#well at least aziraphale was the one to fumble things in the end

[time-woods]

would you believe me if i said this was based off of a minecraft interaction

[beebopboom]

If Gabriel can leave Heaven and be with Beelzebub, why can’t Aziraphale do the same with Crowley?

That’s a general question right? Something along those lines? How Gabriel did the “good” thing and how Aziraphale did the “bad” one, yeah?

Well I have a few thoughts on this so let’s go through it real quick on why Gabriel could and why it shouldn’t immediately be equated as the “good” choice - especially in comparison with Aziraphale’s

Also none of this is a slight against Gabriel/Beelzebub - it’s just a different relationship, different circumstances.

and this is just my interpretation obviously so yeah - do with it what you will

ok actual rant time go-

Gabriel and Beelzebub meeting how they did would not have happened without Armageddon being adverted.

They would have been on opposite sides of the battlefield but instead they ended up actually talking and in the process finding someone they could relate to. Their spark had been ignited and they continued to flame it.

To put it simply-

Gabriel and Beelzebub’s relationship is that of one between an Angel and a Demon. Aziraphale and Crowley’s is a relationship between two beings that happen to be an Angel and a Demon.

And that is a very big difference

Gabriel and Beelzebub are each other’s Heaven and Hell - they said so themselves. They may not be choosing sides but those two are the only ones they see, Heaven vs. Hell.

Even at the very end of every thing they are still an Angel and Demon - and in the case of Gabriel at least still holds those same opinions of the other side with the exception of Beelzebub of course

They don’t really see the third side that Aziraphale and Crowley have placed themselves on - they don’t have that connection to humanity not really.

For most of their existence pretty much every interaction with humans has been strictly professional and by the book. Sure Gabriel likes the clothes and his statue - and they have their song but that’s it.

They don’t have that history - that need to do the right thing by humanity not just themselves. As long as they got to be together they could care less about the rest of it.

Earth just happened to be the place they met up as it was the easiest. Not moving forward with Armageddon was not in the interests of keeping humanity around - it was in the interests of this being the place where they meet up and hey it has some vaguely interesting things about it - nothing has to change for them if they keep it around

Also they are both coming from very high positions of power on their respective sides - positions that are hard to touch. They are the ones making decisions and ordering people about. They were the ones to play judge and executioner. 

No one in that bookshop at that moment was really in the position to stop them from leaving. The one being that really had that power, The Metatron, came later and really just benefited from all this.

and The Fear that is ever present throughout Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship is barely there for Gabriel and Beelzebub really.

Heaven and Hell’s relationship particularly between the higher ups is so fascinating. The “backchannels” are practically an open secret and getting the other side to do their bidding is a running trend.

What did Gabriel and Beelzebub have to fear? Any meet up they were caught at could very easily be explained away. And honestly both sides have been fumbling trying to come up with plans - they weren’t paying attention.

At no point in his trial does Gabriel look nervous - he is very nonchalant about the whole thing because it’s whatever, they had a plan in place for this. He is no longer obligated to hold his position of power and oh? they aren’t going to send him to hell? welp he’s still leaving anyway.

Him leaving was just not acknowledging the problem, the system. He didn’t benefit from it anymore as he found something better, Beelzebub. So what was the point of staying and being demoted when he could just leave?

And the biggest and most important thing about all of this is-

They weren’t the first

no no no that goes to Aziraphale and Crowley.

Making choices and picking sides - things they were not made to do

6000 years of hiding their friendship - thousands of years spent worrying about being watched, about the other being hurt - thousands of years of living among humanity somewhat doing their jobs, mainly just enjoying being there and interfering where they could.

They didn’t get the privilege of knowing the loopholes between the two establishments so they made their own

Coming up with guidelines and routines so they weren’t discovered - that were then shattered after they helped advert Armageddon and were discovered.

and when they survived execution no one knew what they were - they had gone native

Completely intertwined with history and the fate of humanity - Earth was their home

They became each other’s World

they protected each other from Death

but all those routines and structures going away is jarring - difficult to work through

they are each their own character - with their own way of processing and doing things - thrust into a space that they may have wanted but never truly thought they would get. This is all a lot

All the things that Aziraphale has had to deal with are things that have never even crossed Gabriel’s mind - the guilt, the doubt, the uncertainty

4 years is not a lot of time to work through that really - not to them (not to anyone really)

4 years where they both knew it wasn’t over for them, for humanity - that eventually there was going to be another Big Event.

Fear that has never went away for either of them.

this is not a case of “oh Aziraphale and Crowley had over six thousand years to work on their relationship and failed, yet Gabriel and Beelzebub were able to work it out in four”

this is “they both had four years - Aziraphale and Crowley just had an added six thousand years of fear and repression to dig through”

Aziraphale went back to Heaven because everything is at a higher stake for him than it has been or will ever be for Gabriel - Gabriel gets the trial and Aziraphale gets the execution

Because the thing about Aziraphale is he cares - he cares so much about the future of humanity and his own future - which is not a bad thing

If there is two things to never doubt about Aziraphale it is his love for humanity and Crowley

But there was no choice in The Metatron’s “offer”however it was an opportunity

and he has just been “offered” the same position he just seen the previous holder get to go off together with his demon partner and no punishment.

Aziraphale knows what “big plans” means for Heaven, even if he didn’t know exactly what it was - he’s been on Earth watching them play out for 6000 years.

His goal up there is not whatever these big plans are the Metatron was talking about - he is going up there to change it (and is that such a bad thing? I mean we saw how he was with Muriel)

He is making the best out of getting backed into a corner - unfortunately it resulted in both of them him getting hurt in the process

but if there is one thing to take away from their last look is that although they may be hurt there, there is understanding and trust - and love between them

Going off was what Gabriel wanted and Going back was never Aziraphale’s choice to make.

so can they really be compared as the right and wrong when the circumstances around the situations were vastly different?

————————————————————————

ok I ran out of steam towards the end there and it might be a little incoherent but have a fun little headcanon to make up for it

you cannot convince me otherwise that Gabriel and Beelzebub don’t bitch about Aziraphale and Crowley - at the very least one of their meeting was just dedicated to bitching about the two of them

[hkblack]

Of Boxes, Boas, and Bastards - A Good Omen Fic

Last Sunday I sat down to write a short Human AU meet-cute. 14k words and about 12 hours later I had this. It was lovingly beta-read by the amazing @ambrasue and honestly, may be my favorite thing I've ever written (shh, don't tell my other works). It is pure ridiculousness.

Rated: M, No Archive Warnings Apply

Summary: When Crowley's friend, Anathema, sent an SOS text to help her classmate stealth move out of the place he shares with his seriously shitty (soon to be ex-)boyfriend, he didn't expect to catch feels for an angel. But then, he's always moved too fast. Good thing the angel is interested in keeping pace.

Or in other words,

A meet cute in which Crowley's a disaster, Aziraphale's a bastard, and Anathema's regretting introducing the two of them to one another.

Read on AO3

Snippet under the cut!

“It is so ridiculous. I’m not even—I mean—I enjoy sex, I do,” he said as Crowley stared after him.

It occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale was starting to block his clothing out on the hangers that they were hanging, pushing things together to pack them up easier. He forced himself to unfreeze and fumbled with pulling out a trash bag.

“It’s just, you know, it’s not the most important thing in a relationship for me. I need an emotional connection to get it up at all!”

“Innit that demisexuality?” Crowley said, trying to focus on something other than what was being gotten up , before biting the inside of his cheek. The man needed help packing and moving on from his ex, not a lecture on sexuality labels. But Crowley was struggling to get the stupid plastic trash bag to stop clinging to itself and— fucking open damnit he thought scowling at the bag.

“Oh probably, I’ve never really taken the time for more specific labels,” Aziraphale said, from inside the closet, “I prefer the umbrella of queer—though Gabriel has always turned his nose up at that.”

“What, is he too good for the word?” Crowley snorted, stepping into the closet with Aziraphale, the bag in hand.

“He seems to think so,” Aziraphale said with the primmest sneer Crowley had ever seen in his life. “He said that queer is too muddy, too many different people use it to cover too many preferences. He insists on both of us using the word gay.”

Aziraphale pressed a group of hangers together and lifted the clothing off the rack so that Crowley could get the bunched-up bag over them. Crowley groped for where the hangers were and quickly punched them through the thin plastic so that Aziraphale could hang the stack back on the rack.

“Well, he can keep using whatever makes him comfortable,” Crowley said. “Doesn’t give him the right to force his labels on you.”

“Right?” Aziraphale exclaimed, turning to face him. “I mean truly, who does that?”

Crowley smoothed the plastic bag down over the clothes and bunched the end up making a quick knot.

“See?” he said, straightening up and gesturing to the bag. Aziraphale looked over the bag and beamed.

“Oh! That really is clever.”

“Ah, you know, it’s nothing,” Crowley mumbled, stumbling out of the closet and towards the bed. He grabbed the whole box of trash bags and moved back into the closet with Aziraphale.

“Anyway, you were saying about the breakup—” he prompted, instead of eight months seems like a long time to go without physical release to me—have you at least been masturbating?

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, taking the bag out of Crowley’s hand and— how did he get it to open so fast? Crowley stared as Aziraphale handed the bag back to him and pushed another group of clothing together.

Read the whole story on AO3

[summerofspock]

I hit a huge subscriber milestone and as a celebration I’m sharing a small snippet of Az POV from Under Construction!

Crowley is a lot of things. Very silly but he doesn't know it. Kind beneath all his scowls and bluster. And a very good friend.

Aziraphale hasn't been lonely exactly. He has Anathema and Tracy and Agnes but he hasn't had a proper, tell all your secrets, stay up late giggling and drinking friend in ages. It's wonderful. Crowley is wonderful. And yes he's prickly and clumsy and awkward but it all rolls together into something Aziraphale finds endearing.

Seeing Crowley vibrating with excitement over tidepools and frowning as he bites into molasses taffy at the coast feels a bit like an honor. Like Crowley wouldn't show just anyone this side of himself but that he trusts Aziraphale.

And it's all fine and they are friends and Crowley ends up being understanding about Aziraphale’s whole family thing which Aziraphale doesn't even want to think about and their friendship suddenly feels solid. The sort of friendship Aziraphale thinks will keep them in contact even across an ocean. 

But then there's a kitten. A pathetic little thing and it's in Crowley's arms and Crowley is smiling and Aziraphale can see his one crooked tooth, see the brightness of his brown eyes and his entire chest lights up with something he hasn't felt in years.

You. It's you.

Aziraphale’s heart shifts on its moorings, making space inside him for this new knowledge, this recognition like waking up and seeing the sunrise. This pink effervescent feeling that says I want you.

Aziraphale chokes on his tongue and runs away.

And while picking out litter and bagged cat food, Aziraphale thinks and ponders and wonders. He knows Crowley is attracted to him. He isn't sure if romantic feelings are there but…

It's been a long time since Aziraphale let his fear of rejection stop him from putting himself out there. 

Now it just needed to be perfect and Aziraphale thinks he has a perfect idea.

**

Crowley with a kitten is --

If Aziraphale thought his heart was turned around because Crowley was kind, the kitten is a bit overkill. He ought to file a complaint with God at this point.

It doesn't help that they've started to work together quite well. Cooking in the evenings goes easier -- at least when Crowley isn't injuring himself. Aziraphale almost slipped up while bandaging Crowley's hand after an encounter with the mandolin. The man had such an adorable frown on his face and Aziraphale wanted to kiss it away.

It had been so long since he had felt anything like it, This yearning to touch and to care. He wonders how long it had been growing inside him before it bloomed.

But he resolves to wait. He has a romantic hike planned

They'll go to the waterfall and Aziraphale will say his piece and Crowley will either swoon into his arms or let him down easy. It's important that this goes right. Aziraphale doesn't want it to be a fumbling shag. He doesn't want Crowley to feel pressured because he's staying with Aziraphale. He wants both of them to go into this with their eyes open. He wants this to be a relationship. 

But he should have known better because Crowley falls down a mountain and literally breaks a bone. 

And all those feelings? They'll have to wait until Crowley isn't quite so vulnerable.

Or medicated.

Aziraphale hopes he can keep it together because the sight of Crowley passed out on the pull out couch dressed in Aziraphale’s flannel is an image that stirs something unimaginable inside him. A possessiveness that feels out of character but that he's not entirely surprised by. 

He will wait until Crowley is less dependent.

That's what he tells himself even as his heart swells watching Spider tuck himself by Crowley's neck. A pretty, perfect picture.

He has to wait.

[xiaq]

So next month I’m attending two different friends’ work Christmas parties and pretending to be their girlfriend and I thought to myself today: wouldn’t it be funny if someone happened to be at both parties, recognized me, and pulled aside Friend2 to tell him I was cheating on him and Friend2 panicked and claimed all three of us were dating to save face. Can you imagine the hijinks that would ensue?

And then because I write fanfiction I was like.

Wait.

So picture this:

Good Omens Human AU:

Crowley is a young, hotshot, workaholic lawyer who has invented a girlfriend to get his coworkers off his back. He asks his friend Anathema who runs the coffee shop next to the firm to please, please, play the part at the holiday party and she agrees.

Anathema also agrees to attend the Soho Classical Book Club’s winter party with her friend Aziraphale who runs the book shop adjacent to her coffee shop. Aziraphale has, similarly, been citing his partner as an excuse to get out of blind dates and pub nights with his book club friends and they’re starting to think he’s made said partner up. 

All should be well…except one of the lawyers at Crowley’s firm also attends the Soho Classical Book Club. So when a coworker approaches Crowley at the holiday party, looking very grave, and murmurs to him that he thinks his girlfriend is cheating on him with a member of his book club, Crowley, panicked and trying to save face, says, “Ah. No. Not at all. That’s just…our boyfriend.” Dumb of ass, our Crowley. And the other lawyer is like. “Oh! Well. Of course. That’s—you should have brought Aziraphale as well. We wouldn’t—we certainly wouldn’t have a problem with that. We’re all very accepting here at the firm. He’s absolutely welcome to come to the next ‘do in addition to Anathema.” And Crowley is like. “Ah. Yes. I will certainly invite him next time. Aziraphale. My other partner.” And Anathema tells Aziraphale and everyone is all rather amused about it.

Except having two partners makes it even more suspicious when you arrive alone to company dinners or book club events, Crowley and Aziraphale find. And suddenly their friends and coworkers are overly concerned about their relationships and asking prying questions and wondering if they are unhappy or on the verge of a breakup because neither of their partners ever seem available. And finally, on the Friday before a weekend that Anathema is out of town, Crowley shows up at the book shop with every intention of introducing himself and then begging whomever this Aziraphale person is to please pretend to be his partner at the merger celebration the following night or he may have to quit his job. And Aziraphale had already been considering asking Anathema for Crowley’s phone number because he thinks if he doesn’t turn up to the Sunday book club meeting with at least one of them in tow he may blurt out the whole charade due to stress.

