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not-your-regular-writer · 4 years ago

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I wrote this for Valentine's Day this year after I saw this card:

And it totally looked like something Crowley would give Aziraphale haha. So enjoy :)

*Phone rings in the bookshop. Aziraphale picks up. It's Crowley.*

- Hello, Angel. Have I, by any chance, dropped my black leather coat at your place?

- Well, hello, Crowley. Which one, you own too many of them.

- Oh, you know, the... The... Well... You're probably right. Can't even describe it without making it look like the one I'm wearing right now.

- So how do you know it's missing?

- I just know. There's a void in my wardrobe. That's how I know. But it's ok, it's a cheap one, maybe it's in this mess I call a home. And... How are things up there?

- Oh... Things are just fine. Today is a special day, many clients have come looking for books, and I'm very much pleased to notice that people find appeasing to give books as gifts in a special date like today's.

- (hesitant) Special... Date?

- (Azi starts blushing for some reason) Valentine's...

- Oh, sure. That date. Can't stand it. Too much love on the streets. No wonder I've got a headache since I woke up this morning. Everything is so... Pink. And happy. Urgh, makes my stomach...

- (Irritated) I see, Crowley, you hate valentines day. Nothing new about it. If you excuse me, there's a line of clients waiting to get their sweeties a book.

- Oh, fine, then. Talk to you later.

- That remains to be seen.

- Wha...

*Azi hangs up, feeling a bit ouraged. He breathes deeply before going back to the clients, his eyes go over a chair next to him. The black coat is there. He can not only see it, but smell it from that distance. He sighs, reaching discreetly to it. Aziraphale had hidden a little poem in its pocket. He thought it would be sweet if he picked it up today, and found it alone, of course, maybe it would put a smile on his devilish handsome face. He wanted to play Crowley a bit, but he was so unpleasant Aziraphale gave up on the entire joke. He shakes his head, too upset to finish the gesture. But the smell trailed behind him. He felt so much love around him, humans could be so charming sometimes, that he forgot about Crowley for a while. "

Later that day...

*Aziraphale is organizing the last pile of books on the counter. It was a fine day, pleasant, cheery, fun. He made a good sale, and earlier that day he had picked up some roses to give as a courtesy to the buyers. He had cut up lots of pink and red paper hearts to have customers write a message to their sweethearts as a surprise inside the books. He had even baked some chocolate muffins in the shape of hearts, but as a treat to himself, guessing he would probably be alone by the end of the day, as always, but in the company of a good cup of tea and a new prophecy book that had just arrived from the 15th century...*

*The doorbell rings. He raises his eyes. Crowley is coming in, taking his glasses off. *

- Crowley... (hesitant) What a... (forcing a smile) Delightful surprise.

- Hey, angel. (looking around, embarrassed) I thought you'd be finished for today, so I thought we could... Have dinner, or something. You know, nothing special, I mean, we always have dinner, it's...

- (smiling the tiniest of grins, out of sight, still with his back turned to Crowley, putting the books back on the shelf) Oh, yes, just dinner. I suppose the Ritz is going to be a bit... Busy for the night, so...

- Oh. You're right. Maybe it is not the best night to dine out...

- Indeed, my friend. (a bit optimistic) But we could arrange something...

- I don't know, angel. Now that you've mentioned it, it's true. It's gonna be noisy, and... Crowded... And... You're probably right. I didn't really think through it.

- Well, I... (he turns around, getting closer to Crowley, who is still at the door) I could cook for us. I mean, I do not mean to brag about it, but I happen to be a very good cook, thank you.

- Oh, I do know that. We could have some... Pasta?

- I'm thinking a very tasty ravioli, marinara sauce, maybe some corn bread and cheese, and... Oh, we'll see.

- I don't wanna impose...

- Of course not, my friend, it is no imposition.

- Then let me get us some red wine to go along with it.

- (Excited again) Fabulous. Then, I will get dinner done, meet you here in an hour?

- Sure, sure. I will... Get the wine.

*Crowley is out on the street, it's been one hell of a task to find fine red wine around, but he managed. When he was getting back to the bookshop, he saw something that sparkled an idea on his mind... *

*Back to the bookshop. Aziraphale is cooking, much amused and pleased with himself. He's distracted checking the taste of his marinara, and he can't see Crowley coming closer.*

- Aziraphale?

- (Jumping) Oh, for good heavens! You almost never use my name, what has got into you to do that?

- (smiling, a bit shy, unusual for him) I... I... (going to say something, but changing his mind) I found our wine. Your favorite of course. Had to put some effort into it, what one doesn't do for a nice bottle of Pinot Noir?

- Oh... (frowning, a bit confused) Definitely. Would you be so kind to put it on the table, along with the basket of bread?

- Yeah, yeah, no problem. (he picks up the wine and the basket, still fighting with words. He makes up his mind, dropping both, and picking something from his pocket, handing it abruptly to Aziraphale). Here. It's for you.

- (Startled, running his hand on the white apron he put on to cook, a little upset, maybe thinking the should have picked a more appropriate moment to give gifts) Ah... Well... (speechless, he picks up. It's a card, a blank white paper, written in black and white, very simple, very blasé. Aziraphale listens to his heart in his years, reading it intently).

- (Crowley starts talking fastly, trying to distract the mood, the sweetness of the occasion) I know it's valentine's day, but you know, humans send cards to one another, anyway, it just felt weird to just not say anything, so I got you this card. It's not a big deal. It doesn't really mean anything. There isn't even a heart on it. So basically it's a card. Saying hi. (Exhales, embarrassed) Oh, forget it...

*Aziraphale hugs him, tender and carefully, his eyes are glistening, he feels much happier than he can express, but he just hugs him, hoping the gesture speaks for itself. Crowley is still as a rock, eyes wide, hands on his pockets. He tries for a pat on the back, but he can't seem to make his hands work. He notices Aziraphale's face is very close to his, he can smell his skin, his white smooth hair, almost tempted to touch it... They part. Aziraphale is smiling beautifully, like only an angel could. Like only Aziraphale could, actually. *

- Thank you, dear.

*Crowley nods his head, not sure of what he could say, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to need it. He goes back to the stove, still holding the card close to his heart without even noticing. It makes Crowley smile, but he takes the bottle and the basket back to put them on the table. The smile never left his face.*

*They have a nice dinner, talking, joking, discussing, eating and drinking. It was a fine night, like many others they had together. But this one had something to it, a different glow, a lighter atmosphere. Crowley is ready to go back to his apartment, his heart is a little heavy, and he wonders why. It is an unusual feeling, but curiously, he can't remember feeling it towards anyone else but Aziraphale. They stand by the door, Aziraphale has that candid smile again after going in the back and getting Crowleys coat.*

- Here. I was just playing you.

- I knew it! Aren't you becoming a trickster yourself?

- (smiles wider) I've got my charms...

- (low voice) You do. (Louder) Ah, so... I should get going. It was a fine meal, I must say.

- Well, thank you. It was a fine company, as always, my friend.

- Well... Happy... Night. Of February... 14th.

- Ditto, in fact, it's almost February 15th.

- Sure... See you around.

- Definitely

- Bye, Angel.

- Bye, Crowley.

*Crowley walks towards his car, feeling a bit dizzy. It was probably all that love thing in the air. At this hour, a bit more than love should be in the air, in fact. He breathed the air, closing his eyes, holding the coat in his hands. Something fell, and he picked up. It was a pink piece of paper. It had Aziraphale handwriting in it. He frowned.*

- He wrote a poem. For... Me.

*He turns around, looking at the bookshop, but now it's all dark and empty. Aziraphale probably went to rest. He would not bother him, right? Maybe... Maybe he didn't even intended for him to find it, maybe he forgot. Yes, he must have forgotten, he didn't even mention... He looks down at the paper again. The feeling of being completely filled inside, but so empty at the same time. So light and so heavy. So close and so far. He gets into his car, putting the poem back in his pocket. He starts driving, too pleased to admit. But the smile is there, crossing his face with the light of a thousand stars.*

*A light shines in the upper window of the bookshop. Aziraphale watched the entire scene. He eats a muffin, too glad to mind, looking at the card over the table. It was the best Valentines Day he had in centuries. Things were getting better."

#neil gaiman #michael sheen #ineffable wives #aziraphale #crowley #david tennant #ineffable husbands #aziracrow

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29-pieces · 4 years ago

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Whumptober day 27 - Good Omens

Day 27: Extreme Weather Fandom/setting: Good Omens, Pompeii ca 79 AD Read on AO3 Read on FF.net

~*~

Crowley hacked and coughed, face covered with his arm in a pointless attempt to protect himself from the ash. Stones rained down all around him; it was the only sound now that most of the screams had gone silent. Tears dripped down Crowley's face, carving lines through the ash that had already settled on him. What was he even doing here? It was useless... any human still in Pompeii was dead by now, or long past his ability to heal. And he wasn't supposed to be healing anyone, anyway. In fact, Crowley didn't know what his assignment here even was, but the crippling horror he felt at the scene around him wouldn't have allowed for him to function anyway.

"Anybody!" Crowley croaked out, desperation driving his sandaled feet a little further into the city. "Hello! Is- is anyone left...?"

One person. One wretched person to save, that was all he asked, but he couldn't stay here much longer himself, not without succumbing to the volcano and discorporating. At this point, it didn't seem like a terrible idea. A huge rock glanced off his shoulder, knocking Crowley off balance so that he tripped into the rapidly growing layer of hot ash coating the streets. Even if fire wasn't likely to do much damage to a demon (did lava count? He'd never tested this and wasn't eager to) it still hurt. Another stone crashed down beside him, so Crowley growled and drew his wings out into the physical plane, hoping to shield his head.

It wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, the hot, cloying ash immediately starting to stick to his feathers. It weighed him down, cumbersome and unwieldy. Crowley tried to stand back up but this time a falling rock did knock him over the head. The demon toppled the rest of the way to the ground, almost totally immersing himself in a hot casing of the volcanic brume.

With a strangled cry, Crowley forced himself up onto one trembling arm and called again,

"H-hello! Anyone, is anyone left alive?"

Shouting made him cough and choke and there was no reply. It was time to go; he was doing no good- er, well, he never did good, but he wasn't any use here. Shuffling around in the ash, Crowley staggered to his feet and tried to point himself out of the city, away from the cruel fires of Vesuvius. He blinked, shielding his eyes, and glanced around. His heart pounded faster; which way was out? Everything was covered in a thick, dark cloud and he had no idea which direction he was pointed now...

Maybe he should just lay down and discorporate there after all, but it was a terrifying prospect to die there alone in the volcano's wrath.

Panic overcame him, making the demon start to hyperventilate, which—given the debris in the air—only made things worse. Crowley sat heavily back down, about to go into a full-blown panic attack when a sudden light permeated the gaseous cloud around him.

"Hello!" a voice shouted. "Is someone there?"

"Over here!" Crowley immediately choked back, forgetting for a second the point had been for him to find someone else to save, not to require rescuing himself. At the moment, he didn't even care, nor did it occur to him that his wings—which he couldn't put away now even if he wanted, thanks to the layer of ash and dust bogging them down—might be a bit of a shock to whoever it was.

But when the light got closer, Crowley nearly sagged with relief to see the someone was the angel Aziraphale. They hadn't crossed paths since that day at Golgotha, but so far all of their meetings had been more or less on friendly terms, or at least neutral ones. So even though now would be the ideal time for Aziraphale to finish him off if he wanted, Crowley didn't think twice before reaching out desperately for the angel.

He saw Aziraphale's eyes widen before he hurried forward to take Crowley's hand and haul him back up to his feet.

"Can you fly?" Aziraphale asked urgently.

Crowley, who could barely move his wings now, shook his head.

Without another word, Aziraphale turned them both in the direction he'd come from, starting to run, still gripping Crowley's hand tightly. As bogged down as Crowley was, he couldn't go quite as fast, gasping raggedly for breath.

