your side.”

Aziraphale tilted Crowley’s chin up; his kiss stung with gentleness and the miracle of being known. Their wings cocooned around each other, and when Crowley rested his brow against Aziraphale’s his thoughts fell silent, blanketed by the heat of their embrace and the whisper of Aziraphale’s breath against his lips.

“Earlier you said you answered to only two voices in the universe,” Crowley murmured.

“I did.”

“The first is Hers.” Crowley didn’t bother to mask it as a question, but Aziraphale heard one anyway.

“Hers,” he said softly. “Not Heaven’s.”

“And the second?”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s nose, giggling when Crowley playfully scrunched his face. “Oh, my love. Does it even need saying?”

This time, when Aziraphale shifted to lay on his back once more, he didn’t need to pull to get Crowley to follow him down.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #gabriel good omens #my writing #my stuff #vicsfam #trellafam

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bewitchedfeathers · 4 years

Text

A Cold Performance (Part 1/2)

(Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley Modern Human AU)

(DO NOT REBLOG IF YOU ARE NOT A KINK BLOG. THANKS)

Thank you so much for sending me this request @crowlyxangleforlife! This fic ended up being way longer than I intended and it’s still not complete so here’s the first half for you! I hope you enjoy it!

Request was to use this prompt - “Opening night of their debut performance A comes down with a terrible cold. They’re trying to hide their reddening nose and cheeks with powder (that could set them off tons too), clear their throat, limber up, but the closer A gets to curtain the worse they’re starting to feel. B either has to do everything in their power to make sure the performance goes off without a hitch, or convince A to cancel the event and come home with B, as A looks just about ready to drop.” for Good Omens.

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Crowley had been preparing for this performance for weeks now and he’d been desperately trying to fight off a cold for the last 3 days. He was sitting in the backstage room trying to decide how to best handle his cold symptoms while his flushed feverish cheeks and red tender nose mocked him in the vanity mirror. On the counter and floor he was surrounded by every cold remedy he’d managed to grab at the corner store beforehand.

Aziraphale knocked quietly on Crowley’s dressing room door backstage, he was concerned because Crowley had been ill the past few days and despite that had refused to call off his performance. And he understood, he really did, this was an important performance to his lover but he so hated the idea that Crowley might be embarrassed or ashamed of his cold symptoms if they made themselves known on stage in front of his audience. “Crowley? I’m coming in,” He warned as he opened the door and stepped inside.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley said looking vaguely panicked.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m here. Let’s get you ready,” He said with a comforting smile, shoving down his own nerves and concerns.

His eyes went a little wide as he observed the scattered medicines all over the counter and in bags on the floor. “Have you taken any of these?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure what w-would….w-huh...HUH’ESSHoo...snf what would help mbost,” He responded cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his sneeze and stuffed up voice.

“Gesundheit, darling. Well a nasal spray will probably help the most with the tickle in your poor nose. And then a decongestant for post nasal drip,” He grabbed a tissue from the open box on the floor passing it to Crowley and then politely looking away, knowing that despite how much he just wanted to dote on his ill lover, Crowley would be too tense to appreciate it in the moment.

Crowley took the tissue with a grateful look towards his partner before turning to the side and blowing his nose productively. “Thanks, angel,” He said with a quiet sigh of relief at the feeling of having his nose cleared out, for a moment at least.

Aziraphale leaned in and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead and then began looking through the scattered cold medicines before finding what he was looking for. “Are you coughing much, dear?”

“No, throat’s a little sore but mostly it’s just my...hih...snf my nose,” He said with a little sigh of relief as he was able to hold off the sneeze.

“Alright well take this tablet it will help with congestion and then here’s a pain killer which will help with your throat and the fever - which don’t think I haven’t noticed that,” He chastised, but he passed over the meds with a bottle of water to soften his scolding.

He found a nasal spray to use and turned back to Crowley who was slightly slumped in his chair. “Blow your nose dear and then you’ll want to use the spray,” He said pushing the tissue box towards Crowley in offering.

Crowley obediently blew his nose and then took the nasal spray, two spritz up each nostril to do the trick. But almost immediately his nose tickled from the feeling. He rubbed at his pink irritated nose as his breath started to waver and his nostrils fluttered. He sniffled and rubbed, and managed to hold it off for a moment but he still felt terribly sneezy.