Except Crowley comes sauntering in through the doors and Aziraphale is peering at a book through his tiny little glasses and they both sort of freeze with sequential realizations:

Oh no, he’s hot.

Cue fumbled introductions and awkward agreements—Crowley probably makes a spreadsheet—to attend occasional events together. And over the following months they Pine Heavily. Crowley starts dropping by the bookshop under the pretense of discussing their meetings, and then the pretense of discussing the monthly book because he’s started attending the book club. And Aziraphale starts ordering Crowley’s favorite coffee for him and delivering it with the occasional scone to his office during Aziraphale’s lunch break. And Anathema occasionally joins them at various company and book club events but usually can use her odd hours at the coffee shop as an excuse to skip so it’s mostly just.

Them.

Together.

Pretending to be a couple.

And this is getting long and I should really get back to work but you know, you KNOW, that eventually, after some terrible soul-sucking case is just finished, when Crowley hasn’t slept for a week (it’s probably also raining), he stumbles into the coffee shop where Aziraphale is just ordering a bedtime hot chocolate and Aziraphale takes one look and him and is like. No. No sir. No caffeine or, god forbid, driving for you. And brings him up to the flat above the book shop and puts him to bed. 

And Crowley is like, “Oh, angel,” (of course he calls Aziraphale angel. Crowley calls Aziraphale angel in every universe. It probably started as a joke about gross pet names in this particular universe and then stuck. But pet names are not at all gross, it turns out, when you’re actually in love with the person, Crowley discovers). Anyway. Crowley says, “Oh angel, I couldn’t put you out of your bed. Are you going to sleep on the couch? With your back? Can’t do. There’s plenty of room for two.” And they go to sleep on separate sides but then wake up in the morning cuddling and nearly inconsolable from how fraught everything is. Because they both think their affections are unrequited. Because they are both idiots.

But thankfully, when they awkwardly go to the coffee shop together that morning Anathema is like, “Oh thank god. You two finally banged. I was so sick of hearing you whine about how in love you are with each other.” And they’re like… “Wat.” And then they go right back upstairs to Aziraphale’s flat without coffee and the book shop does not open that day and Crowley calls in sick and whenever they do rejoin society having talked things out (among other things), they sadly report to mutual friends that they have broken up with Anathema who, oddly enough, is the officiator of their wedding a year later. So clearly it was an amicable breakup. And they live happily ever after the end.

[moveslikebucky]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Touch-Starved, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens)

Hello friends I am back at it again with the tutors - this time just a little soft hurt/comfort.  Full fic is under the cut, but can also be read on AO3 at the link!  Special thanks to the wonderful @writingelizabeth for the beta read <3 

---

If it had been any other day, Aziraphale could have ignored it. Could’ve thought of it as a trick of the light or a flight of fancy. Could’ve left well enough alone and not let his mind latch on to what he thought he saw.

Aziraphale is well-practiced at this; at making excuses for things. At not reading into the way yellow eyes linger a bit too long, on the meaning behind favors and gifts. He decidedly does not get caught up in the fleeting touch of long spindly fingers to his short and stout ones over a passed bottle of wine. Well, maybe just a little bit. Lets himself think of it in the wee hours of the night when no one is around to notice.

But the clock is ticking and the world keeps spinning, and nothing in all of creation is slowing it down. The End (capital E) is coming, all rather soon now; and Crowley, for whatever reason, is wearing tartan socks today.

They aren’t just any tartan, they’re Aziraphale’s tartan. And all the pomp and rules and meanings behind it. He’d often wondered, in the back of his mind, if Crowley had understood. They had been there when the tartans of the old clans were first made; when they were first passed down. They knew the rituals, the familial bonds required. The seriousness of the gift of tartan.

And one night in 1967, in an intricate ritual of his own devising, Aziraphale had passed Crowley a thermos of holy water, printed with his own tartan. He had hoped Crowley understood the significance, understood that this was Aziraphale reaching out in more ways than one. That he meant everything he said about “someday”, that he wanted Crowley safe, and, under all that with a beige pattern on a tin thermos, that he wanted Crowley by his side, under his mantle.

And today Crowley had worn tartan socks. Aziraphale had noticed as he watched Crowley teaching Warlock maths (Crowley had always been regrettably good at maths; Warlock was shaping up to be much the same). Crowley had deigned to perch on top of the desk in the library they were using as a one-student classroom, crossing one leg up over his bony knee. The cuff of his trousers had ridden up just enough that the pattern was evident. A tiny peek of beige and tan crosshatch, unmistakable to Aziraphale, who’s been wearing that pattern for centuries. He’d spent the majority of his own lesson distracted by the thought of bony ankles, and the majority of the ride in the Bentley back to the shop distracted by further thoughts. Ones that involved interlaced fingers and gentle brushes of lips; thoughts he wasn’t allowed to entertain.

“Well, this is you,” Crowley says matter of factly when they pull up outside the old bookshop. Aziraphale finds he’s not really ready for the day to end, and he could use a drink.

“Would you like to come in, dear? Maybe go over next week’s lesson plans, possibly over a nice bottle of Château Latour?”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” Crowley says with a grin as he shuts off the engine, the both of them clambering out of the car to head inside. Aziraphale fumbles with his keys as Crowley drones on about how Warlock is doing in his schoolwork.

“Boy’s a natural, angel! Absolutely a wizard at algebra, who would have thought it?” Crowley says as they enter the shop, candles popping to life of their own accord and blinds drawing themselves. Far too late in the evening to be opening anyway.

“Quite a whiz at numbers, yes. By far his favorite subject.” Aziraphale heads to the back storage as Crowley makes himself comfortable, plopping himself down on the old Chesterfield that’s as much his as anything else in the world at this point. Like he belongs there; like it’s home. Aziraphale takes a moment in the wine storage. Just a bit, just to breathe. It would be unfair, now, to act on these feelings. There are only a few short years left until they learn if their methods have been successful.

It would be cruel, Aziraphale thinks, to give in now. To let the emotions and feelings and yearning finally overtake him, drag him into the undertow and pull him out to sea. He knows, of course, has known with great clarity since 1941 that Crowley loves him. Has known with an agonizing heartache of his own love since 1862. It had snuck up on him, wormed its way into his heart as a seed way back in the Garden. Blooming bright and brilliant on one of the worst days of his life.

No, none of that now. There isn’t enough time. He wipes away the scant few tears that have decided to track down his face, breathes in deeply, and grabs the wine, determined to, at the very least, have a nice evening in.

Crowley is still chattering from across the shop, going on about something to do with Atila the Hun’s grandmother. Aziraphale can hear the pride in Crowley’s voice, still amazed at how much he’s taken to his disguises. Ashtoreth was much softer than Crowley would like to admit, a caregiver and a nurturer. And now, as Mr. Harrison, Crowley is able to impart knowledge. One would think, with Aziraphale being the bookshop owner, that he would take to teaching much more readily than the demon. But, one would be wrong.

Crowley has spent his entire existence asking questions. Sometimes the wrong ones, and sometimes the right ones. But it is in his nature, down to the very core of him to be inquisitive, to wonder, and to learn. Is it any wonder he takes so readily to gifting that knowledge out?

He did give humanity the knowledge of good and evil, after all.

“What was that about Gandhi, dear?” Aziraphale asks as he rounds the corner. “I didn’t quite catch —“

Aziraphale is struck speechless, much to his chagrin. Crowley’s tweed jacket has been discarded over a nearby chair, and his trademark boneless sprawl is nothing new. But his feet are propped on the edge of the couch; and right there, wrapped around his ankles, is unmistakably and unequivocally his tartan.

“Didn’t quite catch what?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale locks eyes with him slowly, not sure what to say. Crowley, for his part, looks confused. He follows to where Aziraphale’s eyes had been, sees the cuff of his trousers has crept up just a tad. Aziraphale watches the realization dawn on those long-loved features. Watches the slow turn of Crowley’s eyes back to him.

“You’re wearing my tartan…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“And…how long?”

“Don’t ask me that, angel—“

“How long?” It’s more forceful the second time, just a bit of heavenly presence behind it. Enough to make Crowley sit up and take notice, swinging his feet to the floor and tapping his heels nervously. Aziraphale isn’t sure Crowley even understands what he’s asking; not sure that he knows either. It’s not some big cosmic secret; they both know. They don’t speak about it, don’t observe it closely. Keep your distance and keep him safe; the mantra that plays in Aziraphale’s head, late at night when the shop is quiet and his only company is the old and dusty books.

Crowley avoids his eyes, wrings his hands together as he stares at the floor. The air between them is thick and heavy, though with what, Aziraphale isn’t sure yet. Crowley’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly; Aziraphale balls his hands into fists at his sides. Well-manicured nails digging into his palms, grounding him into the moment. Crowley scratches his beard, runs that same hand up through his hair before sighing heavily.

“Don’t remember a time when I didn’t.” He finally says, his voice cracking, his eyes finally meeting Aziraphale’s.

The moment stretches between them, thick like treacle. Aziraphale can’t give in now; not when they have so much to lose, not when what’s at stake is everything. What would it gain them if they fail? A few happy years and a bit of distraction before their weapons are at each other’s throats? Just two unwilling soldiers on either side of a war they didn’t want, on the battlefield that was once their home.

But then, what if? What if, in this short stretch of time before everything potentially goes to Hell (literally), they could lean on each other? It wouldn’t be much, but it would be theirs. But what’s the point if it could be painful later?

Before Aziraphale can break his thoughts to respond, Crowley stands and crosses over to him, takes the wine bottle from his shaking grip, and sets it aside.

“Look, angel, we can forget this. I’ll go back to my flat, we’ll call it a night - pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”

Crowley is standing so close to him, less than a foot away even though it feels like miles and Aziraphale doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want to forget about this. He doesn’t want to run anymore and he realizes, with solid clarity and conviction, that the reason for anything — the reason they should stop running and be happy now — is precisely because things could be painful later.

“Don’t!” Aziraphale reaches out and grabs Crowley’s sleeve as he turns away, freezing the both of them in the moment. Amber eyes meet his, searching for answers that Aziraphale doesn’t have. He’s on the wrong foot, out of his element with no idea where to go next. There isn’t a precedence for any of this, there never has been. Not for an angel’s love —singular, not plural— pent up for centuries with nowhere to go. An angel’s love is meant to be all-encompassing, of everything that exists in all of the world, not like this. Not with a single focus point. Not with only one star pulling that love into an orbit that is nigh inescapable.

What even happens now? Aziraphale doesn’t know. But he lets his instincts take over, lets this far too human need that has consumed him since a cold and dreary day in a park in 1862 take the lead. Lets the sense of dread melt away from him, lets it be replaced by anticipation instead as he threads his fingers through Crowley’s. They fit together perfectly and his heart jumps into his throat.

“Aziraphale…” His name in Crowley’s mouth is a question, one that Crowley has been asking for longer than Aziraphale has ever wanted to admit.

“Don’t go, please, I…” Aziraphale’s words fail him. How does one say something that has been left unsaid for so long? How does one give voice to that? Tears sting at the corner of his eyes as he grips Crowley’s hand tighter.

There’s the soft caress of a thumb on his cheek, lightly brushing away those tears. A calming voice whispering comfort as he’s pulled into arms that are so familiar to him in every way except for this . They’ve never held hands before, never held one another like this, and yet it feels so right and so familiar. It feels like coming home.

Crowley holds him close, lets him cry; stays steadfast as Aziraphale crumbles, rubbing circles into his back. Comforting him, of all things. Shakily, Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s thin frame, finally knowing what it’s like to have the one he loves most in his arms. It starts his tears falling anew, knowing that he’ll never be able to go back. They’ve crossed a line, and neither of them can turn away from it any longer.

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley whispers softly on a cracked voice, “S’gonna be alright.” It’s only now that Aziraphale realizes Crowley is crying, too. He squeezes the demon tighter, nuzzles his face into his neck, marveling at how Crowley’s sharp angels compliment his own soft curves. How they fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle, two halves of one soul, like the old philosophers used to say.

They stay like this, for hours or minutes Aziraphale can’t say. All he can do is stand here, breathing in the faint hint of brimstone that lingers on Crowley’s skin, feeling the rise and fall of Crowley’s breathing. He’s never been held like this, never held anyone like this. He’s seen the humans do it, of course. Watched Adam wrap his arms around Eve to offer comfort in the unyielding wilderness, watched as Yeshua’s mother wept openly in Mary Magdalene’s arms. All through the millennia, he’s watched as humans have touched each other, have been vulnerable with each other in the hope of just some simple comfort in life. It’s different for them, when life is so fleeting and so short. Where love is not just something to want, it’s something needed from the moment they are born until the last breath that they take. When time is so short, so ephemeral, it’s impossible to face it alone.

Time has never been short or fleeting, not for him or for Crowley. The wide expanse of forever has always stretched out in front of them, just as the wide expanse of before stretches behind. Both of them older than the universe itself, architects in the crew of God’s creation. When you cannot truly be killed by mortal means, it’s easy to forget that an end is planned. There’s all the time in the world. Wait for me, go a little slower, we’ll get there.

There is no time now, four years at best if their plan doesn’t work, and Aziraphale can feel the crushing weight of mortality now. He wonders how the humans have ever survived underneath it.

But for now, there are thin fingers carding through Aziraphale’s pale curls, whispering words of comfort. There’s a warm hand on the small of his back, tracing circles with a thumb. The gentleness and softness of the actions make his chest hurt and he wonders if this is what the humans call “heartbreak”. He pulls back reluctantly, needing to see Crowley’s face, needing to read the emotions there.

He swipes a calloused thumb across Crowley’s cheek, collecting a stray tear that’s lingering there. Just this once, just for now, he lets himself get lost in Crowley’s eyes. Yellow like molten gold, glowing in the relative darkness, brighter than the candles. Aziraphale lets his hand rest on Crowley’s cheek, taking in the surprising softness of the beard he’s been sporting these last few months. Crowley leans into it, eyes searching Aziraphale’s own as he turns slowly —every so slowly—and places a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s palm.

Nothing has ever felt like this, so simple and gentle of a gesture, and yet the maelstrom it causes within Aziraphale could destroy an entire coastal city if he let it. This flood of love and acceptance and belonging, this overwhelming feeling of yes, you, you are the one I should be running to, that I should be going through this life with. It’s always been you how could I have ever pushed you away?

And so Aziraphale doesn’t push him away; resolves to never do so again. Instead, he lets his hand drift along Crowley’s jawline, around to the back of his head. Lets his fingers finally, after so long spent wondering, learn just how soft Crowley’s hair is. He pulls, Crowley comes willingly to meet him halfway, and for the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s almost anticlimactic in its simplicity. A gentle brush of lips, an intimate touch reserved for humans and not for them. The heavens don’t shake, lightning doesn’t strike them down, God herself does not descend in a glorious cacophony of trumpets to cast him into the pit. It’s just him and Crowley, standing in the bookshop, with their lips and hearts and souls pressed to one another. Content and calm in this human-bound method of affection, this gentleness.