"Hurry!" Aziraphale urged over his shoulder. "The flow is about to hit the city!"

Crowley didn't answer, saving his breath for running. He didn't know how long or far they ran, but finally they broke free of the heavy cloud. Ash still drifted down like snowflakes, but Aziraphale didn't stop or let go of his hand until they had outrun even that. Not until they had splashed across a stream and Pompeii was far behind them did the angel slow to a stop, leaning over and panting hard.

Crowley fell to his knees at the stream to greedily gulp the cool water. It mixed with the ash coating his mouth, making him hack and spit out gobs of gunk. Crowley had never felt so miserable.

"Took too long gloating, did you?" Aziraphale wheezed, shooting a glower at the demon.

The implication froze Crowley in his tracks. He stared at Aziraphale, the accusation burning into his heart. "You think- that wasn't me," he gasped. Crowley's frame shuddered as he slowly shook his head and looked back towards the volcano—hidden in the cloud of its own eruption—with pain filled eyes. "There- there were kids in there," he whispered, voice breaking. "I thought I could get them out, but... They're all dead. All of 'em. I- Just get out of here and leave me then, if that's what you think! Stupid angel! I didn't do this!" He crumpled again. "There were kids..."

Aziraphale didn't leave, kneeling down next to him with an expression of sorrow. "I'm sorry, Crowley," he said contritely. "That was foolish of me to assume- I'm sorry, dear boy, please forgive me."

Crowley hung his head and nodded wordlessly. The angel had saved his life, after all, even while assuming the whole thing had been Crowley's doing.

"Oh, your wings are in such a state," Aziraphale fussed then, looking over the normally black feathers that were now streaked grey and white from the ash. "Let me get you cleaned up a bit, alright? Penance for my ugly assumption. And because I don't believe you'd have much luck on your own."

Well, he was right about that. Too exhausted to refuse and wanting nothing more than to be clean, Crowley nodded again.

Permission given, Aziraphale miracled a clean cloth out of nowhere and wet it in the stream. Then he sat behind Crowley and started to gently wipe away the layer of grime. While he did that, Crowley tiredly splashed water over his face and neck, rinsing so much ash away between the two of them that the stream ran cloudy where they were sitting. He finished before Aziraphale did; Crowley closed his eyes and sank into the comfort of having his feathers carefully cleaned, all the way from the tip of his primaries to the joint where the wings met his back and then back down over the other one.

His hurt at Aziraphale's accusation melted away along with the debris on his wings. To Crowley's surprise, the angel didn't stop even once he'd gone through several rags and the feathers were pristine again.

"Close your eyes," Aziraphale warned him, miracling a bucket now and trickling the water over Crowley's head to rinse out his long hair. Somehow the water was soapy and warm as the angel massaged it diligently into Crowley's scalp. It nearly put the demon to sleep, his throat closing up a bit at the gentle touch. He couldn't remember the last time someone had washed his hair. Had anyone ever? He didn't say a word, not trusting himself to speak, as the angel continued his careful ministrations.

"There we are," Aziraphale murmured, tipping one last bucket of warm water through his hair to wash everything away. "Now one last miracle—I doubt anyone on my side will notice, after all there's plenty that needs doing here—and you should feel like a new demon."

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley's ashy, dirty tunic was suddenly clean and shining white. Apparently the angel forgot that Crowley wore black, but it had been nearly white from the ash so he could be forgiven the mistake. Crowley would fix it later. Maybe. At any rate, it left him fully clean and fresh at last. Aziraphale crouched down beside him, a warm hand on Crowley's shoulder and a worried light in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" the angel asked softly. "I imagine this has... not been a good day."

"To say the least," Crowley replied, trying for flippant but sounding more downtrodden than anything. He cleared his throat. "But, uh, I guess I should thank you."

"Nonsense, you would have done the same-" Aziraphale cut off, turning an interesting shade of pink as though he'd said something he shouldn't have and wanted to have not said it.

Crowley wanted to tease him for it, but honestly he was too tired, so he nodded instead with all seriousness. "Yeah. Still," he said, shrugging. "Thanks." It was true, of course, he would have saved the angel if necessary. Crowley hated to be in anyone's debt, so maybe they should just make some sort of standing Arrangement, when the other needed help, they'd give it. Then it wasn't a favor, it was just... what they did. He'd mention it to Aziraphale sometime, see what the angel made of it. An Arrangement could come in really handy, the more he thought about it.

But that, he decided, soaking in the feeling of being clean and safe at last, was a thought for another day.

#whumptober2020 #no.27 #extreme weather #good omens #crowley whump #fanfiction #volcano #pompeii #pre-arrangement #wing grooming #hair washing #basically i'm a sucker for soft boys ^_^#Aziraphale to the rescue

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lady-wallace · 4 years ago

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Whumptober Day 25: “Think I’ll Just Collapse Here” (Good Omens)

Day Twenty-Five: “I Think I’ll Just Collapse Right Here”

Prompts Used: disorientation, ringing ears

Fandom: Good Omens

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Waterloo. A place seemingly of no consequence and yet, here they had ended up at the end of this whole bloody war.

Aziraphale fought the urge to flinch as another canon ball slammed into the ground all too close to him. He dusted the spray of dirt off of his uniform and out of his hair. He'd already lost his shako a long time ago—quite unfitting for an officer.

"Major Fell!"

The angel looked over to see the captain of the 95th Rifles and several of his men rushing over.

"Yes, what is it?" Aziraphale asked.

"Some of Boney's men are trying to flank us. Permission to reroute them, sir?"

Aziraphale nodded sharply. "Yes, let's go."

He set off with the sharp-shooters and soon saw the small troop of Bonaparte's men who were trying to cross the field, looking like they were going to take out some of Wellington's cannons.

The Rifles sank into some shrubbery, their green coats concealing them far better than Aziraphale's red, but there was little to be done about that now.

"Very good, captain, I leave judgment in your own hands," he said.

The captain nodded and raised his rifle.

Several of Bonaparte's men went down with the first volley, but one pulled something from a bag on his belt and Aziraphale saw what it was too late to do more than perform a miracle of protection around his men.

"Down!" he shouted as a bomb flew their way.

The concussive sound exploded around them and Aziraphale was flung back, shocked, slamming into the ground, ears ringing.

"Major!"

The voice was faint, but the Rifles captain was crouching over him, worried as he checked him over for wounds.

"I'm fine," Aziraphale forced himself to say, pushing himself up. "Go!"

The captain gave him a look, but obeyed, and Aziraphale attempted to push himself to his feet.

Another bomb went off a few feet from him and he slammed face-first into the ground, dirt raining down on top of him.

The ringing in his ears doubled and his head ached. He tried to push himself up, but dizziness overcame him and he collapsed back into the dirt.

Hands were on his back and rolling him over. The first thing he saw was a French uniform and he flailed, desperately trying to think of a miracle to get him away from the enemy, but hands pushed him down again and he looked up to see a familiar face staring down at him.

"Cr-ow-ley," he mouthed.

He hadn't seen the demon since Russia, when Crowley had nearly discorporated from the cold. Now it looked like his friend was here to return the favor.

The demon's mouth was opening and closing as if he were saying something, tugging on Aziraphale's uniform coat, but the angel couldn't hear anything past the ringing in his ears and it was very distracting.

It took everything in him to be able to figure out what Crowley was saying by reading his lips. "Come on," Crowley mouthed. "We're getting out of here."

He heaved Aziraphale up, but the angel swayed and clutched his head, the incessant ringing only seeming to get worse.

"Wait…" he tried, and tugged on Crowley's uniform. "Ene-my…"

Crowley rolled his eyes, but miracled himself into a British uniform. "Better? Let's get out of here."

More cannons were firing around them and Crowley hurried Aziraphale along as fast as the angel could stumble, which wasn't fast since it was a monumental effort just to put one foot in front of the other. That coupled with the chaos going on around them made it nearly impossible for Aziraphale to focus on anything.

He didn't even realize where they were at first, until he recognized his desk and realized Crowley must have brought him to his tent.

The demon settled him down on his cot and crouched in front of him, taking his face between his hands.

"Angel, can you hear me?" he asked, still silent to Aziraphale's ears.

The angel shook his head, swaying, as he motioned to his ears. "R-ringing."

Crowley pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. He simply lowered Aziraphale down on the cot and sat on the edge. "Just stay down. It should wear off."

But Aziraphale shook his head, which only set him off on another bout of dizziness, and his stomach clenched as it felt like he was about to fall off the cot.

He squeezed his eyes shut and terror overcame him suddenly. A sensation that an angel never wanted to experience. The feeling of freefall; not the joy of flight, but the terror of falling…

"Angel!"

The voice was muffled, but he could just hear it above the ringing in his ears. Someone had grabbed his shoulders and the sensation of falling halted. Aziraphale instantly clung to the person responsible and dragged his eyes open.

Crowley was staring at him with worried golden eyes.

"Angel, are you okay?"

"I'm…falling," Aziraphale whispered.

Something crossed Crowley's face, an unreadable expression, and he swallowed hard, but turned to the side, keeping one hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, grounding him. Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to focus. The ringing wasn't quite so bad now, and he could vaguely hear Crowley.

"You'll be okay. It will wear off." He produced a cloth and started to clean the dirt and blood off of Aziraphale from the battlefield. It was warm and comforting and he leaned back against the cot, closing his eyes as he let the demon care for him. He was really helpless to do anything else at that moment.

By the time Crowley finished with his ministrations, he was starting to feel a little less dizzy and though there was still some ringing in his ears, it was mostly gone. "Thank you," he finally said to the demon, cracking his eyes open.

Crowley shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. "'S'nothing. After all, just repaying the favor."

Aziraphale smiled gently back. He knew Crowley didn't like to be thanked, but he was grateful.

He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. "Is that what it feels like?" he asked after a while.

"What?" Crowley replied.

"Falling."

The demon looked at him sharply and Aziraphale instantly felt bad for bringing it up, blaming his muddled head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"No, it's fine," Crowley replied.

"It's terrifying," Aziraphale whispered. "Just the sensation of it. I couldn't imagine actually…" He pressed his lips together, unable to continue and sure Crowley didn't want to hear it.

"You're not falling anymore, angel," Crowley said after a moment. "Just relax. I'll stay here and make sure it doesn't happen again."

"But the battle…"

"Will go perfectly well without us there," Crowley said simply. "They always do, after all."

Aziraphale sighed but the demon was right. There was no way Wellington wasn't going to win this one.

So he closed his eyes and felt a hand rest on his shoulder to keep him grounded while he waited out the effects of the blast, the ringing getting less and less potent, until he was woken by the sounds of victory.

#whumptober2020 #no.25 #i think i'll just collapse right here thanks #disorientation #ringing ears #good omens #fanfiction #my fics #aziraphale whump #crowley to the rescue #historical #napoleonic

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agerefandom · 5 years ago

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Evenings of Eternity (Chapter 1)

Fandom: Good Omens (mostly book, but set in the present day with bits of tv show influence)

Words: 2,500

Summary: Crowley has been many things throughout the millenia, but he’s never been a child. He finds himself curious about the idea of childhood, and Aziraphale offers to help him explore that curiosity. (regressor!crowley, cg!aziraphale)

Content Warnings: brief mentions of angst/grief, discussions of k/nk in a neutral tone, passing reference to n$fw material.

Some Notes: I have two chapters of this story written, and they work well together as a stand-alone, but I plan to continue the series, so let me know if you have any requests for these two! There is no regression in Chapter One, only discussions of it. Also, I headcanon Crowley as asexual and genderfluid, and Aziraphale as gay and agender (as far as we can label non-human experiences of gender and sexuality). It has very little bearing on the story, but I thought I would mention it!

Read Chapter Two Here!

