#we open with Aziraphale forgiving thousands of pounds without a thought

[queerfables]

My two cents on Aziraphale's "I forgive you" is that he was straightforwardly lashing out. He knows how little Crowley wants to be forgiven. He knows because Crowley just told him. Crowley rejects forgiveness so absolutely that he rejects Aziraphale right along with it. It's the whole fight in a microcosm: Aziraphale standing there offering forgiveness and Crowley saying, I don't want it.

So maybe the words are Aziraphale showing he finally understands Crowley. He knows now that "I forgive you" is the very worst thing he could say to Crowley. That's why he says it. That's how he means it.

[zegredo]

S2E1 scene 2: Maggie's Rent

Description of the scene with dialogues and comments:

Aerial view of the city, present times, london. The camera pans over crowded streets and sidewalks, it's a bright day. You can see a line of cars and people next to the bookstore.

The bookstore is closed to customers, there is a note in the door that Aziraphale comes for. It stands under the light and reads

A: "Dear Mr. Fell, There is something about which I need to speak with you an a maters of some… ugrency?" Urgency

A: "yours very faithfully. Maggie (in the record shop next door)"

We were shown a close-up of the screen for a spelling error. The note is in an invoice print described as the small back room.

We see the interior of Maggie's shop in warm red and beige colors. Maggie stands behind the car-styled counter, looks at the folded phone, sobs dry. He closes the flip of the phone, puts it down, hears the sound of the doorbell ringing as the door opens.

Aziraphale enters the store, we see the overhead light on, the lights on the car/counter and a red light behind Maggie. There are no other customers in the store.

A: Hello, Maggie

Shot on Maggie, wearing a white collared blouse, pin-up girl headband, teal sweater, looking sadly to the side, smiling as Aziraphale greets her.

A: I got your note.

Aziraphale looks around the store, Rat Kaith album in the background :) Maggie stands up, joins her hands (she has gold rings on her hand, one with a hole in the color of the sweater and two gold less decorative ones on the little finger and on the middle finger)

M: I thought you, well, M: it's been such a rough couple of years, M: beterrn the lockdowns and the internet orders not comming and…

Maggie sighs, while Aziraphale walks around the store and we see a close-up of Maggie's face and her gold earrings. Are they wing shaped?

M: I can be out of here in two weeks. A: Out of here? A: Why? A: Don't you like it anymore?

Aziraphale asks and the title "the walking sham…" (and Rat Keith) is in the background

M: Oh, Mr. Fell, I love this shop! M: I've loved it since I was a baby, But… M: I know how behind I am on rent. A: Well that's entirely my fault for not collecting the rent A: There A: Now, I believe you said A: you were getting in some Shostakovich records for me.

Says Aziraphale and walks over to the counter.

M: I can't pay the rent M: I'm so sorry. M: I can be out of here next week. M: I just have to pack it all up.

Says Maggie, sobbing dryly and taking the record mentioned by Aziraphale in her hand.

A: Maggie, if you were out of here, A: where would I get my records?

An expression of fear appears on Angel's face that she is serious about being locked up.

A: Finding the 78s is much harder than the long players, A: and frankly I wouldn't know where to start M: I don't have the money A: Maggie

says Azirafel and starts a gesture with his hand at the level of the body and gives us a nervous laugh. Something he does when he comes up with a way out of a situation on a regular basis. We'll see this gesture a few more times this season.

A: what if I were to just A: take these Shostakovich records A: without paying for them? A: And we'll call it even

Says Aziraphale with his eyes wide open as he does when he is satisfied with his ideas.

M: And those you thousands of pounds in rent! M: Those records would cost you eight pounds.

Maggie says, trying not to laugh. We see a shot of her desk and can get a better view of the smiley emoji in the background on the wall.

A: Eight pounds and 75 pence. M: [laughs] You can't just forgive me eight months'rent A: Oh, I can. I'm very good at forgivness A: It's one of my favorite things A: Now, you have paid your rent, A: I have my music,

We see a close-up of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5 in D minor performed by The New York Symphony Orchestra op.47

A: and I know exactly what I'll be doing for the next 21 minutes

Aziraphale heads for the door, Maggie brings her hands to her mouth and laughs in relief.

Chekov's shotgun/Red herring/Occam's razor/Foreshadowing - or what clues we have and what this scene is for

Aziraphale doesn't want changes in his environment, he likes (classical) music and doesn't care about money. For several months, he does not ask for payment, which means that he does not go after people for money.

We learn that one of Aziraphale's favorite things is forgiving and that he is a landlord who rents space, thus theoretically earning money in a human way.

We meet Maggie, who has been "in the area" since she was a child, because she loves this store for so long (later we will find out that this place is inherited from the founder Grandma), that she has no customers, that she has no money and does not pay, and that she makes language mistakes. Her clothes, similarly to Azirafał's clothes, are stylized for the "older period" - Maggie's aesthetics brings to mind pin-up girls.

Questions:

Why did Maggie slip a note instead of just come and talk?

Why did she write it on the invoice? That is why it was decided to prepare an invoice printout?

Why does Maggie seem artificial (to me) in this scene. She's not a bad actress

Why this symphony?

why 21? The longplay is up to 30 minutes long, the symphony lasts almost an hour

What does Maggie live on if she doesn't make money? Outside the store, he has to pay for housing and food.

Have we seen this store before in shots of seasons 1 and 2?

Why does Maggie make a typo? Is it just red herring or a reference to demons? Or maybe Crowley's mirriing, who then also has a problem with the variety?

Why is it suddenly urgent to talk about payment after 8 months?

Hypotheses:

Simple answer: The door was locked. Second answer: She couldn't get in.

Money, retribution and difficulties with it are important to the story

This is a deliberate choice of the screenwriters

I'll just throw a few meta and music itself searches in here. in short: he composed during the repressions of the Soviet Union. He composed fearing for the lives of his loved ones, because his views were not in line with the Party's line

Is this a reference to the soul from the movie 21 grams?

Maggie isn't human, she doesn't need the money (or food), or the store is beyond her needs, she only has enough to survive

We later learn that Maggie's Grandma originally displayed merchandise at Aziraphale's Store, but we know she was no longer there in the 1940s.

It is just red herring. 8b. or a reference to demons 8c Or maybe Crowley's mirriing, who then also has a problem with the variety

Maybe it's just that the next payment is coming up, it's the ninth month. To remember:

Behind maggie is a calendar with the date 2021

Masterpost

The post will probably be edited and linked to subsequent posts. The post is written in my native language (not English) and automatically translated, but the dialogues are transcribed from Amazon's transcript.

[d20owlbear-deactivated]

Discorporation VI

From the Ineffable Bingo prompt S4, “I thought I lost you”

856

The ground trembled and Crowley’s stomach dropped into the Deepest Pit. He’d been feeling off for some time, a few days, but this entire forsaken city made him feel that way without fail. The tectonic plates shifted quickly here, so quickly he could practically feel it through his sandals. 