They break apart slowly, as if moving through a fog. Aziraphale lets his eyes fall open, sees Crowley’s still closed, a small and quiet smile quirking up the corners of his lips. It’s unbearably tender, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to hold him until the sun burns out. Crowley opens his eyes slowly, meets Aziraphale’s gaze. The small and quiet smile spreads, breaking across his face like dawn light.

“I do hope that was alright, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers into the fading darkness of the room, afraid to speak too loudly, to break this spell that’s between them right now. Crowley still holds him tight, like he’s something precious or worthy.

“Angel, I…” Crowley’s voice trails off, no longer more than a string of consonants with no vowels to hold them together. Like too many things are trying to rush out of his mouth at the same time and none of them make sense. Aziraphale just waits, lets Crowley hold him, lets him find his words until he finally lands on three.

Three words, spoken softly and nervously on shaky breath. Spoken in such a way that hints a gearing for rejection; at waiting for the penny to drop. At an expectation of once again being let down, of being too much.

Aziraphale smiles at him, tangles his fingers through Crowley’s hair, feeling the short strands slide smoothly through them. He says three words back. Crowley leans in, and their lips meet again. More insistent this time, more sure of themselves. It feels right, kissing Crowley. Feels like they were meant to fit together this way, like his lips have been waiting countless lifetimes to know the shape of Crowley’s lips.

There will be time for talk later, time for confessions and promises. For apologies and what-ifs. But for now, they sink to the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, and just for a moment in time, they are able to hold one another. To forget about what’s coming and just exist and touch and kiss each other softly like the humans do.

[anti-cyclone]

Wrong Turn

Aziraphale/Crowley, rated T. Chapter 1 posted to AO3 this Sunday, July 12. Writing by me, art by @d20owlbear​

As part of the Good Omens Mini Bang - @do-it-with-style-events​ (or visit the AO3 collection)

Summary: Lots and lots of somethings are wrong. First, Crowley's nearly hit by a car. Then he almost brains himself tripping over new and excessive piles of books at the bookshop. To add insult to near-injury, Aziraphale starts throwing knives at him. Safe to say his day could be going better.

The thing that's the most wrong of all is the universe, of course. In this one there was never an Arrangement. Aziraphale and Anthony (they can't both be 'Crowley') aren't friends and they certainly never agreed to prep for Armageddon. Unfortunately, the end of the world is two days away.

So that's something Crowley really has to fix before they can figure out how to get him home.

Excerpt (we join Crowley in the - well, in a bookshop, anyway):

Everything - Every single thing - here was wrong. The traffic wasn't right. The bookshop wasn't right. Aziraphale was definitely, absolutely, not right.

Crowley's miracles were still working, though.

"You devil," Aziraphale snapped, uncreatively, when all the lights in the shop went out in the same instant.

Crowley didn't reply. Crowley was busy skittering away from the back of the shop, around the spiral staircase, and through some cobwebs up into a particularly black corner of protective shadow. He could hear Aziraphale snapping his fingers. The lights did not come back on. Crowley had sunk enough power into that miracle to give him time to flatten himself up against the ceiling.

The next thing he heard was absolutely-not-Aziraphale fumbling around in the dark. A quick rush of air heralded the flare of a candle in his hand. He raised it and peered out into the shadows of the shop.

The yellow light made his hair look blond instead of white. At least until the candle flickered, and shadow crawled briefly over definitely-not-Aziraphale's face.

Lots and lots of somethings were wrong.

Most immediately, an angel prowled the shop with a wicked (blessed?) dagger and said things like, "I didn't expect to see you again after our last discussion," which as far as Crowley remembered had been about what pastries he, Crowley, was supposed to pick up at the restaurant. Incredibly-not-Aziraphale went on, "I don't know how I could have communicated more stringently that if you trespassed in my territory again, it would be a painful mistake."

Crowley concentrated on not breathing. If he breathed, he made noise. If he breathed, it made the panic slosh around in his gut and he hadn't figured out what to do with that yet.

The other thing that was immediately wrong were the cobwebs on the ceiling. They stuck to his hand and there was one close enough to his face that Crowley had to actively concentrate on not sneezing. That should have been a clue. His Aziraphale, the right Aziraphale, used poor cataloging and abrasive customer service like a pearl-handled dagger. The shop was a maze all on its own. He didn't have to resort to piles of books and ephemera on the floor. There certainly weren't any cobwebs - at least not up on the ceiling where no customer could even see.

The wrong Aziraphale passed under him and continued walking through the aisles.

"If you aren't going to come out and face me, you could at least tell me what in Heaven's name you're doing here."

"You invited me, you blasted idiot," Crowley snapped, doing something funny in his throat to project his voice.

It was the suit. That's what Crowley should've noticed earlier. The suit, it looked - It looked just like Aziraphale's, but new. That should've tipped him off to this being the wrong Aziraphale, like all the mess and dust should've tipped him off to this being the wrong shop. And yes, he knew that knowing this is the wrong shop meant his comeback didn't work, but he was preoccupied with huddling in a dark corner and not getting repeatedly stabbed.

A demon could only think of so many things at once.

Several aisles over, the wrong Aziraphale stopped. He turned in the opposite direction from Crowley - great, that means throwing his voice worked - and tilted his head. Candlelight caught the extremely sharp edge of the dagger.

"Please," he said, sharp. But there was also a tiny hint of something else. Doubt? That's what actual Aziraphale's voice sounded like when he suspected he might have missed something. "The only way I'd ever invite you anywhere would be - Why, it'd be a sign of the end times."

"Funny thing," Crowley muttered. "That was six months ago."

The wrong Aziraphale kept staring into the opposite part of the shop. He lowered his dagger but did not put it away. "Perhaps you should tell me a little more, Crawly."

"It's Crowley."

Aziraphale turned, and now his face was wrinkled in confusion. He almost looked like the real Aziraphale. "Since when?"

[ineffablegame]

“It’s over. They’re not going to hurt you again.” :3c

I’m sorry this got so long!  Also at my Ao3.

-

Aziraphale is not, as a general rule, overly fond of children.

Oh, they’re wonderful, of course.  They’re wonderful as a concept.  Aziraphale may not be in Heaven’s best books, so to speak, but he still subscribes to their beliefs regarding children.  ‘For the kingdom of God belongs to those who are like these children,’ ‘you are all children of God,’ ‘the riches inherited by God’s children,’ et cetera.  Gabriel may have called Adam Young a brat, but Above is – at least officially – in favor of kids.

Broadly speaking, Aziraphale loves children.  He’s an angel, after all.  He loves everyone, and that includes children.

Less broadly – in the narrow confines of his beloved bookshop, for example – Aziraphale is happy to keep them at a distance.  So, when the Them show up at the front door on a cool, crisp day in late October, the angel is understandably alarmed.

“Hullo,” says Adam Young.  He holds the lead for Dog, who stands stock-still beside him, eyes flashing incarnadine.  Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale flank him.  

Aziraphale fends off a full-body shudder with every scrap of angelic willpower he can muster.  Adam Young may be a normal boy at heart, but the rest of him remains very much the occult equivalent of ten million nuclear warheads.  The intensity of his focus is unsettling.

“A-ah,” the angel stammers.  “Adam Young. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Is that him?” Pepper demands.  She eyes Aziraphale, lip curling.  “He doesn’t look like a demon.”

“I never said he was the demon,” Adam replies. “He’s the demon’s friend.”

“Actually, I don’t think demons can have friends,” says Wensleydale.  “Because they’re evil.”

“Yeah.”  Brian wipes a mud stain – the origin of which is a mystery – on his shirt.  His eyes widen and he grins.  “Maybe he’s possessed by the demon?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s quite the case,” Aziraphale fumbles.  He does wish the children would quiet down a little. If Crowley hears them speculating about who’s possessing who, he’ll never let Aziraphale hear the end of it. “You’re… looking for Crowley?”

“Uh-huh.”  Adam angles his gaze past Aziraphale, into the near-empty bookshop.  “He’s here, right?  We need to ask him for advice.”

“Whatever could you need—”  Aziraphale begins, only to fall silent as a familiar demonic presence crowds his senses. He turns and sees Crowley sauntering toward him.

“Angel, there’re a pair of tourists looking quite keen about the Ian Fleming books,” he says.  “I’d get them to clear out if I were you.  I keep telling you, move the Bond books to storage.  You might think they’re drivel, but they have some serious—”

Crowley looks back toward Aziraphale and catches sight of the Them. He draws up short.  “Oh!  Uh. Hey, um, kids.”

Pepper looks even less impressed than before.  “This is him?  Seriously?”

“Yeah.”  Adam strolls past Aziraphale into the bookshop with Dog and the Them in tow. Aziraphale watches the procession pass in bewilderment.

Pepper cuts straight to the point.  “We need you to teach us how to be devils.”

Crowley darts his eyes from the Them to Aziraphale and back.  “Um.  What?”

“For Halloween,” Adam clarifies.  “We’re going as devils.  But we don’t know how to act properly evil, so I thought, why not ask a real-life devil?”

“M’a demon, actually,” Crowley mumbles, apparently immune to the irony of Adam’s statement.  He considers the Them, head cocked.  Then, much to Aziraphale’s horror, he nods.  “Yeah, all right.  Why not.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale echoes.  “My dear, surely you can’t be—”  He freezes when Adam turns and pins him with a speculative look.  Mellowing, the angel stammers, “W-well, perhaps if you took your… er, tutelage outside…”

Adam shrugs.  “I dunno. I think right here is fine.”  He looks around the shop.  “Seems to me that you spend a lot of time here.  Might help you teach us better in your nat’ral environment, right?”

Aziraphale directs a withering look at Crowley, who averts his gaze.  “Uh.  I guess.”

“I really think…”  Aziraphale trails off; he knows when a battle is lost.  He threads his fingers together, knuckles white.  “Please be careful of the books.  They are quite valuable.”

He spins around and stalks toward the counter, intent on taking his wrath out on the first customer to cross him.

The next hour is an exercise in tolerance.  Crowley gets right down to the business of teaching the Them how to be proper demons, his gusto belying the apologetic glances he keeps shooting Aziraphale’s way.  From what the angel can gather in his covert eavesdropping, demonic work mostly amounts to being a nuisance.

“Another good—er, bad act of evil is never replacing the loo roll,” Crowley says. “That one’s a sure-fire win. Never fails to drive the humans mad.”

“I do that already,” Brian says proudly.  “And I never flush.”

Crowley winces.  “Yeah, you’re a proper demon, all right.”

“This is boring,” Pepper says.  “Don’t you do real evil stuff?  Like, killing people and all that?”

“There’s more to being evil than killing people,” Crowley says with startling patience.

“I don’t see why you want to celebrate Halloween at all,” Aziraphale says, stopping by their gathering with an armful of books – a clever pretext on his part, if he may be so bold.  “It’s only a new-fangled American holiday.”

“Actually, you can’t own a holiday,” says Wensleydale.  “America doesn't own Halloween.  Holidays are for everyone.  As long as they’re not religious.”

Aziraphale is sorely tempted to tell the little know-it-all to shove it, but Adam Young’s focus hones in on him with hawkish intensity, so he restrains himself.  “Of course,” he says coldly.

Brian plucks a book off the shelf and leafs through the pages.  “Is folding the corners demonic?  My parents hate it when I do that.”

“Ye—no,” Crowley says, catching Aziraphale’s warning glare.  “Nah, s’not really evil.  Nope.”

Adam glances between the angel and demon.  “Sounds right.”

Pepper looks at the book in Brian’s hand with disdain.  “Ugh.  Peter Pan is so sexist.”

Aziraphale’s temper slips its bonds.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  It’s a children’s book.”

“It is!” Pepper counters.  “It’s all boys doing the fun stuff and Wendy has to be like their mum!  And Tiger Lily—”

“What about this?” Brian says, clearly still stuck on demonic acts against literature.  He jams one finger up his nose and pulls it out, a yellow-green gobbet clinging to the dirty nail.  Then, much to Aziraphale’s horror, he smears the bogie on the inside cover of a first-edition Peter Pan.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chokes.  He’s never fainted in his entire existence, but there’s a first time for everything.

Crowley, much to his credit, keeps a flimsy veneer of composure as he swipes the book from Brian’s hands.  “Books really aren’t the way to go,” he says.  Aziraphale feels the fabric of the universe pop a stitch and re-knit as the bogie dissolves into nothingness.  “Not enough people care about them.  The effect isn’t widespread.”

“Not enough—”  Aziraphale sputters, indignant, only to stop dead when he sees Dog sniffing a shelf with Intent.  “Adam, dear boy, if you could please take, ah, Poochie outside, I would appreciate it ever so much…”

Adam considers the former hellhound.  “Think I’ll keep him with me, thanks.  He’s not used to the big city.”

“There’s a fenced-in yard outside,” Aziraphale says, a trifle desperately.  There wasn’t one a moment ago, and miracling around the logistics of Soho was a trial, but the angel is growing more and more desperate.  “Surely it needs to relieve itself?”

“Nah,” says Adam.  “He’s properly trained.  He won’t make a mess.”

In a feat of truly miraculous timing, Dog cocks a leg and wees on the shelf. Aziraphale’s heartbeat slams in his temples.  Dumping his books on the nearest open shelf, he hurries over to the little beast, waving his hands at it.  “Oh, for pity’s sake!”

“Got it,” Crowley says quickly.  He miracles the puddle out of existence with a snap of his fingers.  “See?  Not a stain, angel.”

“Cor!”  Brian is amazed.  “Can you show us how to do that?”

“Actually, I don’t think we can,” says Wensleydale.  “On account of we’re not real demons.”

“Shoo!” Aziraphale hisses at Dog.  “Shoo, you—you little mongrel!”

“Hey,” Adam says, and while his tone is mild, the rumble of irritation that sweeps through the bookshop is not. Aziraphale should heed it, really he should, but he can’t stand idly by while children run riot and infernal dogs eject fluids in his shop.  He waves his hands closer at Dog, intent on fending him off.  Dog’s lips peel back in a snarl.

Crowley’s voice is strained.  “Angel—”

Too late.  Aziraphale shrieks as Dog’s teeth sink into his hand, flowering fires of pain.  He yanks his hand back and clutches it to his chest.  Dog growls, eyes glittering red.

“I’m sorry,” Adam hastens to say.  “I didn’t think he’d do that.”

“Actually, Mr. Fell,” says Wensleydale, “it was a defense mechanism. Little dogs like Dog have a high prey drive and you got into his space.  Actually, you should have known not to do that, because growling is a warning that…”

“Ugh!”  On the other side of the shop, Pepper tosses a book to the floor in disdain.  “The Iliad is even worse than Peter Pan! My mum says…”

“Look at this, Mr. Crowley!” Brian calls.  “See that book, with the fancy cover?  I bet I can hit it from all the way across the room!”  He hawks deep in his throat.