After several thousand years, Aziraphale thought he’d gotten used to Time, with all of its intricacies. But after the non-apocalypse, he found that it was moving differently.

Well, that wasn’t quite right: it all changed when he moved in with Crowley.

Moving in together seemed like the natural thing to do, after everything, and after a few months with no word from Upstairs nor Downstairs, they both warily agreed to try a kind of retirement. Settle down together as housemates who could enjoy the sunshine without worrying about being treasonous or hedonistic, who could call each other friends without looking over their shoulders for eavesdroppers.

So Aziraphale tucked away his bookshop into a little dimension where no one would find it, and the books wouldn’t gather dust. He packed all of his favourites, which was roughly half the shop, into a suitcase, and carried it out to where Crowley was leaning against the Bentley. Crowley helped him load it into the boot with a decent amount of grumbling, and that had been it for London.

Here on the South Downs, Crowley’s plants spread across their house. They were more verdant than ever, as Aziraphale’s disappointed looks had proven a more terrifying threat than anything Crowley had thrown at them. The plants mingled with the books, bloomed in the well-used kitchen, and lounged in the window frames, soaking up the occasional day of sunlight.

From the very start, Aziraphale found that living with Crowley was like discovering Earth all over again. He had started counting his new life not from the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, but from the date when they moved in together.

Reading felt different with Crowley curled in the chair beside him, flicking through news apps. Bathing felt different with Crowley humming along to a record in the living room. Nights felt different with Crowley sleeping through most of them, leaving the silence heavy around Aziraphale, and much lonelier than the nights had been in his bookshop, with the nightlife of Soho all around him.

The whole world was new twice-over, once from Adam’s decision to save the earth, and again from the mere proximity of Crowley.

Time was re-invented, not moving in the familiar decades that bled into centuries, but suddenly made into mornings, evenings, and late nights. The days came alive in a way that Aziraphale had never experienced, and soon enough he found himself lying down next to Crowley every night just for the pleasure of waking up to another lazy morning.

It was nine months and twelve days after they had moved in together, and Aziraphale was still counting the mornings in wonderment. Aziraphale was walking hand-in-hand with Crowley down a path that curved around a local playground. It was an unseasonably warm day, and all of the children had run out to the playground, their laughter filling the peaceful quiet as the two not-quite-men wandered through the sunlight.

Aziraphale took advantage of the busy surroundings to glance at Crowley, and was taken off-guard by his expression. Crowley was looking towards the playground with what could only be described as grief, raw and unguarded.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said softly, squeezing his hand. Crowley jolted, clearly startled, and turned to Aziraphale with his best attempt at a smile.

“Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale was face to face with his own reflection in Crowley’s sunglasses. He looked very anxious in the dark glass. “What’s wrong?” he asked, deciding not to avoid the point.

“Nothing at all.” Crowley sounded dismissive, but his head turned back towards the playground even as he spoke. There was a moment of silence, filled with the screeching laughter of the children. “They’re very… happy.” His voice was a mix of disdain and something else that Aziraphale couldn’t quite decipher.

“Do you want one?” Aziraphale regretted the question once he’d asked it. Crowley seemed genuinely taken aback.

“One what?”

“Well, you know. One of them.” Aziraphale gestured towards the playground helplessly. “An offspring, a child.”

“A baby?” Crowley laughed so hard that his sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing his familiar golden eyes. “Hell no! Have you seen our plants, angel? Do you remember Warlock? You want to try out a kid of our own?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand so that he could cross his arms across his chest. “I just thought that you- that you maybe- you seemed sad,” he finished lamely.

“Sad?” Crowley shrugged, a movement that rolled through his entire body. “Nah.”

Aziraphale gave him a Look and waited.

Crowley lasted five seconds before he spoke again. “Curious, maybe. If anything.”

“Curious?”

“I mean, we’ve been a lot of things. There have been a lot of years. Insurance salesmen, and magicians, and orators, and knights, and all that sort.”

“We have.” Aziraphale still looked back on his magician years with pride, although he couldn’t say the same for knighthood. Too much heavy armour and fainting in the woods.

“But we’ve never been, well, kids.” Crowley’s tone was trying very hard to be casual and wasn’t doing a good job of it.

“That’s true.” A silence fell, with Aziraphale looking at Crowley inquisitively, and Crowley looking at a nearby tree to avoid meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale was about to ask what Crowley meant, but just as he opened his mouth there was a sharp cry from behind them.

They spun around to see a young boy falling from a nearby tree, hitting a few branches on the way down before landing on the ground with a heavy thump. Both Aziraphale and Crowley started forwards, hands reached out for help, but the boy bounced to his feet before they had taken a full step.

The boy was laughing, and so were his friends above him. He rubbed his back where a root had definitely left a bruise, and then reached for the lowest tree-branch, restarting the climb without a second thought. Their laughter and shouts mingled with the others from the playground.

And there was that look again on Crowley’s face, that heart-wrenching loss and grief.

Aziraphale’s heart pressed against his chest as he reached for Crowley’s hand, stepping forwards to press a quick kiss against the not-quite-demon’s cheek. Aziraphale could tell that this was something that struck deep for Crowley, and even if he didn’t identify with Crowley’s fascination with a human childhood, he couldn’t overlook the desperate longing that he’d found in Crowley’s face.

Crowley smiled and leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s for a moment. Slowly, they started walking again, leaving the playground behind as they looped back towards the cliffs and the seaside, the serious moment passing.

Still, Aziraphale reflected, if there was any way to give Crowley what he obviously wanted so much, Aziraphale would find it.

If there was one thing Aziraphale loved the internet for, it was research. Well, more accurately it was the online auction sites where he could sit for hours bidding on a new book, trying not to curse at the other bidders. He tried to leave the fast-moving internet to Crowley and the hip young people, but it had its uses from time to time.

Crowley gave an arched eyebrow, but didn’t comment when Aziraphale sat down in his reading-chair with a tablet instead of his usual hardcover. The two of them sat beside each other, together in their own spaces, as was their afternoon habit, and tapped away on their separate screens.

Aziraphale was curious: while he and Crowley had been young, they had come into existence before Earthly time was created, and before the idea of growth had really been developed. They had no childhood at all, but surely some humans had nostalgia for their childhoods. Something that they might want to recapture, something that Aziraphale could offer to Crowley.

Regression therapy was the first thing that Aziraphale wandered through pages of research on, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to use it. Crowley had no prior childhood mindset, no natural place of nostalgia or safety to return to. Neither of them, Aziraphale realized, had ever been ‘safe’ in the way a child was supposed to be, never cherished unconditionally nor given the freedom to make mistakes. More and more, he understood the longing that had etched itself into the lines of Crowley’s face on the path by the playground.

Age regression and nostalgia-centered communities gave Aziraphale a bit more to go on, more varied and personal approaches to what it meant to long for a childhood, what it looked like to recreate or reclaim it. Some of the information was definitely relevant, and he found himself bookmarking several pages for later.

Aziraphale made a side-track into age-play communities, but quickly wrote them off. Power dynamics in the bedroom weren’t foreign to him, but Crowley had never shown an interest in any sins of the flesh, not as an active demon and certainly not since the apocalypse. Aziraphale noted some of the nonsexual elements anyways, structures of power and control designed to give a stricter space in which someone could give up responsibility, knowing that punishment was only a foot-stomp away.

He found himself returning to the regression pages, flicking through the various things that people associated with childhood and recreating their childhood mindsets. In his own mind, he was making a list of ideas and questions to bring up whenever it came up again naturally. They had centuries, after all, and there was no rush.

“What are you smiling about over there?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale glanced up, surprised to know that Crowley had been watching him, and more surprised to feel that his lips were indeed curled into a smile.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply and faltered, knowing that Crowley wouldn’t be happy to hear that Aziraphale had been thinking about buying him a snake plushie and wondering exactly how adorable Crowley would be if he fell asleep while holding said plushie.

Crowley’s eyebrows raised even higher at Aziraphale’s silence.

“Are you looking at smut in the living room, angel?” His tone was teasing, and Aziraphale frowned at him.

“No, I was-” Aziraphale sighed and decided to see how Crowley reacted to the truth. “I was researching some things, after what you said the other day.” He paused, and Crowley gestured for him to elaborate. “About being curious, and human childhoods. I had some ideas, but I wanted to look into it first.”

“What did you find?” Crowley asked. Again, that casual veneer over a deep well of mingled interest and anxiety. Aziraphale put his tablet down on his lap and folded his hands over it.

“There are a few approaches to it, from what I saw. Many of them are dependent on human minds and memories, which isn’t applicable to our situation. There are some that explore dynamics of control: finding comfort or pleasure in giving up control to a responsible adult figure, while the other party is forcibly maintained as a child.” Crowley’s mouth screwed up at that, and Aziraphale smiled. “I did assume that wasn’t a direction you wanted to go in. We’ve both had our share of being told what to be, I think.”

Crowley set his tablet down as well, tapping black nails against the metal on the sides. “Is that it?”

“No, I also found some things that were more promising. Communities where the person is more in control of their own regression, and the caregiver is optional. A person who is there to make sure they stay safe while they’re exploring the world as a child. Giving them snacks, and affection, and removing any dangers.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s nails continued tapping. “I don’t know what it would be like.”

“To try being a child?”

“I don’t know what children are supposed to be like.” Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale felt a renewed wave of gratefulness that he had stopped wearing his sunglasses in the house. The ability to see the anxiety in Crowley’s amber eyes was more intimate than anything Aziraphale had shared with someone else before. “I won’t be very good at it.”

“My dear, I don’t need you to be anything like a human child,” Aziraphale said. “You can be anything you want to be and I’ll be here for you, I’m sure you know that.”

Crowley dipped his head, directing a badly-suppressed smile towards his knees. “You’re a nightmare, angel. You should write Hallmark cards.”

“Hallmark cards were all your lot,” Aziraphale sniffed, knowing quite well that it was a lie. “I was being sincere.”

“Of course.” Crowley flipped his tablet carelessly onto the floor and scooted over on the couch, a wordless invitation that Aziraphale accepted as soon as it was made. He sat beside Crowley with their legs pressing together and looked at their reflection in the dark screen of the TV in front of them.

“Do you want to try it sometime? I could get you presents, if you wanted. And we could go for a walk around the backyard.” Their cottage was a good way from any other people, the rolling hills stretching between the houses. Aziraphale imagined walking with Crowley, making sure that he didn’t get too close to the cliff edges, and the thought made him smile again. He wouldn’t mind taking closer care of Crowley, if such a thing were permitted now and then. “Or you could try it by yourself, the first few times, and see how it feels.”

“No, I- I think I’d like to try it together. If you would want to.” Crowley bumped his shoulder into Aziraphale’s. “I think it would be easier with someone else sharing the, the same idea. So that I didn’t have to make it up myself from scratch.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale rested an arm on the back of the couch, and Crowley leaned against him. Aziraphale knew that if he reached for Crowley’s hand, his fingers would be chilled. Crowley was still a little bit cold-blooded, glad for every bit of body heat that he could steal from Aziraphale. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Hallmark card,” Crowley muttered again, and Aziraphale gave him a little kiss on the top of his head as punishment.

Unfortunately, Crowley didn’t seem to mind much at all.

#agere #sfw agere #agere fic #agere fics #fandom agere #good omens agere #nsre #sfw age regression #agere writing #good omens #regressor!crowley #my fics #chapter two coming soon #evenings of eternity #chapter two should be up in the next couple days! it's all written it just needs editing

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ineffable-dads · 5 years ago

Text

Questions

Ineffable Husbands, Ineffable Dads, Protective!Aziraphale, Protective!Crowley, slight homophobic thoughts on the teacher’s part

Summary: Isabelle gets in trouble for asking questions and the teacher calls her Dads in for a talk. You can imagine how they feel about that.

