#( winks at nave from wherever he is )

[edensrose]

NAVË JUST UNINTENTIONALLY FLIRTING I LOVE HIMXIXIDKXX

Vanimóre: ah, it's my favorite creeps~

Navëquen: why, hello, my beautiful colleague~

Vanimóre: ...what

Navëquen: ...what

Vanimóre: ...did you just-

Navëquen: no.

find out more about Navëquen here

Vanimóre is @edensrose's OC, find out more about him here

[dazedandinked]

Bad man, sad man - (Chapter 1/2)

Fandoms: Peaky Blinders (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

Additional tags: Crossover, Alternate Universe, Season 3 Spoilers, Mentioned Character Death, Strangers to Friends, Friendship, Humor, Light Angst.

Summary:

Birmingham. Gray skies, dim light and tumbledown houses all served with a thick layer of dust on top. A place spat out from Hell, completely Godforsaken. Like, literally.

The perfect place for a demon like Crowley and a haunted man like Thomas Shelby.

A/N:  Hello everyone! This is my first work in a very, very long time and I really hope you all enjoy it as much as I do. It's quite an unusual crossover, but I love these series too much and I was really inspired by their characters.

You can find it on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/17984987/chapters/42482834

Chapter 1: None of my pain and woe can show through

Birmingham.

Gray skies, dim light and tumbledown houses all served with a thick layer of dust on top. A place spat out from Hell, completely Godforsaken. Like, literally. Crowley got off the train (obviously he could pop himself out everywhere, but he really had a passion for cars, trains and all the-engine related stuff) and inhaled sharply, lungs filled with the intense taste of smoke. Just like home, he thought.

From the very first moment he stepped out of the coach, he understood. Surrounded by pain and despair, it wasn’t surprising that a demon could feel some kind of attraction to this miserable, bleak hole. But there was… more.

According to Crowley, every nook of England was soaked with hopelessness and suffering - it was 1924, what did you expect?- but he knew that something, or rather someone, had brought him there. He heard him call, a loud hearth-wrenching prayer (not the usual buzz of human thoughts), and, for the first in a time in a very long time, he couldn’t resist answering.

He strolled through the narrow streets of Birmingham, following the low cry. Excitement and curiosity building up into his chest.

***

Crowley stopped in front of the heavy wooden door.

A church. Seriously?

He slithered silently through the narrow nave,  moving closer to the pew where the man was sitting. The light was weak, but the demon could still see his shape: dark short hair, shoulders slumped under the weight of his coat. The more he walked, the more he could feel the distinctive heat of the fury and the cold  sadness that guided him. And the strong smell of whiskey.

Another lost, drunk soul looking for comfort in a church, nothing unusual. But Crowley heard his prayer and he wasn’t looking for God. He was swearing and shouting, this mind lost in a flow of painful thoughts. He wanted damnation, not redemption.

Everything hidden under a mask of indifference.

When he was by his side, the demon sighed heavily to make the man aware of his presence. He tensed, the hand running to the grey flat cap on his lap.

“Looking for some quiet, uhm?”

The man looked carefully at Crowley, blue clear eyes still alert despite the alcohol. He tried to figure out if the red-haired man next to him was a threat (a business rival, a disappointed client or another killer), but he didn’t quite fit the picture.

“You don’t look like a devoted christian,” Crowley added.

“Neither do you,” he sniped coldly, “and not a priest for sure.”

Crowley  laughed with a choked hiss from the back of his throat. “ Amen, I suppose.”

He took a seat next to the other man, bumping their shoulders lightly and making him feel noticeably uncomfortable. Oh, this was one of Crowley’s favorite things about interacting with humans: they don’t have the faintest idea of what they are looking at, but they could feel the danger (some kind of primal self-conservation.) Nevertheless, the man’s face didn’t show any emotion, still cold and restrained. Crowley surprised himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could like this human somehow. Well, everyone knows that he’s an unconventional demon.

“You’re not from Birmingham, I would recognise you. Not the kind of man who can go unnoticed. Where’re you from?”

“London,” a lie he got used to saying among may others.

“And you are here for business? Pleasure? Quite an unwelcoming place for a vacation, I must say Mr. …”

Too many questions, Crowley thought, they never talk this much. People usually get too nervous and scared to speak and the demon had to use all his abilities to make them at ease, ready to confess all their sinful wishes. He quite liked this standard procedure.

But not him. Too drunk, maybe?

“Anthony  Crowley.”

“Thomas Shelby,” and they exchanged a brief handshake. Thomas couldn’t not notice that Crowley’s cold hands (colder than his own) had some tiny scales-like scars.