Aziraphale has never killed anything before, but, frantic, furious, and helpless, he suddenly sees the appeal of cold-blooded murder.  “That’s quite enough of that!”

The Them ignore him, and several things happen in swift succession.  Dog squats on the floorboards.  Pepper pulls a copy of The Odyssey from the shelf.  Wensleydale keeps talking.  Brian spits a wad of saliva and phlegm.

The few remaining customers vanish, dispatched outside the shop with no memory of the past few minutes.  A blazing white light erupts from Aziraphale and floods the room to press, incandescent, against the dust-coated windows.  The dowdy, bookish angel suddenly looms, menacing and full of holy wrath, flaming sword raised to strike.  His eyes glow with the searing heat of Heavenly justice.  Crowley cowers behind the nearest shelf; Dog cowers behind Adam’s legs; the Them stare, spellbound.  Brian’s loogie evaporates with a hiss like grease on hot metal.

“THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH OF THAT,” Aziraphale says.  His voice resonates, multiplied and overlayed like a screaming horde of berserkers.  “STEP AWAY FROM THE BOOKS, PLEASE.”

The Them obey.  They cluster around Adam, eyes wide, mouths ajar.

“NOW.”  Aziraphale sweeps the flaming sword toward the door, which obediently flies open.  “GET.  OUT.  OF MY BOOKSHOP.”

The Them look to Adam, who nods.  “Yeah.  C’mon, I think we learned enough.”  He leads them to the open door, ushers them out.  He gives the angel and the demon a thoughtful look.  “Sorry.  I’ll leave you two alone now.”

He leaves.  The door snaps shut behind them, locks clanking into place.  Aziraphale sags as the holy wrath leaves him, his sword – a mere illusion – melting into the air.  He feels ready to burst into tears.  Or to smite something.  He hasn’t decided which.

“Angel.”  Crowley’s voice is gentle, the tone one might use to soothe a wild creature.  “They’re gone.  It’s over.  They’re not going to hurt you again.”

Aziraphale wraps his arms around himself.  “Don’t tease.”

“Sorry.”  Crowley slinks closer, still wary.  “Gosh. I thought your lot were all for suffering the little children.”

Aziraphale sniffles.  “Well, my dear, I c-could only suffer so much.”

“Ah, angel.  There, there.”  Crowley’s tone is sneering, but the concern in his eyes is genuine.  “Let me see.”

“Wh-what?”

“Your hand.  That little beast got you good, didn’t he?”

“Oh.”  Aziraphale holds out his trembling hand.  “I-I suppose it did.”

Crowley’s fingers enfold him, delicate but sure.  Aziraphale stares at the floorboards as his vision swims and the demon presses gentle touches to the bite marks.  “Didn’t break the skin, but might as well…”

Aziraphale swallows thickly.  The pain evaporates in prickling warmth.  “Thank you.”

“Nnh.  No problem.” A beat.  “I’m sorry.  For letting them stay in the shop.”

“We didn’t have a choice, really,” the angel mutters.

“I don’t know.  Adam Young’s not all bad.”

Aziraphale mangles a laugh.  “I suppose not.  For an Antichrist.”

“Aziraphale…”

“I hate them, Crowley.”

“You’re an angel.  You don’t hate anything.”

“But they’re so loud! And messy!  And annoying!”

“They’re kids.  Trust me, adults are loads worse.”

Aziraphale sighs and wipes his eyes with one hand.  Despite having healed the bite, Crowley still holds his other hand, and he is reluctant to take it back.  “Oh, I know, dear boy.  Please don’t think less of me for it, my nerves are just so…”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley says.  “Tell you what.  Let’s close up shop and open up that Talisker you’ve got squirreled away, yeah?  The eighteen-year one.”

Aziraphale gives him a watery smile.  “My dear, that would be wonderful.”

They close the shop.  As Aziraphale locks the front door, another miracle sings through the air, a plucked harp string vibrating through reality.  He blinks, unlocks the door, and opens it.  A new sign has appeared.

‘No dogs allowed.’

The angel closes the door and locks it again.  He turns, beaming.  Crowley smiles back.

-

That Halloween, the Them go trick-or-treating as angels.

[nicnacsnonsense]

22 for the headcanon thing?

22. Where does their first kiss happen?

Since you didn’t specify a pairing, I’m going to make a bold assumption and go with Ineffable Husbands.

Neither of them could remember their first kiss. There had been so many different kisses for so many different reasons across 6000 years; it wasn’t the sort of thing that one could keep track of. One could hardly step foot in France without exchanging at least half a dozen cheek kisses, and Aziraphale was so fond of his crepes.

Then there had been that five year period during the Regency era. Aziraphale had been female presenting for the first time in a millennium if not two, and Crowley had absolutely delighted in playing the cad and doing everything possible to make her flush. This included an inordinate amount of hand kisses.

Crowley���s century long nap was far from the first time Aziraphale had caught Crowley sleeping, but it was the occasion that stood out the most vividly for obvious reasons. Crowley didn’t look more vunerable when he was asleep, not really, not to Aziraphale, but there was something so heart-rending about it all the same. Aziraphale always placed a kiss on his forehead, not a blessing exactly, but a wish. Rest well. Stay safe.

Mouth kisses too. In Rome for certain, kisses for every occasion in Rome, including mouth kisses. A greeting between friends, and they were friends by then. By oysters at the very latest. Or all the times the Black Knight and Sir Aziraphale has faced off. They always exchanged a kiss of peace before battle. And if those friendly kisses, those kisses bound by custom lasted just a little longer than customary, if they melted into them a little more than was friendly, well...

The closest thing to their first kiss had been on the day of Warlock’s birthday party. They sat together in the Bentley in the Dowling’s drive. Neither of them dared to get out. If they got out then it was real. If they got out then in just a few hours the Antichrist would recieve his hell hound and the world will well and truly begin ending. Aziraphale was nervously fiddling with his hands and Crowley was watching him. He’d always been watching Aziraphale since the very beginning and now it seemed like he’d be watching him to the fast approaching end. Without letting himself think about it, Crowley leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. Afterwards Aziraphale looked at him wide-eyed and Crowley lost all his nerve. “For luck,” he said, and then quickly fumbled his way out of the car.

The truth is neither of them could remember their first kiss. But if you asked them, if you asked them...

When they first walked into the Ritz, that Sunday after the world didn’t end, the two of them were still giddy with triumph. But as the afternoon grew golden and hazy, so did they. A warm glow of contentment grew between them, a feeling they’d only known in brief fits and snatches before. They walked back to the bookshop side by side, exactly as they had many times before, but completely new and different now.

When they reached the bookshop there was no pause at the threshold. There was no need to extend an invitation, to ask for permission. They went in together like it was completely natural, like things had always been the way they ought to be.

Aziraphale began heading toward the back room, but Crowley stopped him. He took Aziraphale’s hand and, maintaining eye contact the entire time, pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I love you, you know,” he said.

Azirphale smiled, soft and bright. “Oh my darling. I do love you so.” He stepped in closer so he could place a kiss on Crowley’s forehead. Then one on each cheek. Then two more on either eyelid. Then one on the tip of his nose.

Crowley barked out a laugh. “How did I fall in love with someone with someone so ridiculous?” His arms had come to encircle Azirphale’s waist, pulling them closer together. Aziraphale’s hands had slipped from their perch on Crowley’s shoulders and now were gently playing with the fine hairs at the nape of Crowley’s neck.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale’s voice was prim, but there was a twitch of amusement to his lips and a glint of laughter in his eyes.

“You utter bastard,” Crowley said, laughing again. There was far too much joy here, now, in this moment for one person to hold alone. So he placed a hand on Aziraphale’s jaw and guided them in their first real kiss.

[soulflamesketches]

Crowley with an S/O who gets their hair dyed and redone often.

Author’s Notes: I just got my hair dyed yesterday so I am in a good mood, it’s what I need after feeling so deflated recently. Now I’ve just watched good omens and I love my dorks, especially Crowley cause he’s a lot like my friend and I could even be Aziraphale in that dynamic XD First time writing for Good Omens, feedback is welcomed!

He remembers when he first saw you, it wasn’t really hard to. Considering you stood out like a sore thumb compared to the warm browns that were Aziraphale’s bookstore. You were looking at some random book when the demon passed you whilst commenting about whatever colour you had at the time.

It was something about you being a traffic light and question whether he should stop or speed up. Being used to playful teasing from your friends, you were quick to come up with a comeback, but it was quite flirtatious, especially once you got a look at the male. 

“I bet anyone would stop when they see that red hair, mate.” You laughed with a smirk on your face. His eyebrows raised as you nearly earned yourself a laugh from the demon - I think you even got a small blush out of him at the time, but your (e/c) orbs were still focused on the book you were reading.

~~

That started an interesting friendship between the demon and yourself. To most the two you didn’t seem to mix like you were oil and water. but Aziraphale knew that’s just how you two operated - playful insults towards one another, mostly about hair. But in the end, Aziraphale wasn’t surprised when the pair of you started boinking - at least that’s how you put it to make the poor angel fumble over what he just heard.

Despite most of those friendly insults being about your hair, no matter the colour or the style it was his favourite thing about you. He seemed to love the unpredictability of what you’d do with it when it comes to your scheduled appointment with your hairdresser. He especially loved the first few days after you get your hair done. It was well washed, it smelt nice and it was oh so soft!

“Crowley! I’m back!” You announced, tosing your keys onto the table and running a hand through your soft (straight/wavy/curly), (colour) hair. Closing the door, you still haven’t heard a response from your demonic partner, leading to you looking down the hall in confusion, looking for the snake-eyed demon.

“Crowley?”

On cue, a coil found your booted foot and proceeded to climb up your leg and to your shoulders. A familiar scaly head nuzzled into your hair, earning a small giggle from you. “There’s my cuddly snake~” You purred as you caressed his scales while he tightened around you, still nuzzling into your hair and the forked tongue flickering wildly to take in all the scent he could. 

“I take it that you like this do?” You questioned as walked through your shared home, placing your items down while Crowley still rested upon your shoulders. he didn’t feel like he was gonna leave anytime soon. Seeing his throne just in your field of vision gave you a small light bulb moment before you strode to the luxurious seat and sat upon it like you were a queen.

Well, in a sense you were his queen. So you should act like it.

The snake you carried slithered down your face and under your chin to mimic small caresses before trailing down your back and reforming into a more human form. You were lifted off the seat and held in the lap of the demon himself, his nose being pressed into your hair again, placing a small kiss on your head and locking his arms around you. You reached north to run your fingers through his red hair, tilted your head back to look at him. His snake eyes locking with your (e/c), both of you sharing a tender look. 

Crowley was never one for words, especially tender words - but then again, you were sure that most demons would vomit when trying to talk nicely. Actions spoke louder than words when it came to your demon partner and you wouldn’t have it any other way, you were better at reading people anyway. 

Arms around you, his face in your hair and staring into the eyes of each other. That was you two at peace and you weren’t gonna move for awhile.

Not until you got hungry, that is. 

[thechekhov]

-------

“Demon of the Month?” echoes Crowley, unsure whether to be offended or flattered. Either the angel has missed poking fun at him or he’s legitimately trying to make him feel better through less than conventional methods. Either option is rather endearing, warms the Hellfire burning low in Crowley’s chest. He finally manages a balance on the seesaw of indignation and preening. “You think I’m demon of the month?”

“Aren’t you?” Aziraphale feigns surprise - poorly. His eyebrows jump, threaten to do a pirouette. “But you seem to be an expert in all kinds of Tempting.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” says Crowley, now at a loss for appropriate replies. This is also a lie. Flattery from Aziraphale has significant potential for distance if previous instances are anything to go by, but the destination Aziraphale is taking them is nonetheless a mystery enough to make the map incomprehensible. Being praised for Tempting, of all things - by an angel! of all creatures - is not something he has spent a great deal of time preparing for. “Besides, I’m not-- I’m not particularly good at it. No better than your average demon.” He feels the threat of a blush coming on and hurriedly hides his face behind his cup again.

“I daresay you are,” insists the Enemy.

Crowley tilts the cup higher and upends the whole of it into his throat and then proceeds to cough dramatically. By the time he’s finished, his face is even more red, but now he has an excuse. “Wouldn’t expect you to know,” he says dismissively and wipes his mouth. “You’re an angel. Wouldn’t know a good Temptation from a bad one, now would you?”

“I daresay I would!” argues Aziraphale. His eyebrows pick their routine back up where they left off and dive down. “You might not recall, but I was sent to earth to thwart your wiles! Among others,” he adds, though it’s obvious that in this instance, he cares less about the latter. It’s ridiculously pleasant to be a priority, but Crowley doesn’t allow himself to dwell on this. “Besides...” the angel continues, briskly, “I’ve been on the receiving end of yours often enough.”

The demon tilts his head to the side and makes a face. “What?” he demands indignantly.

Aziraphale glances up at him in such an exasperated, holier-than-thou way that it makes Crowley’s face itch. “Temptations. Sins. The former to the latter. You’ve Tempted me to all the sins at least once, I think I know the drill.”

Crowley fumbles for a reply, struggling to grip the edges of his sanity as their conversation takes a sharp and unexpected turn. “Have not!” he protests. “I haven’t tempted you even once!”

The angel’s responding wiggle is a blatant substitute for an eye-roll. He picks up his goblet and measures Crowley with an unimpressed stare. “Do give yourself more credit. I’ve just told you you’re good at your job.”

“Wh-- The-- But--” sputters Crowley. It’s very unbecoming for a demon, all this sputtering, so he instead he curbs it and leans across the table and glares at Aziraphale over the edges of his spectacles. “Alright, give me an example.”

“The food, for a start,” replies Aziraphale immediately. “You were the one who gifted me that bread back--where was it again?”

“Dholavira,” supplies Crowley, but he’s still skeptical. “That doesn’t count! I was just-- returning the favor! Didn’t want to be indebted to you!.”

“Classic temptation to Gluttony, that was,” Aziraphale insists. He reaches for another oyster.

Crowley is too busy squinting at the table, trying to recall the encounter with more detail, to comment on the irony of the situation. “Fine,” he says eventually. “Fine, that might have been one. I don’t remember what I was thinking at the time, so, you know, autopilot. Demon and all. It’s possible. But--that’s only one!”

“Would you like me to go down the list?” asks Aziraphale nonchalantly.

“Yes!” Crowley says. “Greed - when did I ever do that one?”

The angel’s reply is a well-executed ricochet. “Egypt. Alexandria.”

Crowley holds up a finger he means to wave back and forth, but the argument dies on his lips before it’s even formed. “Now hold on a second,” he says instead. “I’m fairly certain that’s not fair. Envy! I’ve not--”

“That’s Egypt too.” Aziraphale is not even looking at him now. Instead he’s gazing into the middle distance, lips pursed thoughtfully, as if the scene is still clear in his mind and he’s watching some cinematic reenactment of it. “Different year. Egyptian beer. You were posing as a merchant, kept winking at me and hinting you were smuggling it all out - the best lot.”