A/N: Please COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS! Also, let me know if any of you would like to be tagged in up coming one-shots.

Word Count: 2.8K

Mrs. Darling sat patiently at her desk not bothering to make conversation with the little girl sitting on the other side. It had been ten minutes since the last bell rang and both Mrs. Darling and Isabelle were waiting for Isabelle’s fathers to arrive.

The girl kept her head down, twiddling her thumbs, swinging her legs and all the other little motions children do when they don’t want to think about something.

Mrs. Darling, again, paid no mind. Isabelle was being punished after all. Some good constructive silence was exactly what she needed.

Isabelle had been asking questions again. Normally this was not such a bad thing. In fact, most teachers were encouraged to indulge in such flights of fancy. However, Isabelle had a habit of asking all the wrong questions.

Today for instance they were learning about butterflies. Most of the children asked the usual questions: How long does it take? What do we do with them afterwards? Can we keep them? And so on.

Isabelle, however, opened with the silliest question Mrs. Darling had heard from a child; Why are they born larva, why can’t they just start off as butterflies?

The children had laughed, and Mrs. Darling had been tempted to do so as well, but the slight pout that came to the girl’s face restrained her.

“That’s so stupid,” one of the boys said over the noise.

“It’s not stupid!” Isabelle snapped. “Why can’t they just be butterflies? It seems like an awful amount of trouble.”

Mrs. Darling took a deep breath and gathered herself before putting on a well-practiced smile.

“You see dear, they have to be larva. Their born into eggs too small to suddenly be butterflies.”

Isabelle’s brows furrowed for a moment, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “So why don’t they have bigger eggs? Or start small and get really big?”

Mrs. Darling let out a small sigh. “It’s just not the way it is.”

“But why though?”

“It’s the way nature made them.”

“Well nature isn’t very good at planning then, is it?”

The students let out another laugh, but this time it wasn’t directed at Isabelle. Some of them were looking at right at her.

Mrs. Darling stiffened, her lip going into a firm line.

“Isabelle, I do not appreciate you making a spectacle of yourself in my classroom.”

“I’m not making a spectacle,” she defended. “I’m just asking.”

“Well stop asking.”

“Why though?”

“Because there isn’t an answer.”

“Well there has to be an answer,” she insisted. “Just because you don’t know it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

The room went silent. All of the children were now looking between Isabelle and Mrs. Darling as the tension grew, a tension Isabelle seemed completely unaware of.

“What did you say to me?” asked Mrs. Darling sharply.

“I said just because you don’t know the answer, doesn’t mean it’s not there.” There wasn’t a hint of apology in her tone, and that did it more than anything.

With concentrated frustration, Mrs. Darling straightened her back to her full height.

“Isabelle, go to the principal’s office.”

The words hit in the same way one might be hit with a feather, if it was strapped to a brick. It was a technique all teachers obtain after spending a few years reining in seven-year olds. It reminded children at the end of the day they were just tiny humans whose safety and peace of mind were fully reliant on bigger humans. Normally, it got the job done, but Isabelle was apparently one of those tiny humans who were convinced they were about the same size as the larger ones.

“But why?”

“Because you are going to stay there until we are finished with class.”

“But why?”

“You are being punished, that’s why.”

That got Isabelle’s attention, her annoyed pout morphing in confused frustration. “But I didn’t do anything!”

“Office now!” snapped Mrs. Darling, deciding to forgo the feather and go right to the brick.

Isabelle blinked, but it wasn’t out of surprise or fear, rather uncertainty. An odd thought then occurred to Mrs. Darling; Isabelle had never been yelled at by an adult before.

This was, of course, impossible, but as Isabelle looked around the room, it seemed the only logical explanation. She appeared looking to her fellow students for how she was supposed to react.

All of the children were showing their own signs of discomfort; some looking at the desk, others stiff with shock, and all of them fully aware if they made a sound Mrs. Darling’s anger would be turned on them.

Isabelle got at least part of the message. She didn’t make eye contact again, but her gait held more confusion then then the intended shame. She left the room without another word.

After a small break, Mrs. Darling had managed to catch Mr. Crowley at home. She explained Isabelle had caused a disruption in class and she needed to speak with him and his husband immediately after school ended. And so ten minutes after the bell she and Isabelle sat in the classroom awaiting their arrival.

They didn’t have to wait much longer than that, as the door opened.

Mrs. Darling knew well in advanced Isabelle came from a rather unconventional household. Not that there was anything wrong with having two fathers. Not at all in Mrs. Darling’s books, or rather there wasn’t anything wrong with it on paper. In practice, however, Mrs. Darling felt children needed both a paternal and maternal figure in their lives in order to balance everything out. Two men, even two women couldn’t hope to raise a child in a truly healthy, normal way. But she supposed that was where people like her stepped in. Proper adults who could make up the difference. And looking at Isabelle’s fathers now, it was obvious there was quite a bit to make up for.

The pair of them were a sight to behold. An example of opposites if Mrs. Darling had ever saw them. While one wore off white the other wore off black. Where Mr. Fell was round, Mr. Crowley was slim. And while Mr. Fell’s look of concern was directed right at Isabelle, Mr. Crowley’s look of contempt was directed right at her.

“Isabelle,” Mrs. Darling said, cutting through the silence. “Would you wait outside please?”

Isabelle nodded, continuing to not say a word as she headed toward the door.

Mr. Fell stopped her before she could, crouching down to her level. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and took a moment to dot her cheeks with it.

Mrs. Darling hadn’t realized Isabelle had been crying.

“It’s alright Belle,” he assured, quietly. “We’ll get this whole thing sorted out and pop off right back home.”

Isabelle only nodded, clearly not trusting her voice.

Mrs. Darling suppressed a huff of frustration. So, they were those kinds of parents; taking the word of the child over the word of a fellow adult. It was an abhorrent epidemic as far as she was concerned. After all, children had more reason to lie than adults. She was just happy Isabelle decided to keep quiet as to not taint the truth before she could talk to her fathers.

Isabelle then looked up and away toward her other father.

It was hard to read his expression through the tinted sunglasses, but the small nod and even smaller tick upward of his lip seemed to be enough for Isabelle. She walked out of the room then, handkerchief in hand leaving just Mrs. Darling, Mr. Crowley, and Mr. Fell to themselves.

“Please have a seat,” she greeted, gesturing them to the two chairs in front of her desk.

They each did, Mr. Fell sitting fully up right with his hands placed dutifully in his lap. Mr. Crowley meanwhile made himself comfortable, which was to say, leaning back as far as he could, crossed arms and legs spread wide.

This was going to be a long conversation.

“Now I’m sure Mr. Crowley has informed you as to why I asked you here,” she said, deciding Mr. Fell was going to be the easier of the two to talk to.

“Yes, he did,” Mr. Fell replied. “But I don’t think either of us are clear on the details. What sort of disturbance did she cause? Nobody is hurt, are they? Isabelle did seem rather upset.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure that’s just guilt manifesting itself,” Mrs. Darling waved off. “Isabelle made a point of mocking me in front of the class today.”

Mr. Crowley let out a snort, earning a reproachful glare from his partner.

“What?” he asked.

Mr. Fell let out a small sigh before turning his attention back to Mrs. Darling.

“I will say that sounds rather unlike her,” he said. “What exactly did she say?”

“She accused me of not knowing the answer to a question.”

“Well did you?” It was Mr. Crowley who spoke, giving her a moment’s pause.

“Did I what?”

“Did you know the answer,” he said it slowly, and she got the vague impression she was being mocked again.

“Well, no…”

“So Izz didn’t accuse you of anything, she just stated a fact.”

Mrs. Darling was now certain the man was laughing at her. At least now she knew were Isabelle got it from.

“She was asking improper questions,” she replied, tightly.

“What’s wrong with asking questions?”

Mr. Crowley leaned forward forcing Mrs. Darling to meet his gaze. She immediately regretted it. There was something about his eyes. Wave lengths of light particles entered her pupils sending off a chain reaction of neural impulses to her brain, accumulating into an image of slitted yellow eyes burning with all the fires of hell over the top of his glasses. The laws of physics and human physiology had gone through a lot of trouble to present her with this information, but it was all for not. Somewhere in the process her mind decided what she was seeing was impossible and therefor, couldn’t exist. If someone were to ask her what color Mr. Crowley’s eyes were, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. This also had the side effect of not giving her body the signals to run in the opposite direction.

“She asked me why butterflies can’t just be born butterflies and had to go through a larva stage first,” she said, caring on with the confidence of naivety. “That’s not a question you ask if you’re looking for an answer. It’s a question to ask to make the other person appear foolish. Isabelle has a habit of asking these sorts of disingenuous questions, and frankly somebody has to talk to her about it.”

Mr. Crowley lip tightened. It was only then Mrs. Darling noticed just how tightly balled his knuckles were.

“And by talk to her, you mean punish.”

“If that becomes necessary, yes.”

There was a flash behind his glasses which cut through the cloud keeping Mrs. Darling from seeing his eyes straight to the part of her brain which still remembered to climb the nearest tree when it saw something with large pointed teeth.

Mr. Fell’s place a hand on Mr. Crowley’s arm, rubbing it gently. The tension didn’t leave the other man’s shoulders, but it did make Mrs. Darlings urge to crawl out the window slightly less urgent.

“So, let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,” said Mr. Fell, in a tone which acted as a thin layer of ice keeping one from seeing the frozen rushing river underneath. “You brought us here with the intention of us speaking with Isabelle about asking questions in class because you’re too prideful to admit when you don’t know the answer.”

“It’s not a matter of pride,” she defended. “It’s a matter of maintaining authority in the classroom.”

“By making yourself appear infallible.”

“I’m the teacher!” she snapped. “Children need to see me as an authority they can trust.”

“So don’t lie to them,” interjected Mr. Crowley. “If you don’t know the answer. You don’t know the answer. You’re human. You’re allowed to not know things.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Right, the point is to teach children to trust any adult with authority over them. I’m sure that won’t have any long-term consequences.”

Mrs. Darling was about to say something along the lines of “listen to me you washed out punk rocker, the seventies called and would like to remind you, you lost”, but she never got the chance as Mr. Fell let out a distracting cough.

“It seems to me we’re at an impasse,” he said. “You want us to punish Isabelle for embarrassing you. While we, on the other hand, rather not, because from what you’ve described, it seems to me, Isabelle hasn’t truly done anything wrong.”

Mrs. Darling opened her mouth to interject, but the man continued on.

“We will, however, take the time to explain when asking questions is no longer beneficial and it might be best to simply look it up when she gets home. If she does ask questions you don’t know the answer to, my suggestion is to just say “I don’t know”. Personally, I think the world would be a much more pleasant place if now and again people just said “I don’t know”. What do you think my dear?”

Mr. Crowley didn’t look to the other man, his gaze never leaving Mrs. Darling. It made her uncomfortable. It was an odd feeling being stared down by something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Seems fair to me,” he finally said.

“Wonderful,” Mr. Fell said, cheerfully. “And, Mrs. Darling, does that sounds reasonable to you?”

She looked to him, hoping to find some reprieve from Mr. Crowley’s face only to be met by something else. Her mind had an easier time deciding that his eyes were truly there, it was the number of them she was having trouble recollecting.

“I…” Her mind was out of focus. That feeling of running up a tree was gone, and the more complex feeling of need to appeal to a higher unseen and unknowable authority for some semblance of mercy was starting to take over.

“Y-Yes. I think that is quite reasonable.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Fell said with a smile.

His face became clear again with just the normal two blue eyes twinkling back at her.

All she could do was nod. She was left with the feeling just having been about to step off a curve only to be pulled away at the last minute just before a delivery truck turned a blind corner. It had taken a lot out of her.

Mr. Fell didn’t seem to notice. “Well, if that’s all settled, I think we better be off. Crowley?”