“Anyway, I’m here for business. I go wherever my presence is required and you look like someone who might need my help.”

The demon made the round dark sunglasses slide down his nose, showing his bright yellow eyes just for a second (he had a thing for drama.) Normally he would have been a bit more subtle, using the right amount of charm and touching the right spots. But there was something about Thomas he couldn’t place. He didn’t feel the instinct of hiding his true nature and he couldn’t understand why.

The man beside him didn’t flinch as Crowley expected, the only reaction he got was raised eyebrow and a gaze full of curiosity. The demon couldn’t imagine that this wasn’t Tommy’s first time having visions and seeing what Hell probably looked like.

Crowley smiled.

“How can I help you, Mr. Shelby? What’s the wish that makes you burn like this?”

“I don’t need help. People come knocking on my door asking favors, the whole city owns me.”

Crowley raised his hands, a small smile on his lips. It never happened before that someone resisted his offers.

No matter how much time you’re around, he thought, there always is a first time.

“Ehi ehi, didn’t mean to offend, your reputation precedes you,” Crowley paused to compose himself and bring out his most persuasive voice, “but just between us, if someone could make your wishes come true, what would you ask for?”

Thomas frozen still, trying to swallow the tension. He felt the eyes of the man staring right into his soul behind the dark lenses. If he still had a soul. For the first time after France he realized he was … weak and vulnerable.

No one makes Thomas Fucking Shelby feel weak. It was a fact.

“I’m not talking about your kind of business. I’m just a poor sinner who’s asking for a bit of trust.”

“And it takes one to know one,” the other ended.

Thomas sighed, turning his eyes on the cap again. Crowley made a small smile: finally, he could see the wreck on the perfect facade.

The levee is going to break, the demon thought. And it did with a last desperate glance.

“I want everything,” he spat out, his cracking voice, “I want them to feel the way I felt when they took her away from me. Oh, God, she was too much for me, I knew it. I should have let her go when I had the chance… An— And I want to take everything away from them, Russian bastards.” and than he rambled something angrily in Romani (Crowley supposed.) Thomas took a deep breath. “I want them to feel empty and hunted as much as I do, and I want to be the cause of their despair. I want back all the strength they took me away.”

The fury and the hatred in Thomas’s eyes disappeared when his gaze met Crowley’s, understanding all the things he had just said, wishing he could take it back. It was the first time he spoke about what had happened, and he did it with a stranger. He stared at the floor, taken aback by his own feelings. Shame, for sure, but also… relief? He was back at five, when he confessed Polly he had stolen from the shop at the end of the road, his cheeks burning and eyes blurred with tears. Fortunately, he had drunk enough to blame the whiskey.

He expected to be mocked, and he was quite surprised when the man beside him just put a hand on his shoulder. Crowley smiled… softly. Was it — compassion? No, impossible. But it really felt the way Aziraphale described it. And he couldn’t stop. If other demons could see him now, they wouldn’t make him forget.

“Is that all? No money, no women… Not an island in the middle of the Pacific?”

Thomas shrugged, smiling slightly. “Too ordinary?”

“Oh no, just— you were right since the beginning. I don’t think I can help you.”

Thomas stared in confusion. “But I— I answered your question, I told you what I want and…”

“Of course, but it doesn’t make any sense, you know? Asking me something you already have, and you can do on your own.” Crowley winked, patting Thomas’ shoulder again.

“The situation is bad, I know, but you do look like a man who can handle all this shit. You’re still in charge. Maybe, the only thing you really needed was someone to talk about all you’ve been through.”

Thomas stared at him, finally regaining the determination lost a couple of glasses ago, and  Crowley knew his (terrible) job was over. They sat in silence a bit longer, looking at the small altar. Crowley glanced dismissively at the huge cross hung on the wall.

Shit, this is not my job. One of your tacky dressed guys should be here, not me!

But he was happy no other creature had answered the call. And he was not sure he had done a good action, in the angelic sense of good, after all: Thomas was back and he’d have continue doing his violent job.

Oh well, you could have come and done it your way, he thought, giving a last accusatory  look at the sky above the ceiling.

His mental argument with the upstairs was still going when Thomas cleared his voice.

“A drink. We definitely need a Drink. Unless your city taste is too sophisticated for a simple pub in Birmingham,” he smirked and then got up, walking toward the exit without waiting for Crowley. The demon laughed and followed him.

"I don't really care where the pub is as long as its whiskey is good.”

"Oh man, don't worry about that.”

And they walked through the narrow streets of Birmingham again, until they reached the Garrison.

***

Believe it or not, that wasn't their last drink together.