“Oh sweetheart, you really have such a cold in your poor nose. Try not to sneeze, alright, we want the medication to have time to take effect before you sneeze it all out,” He said with a little worried frown.

“Not sure I can c-ah-hah….” Aziraphale kneeled down and pressed his own finger up under Crowley’s nose firmly, helping his lover to hold back. Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered as they grew damp with tears as he desperately tried to hold back the sneeze brewing in his nose with Aziraphale’s help. But luckily it backed down again.

“Thagks, angel,” He said stuffily, trying not to sniffle so as not to set himself off again.

“You’re welcome darling. Let’s give all that a little time to take effect and then I can help you with your makeup if you like,” Aziraphale offered rubbing at Crowley’s shoulder, his eyes wandered over to a small couch against the wall. “How about you rest for a minute with me while we wait,” He suggested gently.

Crowley frowned but had to admit the idea of curling up with his love for a minute sounded like heaven. “Yeah, alrighd, angel,” He agreed tiredly. Aziraphale guided him over the couch with a firm hand to Crowley’s lower back and then settled pulling Crowley against his side as he wrapped an arm around his lover so he could relax.

“How’s that sweetheart?” He asked running his hand gently through Crowley’s hair.

“S’good,” Crowley mumbled, leaning heavily against his partner as he tried not to think about how tired and sore he felt from this wretched cold. He managed to rest and focus on his lover’s warm comforting presence for a little bit. Then he sniffled without thinking and immediately his nose gave a twitch, he groaned even as his breath started hitching. Aziraphale looked down at Crowley to see his face falling with the need to sneeze.

Aziraphale pressed his finger under Crowley’s nose but it seemed to be less effective this time, his nostrils fluttering damply against his knuckle. He tried to rub from side to side like he’d seen Crowley do before.

“Hih…..Huh….Hh-Hih?....I ca-hah-n’t heh...help it..have to...hah-have to…” His head drifted back as his nostrils flared out wide, showing how damp and irritated they were.

Aziraphale switched tack - pulling out his handkerchief and cupping Crowley’s nose in the folds. “It’s alright dear, just let it come. It’s been long enough you should be fine,” He reassured.

Crowley was too overcome to respond and just let go, sneezing wetly into the kerchief. “Hh-Heh...Heh’DJZCHUH….HEH’MPSHCH...AEH’SHOO…Hih….”

“Such a cold in your poor nose. Just sneeze out some of that tickle, dear. It’s alright,” He said, continuing to reassure Crowley who’s cheeks and ears were as pink as his nose with embarrassment. He gently rubbed at Crowley’s back with his freehand.

“Hh..AESSHUH….Hh-Huh-HUH’TSHOO!...ugh…” He groaned, sniffling for a moment. Aziraphale wiped at his nose and then folded the kerchief over to a relatively dry side so his cold-ridden companion could blow his nose again.

“Gesundheit, darling. Blow your nose for me, dear,” Aziraphale said firm but kind.

Crowley did as he was bid and blew his nose, pulling back when he was done to flop back against his lover’s side. “Thanks. Sorry I’m such a mess,” Crowley said meekly.

“No need to apologize sweetheart. You know that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I just wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard, darling,” He said and then followed up quickly when Crowley shot him a glare, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go on tonight. I know you’ve made your decision, dear.”

Crowley subsided as Aziraphale explained, it was an argument they’d had several times over the past couple days but Crowley was not going to miss out on this venue, even if this cold seemed determined to try to make him.

“Let’s start on your makeup, dear,” Aziraphale said regretfully, but if they started now then they’d have plenty of time to fix things if Crowley needed to clean up his running nose or his eyes watered from sneezing.

“Yeah, sounds good. Thanks again, angel. I know you didn’t want me to do this but it...it means a lot that you’re here to help,” He said looking down towards his black snakeskin shoes.

“I didn’t want you to make yourself more ill but I know you will be as excellent as you always are darling. And I’ll be glad to see it,” Aziraphale said with a little smile. He tilted Crowley’s chin up so he could meet his eyes. “I love you, my dear. And you know how much I enjoy doting on you,” He said teasingly as he tried to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, yeah. You fuss too much. Love you too, angel,” Crowley said with a crooked smile that made his eyes brighten.