“Right,” he said, getting up from his chair and taking the lead out the door.

“It was lovely to meet you,” Mr. Fell said pleasantly before quickly following behind.

Mrs. Darling stood in stunned silence only truly being able to half remember the conversation. Regardless in the ensuing weeks the phrase “I don’t know” started to enter her regular vocabulary.

Others quickly noted her change in demeanor. She didn’t seem as on edge as before and had developed sudden willingness to listen to others who did, in fact, know what they were talking about. She became more open to new ideas, and it was generally agreed upon that whatever made her decide to adopt this phrase had changed her for the better.

Her students felt it most acutely. The general fear about raising their hands started to dissipate and questions like “how do you spell weird” started to be replaced with “why is weird spelled that way”. However, nobody bothered to ask what had brought on this change. Some of the smarter kids suspected something, and occasionally turned their gaze to Isabelle after a fellow student asked a particularly odd question.

Isabelle, for her part, kept mostly to herself. She still asked questions. She was seven after all and being at it for so long made it impossible for her to stop. However, she did make a point to more properly read the room, and occasionally write a small note on her paper whenever are rather hard question crossed her mind.

“Humans are quiet sensitive Belle,” Papa had explained to her. “Knowing that they don’t know something makes them uncomfortable. Always has.”

They never told her to stop though. Her Dad made a point of that, going so far as he make her promise.

“Don’t you ever stop asking questions,” he had told her. “You understand? I don’t ever want you to feel like you need to stop asking questions ever, and don’t let anyone tell you, you should. Not me. Not Aziraphale. Not anyone. Promise me. Isabelle I need you to promise me that you’ll never stop asking questions.”

She did, and she would never break that promise even years and years after. After all, just because you don’t know the answer, doesn’t mean it’s not there.

#ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens #anthony j crowley #ineffable dads #isabelle crowley

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impishnature · 5 years ago

Text

It’s You

AO3 Fandom: Good Omens Rating: G Prompt: @pomrania

Summary: Aziraphale makes a new friend. Crowley is less than impressed. A/N: I changed it a bit just because I felt like it would otherwise get huge. Think of this more perhaps as the prelude to the game?

"What is that on your front door step?"

"It's you."

Crowley stopped his movement through the door, eyebrows furrowing behind dark sunglasses as the thing in question slunk in a winding way through his legs and into the bookshop as if it owned the place.

Which Crowley very much disagreed with.

"Me? What do you mean it's me?"

He heard Aziraphale laugh before he saw him, snapping out of his indignant thoughts to shuffle into the room where a scraggly looking black cat was winding it's way in and out of Aziraphale's legs before promptly jumping up to sit on the arm of his chair, deigning him worthy to give him scritches whilst staring at Crowley as if daring him to try.

"That. See that look?" Aziraphale gave him a smug grin. "It's like you most days. It's got such a scowl."

"I don't scowl."

"You're literally scowling, right now."

Crowley huffed, mouth twisting into a thin line. "How dare you. I am a snake, not some- not a - domesticated cat!"

"I know that!" Aziraphale frowned, still fussing the cat with one hand, and Crowley was determinedly not thinking about how nice it would be for the other to run his hand through his hair like that. "It's just so very you in its mannerisms! It glares at my customers, it grumbles if it gets interrupted, but for some reason he keeps coming back and-" Aziraphale paused in his sentence, twisting it around as if worried. "-it seems to like me?"

"You're an Angel. Things like you. That's just a given."

"This is different though. Like you're different."

"Preposterous. Absolutely preposterous." Crowley crossed his arms, burning holes into the cat that only sniffed and turned towards Aziraphale instead of eyeing him anymore. He wasn't sure if he'd won the staring match or whether it had deigned him too irrelevant to even keep an eye on.

Either way, he wasn't sure he liked it.

"I stick by it."

"Fine. Keep your cat." Crowley didn't know why he was so offended by this but he couldn't find it in him to stop.

He wasn't some pet.

He wasn't so easily replaceable.

"Crowley? I thought we were-"

"Have lunch with your cat."

The door was clicking shut behind him before he realised quite how ridiculous he was being.

~~~

Aziraphale felt a nudge beside him, a soft curious mew and a cold wet nose. He made a soft shocked noise, glancing down, the cat staring back at him as if asking what was wrong before jumping up beside him once more.

It had been hours since Crowley had stormed off. He'd expected him to sheepishly come back by now but it was getting dark and he still wasn't sure what to make of it all.

"He realises it was all a joke, right?" He turned to the cat as if he would have the answers but the cat just curled up once more, giving him a look that said it wasn't his problem. "You really are the spitting image of him."

The phone buzzed beside him, making him jump and the cat grumble at the sudden movement, ears flattening as he settled again. Aziraphale scrambled for the small device, relieved that Crowley had made him get one and that he would be the only person contacting him.

You.

His heart fell. Was that it? Had he mistyped and meant to send more?

The phone buzzed again before he could overthink, an image popping up of a overly fluffy lamb tripping over it's own feet.

"I'm sorry?" The words came out without thought, confusion taking over as he stared at the image. Where had it even come from? He couldn't reply however as the phone continued to buzz.

You.

This time it was a pure white, curly furred cat, trying for elegant but falling rather more into scruffy category as it lounged across an entire sofa all on it's own.

It was still cute though.

Aziraphale laughed. "I guess that's a compliment?" There was a soft chirp beside him as he rested his hand on the warm black cat beside him. "I guess that ones because of you." He zoned out for a moment, thoughts trailing to the future. "Two cats wouldn't be a hardship... it would be rather nice actually..."

The phone buzzed again, dragging him back from his musings. He almost dropped the phone, wondering if somehow Crowley had heard his wishful thinking.

You.

Aziraphale hummed, wondering what small slight would befall him this time. Whatever Crowley had planned for this small game, it was hardly working-

An image of a London pigeon filled his screen.

It sat, hoarding what looked like an entire takeaway meal to itself, happily chomping away as if it had garnered itself a rather large prey.

"Excuse me?"

The images kept coming. Obviously these weren't just some images that Crowley had found but was instead photographing the pigeon like they were having some strange vengeful photo shoot. It even sat in Crowley's hand at one point, gleefully snipping at the food he held there.

He could almost see Crowley's smirk through the phone.

You.

An indignant squawk escaped him.

OK, maybe he could see now why Crowley had taken offence.

But a pigeon? Really? Not to mention a London pigeon?

He was nothing like a pigeon! Not like-

There was a soft questioning mew beside him.

Aziraphale turned to the cat, who opened both eyes to stare at him as if this was all his own fault, the phone continuing to buzz over and over in his hand.

"Oh dear, what have I started?"

~~~

"Are you quite finished now?"

Crowley finally slunk back into the bookshop, eyes darting to the black cat basking in a patch of sunlight that he would happily curl up in. It opened one eye at him judgmentally, giving a soft disdainful noise before ignoring him again in favour of watching the angel flit around the room.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Aziraphale sighed, slowing down in his movements. "You know, I never meant to offend-"

"No, I get it." Crowley shrugged, teeth showing in a childish grin. "Just had a lot of fun going 'look it's you' so I can't promise I'll stop."

Aziraphale shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "Well, as long as you're not angry."

"Nah." Crowley sat next to the cat taking a small portion of the sunlight on his back but keeping his distance, both of them happy to ignore the other as long as it stayed that way.

"I guess we are rather alike."

"Rather-"

"Don't push it, Angel."

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #Good Omens Fanfiction

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linebreaker · 5 years ago

Text

Birthmark

Also on AO3.

Warnings: light angst; brief mentions of past violence; mentions of past discorporation; discussions of historical anti-Semitism and violence against Jewish people.

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Aziraphale first noticed the mark one morning when Crowley was puttering around the kitchen. The buttery sunlight was filtering through the herbs in the cottage window and fat bees were bumbling about outside, bumping against the glass in their search for flowers.

Crowley had just awoken from one of his week-long naps and stumbled out into the kitchen. Aziraphale regarded him over his reading glasses. He looked soft and sleep-worn, red hair flattened charmingly on one side. His yellow eyes were half-lidded and he was rubbing at one of them with his knuckles.

“Coffee?” he grunted.

“Afraid there’s nothing fresh, dear, but I can—” Crowley flapped his hands at him when Aziraphale went to snap his fingers.

“No, no, no. No. I can get it,” he muttered and then promptly banged his hip against the table corner as he made for the kettle. “Shit!”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath of laughter. “If you insist. That’s what you get for doing it the hard way.”

“It doesn’t taste the same when it’s miracled.”

Looking no more alert—but decidedly more aggravated—than he had before, Crowley went about preparing the kettle. Aziraphale’s morning paper was open in front of him, but it was mostly for show now. He enjoyed watching the demon do mundane things like cook and tend to his garden, so he took ample time to glance up and observe between each line he read.

—carry out services themselves rather than employ private firms, the chancellor has said. John McDonnell said he—

Crowley was still in his sleep clothes. He normally kept to his waistcoats and jackets and sinful trousers, but he’d been noticeably more lax in his apparel over the last few months of their retirement. Aziraphale didn’t mind.

—wants to limit the outsourcing of services such as bin collections by obliging councils to run them—

His loose-fitting pyjama bottoms were slung low on his hips. The long-sleeved grey shirt he wore looked soft, its collar wide enough to drape aside and expose a portion of the demon’s shoulder. Aziraphale let his eyes trace along his skin, forming constellations out of the freckles there.

—when existing private contracts expire. Cleaning and school dinners could also be taken back under the plans. The government—

Crowley was barefoot. As he filled the kettle, Aziraphale watched his toes curl against the tile. He rocked up onto the pads of his feet, exposing their delicate arches briefly, before settling again.

—said decisions should be left with local councils. The Confederation of British Industry said Labour’s proposal was “an extreme move devoid of evidence yet—

He managed to get the kettle on without further incident and turned to rest against the counter. With his back to the window, the morning light streamed in around like a halo, silhouetting him. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams of sunlight.

—dripping in dogma.” In a speech on Saturday, Mr. McDonnell said outsourced contracts were costly and lacked accountability as decisions—

“What’re you looking at, angel?” Crowley asked when he glanced up again. The sunlight made it hard to see his face, but Aziraphale thought he sounded amused.

He smiled and, heart stuttering, answered, “You.”

Crowley froze momentarily. Aziraphale watched as his entire frame went rigid, his edges rippling like a mirage in the desert, before he relaxed again. He scoffed and grumbled something incomprehensible, then turned away again.

Something small and fragile unfurled in Aziraphale’s chest like a blooming flower. He smiled to himself and went back to his paper.

It wasn’t much longer before the kettle started whistling. Crowley moved to take it off the flame and go about preparing his coffee. It was while he was reaching to retrieve (see: steal) Aziraphale’s novelty angel mug off of the top shelf that his shirt rode up to reveal a band of skin. Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn briefly to the divots at the base of the demon’s spine, a little thrill running through him at the sight of them.

Then he noticed the mark.

It was a swath of skin—paler than that which surrounded it, a small swirl of white—that sat just above the jut of Crowley’s hip. Aziraphale squinted, but the shirt fell down and obscured it from view before he could get a decent look.

“Crowley, what is that?”

“Hm?” He was distracted adding heaps of instant coffee to his mug. Personally, Aziraphale detested the stuff, but Crowley was unaccountably attached. Probably because he’d had a hand in inventing it. “What’s what?”

“That mark—there, on your side.”

Crowley finished his preparations and took a sip, smacking his lips in satisfaction. Then he seemed to take in Aziraphale’s question. He paused, rim of the mug pressed against his mouth, and blinked his reptilian eyes at him. “Huh?”

Aziraphale scowled at him as he made his way over to the table—he had a feeling that the demon was being deliberately obtuse. “What is that mark? I don’t think I’ve seen that before.”