In a fit of panic he shucked off his shoes in the middle of the street, and nearly fell to his knees in terror. These sorts of things didn’t matter to him, Crowley was a creature of Hell and he was made of sterner stuff than roads and things that had come from the Earth he so easily burrowed through to get to the surface. But Aziraphale was here too, he’d never been antsy about the earth shifting beneath his feet so quickly he could feel it if he stood still long enough, and he was a creature of light and clouds and heaven and wide, open spaces.

He didn’t bother to pick his shoes up again or do anything to modify the memories of the humans who saw him half-manifest his wings to propel him through the streets. A broken bottle of wine lay in the streets where Crowley had dropped it, the red liquid seeping between the cobblestone cracks and vibrating where it settled like an eerie heartbeat.

He ran with his wings behind him, sprinting faster than anything unaided in the way he could ever hope to, taking corners at sharp turns and uncaring of anything that got in his way except as a hindrance that might slow him down. Not for the first time he blessed aloud about Aziraphale’s habit of settling in the tightest packed quarters amongst humans and that he enjoyed the thrum of energy humans had inherent in them.

He crossed one of the most populous, densely packed cities he’s seen since the fall of Gomorrah and couldn’t think past the blinding terror of knowing every face he saw, right now in this seemingly endless sprint to Aziraphale’s home in Corinth. None of them would be here tomorrow, not as they were, and he hoped and perhaps even prayed he’d never see them again if only for his own peace of mind.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted, his voice amplified with magics woven unconsciously into the air in his panic, “Aziraphale!”

Crowley flew up the stairs to Aziraphale’s second story apartment and knocked over a few piles of books and a jug of wine. It shattered on the stone floors and the deep red of it pulsed erratically with a thousand little vibrations. 

“Aziraphale, we have to go.” He shouted again, no less worried than before but quieter and stern.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale huffed and frowned, “Just what do you think you’re doing here, demon?” There was a bite to his words that surely came from mussing his books, but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to care, just about vibrating out of his skin or clawing it off in this ceaseless, unrelenting anxiety that drove him to pace and scratch at his body until he left great welts that sluggishly dripped blood.

“Crow– Crowley stop it!” Aziraphale shouted and gathered Crowley’s hands in his own to keep him from harming himself, and he couldn’t help but worry at how much of a skittish animal the demon resembled, trembling violently with no white to be seen in his eyes at all anymore. “And, and where are your shoes, Crowley?!”

“Don’t need ‘em,” Crowley gripped back at Aziraphale’s hands and his fingernails-turned-claws dug into the backs of perfect scholar’s hands as he slowly lost more and more of his grip on his human-like form. He pulled at Aziraphale and flapped his wings in order to pull with just a bit more strength and leverage than Aziraphale had easily available to him at the moment before a quake hit.

“Oh no.” Crowley whispered, his stomach broke through the bottom of the Deepest Pit and descended further into hereto untold depths of Hell. It was here, he was far too late, and he’d never felt it so keenly as now. It was the cathedral all over again, they’d discorporate here under piles of rubble.

All at once he came back to himself, Aziraphale had his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, gripping tightly at him and shaking him some to bring him back to the rest of the world. “-ley? Crowley!” Aziraphale said, voice modulated with stern worry when he saw Crowley’s shoulders bend like the lintel breaking and he went unnaturally still.

“Too late, angel.” Crowley muttered hoarsely, and sent Aziraphale a pleading look that begged for quite a lot of things, but mostly forgiveness. He didn’t want to be forgiven by anyone else, he was unforgivable, came with the job description really, but in the too-still seconds before the walls swayed he thought he might like to be forgiven for his sandals.

Then the walls fell, just like Jericho, except this time they were inside them. Air rushed past Crowley’s ears as they tumbled to the ground that churned and convulsed until great slabs of road and the stone under the city rose up and disturbed the city and its people

There was screaming, and crying, and Crowley had never felt so much like he was in Hell on Earth. He’d been torn away from Aziraphale as they fell. Debris and the stone and wood and plaster of the walls around them and the housing above them crushed them in, and Crowley’s body was sore beyond belief. Stones landed on him in ways that would kill a human, but the Earth could never truly harm a demon, not like this, not when there was pain and suffering to be had elsewhere. But it could disorient him.

His head pounded and his eyes couldn’t focus and he felt the vibrations of the Earth in his bones now as he lay coffined in its clutches for some long minutes. And then he remembered.

“Aziraphale!” He croaked loudly, voice cracking from the dust lining his useless human lungs. 

“Crowley?” He heard from only a few feet away, and he shifted broken, carved stones and the fractured skeleton of the home that lay on them until he could wriggle his sorry hide to Aziraphale’s location. 

Nearly crying from relief, Crowley carefully took Aziraphale’s hand and murmured “I thought I lost you,” as if it were a prayer.

Aziraphale turned his head to look over at Crowley and once more his stomach sank, though this time his heart joined it. Oh no, no. No no nononono. Crowley keened a miserable sound from the back of his throat that turned into nothing but air by the time it left his lips. 

"I'm afraid you're going to, my dear." Aziraphale chuckled wetly and reached up with a bloodied hand to wipe a tear off Crowley’s face. He only succeeded in leaving a red smear along his cheekbone. Aziraphale coughed and more blood spattered his lips, and Crowley pointedly could not look where a damned, bloody rock had crushed his angel from the lower half of the ribs and down, leaving his head and one of his arms free. 

Just enough to suffer, Crowley thought, and he was just an unfortunate enough of a demon to be morose about it. If he wasn’t already in shock, then he’d be soon. But Crowley knew quite well that shock didn’t always dull the pain the way it ought.

“Just for a bit.” Aziraphale assured him, as if he were the one deserving comfort.

“Angel,” Crowley wheezed, the air laden with dust that dried him from the inside out. “I’m so–” he cut himself off. Demons didn’t say sorry. Demons weren’t forgivable.

“I know, dear.” Aziraphale murmured, “No act of God, I should think, would be your fault.” He breathed in deeply and Crowley heard the air in his lungs whistle as they didn’t fill from the perforations. He made a choice that would haunt him. Just as all his other choices did. 

Gently cupping Aziraphale’s head, supporting the weight of it entirely, Crowley bent down as best he could to press an awkward kiss on Aziraphale’s brow, forcing him to close his eyes. With an unspoken regret, Crowley sharply twisted his hands with a loud crack and felt Aziraphale’s now-uninhabited body fall limp between his fingers.

He didn’t like how Aziraphale’s hair felt under his fingers covered in bloody, muddy dirt.