Crowley settled back in the chair as Aziraphale pulled out various makeup products. Crowley was perfectly capable of doing his own makeup but Aziraphale was a deft hand at it as well and often did Crowley’s makeup before a show. A comforting ritual that let Aziraphale dote on Crowley in an understated way that was easier for the guitarist to allow.

As soon as Aziraphale started to use his usual powder foundation though he realized this was going to be an all new challenge. “Hh...angel...I..Hh’GSH-uh...Hih-Hh’mmpssh...ssorry,” He said after managing to pull away from the brush before the first sneeze burst from him half stifled against the back of his hand. He dabbed at his nose with a tissue as he sniffled.

“Oh dear. Your nose is quite sensitive isn’t it, this might be a touch trickier than usual,” Aziraphale said with a concerned look, “Do you think you can hold still long enough for me to finish with the powder, dear?”

“Erhm, yeah I think so,” He said with an uncertain sniffle. If he could just get control of his damned nose.

Aziraphale tried to leave his nose alone as much as possible but the even without the bristles of the brush tickling his nose the excess powder in the air was making his nose feel dreadfully tickley. “Hh….Heh...Hiiih?....” Finally Aziraphale powdered Crowley’s nose and the area around it as quickly as possible.

Crowley’s breath hitched desperately, nostrils flaring and fluttering and as soon as Aziraphale was done he turned to the side to sneeze harshly towards the floor. “hh-Hh-Hhh-AESHOO….Heh’SHUH...EPTSHoo..Essh..Etshuh-TSHT... Heh-hih-HEH-RRRUSSHOOO….” He panted heavily leaning back in his chair with a groan.

Aziraphale bit his tongue to not ask if he was sure he was alright to go on. “Gesundheit! Well that should be the worst of it, darling,” He reassured as he brought a tissue up to dab at Crowley’s nose carefully. “Are you alright, my dear?” He asked before he could suppress the need to fuss over his sick love.

Crowley gave a light cough, the sneezes having roughed up his sore throat a bit. “Yeah. ‘m alright, Zira,” He said.

“Oh! I have some tea and lozenges for your throat,” He said bustling over to his bag and pulling out a small thermos and a baggie of lozenges. He poured some tea into the thermos top and offered it to his sick lover. Crowley shot him a grateful look as he sipped at it.

“Best get on with it, angel,” Crowley said tiredly, trying to mentally psych himself up even though he felt dreadful.

“Of course darling. Turn your head towards me again. There we are,” He said gently as he got to work. Luckily the rest of the makeup application went by without incident and then they were nearing the start of the show.

“I should go out to get to my seat soon, my sweet. Do you need anything else?” Aziraphale said pressing a kiss to the side of Crowley’s hair so as not to mess up his makeup or the artfully mussed hair on the top of his head.

“Nah. I’m good. You’re a lifesaver, Aziraphale,” He said with a soft warm look in his eyes and continued sappily, “My angel.” He reached out and tangled their hands together giving Aziraphale’s a squeeze.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale said as his cheeks went pink, “I love you, my darling. Now um break a leg I think is how it goes.”

Crowley gave a low chuckle. “Yeah that’s the one. See you after, yeah?”

“Of course, darling.” With one last gentle squeeze of their hands Aziraphale left to join the audience in the large auditorium. Crowley was the opening act and then would be helping to close the performance with a couple pieces in a duet with one of the other artists performing this evening as well.

With his last few moments he fiddled with his hair foregoing hairspray as a bad idea and just gelling it in place. He grabbed his guitar, mentally donned his flash bastard persona and made his way out to the stage.

On stage Crowley had to rub his nose and drink water between each song but managed to make it through to the last song before his nose really started to fuss. He turned from the mic to sniffle trying to hold back his cold symptoms until he was off stage and just barely managed to take a bow and rush into the wings before he was stifling a fit of sneezes into his elbow. Some of the staff came up looking worried but he waved them off and rushed off to his dressing room for some much needed privacy.

Link to [ Part 2 ]

AN: Comments and reblogs are appreciated! (Also I do read the tags so feel free to leave your comments there) And feel free to send me requests/prompts!

#snez fic #snz fic #sneezing fic #snz fanfic #sneezing kink #go om #con crit welcome

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