Crowley looked bemused as he took his seat across from Aziraphale, mug firmly clutched between his palms. “Never seen it before? You’ve seen me without my clothes on, angel.”

He lifted one eyebrow suggestively and Aziraphale felt his face go hot. Images flashed through his mind—Crowley beneath him, his sweat-slicked thighs up around Aziraphale’s hips, his body arching up like a bow and his slitted pupils blown wide as he came—and he quickly looked away.

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat and focused on folding his paper for a moment. “I was rather preoccupied at the time.”

When he glanced up again, he noticed that Crowley was sporting a lopsided grin and there was a rather fetching shade of pink staining his cheeks. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes. “You know perfectly well that I was, you wicked thing, so stop trying to distract me. What is that mark?” he asked again, pulling off his reading glasses and pointing them at the demon. He knew he sounded petulant, but he was terribly curious.

Crowley’s grin faded slowly, an ember burning out until it curled black and lifeless at the corner of his mouth. He shrugged and the wide neck of his shirt draped further down his shoulder. “That mark’s the reason I hate the 14th century.”

Aziraphale, whose gaze had been inextricably drawn to the gentle slope of demonic clavicle that was now on display, blinked and looked back up into his eyes. “What?”

“Well,” Crowley quickly amended, “it’s the main reason, anyway.”

“I thought you once told me that you hated the 14th century because of the Papal Schism?” Aziraphale asked.

“That was certainly part of it, yes,” he confirmed and took a sip of coffee. He looked more alert now. The soft, sleep-mussed air that hung around him after his naps was quickly dissipating. “As well as that Hundred Year War thing and The Plague.”

“As I recall, those were both terrible things that you took credit for,” Aziraphale reminded him with a quirked eyebrow. As much as Crowley seemed to despise the 14th century, it hadn’t been all fun-and-games for Aziraphale, either. Three simultaneous popes, millions dead, revolts and uprisings—it was all enough to make an angel crazy.

“Yes,” Crowley whined, slumping forward in his seat dramatically. “It was full of terrible things and I was terribly busy.”

“Oh, well, you poor dear.”

Crowley scoffed. “Angel, I get the distinct impression that your sympathy is not entirely genuine.”

“My sympathy for devils—you or otherwise—is limited, but I do genuinely adore you, so do with that as you will.”

“I shall,” Crowley said with an absurd waggle of his eyebrows. Aziraphale’s stomach swooped and he rolled his eyes with a fond tolerance.

“Crowley,” he said mildly and tried again. “The mark on your side?”

The demon’s bright yellow eyes regarded him over the top of his mug and, for the first time, Aziraphale could see weary resignation in them. It suddenly struck him how difficult Crowley was making this. A frisson of worry ran down his spine.

“Is—is there something you don’t want me to know? I mean, if so—” he hastened to say when Crowley’s mouth opened. “—that’s perfectly fine. We don’t have to tell each other everything. I just—Well, I just thought—”

“It was an exorcist.”

The rest of Aziraphale’s sentence died in his throat. He felt it whither and turn to dust, coating his tongue with bitter ash. He coughed and asked, “I, uh—beg pardon?”

“An exorcist gave me this mark,” Crowley repeated calmly and gestured towards his left side with a nod of his head. He’d put his mug down and was now focused on Aziraphale. “Back in 1349.”

Aziraphale’s mind began to race. 1349? Where did this happen? Italy? It must have been. Wasn’t I in Italy around that time? Why didn’t he call me for help? Unless—no, we still weren’t really considered acquaintances then, were we? Let alone friends. I don’t think The Arrangement was even in place for another few hundred years—

“Stop.”

The gentle command cut through his increasingly distressed train of thought and Aziraphale jerked in his seat. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and blinked up at Crowley. At some point, he had gotten up and come around to stand beside Aziraphale’s chair, half-sitting on the edge of the table.

“W-what?” he asked, thrown by the demon’s sudden proximity and still reeling from his confession. An exorcist. Why would—

“I said stop.”

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley crossed his arms with a beleaguered sigh and stared down at him. He’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and Aziraphale’s heart gave a squeeze at the dusting of light freckles he could see across his skin.

“I know your brain,” Crowley said. “I know it’s going hell for leather right now trying to figure everything out and I’m sure you’ve somehow managed to blame yourself.”

Aziraphale swallowed and looked away, his eyes lowering to study the wood grain of the table.

“Angel, we weren’t even friends back then,” Crowley said in exasperation, echoing his earlier thoughts. Aziraphale looked back up at him. “You thinking that you were in some way responsible for a run of bad luck I had nearly 700 years ago is just your—” He stammered briefly, jostling his shoulders like he was trying to knock the right words loose. “—angelic guilt or whatever.”

“You saved me more times than I can count and I couldn’t even—”

“I saved myself,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You shouldn’t have had to,” he said softly, heart fluttering like a wounded bird within the cage of his ribs.

Crowley made one of his incoherent little noises and then turned away, casting his angular features into profile. The corner of his mouth was pulled down in a frown, jaw grinding back and forth. Aziraphale wanted to reach out to him—to press love in the shape of fingerprints into his warm skin. However, he didn’t think his touch would be well-received at the moment.

Instead, he asked, “Will you tell me about it?”

Crowley looked at him out of the corner of his eye, seeming to consider him. “I think it’ll just upset you,” he finally said.

“I’m afraid that ship has sailed, my dear,” Aziraphale told him. His throat squeezed around the words as he spoke them, rasping against them until they were little more than a whisper. “Please tell me.”

The sigh that passed Crowley’s lips was an ancient thing—something he’d been carrying around for nearly a millennium in his chest. He rolled his neck back and forth. Then he said, “It was in Basel.”

“Switzerland?” Aziraphale asked, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t Switzerland at the time, but the sentiment is the same. That’s where it happened. Y-you remember how, after The Black Plague, there were—well, um, there was a lot of hatred towards the Jewish community?”

Aziraphale nodded once, a grim set to his mouth. “I remember,” he said. “The pogroms.”

The Jewish Black Death massacres. They’d started up in 1348 as a result of the plague sweeping across Europe and had lasted for a few years. Christians killing Jews because they thought they were somehow responsible for the disease that had ravaged the continent—that they had invoked the wrath of God or were poisoning the well water. Ridiculous, Aziraphale thought viciously.

Crowley uncrossed his arms so that he could gesticulate while he spoke. “Right. It was a crazy time; everyone was dying and people wanted someone to blame.”

“They usually do,” Aziraphale said without humor. He reached across the table for Crowley’s abandoned coffee, brushing his arm against the demon’s hip. “Human nature.”

“There’s nothing natural about wanting to wipe out an entire race or religion.”

“I don’t disagree.” He took a tentative sip of the coffee and grimaced, quickly holding it out to Crowley. “That is terrible,” he coughed, smacking his lips to try ridding himself of the burnt flavor.

“You just don’t have my exquisite taste,” Crowley sighed, taking the mug out of his hand. His fingertips slid across Aziraphale’s knuckles and an involuntary shiver ran up the angel’s spine. “Anyway, that’s what I was doing in Basel. My people had sent me there a few days before the massacre—I didn’t want to be there and I didn’t have anything to do with the previous pogroms in Savoy or Erfurt or Toulon, really. I think they just assumed I had.”

Aziraphale believed him. Though Crowley had definitely softened during the course of their 6000 year acquaintance, he had never seemed the type to tempt people into mass-slaughter. He was more the inconvenience-people-into-sinning kind of demon. He’d said so himself that, many times, the humans basically took care of the big stuff themselves. No tempting needed.

“And Basel is where you met the, uh, exorcist?” Aziraphale asked.

“Mm-hm,” Crowley mumbled, staring down into his mug with pursed lips. “And, really, I use the term exorcist extremely loosely. He wasn’t what I would consider a professional by any means. I think he just got lucky.”

What Aziraphale wanted to say was that, if the man had truly been an amateur, maybe it was Crowley who had gotten lucky. He bit his tongue, though. Crowley’s posture was hunched, defensive—his shoulders curled forward and his back bowed. His eyes had a distant, vaguely haunted look to them. So Aziraphale swallowed down his anxiety and waited.

Eventually, Crowley blinked like he was coming out of a trance and looked over at him. His yellow irises were blown out, encompassing his eyes. “He got me the day after the riot. There was still ash in the air from, um—from where the townspeople had locked the adults up and set the building on fire. There were kids that the Christians were forcibly converting and I was—I had been drinking. I just, uh—” Crowley paused. Took a breath. “I just don’t like it when they get kids involved.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, infinitely gentle.

“Anyway, I think my—my glasses slipped and he saw my eyes or—I dunno, he smelled sulphur on me or something—”

You don’t smell like sulphur, Aziraphale thought, but didn’t dare interrupt. You smell like frankincense.

“—but I p-passed out or he knocked me out and the next thing I remember is that I was strung up somewhere. It was dark and smelled like—like hay and shit. Probably a barn. He, uh . . .”

Crowley trailed off, looking away again. He was running his nails along the rim of his mug, filling the silence with a low, chittering resonance that set Aziraphale’s teeth on edge. He longed to reach out and lay his hands over Crowley’s—to still them and imbibe some comfort. He linked his fingers together on the tabletop instead.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked in an even tone, trying to sound as though he wasn’t crawling out of his skin.

Crowley’s eyes skittered back over to him. Tension was evident in the set of his jaw and the stark whiteness of his knuckles where he gripped his mug. “Do you want to hear about it?”

Aziraphale frowned, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. He’d been present at an exorcism before. Rome, around the turn of the 19th century. He’d stood back and observed as two Catholic priests attempted to drive the demon Leraje from the body of a young woman.

It had laughed and snarled threats, and Aziraphale had felt its opalescent eyes rake over him. Then Father Cancio had begun chanting his Latin phrases and Father D’Agostino had thrown blessed oils and holy water in its face. The demon’s skin had split and steamed, blisters forming over blisters as Leraje writhed and shrieked. Its dirty fingers had gouged marks into the arms of the chair it was tied to, blood pooling along its cuticles as the nails snapped off, its joints buckling. It bit off the woman’s tongue—spat it onto the floor at their feet—and blood had boiled in its mouth as it shouted obscenities at them.

It had lasted for hours. In the end, Leraje had been exorcised and the woman had died in the chair. Aziraphale could still smell the blood; could still hear her skin sizzling under the holy water.

Then he imagined Crowley in Leraje’s place and his stomach turned so violently that he nearly threw up.

“I never want to hear about you getting hurt, my dear,” he eventually whispered. “But I am here if you want to—”

Crowley waved a hand, cutting him off. “No, I, uh—I’d rather not discuss the details of that, if it’s all the same to you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s breath left him in a messy rush and he felt lightheaded with relief. He had asked Crowley to tell him. He would listen if the demon wanted to explain what had happened to him during his own exorcism attempt, but Aziraphale would rather peel his own skin off than have those images in his head.

“Of course,” he said, voice weak.

Crowley set his mug down on the table behind him, then folded his arms across his midsection, hands grasping loosely at his own elbows. “In any case, after—after everything, I managed to get loose and kill the silly bugger.”

Good, Aziraphale thought viciously.

“I was in pretty bad shape,” Crowley continued, staring blankly off into the middle distance. There was a fine sheen of sweat glistening at his temple and Aziraphale watched his throat move with a swallow. “I got out of Basel and only just managed to make it to the next town before I collapsed. The exorcist—he didn’t have any holy water, thank Somebody, but he did have this, uh, I dunno—a coin or a pendant. I didn’t get a good look at it. It must’ve been a holy relic or something, because it burned like a blessed sonofabitch; left welts all over that I couldn’t heal.”

Crowley reached down absentmindedly and touched his side where Aziraphale knew the mark to be. “This one was the worst. It got infected and I got a fever. I’m sure you can imagine what that looked like back in 1349.”