“That’s not--that’s not why I was winking!” protests Crowley, but it falls on deaf ears. “Wrath, then! I’ve never tempted you to wrath!”

Aziraphale meets his eyes, and his gaze is solid. “Stonehenge.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

Notes: this is only one chapter, but it's can absolutely stand alone as a little ficlet, so I'm posting it!

[dietraumerei]

Day 30 - Free Day

The resolution to yesterday’s whump! Also, Aziraphale embodies that ‘You know what that is? GROWTH’ gif.

“Good morning, love. How do you feel?”

Aziraphale had greeted him like that every day since the angels had attacked and left him a bloody mess. A little angelic healing had taken care of the worst of things, but could only aide recovery afterwards. Crowley had stayed in bed for two solid days, and not for his usual reasons; he truly didn't have the strength to rise, and although Aziraphale blocked any hint of pain, he couldn't do much about stiffness and swelling and the bruises that miracles couldn't help with. Sandalphon had been so fucking clever, or at least he believed, setting it so that there were plenty of things that Aziraphale couldn't heal.

Which meant Crowley spent two solid days in bed being cosseted by an angel who had raised hedonism to the highest art form. He had pillows and bolsters and soft blankets supporting and warming him. He had cups of tea if he liked, and cocoa generously spiked with whiskey after lunch. He spent four contiguous perfect hours draped over Aziraphale's impossibly comforting soft tummy, while Aziraphale read fairy tales aloud to them both. Crowley had slept long hours through the night and woken to kisses. There were so many kisses, and cuddles, and quiet, gentle reminders of love. Anytime he liked, he could rest his head on Aziraphale's chest and listen to his heartbeat, and Aziraphale would comb his fingers through Crowley's hair and tell him a funny story. (Well, what the angel thought passed for a funny story, which wound up being funny in its own way.) And, once, he had noted aloud what an extremely effective demon Crowley must be, to get his ass kicked by three angels. (Not in so many words, of course, but the sentiment was there.)

Whatever Sandalphon was doing, wherever he was, he was definitely not experiencing comfort and love and contentment the way Crowley was. Not even close.

On Christmas Eve, Crowley could half-open one eye, and celebrated by getting up and sitting in a chair by the fire. Walking was a careful thing, but one he could manage on his own, if he went slow. Once he'd settled and Aziraphale tucked a blanket around his legs and kissed him and exclaimed over how much better his face looked, and kissed him again, they settled in for a long-overdue conversation.

“You know that none of that was your fault, right?” Crowley asked, holding Aziraphale's hands in his. He couldn't really see his angel, but this would do for contact.

“I know,” Aziraphale promised him, and his voice warmed with a smile. “I'm smarter about them than I was.”

“Not smarter.” Words like deprogramming and abuse and victim danced through Crowley's head, and he pushed them away. Not because they weren't true, but because thinking of those things in relation to a fussy angel who lived for puddings made something deep in his chest hurt. “Smart doesn't have anything to do with it, angel. You're just...more aware, now. Free.” He lifted a hand, careful not to touch Aziraphale with broken fingernails, and caressed his cheek. Sure there was a little fumbling, and Aziraphale had to guide his arm, but he got there in the end.

“I am, I suppose.” Aziraphale took his hand and kissed the fingertips, lingering on the nails, gently urging them to regrow with a miracle soft as an exhaled breath. “But I know that was...well, it was bollocks, what Sandalphon was saying. You getting hurt is all on him. For goodness' sake, he had your blood on him! And the fault is on Gabriel, and whoever else arranged for this. Not on me.”

“See that you remember that,” Crowley said, and made sure that night that they were snuggled in close together, and Aziraphale was comfortable and comforted. Sure Crowley could still barely see him, and moving took careful thought and planning, but he was there, and best the angel remember that.

When he woke on Christmas, Crowley could open both eyes, and thought it a very nice present to finally be able to see his sweetheart again. Aziraphale went a little overboard praising him, and telling him how lovely his eyes were and how he had missed seeing them, but it was Christmas, so Crowley could be indulgent. This wasn't what they had planned, it was fair to say, but they had a nice breakfast in bed and cuddled the day away, Aziraphale reading ghost stories aloud in between sips of egg nog.

And now, on the edge of the new year, he woke up and felt...fine. Good, perhaps, and he gave an experimental stretch. There was still a deep pull in his leg and his back, but those would fade by tomorrow, he reckoned, and he could smile and haul Aziraphale into his arms for kisses.

“All better,” he promised. “How do I look?”

“A little puffy,” Aziraphale admitted, touching one cheek. “But better. Much better.” His smile grew. “You're healing love, finally.”

“'Course I am. Just took a few days.” Crowley bussed his cheek. “Let's go out for breakfast? To the patisserie. My treat.”

“Oh! Well. If you're quite sure you're up to it?” Aziraphale asked, definitely trying very hard to be a good friend and lover. He hadn't left the bedroom in days, and Crowley knew he had intended to eat at far many more places than they'd got to. The chance to hit up one of his favourites...

“I'm fine. I promise.” Crowley sat up and swung his legs out of bed. Still bruised, a bit stiff, but he'd felt worse after a night of mixing drinks with funny names. A little stretch, a snap of his fingers, and he was all ready to go, holding his arm out to Aziraphale. “C'mon, angel. Before they run out of almond croissants.”

“Oh, they won't,” Aziraphale assured him, and winked. “Trust me.” Instead of slipping his hand into the crook of Crowley's arm, though, he wrapped his arms around the demon's waist and pulled him into a hug. “I do love you so.”

“I know,” Crowley said softly. “I love you too. Come on. We're both getting stir-crazy.”

“As you say,” Aziraphale said warmly, and finally took Crowley's arm, the two of them venturing out into London, fresh and hopeful on the cusp of a new year.

[wanna-b-poet31]

Aziraphale Addresses His Abuse

In case anyone cares, here are some more musings about the significance of Aziraphale’s confrontation of his abuse in Good Omens. This is an extension of a segment in my longer piece: An Angel in Recovery

Needing Closure

After Aziraphale finally admits that Heaven is like an abusive parent, he needs to come to terms with the fact that he’s got >ALOT< of shit to deal with. Not least of which is his internalized self-loathing as evident in the above gif where we can see his association with “soft” as a negative trait.  And we all KNOW Crowley would fight Gabriel for personally helping to instill the belief that he’s a “bad angel” for being kind and compassionate, and loving humanity >and Crowley<.

But, choosing a side is not closure.

What it is, is a support system and a promise to help build up Aziraphale’s confidence. Choosing his side provides safety, and it strengthens his relationship with Crowley, but choosing Crowley alone will not address his underlining trauma. While he now acknowledges that his 6000-year treatment is fucked up (like really fucked up), it is but only one step on his journey towards recovery.

Once Aziraphale chooses Crowley, to be his partner, to stop Armageddon, to defend humanity, he indeed realizes that the line between Heaven’s abuse and the threat of Hell’s is a fucking thin one. Both adversaries team up to actively destroy everything the Ineffable Husbands love, employing gaslighting, physical attacks, or emotional traumatizations to achieve their goals.

In order to have the closure that he desperately needs to properly cope with his trauma, he needs to confront his abusers and reclaim his sense of self, reaffirming his choices to pick the healthy support system that is Crowley.

There are four distinct moments where he gets his closure: With Heaven, With Shadwell, with Gabriel, and finally, with Hell. 

Defying Heaven

I didn’t note this before, but Aziraphale’s first direct act of defiance is to his duties as a leader of Heaven. 

After Aziraphale has picked a side, he is...inconveniently discorporated...and sent into the den of lions that is Heaven. Now, having realized that no one in Heaven has Earth’s best interests at heart, he walks in with his eyes wide open to the abuse and unhealthy nature of Heaven.  Once he is face-to-face with his “duties” as an Angel thrust upon him. And how is he, a principality, an angel of heaven, treated? 

Like dirt.

The Quartermaster >yup weird mustache guy is named “quartermaster”< berates him for losing his body (that up until that point had never been discorporated before) and being a “pathetic excuse for angel”. The verbal abuse is strong in this scene because, as the above gif shows, Aziraphale flinches at his words, visibly becoming uncomfortable with the treatment. And, instead of denying the problem or repressing his feelings, he sees Heaven for the nasty “parent” that it is. 

And then we see Aziraphale finally. fucking. snap.

For the first, but not the last, time we see Aziraphale assert his own desires to heaven. Although in the garden he clearly asserts his desires and kindness by giving Eve and Adam his sword, he lies about where it’s been to both God and Gabriel. He does not lie here. He makes a choice and he does not back down. He deflects blame somewhat, but he admits that the sword is gone, and righteously asserts that his actions were just. 

When the Quartermaster yells abuse at him, then tries to control Aziraphale, promising to overlook his “indiscretion” if he gets in line “now”, Aziraphale fumbles for a second but then comes out in full force. 

He. says. no. 

Not only that, he tells Heaven, on no uncertain terms, that he wants no part in waging war against humanity or Hell. This act of agency defies the hold Heaven has on him, and where, in the past, he would have suffocated on his own repression instead of acknowledging Heaven’s actions as wrong, he won’t be silent any longer. Heaven isn’t used to being told they’re in the wrong, and it lends to their overall power over all angels. But, Aziraphale does it anyway, knowing full well what the consequences are if they retaliate.

But, he’s chosen his side and damn it all if they think he’s not going to see it through until the end. 

Instead of denying there’s a problem with Heaven’s behavior, he demands to be returned to Earth so he can call/contact Crowley and stop the war from starting in the first place. Finally!!! His own wants and needs above the toxic, controlling parent that is Heaven. 

And more than that, he tells Heaven the truth. Up until this point he had repressed his misgivings about Heaven’s actions, lying through his teeth to Heaven about his true feelings towards humanity.  But here, when faced with an ultimatum, he tells the truth and DEMANDS to be sent back to Earth. 

Heaven, it seems, now is not worth the effort. He has a support system he trusts implicitly and without question -- Crowley. The control Heaven used to have on him has been replaced with defiance and anger because of their cruelty to him, to Crowley, and to humanity.  

He has some closure!

Handling Homophobia 

Then there is Shadwell.  

So full disclosure. I haven’t really talked about Shadwell in many of my metas because of all of the abusers in Good Omens, I'm most triggered by his homophobic behaviors. I grew up closeted and queer around people like Shadwell (although they were admittedly less dooms-day focused). I have some family like him and his constant usage of homophobic slurs towards Aziraphale hits close to home.  Sorry if this isn’t as detailed as my other sections, disregarding Shadwell is a form of self-care. 

It is clear with his introduction that Shadwell is dismissive of most people. For example, he elects to call Tracy “Jezebel” and other derogatory terms for her profession, only treating her kindly after she retires. For Aziraphale, he calls him “Southern Pansy”, which is a major slur in the UK for gay men.

With Crowley, Shadwell is less brash. Sure he still fanatical about abusing witches, and wants to milk the situation for as much money as he possibly can, but when he approaches Crowley at the diner, he speaks with a kind of timidness that looks like he’s seeking validation for his actions. I assert this because he’s not scared of Crowley but genuinely sees him as an ally. While it could just be a ploy to get more money out of Crowley, he doesn’t talk back or insult Crowley around him.

However, I firmly believe Crowley would absolutely beat the shit out of Shadwell for his treatment of Aziraphale.

When we look closely at how Shadwell talks to Aziraphale, he is clearly directly manipulative and verbally abusive. He purposefully takes advantage of Aziraphale’s kindness to better line his own pockets by falsely reporting the existence and death of his “soldiers”. Then, out of earshot, he berates Aziraphale for what he presumes his sexual identity is. While Aziraphale is canonically a queer masculine-presenting non-binary entity, Shadwell percieves Aziraphale’s behavior as a net negative (which it absolutely isn’t!!! Fuck Shadwell’s transphobia and homophobia). He uses his prejudice and homophobia to show that he does not view Aziraphale as worth the same respect that Crowley (who somehow Shadwell does not read as genderqueer) is shown.

Shadwell’s abuse is less all-encompassing than Heaven’s, but it’s just as significant because of his dismissive attitude towards Aziraphale devaluing non-normative gender presentations and is generally meant to be hurtful. He is meant to be Aziraphale’s ally, or perhaps his employee. But the homophobic slurs shows malice. Although not as hidden as Heaven, the abusive nature of Shadwell is just as damaging, and the insult is intended to belittle and demean Aziraphale.

This all comes to a head after finding Madame Tracy is angelically possessed by Aziraphale, Shadwell verbally attacks Aziraphale with the slur again. And Aziraphale, who just faced Heaven and walked backward into Hell, is not having any of the homophobic behaviors. 

This whole interaction is a relatively “small” moment compared to his defiance of Heaven, but it shows he’s one step closer to confronting the bigger, more direct, abusers in his life. Defying Heaven was monumental but vague, it’s one thing to defy an organization, or even defy expectations, but to defy individuals is harder, more personal, and confronting the struggle helps give Aziraphale closure against homophobia.  

The One Where Gabriel’s a Dick

The next confrontation is with Gabriel, the primary abuser for 6000 years. While all of Heaven is abusive, Gabriel specifically singles out Aziraphale, belittles his interests (even when Gabriel himself indulges in some less than angelic behaviors like wrath and indulging in nice, expensive human clothing). He is a vehicle for many of the specific actions that traumatize Aziraphale.  

Although I don’t doubt Aziraphale could cut Gabriel with his flaming sword, the most powerful weapon in his arsenal is his words. He defends Adam’s choice to not destroy the world and confronts Gabriel’s use of the “great plan” vs. the ineffable one. Aziraphale knows that poking at Heaven’s excuse for destroying humanity won’t hold up. Adam’s right, there is no rationale for waging war except “to see whose gang’s the best”. Speaking up like that, against a director of war, is ballsy, but Aziraphale does not care. He needs to confront the horrendous way Gabriel/Heaven has treated him, humanity, and Crowley.

And who supports him through this cathartic moment? 

Crowley. 

With a single glance, Crowley interjects and comes through, supporting Aziraphale’s (extremely clever) plan to protect Adam and the world. Based on Gabriel and Beelzebub’s confused reactions Crowley realizes Heaven and Hell don’t actually know what they’re doing.  Aziraphale has them dead to right with his cleverness and devotion to humanity. Stepping closer to Aziraphale, protectively behind Adam, he pushes until Heaven and Hell are forced to admit defeat.

It’s a beautiful confrontation. A perfect FUCKKKKKKK YOU to the embodiment of his abuse, with his support system helping give him the confidence he needs to push past his insecurities and execute his plan. 

Facing His Fears: Hell or Highwater 

The last distinct moment is the switch. 

While Hell specifically hasn’t actually targetted Aziraphale, they have done something worse. Attacked his support system. So, Aziraphale returns in kind, confronting his partner’s abusers head on. And look at the absolute GLEE he takes in showing off how indestructible to Holy Water his partner is. He’s making a performance of daring all of Hell to come after them, terrorizing them like they terrorized Crowley and him.