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - 2 Kings 1:6

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

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

A/N:  my keyboard sort of died halfway through the chapter, so I've been typing directly on the screen of my tablet. Haaaaate. If you notice any misspellings in this chapter, now you know why.

***

In the end, finding Gabriel had been a simple matter of looking for reports of sudden, unusual lighting. And as far as such phenomena go, ball lighting is among the rarest of them all; for it to be reported right above Soho Square the previous night, along with a curious hole in the ground… well, it was quite the red flag. A red flag that let out the most distinctive fishy smell. 

And if there was something Sandalphon was good at following, it was fishy smells. In this one specific case, he didn’t think he’d have to follow it very far. He knew exactly who he’d find only a couple of streets away, close enough even for a weakened Gabriel to stagger to.

“... You think he might have turned to Aziraphale?” Michael had asked, seemingly unconvinced. Uriel, on the other hand, had been quicker to agree with his theory.

“Assuming that is the spot where he fell, Aziraphale is the closest angel he could hope to find.”

“If he is indeed still an angel, given that Hellfire did not harm him.”

“He has God’s protection,” Uriel had muttered, her voice bitter. “We have to assume he is.”

“And Gabriel was hurt. We were not allowed to heal him before he was sent down. He might have thought he could do that,” Sandalphon had added, despite not really knowing whether or not Gabriel had been able to think at all. When they let him go after taking his wings from him, to be cast out, he was barely coherent - barely conscious, falling limply from their grip. 

“And why would he think Aziraphale of all angels would help him?” Michael had asked, only to gain herself a long look from Uriel. 

“Who else could he turn to? He has nothing and no one on Earth.”

He still has us up here, Sandalphon had thought, but it had remained unspoken. “He used to be friendly enough with this human tailor,” he’d said. “He made him good clothes. Gabriel always had a taste for human clothing.”

“... And when was that?”

“Well, that was in the middle of the Regency, so-- ah. Right. Humans and their life spans.”

In the end, he’d volunteered to go check himself; despite having no desire to see Aziraphale up close ever again, just in case he shot Hellfire towards him again somehow, he was the one with the best knowledge of London. 

And it hadn’t taken long for him to know his intuition had been correct: he’d been just across the street - it looked like someone had smashed their car into a pole - when the door had opened. And out they had walked, all three of them: the demon, Aziraphale... and Gabriel, somehow unsteady on his feet but unharmed.

He’d almost lost them several times in the few minutes that followed, because the driving of whoever was behind the wheel positively insane. The cab driver he’d flagged down - and who’d reacted to his request to follow that car with a frankly puzzling “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this all my life!” - could barely manage to follow, and would have probably been left in the dust if they hadn’t stopped only a few streets away. 

Gabriel had looked… just a little green in the face when he’d left the car, and had paused to speak to Aziraphale, who from his part didn't seem in the slightest bit antagonizing. It was a relief, really, considering that Gabriel would be powerless to defend himself should he decide to take revenge. Or the demon, certainly the demon would want to harm him; if he hadn't, Sandalphon could only assume Aziraphale had him on a tight leash. Even from across the street - entirely unaware of the fly sitting on the roof of the Bentley - he could smell sulphur and evil.

In the end, both Aziraphale and the demon had left, and Gabriel had gone inside the hotel. Sandalphon had decided to wait a short while before going in as well, in case those two came back for whatever reason. So he walked in a bar across the street - if he’d known humans only marginally better, he would have also known that ‘an angel walks in a bar’ would be an excellent start for a joke - and ordered a mug of the bitter beverage humans enjoy. 

“... Coffee?” a waiter asked, only slightly perplexed; soon enough, waitressing would destroy what was left of his will to live and he would no longer feel surprised at anything anymore. 

“Yes, that,” Sandalphon agreed - he would know, he reasoned, it was his job - and sat there, sipping the bitter liquid that was brought to him, before he pulled out the phone Michael had given him. A special sort of phone, with a reception and data plan that was, quite simply, not of that world. 

Michael answered in the middle of the very first ring. “Well…?”

“I found him.”

A long sigh of relief. “How is he?”

“Haven’t spoken to him yet, but he seems… reasonably well, all things considered. He did turn to Aziraphale. The demon was there, too.”

“And they didn’t harm him?”

“Not that I could see. They left him in a hotel. I’ll go in as soon as I have finished this…” Sandalphon paused. “Hey, uh… servant?” He wasn’t entirely certain what they were called nowadays, but that was the gist of it, he supposed. “What is this beverage again?”

As another small part of his soul withered and died, the waiter - a young student who was wondering if a history degree was truly worth nine thousand pounds a year, considering that those who study history are doomed to watch those who don’t repeat it anyway - forced himself to smile. “Coffee, sir.”

“Coffee. Not bad, perks you up. Maybe Gabriel would like some.”

“... Do ask him. But first and foremost, make sure he knows that we’re here to help him.”

“Of course,” Sandalphon said, and ended the call with the absolute, idiotic certainty that Gabriel would be overjoyed to see him. 

***

“Ugh.”

The book sailed through the air in an elegant arc to land somewhere in the vicinity of the wastebasket. Sitting on the bed, face contorted in disgust, Gabriel faintly wished he could will it to catch fire. What he’d just read about human bodily functions was… ugh. Ugh.

‘Disgust’ wasn’t something he had often felt towards humanity - usually there was a vague interest at times and polite disinterest most others - but now it certainly was his strongest feeling. His current condition suddenly seemed even more of a punishment; all the showers he could possibly take wouldn’t help make it better. He was never going to feel clean again.

Never going to feel whole again, either.

On his back, over his shoulder blades, the ragged scars where his wings had been ached. Not the physical sort of ache he’d had a quite literal crash course in over the past twenty-four hours, but something deeper, throbbing worse than any infection - worse than the hunger he was desperately trying to ignore, the contents of the small fridge in his room untouched on the desk. Gabriel’s voice rang through the empty room as a raspy whisper. “I’m sorry.” 

Could God hear him? Or rather, would God lend an ear to what he had to say - a disgraced angel cast out of Heaven, away from Their glory? He didn’t know. All he had was hope and he would cling to that. After all, however much he felt like it, he was not in Hell. So maybe… maybe there was hope for him yet. Gabriel looked up, and sank on his knees beside the bed.

“I meant well. I thought I was upholding the greater good. I never meant to take Your judgment upon myself. If I did-- I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please, let me come home. I won’t fail you again.”

There was the faintest echo of his own voice, and then… silence. Outside someone in the road shouted an insult that might have been meant for someone’s mother or their cat, it was hard to tell. A door somewhere in the hallway was opened and shut again. Nothing else happened.

Of course not. I need a Circle to speak with God, or at least to his Voice.

Only that of course, he had no idea how to make one, because he never needed to try contacting God - or rather, Metatron; no one had spoken directly to God in eons - all the way from Earth. Even if he could, would God take his call at all?