A lump of dread settled in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach, poisonous apprehension seeping out into the rest of his body like lead into drinking water. “Like you had the plague.”

Crowley clicked his tongue and said cheerlessly, “Got it in one, angel.”

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley sighed wearily.

“The fever wiped me out—put me into a coma, most likely. The townspeople thought I had died, so they buried me in a mass grave with other plague victims—”

“What?” Aziraphale gasped, horrified.

“—and I don’t remember much after that. I discorporated at some point; wound up back in Hell. After lots of paperwork and whatnot, I got back topside around 1378.”

“Y-you discorporated? How—how did I not know that? You, erm—” Aziraphale stopped. Drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to center himself. When he opened them again, he found Crowley’s gaze on him. The yellow of his irises had retreated back to their centers. “You don’t look any different,” he told the demon. “You got—what? A-a copy of your body?”

“Did I mention: lots of paperwork,” Crowley said and Aziraphale was relieved to hear humor in his voice.

“1378?” he asked, then sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Just in time for the Papal Schism, I see.”

“Three popes are three too many, angel.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he said lightly, letting a small smile pull at his mouth. Then he amended, “In this case.”

Crowley chuckled and the pressure seemed to ease off of his shoulders, the tension that had gathered around him like graveyard mist breaking apart and abating. The soft morning sun had transformed his hair into a coppery halo; it caressed his face, highlighting the delicate lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.

Aziraphale watched him for a few moments, then asked hesitantly, “And, um—the mark was, uh, still there when you—when you came back?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “It was the only one. Everything else hadn’t left so much as a scar, but this one—it stayed. Dunno why. Maybe because it was the deepest wound or maybe because it was the one that eventually discorporated me. Or maybe Hell just left it there as a reminder when they remade my body.”

“A reminder?”

Crowley shrugged, the loose nonchalance he was trying to affect ruined by the way his eyes flitted away from Aziraphale’s face. “A reminder that I’m weak or—or maybe reliant on them?”

Aziraphale ached for him. His heart was a crushing weight in his chest. You aren’t weak, he thought.

He swallowed and lifted a hand towards Crowley, hovering just shy of touching him. “May I see?” he asked in a quiet voice.

There was a moment when he thought that Crowley would refuse; would push himself away from the table and disappear into the bedroom; would hole himself away and sleep for a hundred years. But then Crowley sighed, resigned. He reached down and lifted the edge of his shirt, pivoting slightly so that Aziraphale could view the back of his hip.

The mark was obvious, but Aziraphale let his eyes drag over the rest of Crowley’s golden skin before he examined it. He ran his gaze along the shallow dips between each rib, counted the lumps of his spine. Patches of freckles stood out like tiny galaxies.

“You’re beautiful,” he said absentmindedly. Then he blushed.

Crowley huffed out a laugh, relaxing. “Thank you, angel. You’re not so bad yourself.” Aziraphale looked up at him just in time to catch a cheeky wink. He rolled his eyes.

“You’re also ridiculous.”

“You like me.”

“I certainly do not,” Aziraphale said airily and his heart gave a little flutter when Crowley chuckled. With a smile, he returned to his perusal of the warm skin before him, finally letting himself look at the white mark on Crowley’s side.

It was smaller than Aziraphale had initially thought—no bigger than a two pence—and was almost perfectly round. He suspected that whatever had made the mark had been intricately decorated, but the curving lines it left behind were now blurred and he couldn’t make out any details.

“You didn’t try to miracle this away?” he asked.

“Oh, I did,” Crowley said, sounding resigned. “No good. It’s one scar that I can’t make go away.”

It doesn’t really look like a scar. More like a patch of vitiligo, he thought, reaching up unthinkingly to touch the mark. He laid his fingertips against its edge and Crowley hissed out a shocked breath.

Aziraphale jerked his hand back, distraught. “Oh, I’m sorry!” he stammered. “I-I didn’t—”

“You’re fine,” Crowley said, a slight tremble in his voice. His shirt was still pulled up, but he’d reached down to cover the mark with his own hand, rubbing at it. “Just startled me is all.”

Aziraphale watched him run his fingers along the skin, worry gnawing at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You can touch me, if you want.”

“Well, dear, I always want to touch you,” he said without thinking and with far more levity than he felt. Crowley lifted his eyebrows at him and Aziraphale huffed. “Oh, hush. You’re hardly scandalized.”

Crowley grinned. “Here,” he said with a little sigh and reached over to take ahold of Aziraphale’s hand. His grip was a loose circle around his wrist, fingertips stroking over his pulse point and sending frissons of pleasure up his arm. Crowley pulled and Aziraphale went willingly, his heart in his throat. He let the demon press his palm against the mark, his own fingers smoothing over the back of Aziraphale’s hand before he let go.

His skin was warm and pliant, and Aziraphale let himself enjoy having it beneath his fingers once again before he really focused on the mark. He ran a thumb along its edge. It was smooth, not raised like he expected a scar to be—more like a birthmark.

And then it struck Aziraphale. That’s exactly what it was: a birthmark. Crowley had been tortured, branded, killed, and then had carried the mark into his new body after his resurrection. A reminder of his failings.

Before he could think about what he was doing, Aziraphale leaned forward. He placed his lips over the mark, sucking a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the white skin. Above him, he heard Crowley hiss in a startled breath. Fingers wove through his hair, caressing his scalp.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, sounding breathless.

He kept his mouth where it was. Using his tongue and teeth and lips, he pressed love and reassurance down into the skin, marking Crowley’s side. The demon’s ragged breaths filled the kitchen and his fingers dragged through Aziraphale’s curls when he pulled back to examine his handiwork. Where the white birthmark had once been, the skin now stood out red and blotchy.

“Did you just give me a hickey?” Crowley asked, sounding equal parts offended and impressed.

“Not really,” Aziraphale said and passed a thumb over the red mark. Angelic power tingled like a static charge as he miracled the erythema away and Crowley gave a little jolt.

“Hey! What did you do?” he huffed and craned his neck to take a look.

Then he froze.

Aziraphale watched him, his pulse thrumming like hummingbird wings in his throat as Crowley touched the skin where the mark had once been. In its place, a mass of dark freckles now stood.

An angel’s kiss.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Aziraphale told him, his voice reedy. “I just—I adore you. I worship every inch of you. And if there is a part of you that causes you pain—a mark that reminded you of an event so traumatic you would despise an entire millennium because of it—Well, if I could take that mark away . . .”

Crowley looked up at him, his eyes wide, but said nothing. Aziraphale swallowed down the worry that threatened to choke him and continued.

“You aren’t weak,” he told Crowley. “You are wily and resilient and you care so much. I know that you’re a demon and you don’t want to hear it, but I see so much good in you that naming everything I love would be like counting the stars. I can’t do it. You are made of starlight. I wish that I was half as strong as—”

He didn’t get to finish. Crowley swooped down and caught his mouth in a bruising kiss. Aziraphale gasped into it and reached up to catch ahold of Crowley’s shoulders, hanging on. The demon’s fingers traced over the tops of his ears and down along his jawline as he kissed him, eliciting tiny shivers from Aziraphale.

It lasted only for a few seconds before Crowley retreated, playfully nipping at Aziraphale’s bottom lip as he went, but the angel was left winded. Crowley smiled at him, looking beautifully rumpled, and said, “Thank you, angel.”

It sounded remarkably like I love you, too.

Aziraphale grinned back, relief and happiness pouring out of his bones like sunlight and warming the garden blooming in his chest. His heart pounded. “You’re quite welcome, my dear.”

They spent a few moments quietly regarding one another, Crowley absentmindedly touching his side through his shirt. Then he reached out to Aziraphale, laying a hand against his cheek.

“I,” he said in a gentle voice, drawing out the syllable as he swept a thumb across the skin just beneath Aziraphale’s eye, “am going to take a shower.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Been asleep for a week,” Crowley said by way of explanation. He dropped his hand and pushed himself away from the table. Aziraphale watched him go, eyes drawn to the sway of his hips, and tried not to feel disappointment that Crowley was walking away instead of kissing him.

He sighed and mumbled, “Well then, I suppose I’ll make some tea.”

“Or you could join me?”

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley. He was standing in the kitchen entrance, leaning heavily against the doorframe. There was a smile on his face, and he looked soft and vulnerable in his too-big shirt and bare feet. Then his eyelids fluttered and his smile morphed into a predatory grin, lips curling up to reveal his straight, white teeth. Arousal dropped into Aziraphale’s stomach like a lead weight; his breath shuddered out of his lungs.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley said, his voice a deep rumble like the beginnings of a summer storm. “I’ll put marks all over your skin this time.”

Then he disappeared through the doorway, leaving Aziraphale gaping in his wake. The angel sat there for a moment, listening as Crowley moved about on the other side of the small cottage. The shower started up.

Aziraphale thought about Crowley’s naked skin; about steam curling up around his legs and hips and back; about water beading along freckles instead of white birthmarks. He smiled and stood.

The tea could wait.

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Based on the prompt: “Why does Crowley hate the 14th century?” Requested by @needscaffeine. This took FOREVER, as I had to wrestle it to the ground and get it back on track several times.

#good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #fic prompt #fic request #crowley #aziraphale #angst #light angst #fanfiction #fic #fanfic #oneshot #this turned out a longer than i thought it would #holy jeebus it's a monster

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years ago

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What Might Have Been - 16

@goodomenscelebration - themes prompts!

Read the full story on AO3!

Happy Good Omens Armageddoniversary! How many of these can I post in one day?

(For those who have not read previous sections: Kasbeel is our Aziraphale, trapped in another universe and going by a pseudonym. Crowley’s “mirror image” is his AU self.)

Far Future

Kasbeel hovered in the air, giving his report.

“The demonic army attempted to strike from the Scottish Highlands, reinforced by several thousand of the Marked soldiers. They were driven off by Matafiel’s troops. We believe there may be some still hidden far to the north, on the Outer Hebrides.”

“These names mean nothing to us,” said Tufriel, rolling his eyes towards his partner. “Some of these scouts are starting to go native.”

“Won’t be a problem much longer,” Bezaliel replied. “Never mind the demons, we’ll get an update further north. Is this land still free from the blight?”

“Yes, Dominion,” Kasbeel bobbed his head with the correct amount of deference. “The whole of the Peak District is believed to be the last area free of Abaddon’s curse anywhere on this island, though rumors persist of some clear ground in Ireland.”

“Are there any humans left on the islands?” Bezaliel asked.

“The Retrieval squads took ours and we cleared out the rest last month.” Tufriel crossed his arms. “If only this island were so easy to deal with. Still, if this is the only unblemished land, it’s probably where the humans will gather. Once they realize they can’t get in the city. We’ll keep watching it. Good work.”

“Thank you.” He held up his messenger tube, sealed and directed to Michael’s base camp in Cornwall. “I will need to continue south with this. Do you have any details to add?”

“Only that I thought we’d be finished by now. Seven damn years of this. How much longer is it supposed to go on, anyway?”

Bezaliel grinned hungrily. “Not much more. Our offensive should begin in a little less than a month.” A wink towards the dutiful scout. “Keep an eye on the sky, tonight or tomorrow. Things are starting to happen.”

Kasbeel saluted, and the other two returned to their patrol. When they were well out of sight, he landed on a bare rock outcrop and hummed. Not with his lips; his wings vibrated, creating a single, perfect tone, echoing off the stones of the Peaks.

The humans began emerging from their hiding spots almost immediately, secreted behind stones or in deceptive hollows. Mostly teenagers, a few older, many younger, about half with a Mark upon their faces. They gathered around the angel, moving silently on the grass and moss.

It took nearly an hour for all to arrive. Kasbeel’s group of wanderers now numbered in the hundreds.

“Doesn’t sound like we’re going to be safe up here much longer,” Lyla said, without preamble. “Probably should have left last week, like I said.”