It’s also him coming to terms with the fact that yes, it’s him and Crowley against the (divine) World. The switch is so significant for so many reasons, but the primary one is that it allows Aziraphale the ability to face his biggest fear -- Hell -- and not flinch. 

The Threat of falling (like from Uriel/Michael/Sandalphon) and going to Hell terrifies our loveable bastard angel. He knew that he was disposable to Heaven, but he’s indisposable to Crowley. This confrontation allows him to come to terms with the unhealthy power dynamic of Heaven and begin the rest of his life with Crowley as equals. 

Once he returns home, to Crowley, he’s not fully recovered (recovery is a process, not a finish line) but he’s faced all of his abusers.  

He has closure. 

TLDR: Aziraphale is on the road to recovery with Crowley. #lovewins

Thanks for coming to my Ted talk

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

In Control

5 Times Aziraphale Was Blindsided by Panic Attacks (+1 Time Crowley Helped Him Through It)

Today marks the 1-year anniversary of my first AO3 fic! Thank you SO MUCH to all my readers who have come with me on this long, strange, largely angsty Good Omens journey. This fic is my first 5+1, written a few months ago when the stress was getting me pretty bad. As always, I cope by abusing my favorite angel. Full fic available on AO3.

CW: Detailed panic attack descriptions

I. Dubrovnik

The first time it happened, Aziraphale had just arrived in Dubrovnik, ship sliding between the enormous cliffs that sheltered the bright red roofs of the port city. A towering stone castle stood atop the cliff to the west; it hadn’t been there last time Aziraphale visited, but was at least a century old already.

It was just a quick stop over, in and out, on his way to more pressing matters up north; low-profile work, protecting a few travelers, blessing a few churches.

But all during the journey, he had heard whispers, rumors that something evil lurked in the city.

What he should do was contact his superiors, asking for orders and recommendations. He had never failed to do so before.

Evidence of demonic work, he would say. Sometimes he would be given instructions on how to counteract the most likely lines of infernal influence; more often, he would be detoured, given a new path to his destination that avoided any confrontation. A few times, reinforcements had been sent, though always they were dedicated soldiers who were quick to smite. If any of Michael’s legions showed up – or worse, Sandalphon’s – well, that would be the end of any low-profile work for at least a century.

But it wasn’t fear of destroying his cover that kept him from calling Head Office. In fact, for once, it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Instead, he stood at the prow of the ship, hands tapping at the rail, excitement mixed with nerves. Yes, he could sense the agent of Hell, even from here, like a faint scent on the breeze, and he knew Crowley could sense him, too. Five thousand years on Earth grants you a certain…familiarity.

Crowley would be waiting. Not a doubt in his mind. And woven all through his usual what ifs and be carefuls was the simple, buzzing happiness of seeing the demon again.

Docking took an eternity; Aziraphale had to resist the urge to simply miracle himself ashore. Why not? His charges had all been marked so that he could easily find them again, conveniently bump into them in the marketplace in time to join them on the next leg of his journey. He wasn’t carrying much baggage of note, nothing he couldn’t replace easily. Just a small teleportation, Heaven probably wouldn’t even notice…

With a thud, the plank was lowered, and the small group of travelers began making their way to the pier. Aziraphale joined the throng, moving slowly, slowly ashore…

By the time his feet reached solid ground – which seemed to tip for a moment but a quick miracle cured him of any lingering motion sickness – Aziraphale was already scanning the crowd and there – there – brilliant red hair barely contained by a black veil, deep red dress down to his ankles covered by an impossibly black overgown, covered in onyx and red coral, sleeves scandalously short. Tall and narrow and gliding through the crowd like a fish through water, like a shark, predatory smile that nevertheless made Aziraphale’s heart speed up and his stomach twist. He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, all thoughts of Crowley were shoved aside by the doubts, the endless worries, surging to the surface: his assignment, his next report, the dinners, the lies, what he would say to Gabriel next month? What would he say if Gabriel showed up right now? He never should have come – should have reported in hours ago – should have never invited Crowley for oysters – should have – should have – should have –

His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t sad or happy or any of the things that usually brought tears, they were just there, in the corners. His fingers shook uncontrollably as he reached to wipe them away.

No, there wasn’t time for this, he needed to push the thoughts aside – make a list – deal with all of them, yes, start with – start with – start with – Breathe.

The first gasping, wheezing breath felt strangely voluntary, as if he were simply trying something new. What happens if I do this with my lungs instead? Then came another normal breath. See? Just experimenting. Now another wheeze.

But someone would notice. He should stop.

At which point he realized, all at once, that he had no control over anything. His body was simply doing what it would. He staggered, bending over, gasping, searching for breath. Tears began to run down his face and he sucked in one high, shrieking breath after another.

“Angel! Aziraphale! Are you – what’s wrong?”

This was absurd. He was drawing attention, making a scene right here by the water. The crowd was pushing away – people would notice – this wasn’t low-profile at all!

He needed to explain – needed to stop – but the world tilted dangerously, worse than the ship ever had.

“Can you hear me?” Two hands gripped at his shoulders, long fingers digging in. “Aziraphale!”

“Of…” he started, but was interrupted by another wheeze. It was strange. His mind could take everything in, perfectly logically, but his thoughts were spinning so fast they had become blank. It seemed that he was standing slightly apart from the body, watching it fall apart, watching the shaking hands fumble weakly for Crowley’s gown, tugging at the fabric, pulling him closer.

No, no, that wouldn’t do. He ordered the hands to let go, the legs to step back from the demon’s grip. They obeyed, but the brain immediately got worse, dizzy, nauseated, and Aziraphale felt himself drifting even farther away from the body as it fell, crouching, hugging its own knees.

“Fine.” He forced the lips to say. “Just. Air.”

“You aren’t fine!” Again those gentle narrow fingers reached for him, brushed across his cheeks, which were now coated with a stream of tears Aziraphale couldn’t control. “Aziraphale, look at me!”

His eyes finally moved to fully take in Crowley, crouching before him in that lovely dress, curls breaking free of the veil to dance in the sea breeze around golden eyes, wide with fear.

It made his chest hurt, worse than anything, as if his heart were trying to escape entirely.

“Heaven,” Crowley said suddenly. “You need to go to Heaven. Now. There’s – your body is dying.”

“No—” Aziraphale’s head shook frantically, partly just from the tremors. “Don’t – what do I say? You’re here—”

And then Crowley was gone, leaving no trace except a wave of demonic energy that would surely be felt by any angel on Earth and many in Heaven besides.

Enough of this. He tried to breathe normally, to stand up, to let go of his legs – anything to return to some semblance of normalcy. His body refused to listen.

When the angels arrived – one of Uriel’s units, thank goodness, at least they had some idea of how to act like they belonged – he was still crouched in the street, breathing barely under control.

(He could stop the tears, he could stop the gasping, he could stop all of it. Aziraphale was in control.)

He spent two days in Heaven, being poked and prodded as experts attempted to determine the nature of the demonic attack that had left one of their best agents helpless in the street.

(Aziraphale felt the usual mix of pride and shame at that – he only ever seemed to be called one of our best agents when he’d failed to live up to the title.)

But in the end, there was nothing – no sign of any attack, damage or illness – some heightened hormone levels, but that could easily be an aftereffect of the stress on the body. There was some discussion of replacing the body with another one, better functioning, better suited to Earthly combat.

(No one asked Aziraphale’s opinion on that. It was just a piece of equipment, after all, even if he’d become rather attached to it.)

In the end, Aziraphale was sent back to Earth, almost too late to reconnect with his charges, with strict instructions to contact Head Office if the demon attempted another strike.

(Crowley would never. It was a terrifying thought, to be so confident in one’s nemesis. But Crowley would never.)

Read the rest on AO3!

[obaewankenope]

Immune to Destructive Devices - Good Omens fic

[AO3 LINK]

Crowley hadn’t mentioned it to Aziraphale after everything had been sorted and settled down. He hadn’t really thought about it until he saw the flask on his desk later that evening after spending hours at the Ritz with his angel. The spray bottle was just a sad nozzle on the ground beside his throne and Crowley kicked it, not bothering to bend down and pick it up. Too much effort when kicking it got it out of his way nicely.

He’d offered Aziraphale his place last night but neither of them had ventured into his little office-slash-throne room[*]. They’d remained in the lounge area, supping on perfectly acceptable wine—though it hadn’t been all that great a vintage it had done the job of getting them both drunk—until daylight arrived and Crowley had gone to the bookshop in Aziraphale’s skin for their ruse.

The hell fire had been surprisingly pleasant for him up in the sharp, white lines of heaven—pretentiousness in physical form was either Gabriel or the disgustingly minimalistic design of heaven, Crowley hadn’t quite decided. But he’d been glad to get out of there[†]. Even if they had believed him to be Aziraphale and had treated him like they would his angel, Crowley had wanted to both get away from the artificial coldness of heaven and terrify these angels for speaking to Aziraphale in such a way.

He didn’t mention it to Aziraphale though. Crowley knew the angel wouldn’t really approve of his almost discorporating—killing, let’s be real here, it would have been killing—his superiors just because they were mean.

Crowley also knew that Aziraphale would be secretly pleased and amused by it all. Especially since he’d obviously done something down in hell that terrified Beelzebub into complying with their demands. Angels were easy enough to convince; an angel able to withstand hell fire? They’d back away and wouldn’t come anywhere near said angel for quite a while. But demons were a little different. Most of the time.

He’d also been impressed to learn that Aziraphale knew him well enough to impersonate him and was convincing. Though, the way he’d sat on the bench in Berkeley Square… Eh, Crowley let that slip up go. They’d been home and dry at that point—if that was how the saying went, what did Crowley care, the words got the point across well enough.

Crowley almost wished he’d been able to see Hastur’s face when Aziraphale had been in the bath of holy water and not burned. He smirked. Maybe he’d ask his angel to show him the memory of it—he’d offer Gabriel’s expression of supreme confusion in heaven as a trade.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to resist. Not—Crowley knew—that he’d particularly want to at this point in their existence.

But back to the matter of the flask on his desk. A nasty matter for sure.

The flask was empty. He’d used almost all of it in the bucket that had fallen on Ligur and erased him from existence—quite painfully by the sound of it, too. But some of it had gone into the spray bottle as a second line of defence. Or offence, depending.

Crowley looked at his desk, at the stain on the ground beside his throne from the water where it’d seeped into the stone. He couldn’t wish away the stain, not with holy water. And not as a demon.

But… was he still a demon?

Once he’d been an angel and then he’d fallen. His wings had turned from white to black. The pain of his landing in hell was one that Crowley would never forget, like a phantom limb that forever ached even when it had long ceased to exist. The pain was eternal, as was his damnation.

The problem was, although Hastur had called him on his threat and exploded the bottle in his hands, Crowley hadn’t actually been bluffing. It had been filled with holy water. Not much, pretty much diluted to be perfectly honest, but even one drop of diluted holy water could harm a demon in a permanent way[‡].

Except… the diluted water hadn’t done a thing to Crowley. He hadn’t even received a little burn like the type you get whenever you touch a hot pan on the stove for a split second, yank your hand away and curse like a—well—a demon around your finger because you’ve stuck it in your mouth to sooth the burn.

All demons were harmed by holy water, no exceptions. Even Satan himself could be harmed by it. Not necessarily destroyed, but definitely severely injured.

And here Crowley was, with not even a scratch on him.

Thinking about it, that fact alone down in hell was probably sufficient enough to terrify Beelzebub into letting Aziraphale-as-Crowley go. Especially if Satan had been watching the trial through their eyes.

Crowley wondered for a moment—a long moment considering he could stop time if he wished to—what the possibilities available to him were, as a demon-who-happened-to-be-immune-to-the-destructive-effects-of-holy-water. They were, considering the circumstances, much the same as the possibilities he’d had before he’d returned to his flat and seen that stain on his stone floor in his office-slash-throne room.

Aziraphale. Earth. Some freedom from the controlling natures of heaven and hell.

Crowley fell into his throne, swinging a leg up over one of the arms and hanging his head back over the other, an arm wrapped around the back of the throne to brace him. He smirked up at the ceiling.

“Is this part of your Ineffable Plan?” he wondered, giving the ceiling a thoughtful look. “Having a demon that can’t be made extinct? Why would you allow that to happen? To a fallen one? To me? Is saving the world really that big a deal that you’d make a demon basically invulnerable? Bit odd.”

Not that Crowley was complaining, not really. If—when hell came calling again, they’d be at a disadvantage. He could literally just toss water balloons filled with holy water at them. That’d be a right old laugh that would.

Crowley frowned. Hold on. If he was somehow immune to holy water but was still a demon—at least, he still felt like a demon, his wings were still black he was sure of it, and his own fiery demonic abilities were still there—did that mean Aziraphale was possibly immune to hell fire?

Maybe.

Not that Crowley would ever let the angel find out. He didn’t want to watch his angel get caught up in a torrent of hell fire, not knowing if it would kill him or not. No thanks. Do not pass go.

The most obvious way of telling if an angel was fallen was their wings—namely, none of them really had them anymore. Lucifer had his, obviously, and so did Crowley. He knew of maybe five or ten other demons who retained their wings but the rest were mostly… well, Crowley figured they hadn’t seen the point in them anymore and had changed them into more useful appendages for demons to possess.

Like tails.

Crowley missed his tail. But this human form was good enough. Even if he still wasn’t that big a fan of legs most of the time. Awful things to coordinate when drunk, or dizzy, or on a boat[§].

Aziraphale, like the weird angel he was, seemed fascinated by them. Of course, the angel had about as much coordination in his whole body as Crowley had in his left foot when drunk but that didn’t stop Aziraphale from loving boats and their awful-for-leg-coordination-ways.

Speaking of Aziraphale and wings and not-quite-demon-slash-angel-anymore possibilities, Crowley angled his head to look down at the stain beside the throne. If he really was immune to holy water, putting his hand on the stain would do nothing to him. He might, possibly, be able to miracle it away too.

But if it turned out he wasn’t immune to holy water then his and would be burned by celestial holiness and he’d probably end up losing it or having it horribly scar for the rest of eternity.

Decisions, decisions.

“Oh, fuck it.”

He put his hand on the stain, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the sizzling and the burning agony.

If this test prevented him from having to figure out a way to determine if Aziraphale was in the same boat as him then, well, Crowley wasn’t a particularly good demon because he was much, much too nice and for his angel he was far too good also. He was more than willing to suffer burning agony so that Aziraphale with his soft kindness and constant politeness and lack of appreciation by heaven for being kind and good and loving wouldn’t have to be harmed by any hell fire unnecessarily.

Crowley felt his hand and the stone beneath it. He felt the dampness of the stone from the holy water that had seeped into it but he felt no burning agony, no nerve destroying fire obliterating skin and muscle and ligament and bone of his body.