Why would They? Who do you think you are, that God would give you audience?

The Archangel Gabriel.

Not anymore.

I thought I was someone important.

You never were.

I thought…

Prideful fool.

Gabriel’s missing wings ached, his stomach cramped, and he went from kneeling to curling up on the floor, eyes shut. A memory tried to resurface, that of being held on the ground by two pairs of hands, of a weigh on him as his wings were torn away, and he shut his eyes tighter.

“At least tell me why,” he choked out. “Why me? Why only me?”

Silence. Something bubbled into the pit of despair in him, something hot and bitter that was not, as Sandalphon would have gleefully suggested, coffee. It was burning anger, against his predicament and, even more dangerously, against God.

Am I hearing you say God got it wrong? That you know better than the Almighty?

A crime born of pride.

Or you admit that God got it right, and you deserve this? You can't have it both ways, Gabe.

“They assisted me! Worked with me, made decisions with me-- we were equals in everything!” 

And they truly had been, him and Michael especially, utterly loyal since even before the first war. God’s warrior, and God’s messenger. How could it be that, for the same crime, one was condemned and the other carried out the sentence? How could it be fair, how could it be just?

I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God.

Not anymore. I am no one, and I am alone.

“I always did my best - I… I deserve an explanation!” Gabriel choked out, beyond caring how blasphemous the notion was, that God owed him anything. “A word! A sign! Anything!”

“Ah, give up. Either God has the worst reception, or they really don’t care to speak to any of us,” a voice rang out suddenly, and it caused Gabriel freeze - both because it was unexpected, and because it was a voice he knew; one that couldn’t possibly be further away from God’s.

Sitting on the bed like it was a throne, towering over his huddled form on the floor and surrounded by a cloud of sulphur, was the Prince of Hell.

***

Beelzebub quite enjoyed towering over others. They enjoyed lording over others as well, being a Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, which generally came easier. ‘Towering’ is honestly the hard part, when your usual form is fairly diminutive in size. Therefore, they quite appreciated Gabriel’s choice to lower himself on the floor; it was a promising start for their new work relationship. 

Of course it wasn’t them he had lowered himself for, but it mattered not. He would, in time. Sooner or later. Possibly sooner.

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, was not known for their patience.

“What-- you? What are you doing here?”

That was… no appropriate way to greet one’s new superior either; Beelzebub supposed they could excuse it, if anything because Gabriel had a lot to process at the moment and, last they had met, they had worked on opposite sides essentially as equals. It was a big change, something  angels did not do well with.

Yes, they could excuse him. They just chose not too. As Gabriel scrambled to sit up, Beelzebub gave him an unimpressed look.

“That is no way to greet your superior. I believe ‘your Lordship’ or ‘sir’ would serve better.”

That gained them a rather stupid look as Gabriel sat up, still on the ground. “But… you’re not.”

All right, so maybe he either wasn’t as clever as he made himself seem, or was still quite deep in denial. Beelzebub rolled their eyes and stood, coming to tower - ah how they loved that word - directly above Gabriel. “You are Fallen,” they said, in the slow voice you’d use for a very slow child. Or at least, so Beelzebub assumed. It wasn’t often they spoke with very slow children or any children at all, with the exception of the not-Antichrist. Although dealing with especially slow demons probably came close enough. “Therefore, you now belong in Hell. I am here to claim you. You will work under my supervision and--”

“What-- no!” Gabriel protested, and moved to stand; a look from Beelzebub was enough for him to reconsider, but he did glare up at them. "That voice in my head, telling me all the worst-- it was you!"

"Uh, no. You're just going crazy."

“Ah." Gabriel had the good grace to look embarrassed before speaking again. "I-- I am not Fallen.”

“No? You seem to have landed quite heavily.”

If the remark stung, Gabriel did not let it show. “On Earth, not in Hell,” he argued. “You have no claim on me!”

Beelzebub snorted. “You still fell, and I expect you to tell me the reason why. Am I supposed to care for the fine print?”

“You-- always cared about the fine print!” Gabriel protested, and truth be told, it was one thing they had in common… with one important distinction. 

“I care about the fine print when it benefits me.”

The notion seemed to downright offend him. “You can’t do that! And… and if I were meant for Hell, I would not have landed on Earth! It must mean something."

Ah, look at him, clinging to details because it was all he could hold onto in his desperate certainty he was still special, one of God’s golden archangels. With another roll of their eyes, Beelzebub held out a hand. To a casual observer, it might have looked like a nice gesture to help him up; Gabriel, knowing better, stared at that hand like one would stare at a claw about to tear the soul out of their body.  

“You bore me. Now, come. No reason to make it more difficult for yourself. We prepared a nice spot for you in Hell.” As nice as a spot in Hell got, anyway. Which wasn’t very nice, or else it wouldn’t be Hell, but Gabriel could probably guess.

Somehow, the former Archangel Gabriel - who at the moment looked like garbage, however much Beelzebub tended to appreciate garbage - found the audacity to sneer. “You cannot claim me and you know it. Mortals are beyond your grasp unless they offer up their soul, or get to the end of their life doomed to Hell.”

Taking a mental note to leave leave him to Dagon for a bit once they got back - they didn’t call her Master of Torments for nothing - Beelzebub sneered right back.

“That is not a long wait,” they pointed out. The reminder of how pathetically short human lives were knocked that smirk off his face, at least. “And I could make it even shorter with a snap of my fingers.”

“I--” fear twisted Gabriel’s features for a moment, then he forced himself to scowl. A valiant attempt, Beelzebub had to concede. “But you won’t.”

“Oh?”

“There is no telling whether my soul would be claimed by Heaven or Hell if you destroy this vessel now,” Gabriel retorted and, for Satan’s sake, of course he was right. Trying to claim his soul now against his will could very well backfire, giving him a ticket straight back to Heaven and leaving them empty-handed. Still…

“... You’re not certain yourself, are you?” Beelzebub tilted their head on one side. “Or else you would have already ended it.”

“I…” Gabriel scowled, cheeks reddening like the Prince of Hell had just unveiled a shameful secret, a shameful weakness. “E-either way, you won’t take the risk.”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “So, you won’t make this easy. Very well.” They sneered, leaning forward and causing that infuriating, pompous idiot to shrink, trying to scoot back on his hands and backside across the floor, away from them and towards the door. “I’ll claim your soul the old-fashioned way. I’ll be your shadow from now on. I’ll whisper temptations in your ear every day of your sad, little, short human lifespan - until it runs out and you’ll be ours.”

Truth be told, as a high-ranking demon mostly based in Hell, Beelzebub was severely out of practice when it came to tempting humans to their side… but that was a detail Gabriel needed not know. And besides, how hard could it be? They would brush up their skills in no time, the Lord of the Flies was sure of it.

“Y-you-- I--” Gabriel, who had paled a little more with each word Beelzebub uttered, had to swallow before his spoke. When he did, his voice was probably shakier than he would have liked. “It won’t work. I won’t let you tempt me. If this is God’s test for me--”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. God doesn’t care about you all that much, and besides I am not their delivery boy. I am here for Hell’s sake. And once I do claim you, you will regret making me wait.”

Gabriel swallowed, then - showing a good deal of idiocy - scowled again. He looked about as threatening as a panda, but at least there was an attempt. “Your plan will not work. I won’t allow you to tempt me. You can’t have me.”

“Yes, yes. Many have said the same. And they have failed.”

“I will not!” Gabriel snapped, and began to stand up. “I am the Archangel Gabriel, and there is no force of Hell or Earth that will ever get me on your side. Begone, foul bea--”

“Hello? Gabriel? Anybody in?”

After the voice rang out, something interesting happened: Gabriel shrieked, and ended all attempts at getting up as though every muscle in his body had turned to cooked asparagus. He fell back on his backside to stare at the door, which was now open, with wide eyes. 

Beelzebub followed his gaze to see a familiar enough face; Sandalphon may look unassuming in that form, but they knew he could be a force to be reckoned with. The few times they had met, Sandalphon had been firmly by Gabriel's side… but right now, the former archangel looked far from pleased to see him.  He looked terrified, actually, in a way Beelzebub had failed to make him, which was rather annoying and more than slightly insulting.

What happened upstairs, anyway? Why was he cast out?

"Gabriel! Oh, here you are - we were worried. It's, er, good to see you?"

Beelzebub blinked, gaze shifting between Gabriel - who was scrambling again to get up, but mostly scooting away on the floor - and Sandalphon, who seemed to be doing his best to come across as harmless, hands raised and a nervous smile on his face. Of course, all pretense of harmlesses was gone the second his eyes fell on Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies and so forth. 

“What-- you! What are you doing here!”

Ah, the arrogance of angels - acting like the Prince of Hell owed him an explanation for being on Earth, as though they had just showed up uninvited in Heaven itself after getting on the wrong elevator. Which had only happened once or twice in millennia, really; Beelzebub considered it a pretty good going.

“Did you buy the hotel? Got carried away with your game of Monopoly?” they asked drily. The invention of Monopoly - or rather, the twisting of its intended purpose and the violence it prompted at the tables of the most respectable households - was one of Hell’s proudest achievements. Not quite up there with the absolute, brilliant chaos a game of Uno could wreak, or the utter ruin of compulsive gambling, but close enough.

Sandalphon bared his teeth in a gesture that made him look fairly threatening, Beelzebub had to concede, although Dagon certainly pulled it off better. “If you so much lift a hand on him--” he began, only to trail off when Gabriel managed to find his knees and scrambled to hide… behind Beelzebub.

Well. Now that only added to their confusion, and the hands grasping at the lapel of their jacket added to their annoyance. Beelzebub turned to look down at Gabriel, who stared up at them - still on his knees, a nice change - with wide, terrified eyes. Which was… also a change, but not necessarily a nice one. Beelzebub would have enjoyed it a lot more if they had the slightest inkling as to what the Heaven was going on.

“I’m sorry,” they said, tilting their head on one side. “Do you want to lose those hands?”

“Beelzebub! Don’t you dare touch him!” Sandalphon barked. 

Oh, for Satan’s sake, had those two decided to share one single brain cell that day? 

“He is the one touching me!” Beelzebub snapped, and glared down. That gaze had made demons burst crying and, upon occasion, burst in flames. “What did I do or say that made you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

No flames, and no tears. While Gabriel looked paler, and the grip on the lapels of their jacket only tightened. “Don’t let him get me.” 

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, opened their mouth. Then, failing to think of anything at all he could retort to that, they closed it. Opened it again. Closed it again. 

What. In. The. World. Is. Going. On. 

Still near the door, Sandalphon sputtered. “Gabriel what-- I’m not going to-- that was God’s order, I couldn’t-- didn’t want to--”

Well well well. The more they talked, the more interesting the picture became. Confused, but still interesting. Something had happened, and the more Beelzebub knew, the more they could use to make their case and convince Gabriel to take his rightful place in Hell. “What did you do to him?”

“I-- it wasn’t me, Michael--” Sandaphon began, then trailed off when his brain caught up with his tongue. His lost expression turned into anger again. “I have nothing to explain to you, demon.”

Beelzebub sneered. “It is Prince of Hell to you,” they said. “So-- Michael. What did Michael do to him? What did God order you to do?”

“I owe no explanation--”

Beelzebub looked away from him, down at the… former archangel still holding on the lapels of their jacket. He was looking at Sandalphon, too, hiding behind them like a scared mortal child, but looked up when Beelzebub spoke. “What did they do to you?”

Gabriel swallowed, and his voice was barely audible when he spoke. “My wings.”

Gone, of course. Mortals have no wings. They took them.

Now that was… callous. Heaven wasn’t tender with those it deemed unworthy of being there anymore, but even them - even Satan - got to keep their wings. As a whole, making him mortal was callous; more powerless than any demon. And of course, of course God would get other angels, his friends, to do the dirty work for them; they rarely struck anyone personally nowadays. 

There was a degree of sadism in that way of handling things that, Beelzebub suspected, even Satan himself could not hope to match. Not that they would go saying as much aloud; Satan would most certainly take offense.

“Did you at least try to argue? Or did you just turn on him like vultures on a carcass?”

“Argue with God?” Sandalphon looked horrified at the mere thought. “Of course not, we-- you-- ah, you’d do that, wouldn’t you? You did, and look where it got you!”

“And so you threw him down rather than leap yourselves,” Beelzebub muttered, and scoffed. “Of course you would. No surprise there.” 

Not that Hell would precisely flock at the defense of a demon condemned by Satan himself, but that was entirely beside the point. The point there was making Heaven look bad - and it wasn't like they got many chances to do that. The guys upstairs had infuriatingly good PR and fan clubs across the world, some of which would put most demons to shame. An amazing percentage of them did, in fact, turn up in Hell once their life was done. They were rarely happy about their placement, but who ever was?

The angel’s features twisted in fury. “We had no choice, and you know it!”

A scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you did. You could have chosen to refuse and take the fall with him.”

“I...” Sandalphon hesitated, and looked down at Gabriel, once again looking very lost. Beelzebub felt the grip on the lapels of their jacket tightening, heard a sharp intake of breath. “Gabriel, we--”

“You dropped him the moment God told you to,” Beelzebub sneered. “God forsook him and so did you.”

“We didn’t want--”

“But you did. And now you think you can come uninvited and force your presence on him?”

“He’s not yours, Beelzebub!”

“Neither he’s yours. And you don’t want him back.”