He just felt like he’d put his hand on a bit of damp ground.

He opened his eyes and peeked down at his hand, visually confirming that—yep, hand still there, in one piece, all fingers accounted for, thumb too. Well then. That answered that then, didn’t it?

Crowley scrambled upright, fumbling for his phone that he’d left in the lounge with his free hand as he clung to the throne tightly. He hit the dial pad and watched as his phone automatically rang Aziraphale.

Speed-dial had been a wonderful invention. Crowley might have claimed it as his idea or Aziraphale had, he couldn’t quite recall, but that didn’t make it any less of a brilliant idea by the humans.

“Fell Bookshop, how may I—” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet with a hint of frustration at being called so late at night. Crowley felt no sympathy for the angel, not when he refused to get a bloody mobile phone—oh to—to—to existence with it! He was going to buy him one tomorrow and refuse to let Aziraphale refuse it.

“I’m immune to holy water.”

What was the point in beating about the bush when the bush had been torched? Crowley wasn’t in the mood to play out their usual conversations on the phone. Not with this.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I am immune to holy water,” Crowley repeated, emphasising the ‘immune’ part because as smart as Aziraphale was, sometimes he was very, very stupid. “It doesn’t even make my skin blister.”

Aziraphale was quiet on the line and Crowley just knew he was making that face he did when he was deeply confused by something. It was an adorable expression and Crowley would never admit that fact to anyone or anything—unless he was asked very nicely by Aziraphale. Maybe.

“You’d best come over,” the angel says after a long, long pause, voice far graver than even Aziraphale usually managed. Obviously the angel was as disturbed by this development as Crowley himself.

Good. It wasn’t nice being disturbed by something alone. Always much easier to tolerate with company.

“Don’t go sticking your hand in any flames while I’m on my way angel, you hear?” Crowley half ordered, half asked, giving his best stern look at the wall he was staring at in lieu of Aziraphale’s face.

“Of course not!” Aziraphale sounded so offended that Crowley had to crack a smile—a smirk, demons don’t smile, they do smirk though… As a potentially not-demon anymore, maybe Crowley could smile? He’d have to brood on it at a later date. “Just hurry up and get over here.”

Crowley quirked a brow. Hurry up, eh? Well, if the angel insisted.

For the first time in a long time, Crowley unfurled his wings and used them to fly across London to the bookshop. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever done it, but for the last hundred years at least, Crowley had relied on more human forms of transportation—as had Aziraphale. It was easier to go under the radar of both heaven and hell that way.

But now—well, it didn’t matter now because heaven and hell had no idea what to do with them and wouldn’t for a long, long time yet. So Crowley flew.

And landed in front of Aziraphale in the shop beside the old phone the angel refused to part with.

“Crow—oh lord! Don’t do that Crowley!” The angel flailed, almost dropping the telephone receiver from the surprise of Crowley’s sudden appearance before him.

Crowley found the sight of a surprised, somewhat flustered Aziraphale to be quite enjoyable.

“You said to hurry up,” he pointed out, ending the call and slipping his phone into his jacket pocket. Crowley gave the angel an expectant look. “So. Holy water. Immune. Me. How about you?”

Aziraphale frowned, replacing the receiver on the hook. “I’m not entirely sure, if I’m honest,” he said, moving across the bookshop to sit in the chair at his writing desk. Crowley followed behind him and dropped into the sofa which Aziraphale had always refused to admit was for the demon—ex-demon—for him.

Crowley had found the sofa considerably more comfortable than he’d ever admit, but the fact that he always enjoyed sprawling across it was indication enough of his appreciation to the angel.

“I haven’t checked since I don’t have any hell fire on hand,” Aziraphale finished, giving Crowley that Look he did.

Crowley knew that look. It was the one the angel wore when he wanted to lecture him about the dangers of holy water and reckless decisions and suicide pills.

“How did you figure out you were immune to holy water?” Aziraphale asked instead and Crowley cocked his head.

“Mmmm, think I had some inkling of an idea after I melted Ligur and threatened Hastur with a spray bottle,” he confessed. “But I only knew for certain when I decided it was a great idea to stick my hand on holy water-saturated stone.”

Crowley shrugged. “Surprised myself when I didn’t start to sizzle.”

A strange silence fell then and Crowley shifted on the sofa, looking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, for his part in the silence, was turned at the waist in his desk chair, staring at Crowley with an expression that flitted wildly between emotions. Emotions that were easily identifiable on the angel’s face as, in order: surprise, horror, fear, surprise again, some more fear, anger, and, finally, thunderous anger.

Thunderous anger, unlike regular anger, was the type that often made thunderstorms seem mild and gentle in comparison. Before rain had been invented, and storms along with it, thunderous anger was more often described as godly rage.

Crowley felt like Aziraphale was leaning more toward the old term rather than the newer one.

That…was definitely not a good thing considering.

He wondered if he could pop out of existence in the immediate vicinity and survive that way. Aziraphale would follow him though—he hadn’t ever followed Crowley before but, well, things had changed hadn’t they? Expecting the angel to do what he’d done before was just asking for trouble.

Crowley didn’t actually like trouble unless he was the one making it[**].

“You put your hand in holy water.”

Oh, that was a surprisingly calm voice.

“Not in holy water, on holy watered ground,” Crowley corrected, squinting behind his glasses in a way that was completely wasted on the angel since Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes. “Bit different.”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face obviously disagreed.

“Of all the—the—foolish, reckless, idiotic things to do Crowley! YOU PURPOSELY RISKED YOUR LIFE TO TEST A THEORY!”

Ah. There was the wrath.

Oh dear.

“Well, I had to make sure didn’t I?” Crowley didn’t cringe—he was a demon, demons don’t cringe—but he did lean back a little. Only a little. “Wouldn’t do to get caught unawares and find out in the middle of a fight, would it?”

The logic of Crowley’s actions made perfect sense to him. Unfortunately, they didn’t make the same sense to Aziraphale.

“That doesn’t mean you do something so reckless without me there to make certain you’re all right, Crowley!” Aziraphale stalked right up to Crowley, pointing an angry finger at him—actually, he jabbed Crowley in the chest, at that point of the sternum where you had to move back a little from the pressure because it was just on the left side of painful. Not that Crowley really registered pain, demon and all[††], but the body had its pressure points and the jabbed spot was definitely one of them. “What if you were affected by the holy water—diluted as it was—and the only way I’d know would be the sensation of your burning out of existence like that demon in sixteen-oh-nine?”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale.

The angel had felt Marmur being made extinct by his own stupidity? Really? That—had Aziraphale felt Ligur go up in bright light inside an orange bucket too? Had he panicked, assuming it was Crowley and then he’d been discorporated, unable to actually know for sure because he’d ended back up in heaven? The idea was, well, it was absurd and crazy and implied that angels could sense whenever a demon died in the very-permanent-way[‡‡].

Crowley had sensed the same but, well, he was a demon, it was to be expected of him to know when one of his fellow demons went and got themselves killed.

“You know,” Crowley said slowly, tilting his head to the side. “You never actually mentioned how you knew I was in Hull that year—” he narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses “—didn’t mention why you showed up in Hull either when you had a miracle in Arabia to perform.”

Aziraphale spluttered. “That—that is not the point, Crowley!” He exclaimed, shaking the jabby finger at the demon. “Stop trying to distract me!”

“You’re the one who brought up Marmur!” Crowley shot back. “If anyone is trying to distract from the point it’s you!”

Crowley slouched a little more comfortably on the sofa, a smirk working its way on his face. Aziraphale stared at him, doing that little spluttery thing he did when Crowley had left him lost for words in an argument. It was quite endearing.

Much more endearing than the thunderous anger of twenty seconds ago, too.

Crowley was much more likely to survive with his ego intact when Aziraphale was spluttering and struggling for words than when he was all-but shivering in his body and his wings were threatening to unfurl[§§]. In anger, that is, not anything else.

Although…

“What if something had happened to you Crowley? I wouldn’t have known where you were, I wouldn’t have known if you were—” Aziraphale’s voice broke as the angel stood up suddenly, leaving Crowley behind on the sofa.

Crowley immediately followed.

“I had to test it, Aziraphale,” Crowley pointed out, quieter. He had a realisation, staring that the angel as Aziraphale stood in the middle of his shop, beneath the compass skylight, that Crowley had truly upset him. The kind of upset that humans caused each other with thoughtless actions—actions that risked their safety. Well, Crowley really had to test his theory.

Better him than Aziraphale.

“Why? Why did you have to test it?” Aziraphale demanded, turning around sharply to face Crowley. The angel had to look up to stare at him, but they’d known each other for six thousand years and the action was automatic—just as Crowley’s slight slouch that allowed his head to dip a fraction. “I’ll admit, holy water no longer harming you is a relief, especially considering heaven’s penchant for the stuff, but you didn’t have to test it alone.”

Crowley swallowed awkwardly. He had. He really, really had.

“I’m running on the logic that if I’m immune to holy water then you’re immune to hell fire,” Crowley explained, shifting on the spot. “I figured it was safer for me to test with holy water if you weren’t around to—I don’t know—try and stop me.”

“Of course I’d have stopped you!”

Crowley gave the angel as unimpressed an expression as possible with his sunglasses still on. It was unimpressed enough that Aziraphale pulled that sad face he always did when he was upset and didn’t want to admit Crowley had a point.

“I’d have at least prepared for the worst,” the angel muttered, gaze flitting around the bookshop.

“I did.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, confused. “How was testing your immunity alone and without informing me first preparing for the worst?”

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t want to say it. Not really. Well, he did, because it’d be nice to say it. But he also really didn’t want to say it because it’d change things.

Things had already changed though, hadn’t they? He wasn’t exactly your traditional demon anymore. Admitting his feelings… it’d just be another thing to deal with.

Fuck it.

“I didn’t want you watching me die if it didn’t work,” he confessed, ducking his head and scratching the back of his head. “It was bad enough me finding your shop on fire—I don’t—well, I don’t think you’d have enjoyed witnessing my demise if I was wrong.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Oh.”

Oh. Yeah. Oh.

“Anyway! It turned out all right! Hand still in one piece, no sizzled flesh, no screaming oblivion. Just an impossible immunity to holy water when it ought to wipe me from existence!” Crowley turned away, heading back to the sofa. He dropped down on it and flicked a hand, summoning a nice vintage from… well… wherever he felt like summoning it from[***].  “Figures you’re immune to hell fire yourself now!”

Aziraphale slowly crossed the bookshop to the sofa, sitting down on it next to Crowley when the not-quite-traditional-demon shifted enough to allow the angel to perch on the edge.

“I’m not quite certain of that, we haven’t tested it after all.” Aziraphale summoned two glasses from wherever he kept them—Crowley knew there was a kitchen above the bookshop but, well, he hadn’t actually seen it since Aziraphale bought the place back in the 1800s, so for all he knew, it could have more books stored in it than the bookshop itself—and handed one to Crowley. “The only way to confirm a theory is through experimentation, after all.”

Crowley grimaced. He didn’t like that idea.

Well no, he liked the idea of testing things—he had great fun doing tests and experiments. There had been a time in the 1970s when he’d participated in a dozen psychological tests and completely screwed up the results for the sake of it. So yes, he liked tests and the like. He just didn’t particularly like the idea of his angel testing his own tolerance of an angel-extincting substance.

But the idea of Aziraphale testing his potential tolerance of hell fire… Well. Crowley would rather go toe-to-toe with the end of the world again thank you very much.

“You can—I presume—summon some for us to use, yes?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley over the rim of his wineglass.

Crowley squirmed inside, feeling like a trapped snake. He didn’t particularly like the feeling. Especially when it was usually Aziraphale that made him feel it in this particular capacity.

“I’m just a regular demon, angel,” Crowley swilled his wine, avoiding looking at Aziraphale who totally, completely, most definitely, didn’t believe him for a second.

“The serpent that tempted Eve is no regular demon, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quite firmly. “There is a reason heaven had considered sending Michael to replace me, you know.”

“Because they’re idiots?”

Aziraphale lips quirked a little. “Yes well,” he said, “other than that reason.”

Crowley snorted out a laugh. The angel seemed to have finally gotten past his defence of his heavenly brethren. It was nice to witness. Especially the flicker of genuine amusement in Aziraphale’s bright eyes. That—that was very nice to see.

“Tempting humanity was supposed to be Lucifer’s job you know,” Aziraphale said conversationally, shifting a little on the sofa and taking up more space, forcing Crowley to move to accommodate the angel. “He is, as I’m sure you’re fully aware, very good at tempting with his words. It’s quite an ability. To tempt Eve was supremely difficult, no matter what any of my fellow angels had to say on the matter. That Lucifer refused, instead rebelling, and that you were the one to do it… It speaks greatly to your ability.”

“So I’m good with words, that’s not the same as summoning hell fire all wily-nily angel!”

This was starting to feel a little bit—Crowley had to admit—well, a little bit like Aziraphale was complimenting him on aspects of his personality that, before today, the angel likely would never had thought complimentable. He wasn’t entirely sure he disliked that fact.

Of course, Aziraphale had complimented Crowley on his actions in the past, but those had almost always been ones Aziraphale could safely label ‘good’ and ‘right’. Performing a miracle that saves lives; preventing some senseless deaths from an idiotic lack of bathing based on absurd fear of hygiene; those sorts of thing. That the angel would compliment Crowley for ensuring the world’s first act of sin came to pass… it belied belief.

“Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” Crowley couldn’t help but ask, only half-joking. It was possible, just as it had been possible for them to switch appearances, that Aziraphale wasn’t really Aziraphale right now.

“What—honestly, Crowley! I offer you compliment and you instantly assume I’m not really me!” Aziraphale threw a hand up, giving Crowley a cross look. “I suppose nothing will convince you that I’m really me except—oh, I don’t know—showing holy water has no effect on me and then, perhaps, using hell fire too! That way, if I am immune from demonic hell fire, we’ll also rule out demonic chicanery!”

Crowley just blinked at Aziraphale.

“Honestly!” The angel exclaimed, using the hand he’d been throwing around during his miniature rant at Crowley to conjure a small flask of holy water. The sensation of holiness emanated from the flask to such a degree that Crowley, still very much used to being vulnerable to the stuff, stiffened and leaned away from it.

Aziraphale wasted no time in upending the bottle into his wine which he then, quite uncouthly, downed in one long gulp.

“That was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?” Crowley stared at the angel open-mouthed.

“No more than your own actions, I think.” Was Aziraphale’s sharp response.

Crowley hummed. That was a fair point. The angel certainly could be quite biting when he wished to be.  Just enough of a bastard worth knowing, indeed.

“Now, holy water still has no effect on me, divinity intact,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley an expectant look. “Time for the—the—well—the hell fire.”

“I’m not summoning hell fire, angel!”

Crowley shoved himself up from the sofa and paced around the room, wine in one hand that swung the glass wildly—somehow not spilling a single drop no matter how much physics said the liquid ought to be on the ground and not still in the glass. Aziraphale followed after him, standing in Crowley’s way and preventing the demon from pacing as much as he’d wanted to.