“You know nothing! We do want--”

“Oh? And what are you going to do? Argue with God to allow him back? Please. You won’t do it and you know it.”

No answer; Sandalphon had enough sense, at least, not to deny that. He stilled, face pale, and looked back down at Gabriel - silent, helpless. Beelzebub held back a sneer, and glanced down as well. 

“Want me to get him to leave?”

For a few moments, there was no reply; Gabriel stayed on his knees, gaze low, saying nothing. Then, slowly, he let go of Beelzebub’s jacket, reached up to wipe his face - ah, yes, humans leaked that way - and stood. Sowly, still behind them, but he stood and drew in a long breath. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse,  but with a degree of coldness to it that hadn’t been there before. 

“... If you please,” he said.

Sandalphon’s eyes turned wide as saucers. "What? No, Gabriel, you can't-- listen to me--"

"I begged you to stop."

"Gabriel--"

"You didn't listen."

"It was God's will, you know we couldn't-"

All right, that was enough. A gesture of Beelzebub's hand, and a swarm of flies materialized right outside the open window. They barged in, buzzing furiously, and surrounded Sandalphon, who could only cry out and stumble back through the door. Another gesture, and the door slammed shut - a curtain of Hellfire covering it, to keep any angel from coming in again. 

"That ought to keep them out for a good while," they muttered. There was no answer; behind them there was only a long sigh, the creak of a mattress' springs.

They turned to see Gabriel sitting back on the bed, burrowing his face into shaky hands. He drew in a deep breath before uttering something that was… rare for the Prince of Hell to hear.

"... Thank you."

Well, look at that. Maybe, entirely by accident, they were on to something. The long-held belief that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar was quite frankly a load of crap - especially in the case of fruit flies who are attracted by vinegar like nothing else - but perhaps, when it came to catching a former archangel, a different approach may be needed.

And Beelzebub might have just found the right angle.

"... All right," they said calmly, and sat down at well, chin resting on their fist. "Tell me what happened."

***

"And they said to him, a man came up to us and told us to go back to the king and give him this message. ‘This is what the Lord says: Is there no God in Israel? Why are you sending men to Baal-zebub, the god of Ekron, to ask whether you will recover? Therefore, because you have done this, you will never leave the bed you are lying on; you will surely die.’" 2 Kings 1:6

***

[Back]

[Next]

[mygalfriday]

if you wanna be alone, come with me (good omens, crowley/aziraphale)

{ao3}

The moment they take their seats on the bus, Aziraphale reaches for his hand. His soft, manicured fingers clasp Crowley’s calloused ones in a grip that somehow manages to be both bold and uncertain at the same time. Crowley goes completely still, staring as Aziraphale rests their joined hands on his knee. He doesn’t technically need to breathe but after six thousand years, his body has grown quite used to it. Right now, he can’t even remember how.

They’ve touched before, of course. Fleeting brushes of hands as they walked beside one another or passed a bottle of wine between them. Shoulders touching in a dark theatre as Crowley leaned in to hiss stinging commentary on every adaption of Hamlet that Aziraphale had ever dragged him to. Drunkenly slinging an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders as they stumbled down a street together. Once, he’d fallen asleep sprawled on the sofa in the bookshop and woken up to soft fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead oh so carefully - like a secret he wasn’t meant to be awake to hear.

But never anything like this. This deliberate, meant-to-be-seen touch. It feels like a declaration, like a line crossed with no intention of turning back. They’re only holding hands on a nearly empty bus in the middle of the night. It’s damn near innocent but it feels to Crowley like one of those moments in those ridiculous regency novels Aziraphale is so fond of where men come undone at a mere flash of their beloved’s ankle. Scandalous. Forbidden. Hardly a reaction worthy of the inventor of Sin itself. Aziraphale has been hell - heaven - something on his respectability as a minion of Satan.

Beside him, Aziraphale sits tense and unmoving. He refuses to meet Crowley’s bewildered stare, gazing pointedly ahead with only a telltale flush coloring his cheeks to give him away. With an ache in his chest, Crowley realizes he’s waiting for an answer. Doesn’t the blessed idiot know the answer has been yes since the Garden?

Tentatively, Crowley strokes his thumb over the angel’s knuckles. Aziraphale nearly melts into the seat at his quiet acceptance, eyes fluttering as all the tension leaves his frame at once. So clever, Crowley thinks fondly. But so stupid. Aziraphale’s shoulder brushes his as he sinks into his seat with something like relief. A tiny, contented smile curls his mouth and Crowley looks away, glaring resolutely out the window before he can give in to the wild urge to drape himself over Aziraphale’s lap.

That, he imagines, is probably what Aziraphale had meant when he once said too fast.

They sit in silence while the bus drives them all the way to London and Aziraphale never once lets go of his hand. Once the bus pulls up outside of Crowley’s building, he pauses on his way out to profusely thank their poor confused driver until Crowley rolls his eyes and nudges him impatiently forward. He waits until Aziraphale turns away before he digs a generous tip from his back pocket and hands it over to the driver.

Stepping out onto the pavement, Aziraphale glances at him with that infuriatingly soft expression like he knows what Crowley had done. Over the rim of his glasses, Crowley raises an eyebrow and silently dares him to mention it. Instead, Aziraphale glances away. “Shall we go up?”

With a nod, Crowley is about to lead the way when something in Aziraphale’s voice registers - something shy and hopeful, like a human asking a date to come inside for coffee after a lovely evening. The suggestion implicit in the question makes his throat close up. He sways for a moment on the pavement, Aziraphale’s hand still in his and bright blue eyes watching him knowingly. “You-” He stops and clears his throat, trying to speak and be heard over the furious pounding in his chest. “You sure?”

Aziraphale hums, a serene smile on his face as he steps close enough to touch the toes of his Oxfords to the toes of Crowley’s snakeskin boots. He’s near enough to breathe in and Crowley does so greedily - pages brittle with age, dust motes in sunlight, perfectly steeped English Breakfast, and the damp grass of Eden in the morning. It’s been a long time since Crowley thought of the scent of Aziraphale as anything other than simply home. He allows himself a moment to let his eyes fall closed behind his dark glasses, struggling against the way his knees want to buckle beneath him.

Nose brushing Crowley’s jaw tenderly - Christ, Satan, somebody help him - Aziraphale murmurs, “I’m sure, darling.”

His breath catches, forming in his throat like a long-held sob. “Angel-”

“The world almost ended today,” Aziraphale whispers, and there’s such wonder in his voice. Like he can’t quite believe they’re still here.

Crowley can’t answer, too immersed in the sudden searing memory of walking into a burning bookshop and believing his best friend had been consumed by hellfire. Lost to him forever. The quiet, despairing certainty that eternity without a huffy, old-fashioned, ridiculous angel beside him was an eternity he wanted no part of. His world had indeed almost ended today, long before the showdown at Tadfield Airbase.

Aziraphale sighs and the warm gust of air caresses Crowley’s stubbled jaw. He fights back a shudder. “I’m quite through pretending, aren’t you?”

Crowley wants to laugh. “Dunno.” He forces his eyes open and the sight of Aziraphale so close and his gaze so open and earnest forces an answer from him more honest than he’d like. “Been pretending for so long - not sure what I’d be without it.”

“No, me either.” Aziraphale pauses, brow furrowed. “But I think perhaps…happy.”

Something inside Crowley squirms at that, snarling in wounded rebellion the way it always does when Aziraphale so much as suggests he might be anything less than demonic. Unforgivable, that’s what I am. He flicks his gaze away, somewhere over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Not sure I deserve that.”

Aziraphale’s eyes blaze with a sudden, startling intensity. I forgive you. “None of that now, my dear.” He fidgets, straightening his bowtie. “It’s like you said, after all.”

He swallows and Crowley watches warily as he steels himself and lifts a trembling hand to his cheek. The warmth of him is staggering. A sunrise wrapped up in the form of a mild-mannered book collector. Crowley can feel the essence of him seeping beneath his skin and instead of recoiling like a proper demon should, he turns instantly into the touch like a starved cat, nuzzling Aziraphale’s palm. Hating himself for being so bleeding desperate for any scrap of affection but unwilling to pull away after six thousand years of being denied.

“We’re on our own side now.”

“Yes.” Crowley wraps his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist, pressing a deliberate kiss to the center of his palm.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

For all his eagerness to bestow Crowley with affectionate little touches, he seems entirely unprepared for any sort of reciprocation. That could be fun. Crowley relishes the flush in his cheeks, the shudder he can’t quite hide. He’s beautiful, standing there beneath a street lamp that makes his white blonde hair glow like a fucking halo and the pure adoration shining in his eyes just for Crowley. And Crowley wants. Wants with a sudden burning need he hasn’t felt since he sat in the Bentley clutching a thermos full of holy water and watched Aziraphale walk away.

He isn’t walking away now. Slowly, Crowley reaches up and pulls his sunglasses away from his face, tucking them into his jacket. Aziraphale stares at him like he just undressed right in front of him, his eyes glassy and transfixed - worshipful. The blasphemy of it makes Crowley bite back a groan. “Yes,” he says again, softer now as he ducks his head.

Aziraphale makes a quiet, whimpering noise the moment their lips meet. His eyes flutter closed and his hands fist in Crowley’s jacket like all the forces of heaven and hell might descend any moment to take this away from him and he doesn’t plan to lose it without a fight. Crowley stifles a smile, cradling his jaw and flicking his tongue teasingly against soft, plump lips until they part in a pleased gasp. Aziraphale tastes like candy floss, like lazy summer afternoons, like falling into a warm bed happy and just a little bit drunk.

He wonders briefly what he must taste like to the angel - if sulphur and blood bloom in a rotting bouquet in his mouth - but then Aziraphale makes another soft, delighted noise against his lips and Crowley stops expecting him to pull away in revulsion. His worries dissolve like the angel had splashed them in holy water and there’s nothing left to do but sink into Aziraphale’s broad chest and try to trace six thousand years worth of longing into the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

He can’t be sure how long they stand there on the pavement, wrapped around one another under a streetlight and snogging each other silly but it feels at once like an eternity and no time at all. Like too much and not nearly enough when he finally unseals his mouth from Aziraphale’s with a shuddering gasp. Still clinging to him, Aziraphale blinks and sways in place, looking dazed. His lips are bruised a brilliant red and his eyes shine as he wavers forward on unsteady legs, chasing after Crowley’s mouth with a little pout.

Aziraphale licks his lips, clearly rattled. “Well,” he breathes, clearing his throat. “That was - what do the humans call it?” He brightens. “Goals.”

Crowley smirks, brushing his thumb fondly over the angel’s swollen lips. He should have known Aziraphale would like kissing, the little hedonist. His little hedonist now. Perhaps always had been. His heart twists - utterly soppy and downright embarrassing, that is. He’ll get around to asking Aziraphale just when it all began for him but right now there’s a brand new beginning of a different sort that Crowley is far more interested in pursuing.

“More where that came from, angel,” he promises, with one last kiss to the unfairly charming curve of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Come on. Let me tempt you to a bottle of ’45 Lafleur.”

They go hand-in-hand, just as - Crowley suspects, hopes - they always will.

[kanna-ophelia]

Chapters: 1/1. 1700 words. Rating: General 

Ineffable Husbands Week Prompt: Rain / Storm / Downpour

Additional Tags: Love Confessions, First Kiss, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Kissing, Sappy, Post-Canon, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, No one can sulk like a demon, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019

On AO3 

On Wattpad

Rain

The problem with living in London was that even in Spring it rained too bloody much. And the kind of human Crowley tried to be was not the kind who carried a sodding umbrella around just in case, thank you very much.

By the time he thought of magically producing one, that is, two seconds after the skies opened, he was already drenched to the skin, and surrounded by humans who might see. He sighed, looking for a place to duck away and produce a quick black brolly, when the rain suddenly stopped falling on him.

For a moment he wondered if he had accidentally arranged for the rain not to fall on him, which tended to be a bit of a giveaway, and then he felt a soft, radiant presence beside him.

“Your umbrella,” Crowley said coldly, “has ducks on it. With tartan bow ties. Do you have any respect for my dignity?” He reached up to share a grip on the umbrella handle anyway. His hand brushed skin that somehow send a warming glow right down his cold arm.

“None whatsoever. And they’re charming."

Crowley snapped his fingers and was dry, but not warm, except where his hand was against Aziraphale’s own. He shivered.

“Cold blooded serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly. The angel exchanged hands on the umbrella handle, holding it from his right, outside hand. Crowley wondered why, and then he felt a solid, heavy arm around his back, drawing him in close by Aziraphale’s side. “Here. Body heat should help."

Crowley could feel his mind break a bit. Heat. Body heat. Yes, it was warm. And also soft. And… cuddly. What was the angel cuddling him? He never cuddled him. Could he embrace back? He’d have to exchange his own hands first. Embarrassing. But. Close. Arm around him. Why? So nice. But, why?

He could hear Aziraphale chuckling softly in his ear, and decided to pull himself together. Right. Let go of umbrella. Put arm around waist, very casually. Cool. Right. No big deal.

Even through the overcoat, Aziraphale felt warm and solid and comforting, and Crowley forgot to do with his feet and tripped. His arm tightened around Aziraphale’s waist, and the arm around his back steadied him.

“Thankss, angel.” Now he was hissing. Just perfect. Cuddling under a white umbrella with cutesy ducks on it, tripping over himself, clinging to an angel, thanking him, and hissing. It was a good thing he had broken with Hell, because he couldn’t face the ridicule.