For being shorter than him, Aziraphale was astonishingly capable of causing Crowley no end of trouble with movement within a confined space. Or any space really. Crowley had come to the sad, sad conclusion about five hundred years ago that he had gone and well and truly screwed himself by befriending the angel and forming some attachment to him. No matter what, Crowley always ended up gravitating toward Aziraphale.

Even when he really didn’t want to.

Like now.

“Crowley, we need to test this to be certain.” Aziraphale sounded so much calmer than he had any right to in Crowley’s opinion. Discussing a substance that could—if their theory was wrong—destroy the angel in an extremely painful way.

Stepping into the hell fire up in heaven had been easy for Crowley. Even if he’d worn Aziraphale’s face and part of him had panicked at the idea of his angel—false as the guise had been—being anywhere near the demonic substance. It was like pretending to be your partner and facing down a gun that you knew had blanks in but it was still a gun.

Fear of death didn’t disappear just because the threat was illusionary.

Somehow, apparently, Aziraphale didn’t understand that.

Or, perhaps he did.

Crowley stared down at the angel, tense and poised for some attack of any type. He was so wound up, so unhappy with this. He didn’t want to see Aziraphale burn.

Not after seeing the bookshop burn.

He—Crowley didn’t think he could handle that.

“I—I can’t.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at Aziraphale. Not when he felt like—like—like his heart was breaking. Even demons had hearts. They were what had been broken when the Almighty had cast them out. Betrayal hurt. Judgement hurt. The fall hurt most of all.

But this? Having to imagine Aziraphale standing in a ring of hell fire, burning? Oh, that was so, so much worse than the fall had ever been.

Love.

Bloody buggering love.

Nimble fingers removed his sunglasses gently.

“Crowley look at me.”

A hand pressed against his cheek, cupping his face ever so gently. Featherlight.

Crowley opened his eyes.

“Trust me,” Aziraphale said with so much tenderness, so much affection, and Crowley caved.

“I hate you, angel,” he whispered, calling forth hell fire and letting it wrap around them both. “I hate you so bloody much.”

“The feeling is quite mutual,” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Oh, look—I’m not burning. How lovely.”

Crowley ignored the flames, ignored the bookshop, ignored it all. He kept the fire contained, controlled, even though he wanted to put it out with extreme prejudice. The look on Aziraphale’s face however, when the angel reached out and touched the flames with a curious hand… he kept them going a little longer.

“Curiosity killed the cat, as the humans put it,” Crowley pointed out, taking Aziraphale’s raised hand and pulling it back toward them, away from the flames. “Stop tempting fate, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile softened. “Perhaps,” the angel said slowly, “fate ought to be tempted for once, demon.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile at that. A small smile. But still a smile. The flames died away and there they were, stood together, in the middle of the bookshop, hands on each other in such intimate expressions of affection.

The demon-now-something-else and the angel-also-something-else-now smiled at each other as Crowley ducked his head and whispered, just moments before lips touched: “temptation achieved.”

__________________________

[*] It wasn’t really either of those to be entirely honest, but depending on Crowley’s mood, he referred to the room as one or the other. Occasionally, both.

[†] In fact, he’d been so glad to get out of there he’d been happy to be on earth even before Aziraphale had shown back up from hell. Of course, he’d also been quietly counting the seconds and panicking thinking all manner of things about what could be happening to his angel down in hell. But that was to be expected of Crowley. He was the paranoid type: kept him alive.

[‡] Some idiot demon back in the 1600s had found that out the hard way when he’d gone up top and proceeded to try and tempt a father into misleading his entire congregation. Although religious leaders were capable of blessing water to be holy, this particular father had dropped the small flask of pre-blessed holy water into the puddle the demon had been standing in and, well, that had been that. No more demon.

[§] Crowley had a gentle dislike of boats—not a hatred, otherwise he’d have probably sunk every boat he came across over the millennia.

[**] No one with any sense would like trouble if they weren’t the ones causing it in the first place. Though, to be fair, Crowley technically was causing this trouble, he just didn’t particularly care for it when he would be the victim of an angel’s wrath for—how would Aziraphale put it?—acting recklessly with his continued existence.

[††] Crowley would continue to refer to himself as a demon until he was at such a point where it was an entirely inaccurate term. Like how someone would refer to themselves by their nationality up to and long after the point when said nationality was no longer accurate owing to a couple of wars, some treaties, and a new name for the country of their origin. Stubbornness, some would call it. Crowley was just used to calling himself a demon—it was a habit, as ingrained in him as his penchant for sunglasses was.

[‡‡] It also implied other things that Crowley didn’t want to really contemplate when faced with an irate angel who was far too appealing for his serpentine eyes hidden, fortunately, behind dark sunglasses.

[§§] That has, as far as Crowley was aware, happened just the once back in 334AD. Too much Roman wine and too many suggestively dressed humans had left the angel very much flustered and Crowley had had to drag him out of the room before those wings showed. It was only due to Crowley’s attention that the whole room hadn’t had to be made dead or something because of Aziraphale losing his cool and revealing proof of the divine to some humans.

[***] As it was, Crowley had three specific places he summoned wine from. One was, of course, his own wine cellar which contained some of the rarest vintages in the world—including Greek wine from before Christ had even been a glint in God’s infinite mind. The second was a well-known, highly-elite winery that produced some of the best wine in this century. The last… the last was Aziraphale’s collection of wines. This particular wine was from the latter.

[moveslikebucky]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), First Kiss, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, I tried to make it soft y'all, Songfic, No beta we fall like Crowley

Expect to see some one shots from me this week y’all, cuz I'm writing songfic gifts for some of my best Discord buddies!  This one is for @greenfiredragonfly for the song “It’s Been A Long, Long Time” by Harry James

---

Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again

It's been a long, long time

Haven't felt like this my dear since I can't remember when

It's been a long, long time

---

Aziraphale fumbled with the handles on the bookbag for the entire drive back to the his shop.  He stole furtive glances at the demon beside him, who was skillfully navigating the rubble despite the darkness of the mandatory blackout and the ridiculous speed he was travelling.

Seventy-nine years without the demon in his life, and Aziraphale had felt the pain of every one of them.  He’d carried it with him through these decades, the heavy sadness and regret of their last conversation.  The knowledge that his feelings would not be reciprocated; that he was, as he always was, a means to an end.  He should’ve hated Crowley for that, but it wasn’t possible.

Love makes fools of us all.

But now, his books were safe.  He was safe.  Crowley had hot-footed his way over consecrated ground to save him.  After everything the angel had said to him, Crowley had come back.  And then he’d remembered the books.  That had all been enough for Aziraphale to start to think Crowley might feel the same, but the wave of love that washed over the angel when Crowley had very softly and fondly offered him a lift home knocked the wind out of him entirely.

“What do you think?”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, shaking out of his stunned reverie, “what was that?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, “Have you heard anything I’ve said in the last five minutes, Angel?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it again.  He’d been too lost in his own mind and hadn’t paid attention to a single word Crowley had said.

“I was asking,” Crowley said fondly, “What do you think?  Of the Bentley, I mean.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Aziraphale stammered, suddenly very glad for the darkness to hide the heat he felt rising in his cheeks and the tips of his ears, “it’s a very lovely horseless carriage, my dear, but could you perhaps go a bit slower?”

Crowley just smirked and sped the car up, “Really, Angel, it’s called a car it’s the 20th bloody century.”

Aziraphale nodded and went back to staring out the front window, trying not to lose his lunch from Crowley’s ridiculous driving.

Aziraphale had never done well with precipices, preferring to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground, thank you very much.  But he knew in his heart of hearts that they were both on a knife edge, on one side the way things had been and on the other the way things could be.  The only question was how brave could Aziraphale be?

The air in the Bentley was charged with potential as they pulled up to the bookshop.  Be brave, Aziraphale told himself, he’s reaching out to fix things, just reach back.

“Would you like to-“

“Guess I should be-“

They both started at the same time.  Crowley gestured to Aziraphale to continue.

“I was just thinking, I have a very nice bottle of 1929 Chateau Petrus that I’ve been waiting to open,” Aziraphale said, wishing Crowley’s glasses were gone so he could read his friend’s face better, “Might be nice to finally share it with the right sort of company.”

He closed his eyes as he said it, fully expecting rejection, but opened them again when he heard a scoff.

“We’re calling me the right sort of company now, Angel?” Crowley said with a grin as he shut off the car.

“Well, to me, at least,” the angel said, relaxing slightly, “It has been a long, long time, after all.”

“Right, it has, hasn’t it?”

They made their way into the bookshop, sinking back into old habits as though no time had passed.  Crowley tossed his hat onto the front counter, ignoring the hat rack completely, and slunk to the backroom to drape across the sofa there.  Aziraphale procured the wine and two glasses and joined him.  With a thought he started a record spinning on the gramophone.  The angel had become very fond of this new style of music they were making across the pond.  Swing, they called it.  He liked the smooth and lazing quality of the trumpets and saxophones; he found it pleasant.

Their conversation wound on and on about nonsense, but Crowley was doing most of the talking.  Aziraphale was still stuck on those eighty missed years; and Crowley was rather pointedly not talking about them.  Aziraphale was curious.  He shouldn’t be, but the wine was making everything pleasantly fuzzy and bolstering his confidence.

“And so now they have things that measure earthquakes can you believe?” Crowley said, waving his wine glass in the air, miraculously not spilling a drop.  He was grinning from ear to ear, thoroughly excited as always about the things these clever humans come up with.

I love him, Aziraphale thought, I love this ridiculous demon.

“Where were you for the last eighty years?”

Aziraphale regretted the words almost as soon as he said them, but he wanted – no, needed – to know.  Crowley’s face fell, and there was the telltale tinge in the air of a celestial being sobering up.

“It’s just,” the angel continued, seeing no way out but through, “I did miss you; I hate how things happened back then.  I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me.  And, well, seeing you here now…” He chanced a glance towards the demon and found his face unreadable.  Aziraphale sighed and stood from his armchair, moving to the sofa.

“My dear, you do know you don’t need those silly things around me,” Aziraphale said, slowly reaching for Crowley’s glasses, stopping just short, “May I?”

Crowley nodded almost imperceptibly and Aziraphale removed his glasses, folding them carefully and sitting them on the side table.  The demon shifted, making space for Aziraphale on the sofa, but still not saying a word.

“Where was I?” Aziraphale took a deep breath and sobered himself up.  It wouldn’t be fair to Crowley to have this conversation inebriated, and now that Aziraphale had started on this path, he’d have to see it through.  “Seeing you here now, my dear, back in the shop again like you’d never even left, I just…well, I need to know-“

“Sleeping,” Crowley cut him off with a whisper.

“Sleeping?”  Whatever Aziraphale had been expecting, it wasn’t that, “For eighty years?”

“Better part of it, yeah,” Crowley’s eyes landed everywhere except on Aziraphale’s face, “Wasn’t much point to being awake.”

“Why on earth not?” Aziraphale asked with a small chuckle, “Are your people in that short supply of temptations to work?  I must confess I’ve never been much for sleeping myself, but I suppose if I were to get bored-“

“Because you weren't-” Crowley’s voice pitched a bit higher as he interrupted again, his hands were shaking.  Aziraphale had never seen him so nervous before.

Crowley closed his eyes and breathed, steadying himself, “Not much point in being awake and experiencing things when I didn’t have you to experience them with, is all.”

Crowley’s eyes finally landed on Aziraphale’s.  Molten amber meeting deep blue.  Crowley’s eyes had blown wide past the pupils, as tended to happen when he was overwhelmed.

The same electric charge of potentiality hung in the air.  Aziraphale was back on the precipice, back on the knife edge, on a chalk cliff over the sea.  All he had to do was fall.  But right now all he could do was sit in stunned silence.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said his name with reverence that felt like worship; with love seeping into the spaces between every line and curve as it was written.

There was no other choice to make; they’d both made the choice long ago.  On a wall, in a garden, in a rainstorm.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale managed to breath out before they crashed into each other in the middle of the sofa, arms wrapping around each other, their faces stopping just a breath away from each other.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said softly, his fingers tracing unrecognizable patterns in the curls at the nape of the angel’s neck, “Are you sure you want to do this?  If we do this I- I won’t be able to go back, I’ll never be able to stop.  If Heaven or Hell-”

“Bugger the lot of them,” Aziraphale interrupted, “It’s been too long, and I’ve missed you too much.  Besides, what makes you think I’d ever want to stop?”

Crowley’s eyes lit up and Aziraphale melted at the sight, closing the last breath of distance between them.  Lips seeking out lips, a want that had been millennia in building.

The first kiss was aching and desperate, fumbling and awkward, with too much teeth.  They both laughed, delighted enough in finally reaching this point that it didn’t matter.

“Aziraphale, I-“ Crowley started before being cut off by the angel’s lips on his again.

“Later, my dear, the words can wait,” Aziraphale said, almost directly against the demon’s mouth, “kiss me again.”

Crowley didn’t need to be told twice.  He pushed the angel back onto the sofa, bringing their lips together again, deepening the kiss this time.

“Do you,” Crowley asked him, punctuating words with kisses to the angel’s cheeks and along his jawline, “Have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”

Aziraphale sank his hands into Crowley’s copper hair.  “I didn’t,” he admitted a bit breathlessly, “but I think I’m starting to get some idea.”

“I dreamed about you,” Crowley said as he fumbled with the angel’s bowtie, “all the time, too many dreams to count.”

“I watched for you,” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley won his battle with the bowtie, moving his ministrations to the angel’s neck and the hollow of his throat, “everywhere I went, hoping I’d see you.  Hoping I’d get to apologize-”

“There’s no need to, Angel, we’re here now,” Crowley captured Aziraphale’s lips once more, this time with infinite tenderness before breaking off and gently running his thumb along the angel’s jaw, “No apologies.”

Aziraphale smiled back at him, watching the candlelight flicker in amber eyes, “No apologies.”

They kissed for a little while longer, slowing as daybreak started to peek through the gaps in the carboard window coverings.  Crowley sighed and nestled into Aziraphale’s chest.

“Are you planning on sleeping?” The angel asked, pressing a kiss into the demon’s hair.

“Might do,” the demon snuggled even closer, arm possessively twined around the angel, “Pretty sure the dreams won’t be nearly as empty this time.”

“Well I won’t be going anywhere, darling,” Aziraphale smiled and smoothed Crowley’s hair back, “May you dream of whatever you like best.”

“Don’t need to,” Crowley slurred at him, already well on his way to being asleep, “You’re right here.”

Aziraphale felt a tear prickle at the corner of his eye at the vulnerability of this moment.  He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s temple, resolving to let him sleep.  They’d worry about the particulars later.  Contingency plans, that sort of thing.  For now, in this little bookshop in Soho, they had each other.  And neither would let anyone take that away.