“You are very welcome, my dear."

A plump young woman with a rainbow undercut and a leather jacket gave them a quick smile as she passed, the kind of smile that Crowley had seen young queer folk give them before, that’s such a sweet old couple, look at them, hope I find someone like that one day. It always gave him a quick stab of pleasure, that they were acknowledged in some way, even if it was just a fantasy and Aziraphale was always oblivious to it himself.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Aziraphale was looking after the girl, thoughtfully.

“Thought about what?"

“What the humans assume.” Crowley stared. Aziraphale was still not looking at him, but the lips of his ears were pink.

He had to be sure. “What,” Crowley asked very carefully, “do they think?"

“That we’re lovers,” Aziraphale clarified and then, in case even that wasn’t clear enough, “that we’re romantically and sexually involved."

Crowley’s blood was pounding in his ears. “Have I ever thought about it?"

“Well, it’s a human pleasure, and one I’ve never experienced, although I’m sure you have. There doesn’t seem to be any reason not to try now, that’s all. Have you ever thought about it? I mean,” and no just his ears were pink now, “with me."

“Have… I… ever… thought… about it?” Crowley was having difficulty keeping his tongue in a human enough shape to talk. “In the last six thousand years, you mean? You… you… could you be any more bloody insulting?"

He pushed away and stormed off into the crowd, not bothering to look back. Maybe Aziraphale was standing looking forlorn and alone and confused and reflecting on what a heartless prat he was.

He hoped so.

Storm

He spent the next few days causing chaos as if he’d never been chucked off the payroll. He was a demon, after all, the original Serpent, and eventually Hell were going to realise what a precious resource they had and crawl back to him begging for forgiveness, and then he would—he didn’t know. Probably reject them. That wasn’t the point.

Storms, burst drains, network outages, public transport strikes, the latest episodes of reality tv shows being mysteriously wiped just as they were about to go to air, the entire cast of the Archers coming down with laryngitis, the entire South Kensington museum area developing the smell of sulphur and brimstone, which was conveniently similar to rotten eggs. He hadn’t worked so hard in decades. Centuries.

Crowley was prepared to ignore pleading or apologetic calls to his answering machine and voice mail, but there weren’t any. However, brides and grooms found that storms magically cleared above them on their wedding days, the city bankers had sudden changes of heart and made major donations to the poor while raising their employees' salaries, and despite the constantly rain and lightning, the daffodils and tulips had never bloomed so beautifully or resiliently in living memory.

Right. If that was the way it was to be, then, this was war. He… he was going to do something about those bloody ducks. He wasn’t sure what. Turn them pink and give them fangs, probably.

Downpour

He climbed in the Bentley, his precious Bentley, the only thing in the world that truly loved him and never let him down.

He screeched down to St James Park, pulled over, and pulled the break on just as he noticed the angel sitting quietly on the passenger seat.

“Isn’t that a frivolous use of a miracle?” he snarled. “And not very angelic, either, breaking into a car."

“No one is counting now, I think.” Aziraphale fidgeted, his beautiful fingers twisting around each other. “I didn’t trust you to answer your phones."

“I wouldn’t."

“Precisely."

Aziraphale glanced at him quickly, took in the frown, and dropped his gaze back to his twisting hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you."

“You did a bloody good job, anyway."

Aziraphale sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. Can we just forget it?” There were miserable tears on the edge of those golden lashes, and Crowley steeled his heart against them. “I can just find someone else, if I really want—"

“Who?"

Aziraphale blinked. “What do you mean?"

“Who do you have in mind, angel?"

“Well, no one in particular. I was just—"

“Six thousand years. Six thousand years, I’ve been in love with you, and too terrified to show you any signs of infernal lust in case I chased you away. I can just find someone else.” Crowley bashed his head against the steering wheel. “No one in particular. Oh, good, glad you had a convenient demon around for an easy first option, better than risking corrupting a human. Have I ever thought about it? Oh, angel, I hate you."

There was a long silence, and then suddenly Aziraphale laughed. It was his sweetest, lightest chuckle, and Crowley sat up and glared at him.

“So that’s it. I could feel you cared, but—in love? Really?"

“Don’t laugh at me. Yes, in love. Romantically and sexually, as you so clinically put it."

“I’m sorry. I really am."

“I know. It’s not your fault.” The anger suddenly drained out of him, and he just felt tired and hurting. “And I don’t hate you."

“Good. Because I love you."

“I know. I shouldn’t take it out on you. You can’t help being an angel. You just took me by surprise, that’s all."

“Crowley, my dearest. Listen. I’m in love with you."

He whipped his head around, snake-like, looking for a mistake, for the following “I am in love with all of God’s creations, even you, and you are my dearest friend,” but Aziraphale was blushing and trying very hard to look straight at him without looking away and how much courage did that take, for an angel that always glanced away from temptation, and that expression in his eyes, he had seen it before and it was for him and probably he should move or say something but wait, in love, he was in love and Crowley had just confessed too, hadn’t he, and Aziraphale had said...

Aziraphale sighed again, as if waiting for the noise in Crowley’s head to quieten down a bit was just too much for him, picked up one of his hands, and kissed it. Slowly, lingeringly. The back of his hand, each knuckle, one by one, fingertips, turning it over to kiss his palm and his wrist.

Crowley’s voice came back, hoarse and hissy, but there. “Romantically and ssexually."

“Yes, my dear. Or else I hardly would have proposed—"

Crowley grabbed his head and mashed their mouths together. It was awkward at first, all lips and teeth, but they pulled back a bit and lips parted more gently and tongues touched and it didn’t matter if it was awkward at all, it was everything, the mouth against his and the soft wide chest pressed against his narrow one and the arms around him.

“I love you."

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale kissed him again.

“You love me."

“Yes, dear."

It was a good thing the Bentley didn’t have seatbelts or bucket seats, or the angel certainly would have had a seatbelt on and it would be hard to clamber half onto Aziraphale’s lap to kiss him again from a more comfortable angle.

“Really, beloved, we’re in public.” Beloved.

“The windows are all fogged up from the heater.” He trailed little kisses down a silky lovely neck, and Aziraphale made a noise.

“But the humans..."

The skies opened to a sudden downpour of rain. “Have better things to do than peer into parked cars like perverts. Oh, Aziraphale."

The angel’s hands were so warm, so soft and now cradling the side of his face. “Let’s go home."

“Which home?"

“Well.” Aziraphale kissed his nose. “You’re the one with the bed, dear boy."

“Right,” Crowley said happily, and Aziraphale’s hand was on his thigh, warm and possessive, all the way back to the flat. **** Comments, kudos and other support gratefully received. <3 Still working on my WIPS, but a little more slowly due to Ineffable Husbands Week! @IneffableHusbandsWeek