“Perhaps,” Kasbeel conceded, waving his arm to miracle up some food. It wasn’t much. Loaves of bread, potatoes, carrots. A little bit of meat, but he couldn’t produce anywhere near enough for a group this large. “But if we’d left then, Jennifer, Mickey and Ollie wouldn’t have found us.” At only five years old, Ollie was the youngest they’d taken in.

“Fine.” Lyla counted out the servings of meat and checked her list. “Group six gets the meat tonight. Only group six, Alex, I know that doesn’t include you.” She turned back to the angel who led them. “But we leave tonight.”

“Agreed.” He sighed, looking around the tumbling rocks one more time. “We’ll have to move quickly. This was a good hiding place. We won’t find another place this convenient, or this safe.”

“Where to, then?” Lyla grabbed Alex’s wrist, sending the thirteen-year-old over to the bread line. “Ireland? I don’t know how we’ll cross the sea, but it sounds like they’ve stopped looking there.”

Kasbeel pursed his lips. “Have you given up on finding New Eden, then?”

She spun towards him, fury in her eyes. “You know I haven’t. But it could be anywhere in the world! How the hell are we ever going to find it? We’ve barely searched half of England in over three years.”

He winced. “Three years, four months, six days,” he muttered. It was a very, very long time to go without hearing from Crowley. He’d tried contacting the demon in his dreams, over and over. He was here. He could sense that. But nothing else. “It’s in England. It must be. One of the patrols told me…Aziraphale,” he hesitated over the name, as always, “chose the location himself. He wouldn’t pick anywhere other than England.”

“Your double.” Lyla sat down next to him. She had grown, in the last three years, her hair getting long, her clothing replaced by whatever they could loot in half-abandoned cities, as was the case for all Kasbeel’s wards. Even her newest shirt was threadbare, the colors faded, as if the inanimate objects of the world had ceased to care. “You never told me what the deal was with you two.”

“No. I think it would be rather too much for you to understand.”

“Kasbeel, the world is ending. The ground is cursed. And I spend half my time talking to a rogue angel. What could possibly be weird at this point?”

He smiled. “My child, you haven’t the first idea.” He smoothed his hands down his jacket, then realized he was still in his scout uniform. A wave of his fingers turned it back to the familiar suit, bowtie and all. “Still, if you like, I can bring you all to Ireland before I continue my search. It should only take a few days to reach the coast, even with the young ones. After that…” he hesitated. Miracle up a giant ship? And how to make sure it landed somewhere unblighted?

“You know we won’t last a day without you,” Lyla sighed. “Wherever you’re going, you’re stuck with us.”

He turned back to the crowd that he had slowly gathered across the years. Orphans. Renegades. Many of them troublemakers who had been thrown out of the gangs they thought would protect them, others the only survivors by angelic or demonic attack. Exhausted, half-malnourished, so worn and dirty as to almost blend in with the rocks around them.

But not afraid. Of all the people left in the world, and Kasbeel feared there were not many, these few hundred slept safely at night, under the watch of an angel.

His godchildren.

“My dear Lyla, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He settled down on a rock that conveniently grew to about the size of an armchair, with a thick cushion of moss.

She rolled her eyes at him. “How is it even out here, you manage to pamper yourself?”

“Millennia of practice. Now, what do you say we try for London again? It’s a risk, with all the patrols, but it may be the only place large enough to hide this many.”

“Assuming we can get in.”

“Assuming so, yes,” he said, gazing across the crowd. “And it sounds like there are many angels gathered in the south. But If I’m right about the wall of energy surrounding the city, I may know how to cross it.”

“And you still think your friend might be there.”

Kasbeel nodded. “I can’t imagine where else he might be. He should have contacted me by now, but they say no messages can get out of London. But, still, I would think–”

A cry went up from the gathered crowd, a scream of fear, echoed by person after person. “The sky!” Someone shouted, pointing. “The clouds are parting!”

In an instant, Kasbeel was on his feet, wings spread. He should have heard the trumpets, sensed the angels long before they parted the clouds – he had spent months honing his senses, in order to protect his charges. He braced himself for the orders that would arrive in his mind; if the Guardian of Humanity were among them, it would be difficult to resist…

Nothing came.

Instead, the clouds simply drifted apart, faster and faster, not a small parting but the whole sky, revealing the fading blue of twilight, deepening to black. Stars pierced the sky, just a few at first, but each bright as a jewel, clearer than he could ever remember them being, even in Heaven.

“Oh my God…” Lyla whispered, stepping next to him. “It’s clear. It hasn’t been clear since…since the war…I was a kid…”

Another star seemed to burst into view, white and shining, and Kasbeel fell to his knees, remembering…remembering a cottage in the South Downs, a blanket in the back garden, laying on his back and watching them arrive, while next to him…next to him…

That one’s Regulus. Not one of mine, Angel, that was some snooty wanker who thought he was so clever just because he could get four stars to orbit each other. And over there is Arcturus. Also technically not mine, but I had this really great idea and I needed a red giant to test it out on. It worked, by the way, so keep an eye out for a helium flash in the next thousand years or so…

It hurt, like being pierced by a spear, like being torn apart. He reached out a hand, grasping, wishing to feel Crowley, lying at his left side, as he always was, his protector, his partner, his friend…

A small hand caught his, wrapping around his fingers. He turned, blinking tears from his eyes, to see Lyla, kneeling beside him. A moment later the others started gathering around. Mickey, Rahima, Alex, Lochlan, Mariah, Amiyah, Dominic, Ollie, and so many more.

“Look,” Kasbeel said, pointing at the sky. “That star there. That’s Regulus. And over there…that one is named Arcturus…”

Far away, in a cell that seemed to exist in its own bubble far from anything else, Crowley snapped awake, emerging from a dream that was slightly less painful than reality.

Something had changed.

He could feel it, deep inside. Something that had been missing, suddenly returned.

“It’s the stars,” said his mirror image, across the cell. Shoftiel had left them both in their human bodies this time. The manacles that held their wrists – Crowley’s left, his mirror image’s right – were too short to lay down comfortably, so they both sprawled against their walls.

They didn’t talk much. The secrets they held were the only things keeping them alive. So they simply existed, here, together, witnessing each other’s pain and humiliation, waiting for their own turns. It bonded them in ways conversation never could.

“The sky is clear again,” the mirror image continued, looking up at the ceiling, lost to the dark above. “I wish I could see it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, allowing himself to remember a night on a blanket in a garden, just for a moment. “Me, too.”

“Not long now,” the mirror image said. “Seven years. That’s all it ever was.” His eyes met Crowley’s, and they were full of fear. They couldn’t hide their emotions without the glasses, and that was one thing they were never allowed. “If the stars are back, time’s nearly up.”

“So they’ve…learned everything?” It wasn’t something they asked each other. But if it was the end, Crowley wanted to know.

“Just one secret left.” The mirror image rolled his head, with a broken version of Crowley’s smile. “How to get into London.”

#good omens prime #good omens celebration #goc2020 #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #principality aziraphale #guardian angel aziraphale #takin on some godchildren #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #What Might Have Been #good omens #ao3 #ao3 link

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amuseoffyre · 5 years ago

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October Prompts - 7th

Prompt - Silence

The envelope hadn’t come with the morning post, but Aziraphale definitely hadn’t seen anyone deliver it. There was nothing written on it but his name in a very practised copperplate hand. Not Ezra Fell or any of his human aliases. His own name.

He turned it over curiously. Good quality envelope and sealed with a smudge of something that looked suspiciously like candlewax. He sniffed it. Beeswax candles at that. Pretty useless for sealing things, as a rule.

He slipped one finger under the fold of the envelope, lifting it open and withdrawing the folded piece of paper.

At once, his expression brightened. Crowley! So the darling little rascal wasn’t as adverse to words as he always claimed. And an invitation too…

It was only a few lines but by the bottom, the elegant copperplate had turned into little more than chicken scratchings. A street name and number and – Aziraphale had to admit his heart gave a peculiar little flutter – a drink to celebrate the angel’s new home.

Oh, at last!

He had watched Crowley flit from place to place, taking refuge in churches, synagogues, mosques and temples, never finding anywhere that was his alone. He had tried to gently encourage him to at least try putting down roots, to stop exhausting himself by his incessant dashing about, but there was something in the angel that always seemed ready to run at a moment’s notice.

On the date and time on the invitation, he picked out one of the finest bottles he had in his collection and hailed a cab to take him east.

As they neared, he frowned, staring around.

There was something awfully familiar about the streets, but it wasn’t until they pulled up at the address that he realised exactly where the angel had invited him to.

He climbed out of the cab, staring up at the restored tower of a church he had reduced to rubble with a deftly-placed German bomb. The place where his eight-decade long estrangement from his angel had ended. The night Crowley had saved his books.

The creak of a gate drew his attention. Crowley leaned self-consciously against the wrought iron rails, and gave him a little wave. “You found it all right, then?”

“I– yes.” Aziraphale looked from the angel to the church. “This– you said it was your new home? Here?”

A blush spread across Crowley’s cheeks and he shrugged. “I can be a bit sentimental too,” he said, pulling the gate wide open. “Do… d’you want to come and see what I’ve done with the place?”

“Of course!” He beamed.

It didn’t matter that it was a damned church. If need be, he could stand in the doorway and look in. If it was what the angel wanted, he was more than happy to do so.

Crowley’s face lit up and he beckoned him in. Unsurprisingly, Crowley’s dove-grey Bentley was parked at the far end of the yard, though much of the ground looked as if it had been churned up by dozens of feet in recent days.

“I didn’t realise it was still standing,” Aziraphale said, following the angel towards the doors of the building.

“Not much of it was,” Crowley said, glancing back, “but I was passing a couple of years ago and it – I couldn’t just leave it to be torn down. He paused at the doors – one of them was painted bright bottle green, the other only half-finished. “Now, don’t laugh, all right?”

Azirahale clutched his heart in feigned shock. “Would I?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Loudly and frequently.” He pushed the doors open and stepped inside into a small, snug vestibule. Stairs led off to the right and vanished up into the tower, and to the left, a paint-stained pair of overalls were hanging on a peg. “Coming?”

Gingerly, Aziraphale stepped across the threshold, then stopped short. “Oh!”

One side of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “It’s not a church anymore,” he said. “D’you really think I’d invite you somewhere consecrated?” He wandered into the hall, calling back, “Why would I want to live somewhere you couldn’t visit?”

For the first time in many a year, Aziraphale was lost for words.

He hugged his bottle of wine to his breast and followed the angel into the former church. It was like a flicker of a moving picture, Crowley standing at the far end, looking back at him, as he had been that night.

But it was all different now.

The pews were gone, cleared away, and only the beautifully-restored shell remained. The ceiling arched upwards, curving like the inner prow of an old Viking longship, hung with lamps. The walls were all repainted in soft shades of cream and yellow, and beams of afternoon sun cut through the crenelated windows, bisecting strips of light and shadow on the pale stone floor. A few tables were arranged near the walls and at the far end of the building, there appeared to be a small raised dais where the altar once stood.

No furniture, though, he noticed.

Crowley was waiting by the stage, a nervous, but proud look on his face. “I have an event happening here tomorrow night,” he said.

“An event?” Aziraphale found echoing easier than gathering his own scattered words.

“Mm.” The angel nodded, turning and looking around. “I mean, I still have some work to do, but it’s for a charity ball and I thought it would be a nice way to give it back to the people. I’ve even got a band coming in and we’re…”

Oh Lord. Of course he would do that, the silly, loving darling.

Aziraphale smiled helplessly as the angel excitedly pointed out where he would be putting additional flourishes, and the lighting plans he had and oh, would it be too much to put a fancy carpet outside? Maybe? Probably not. Special occasion and all that.

“Well?” Crowley said finally, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Aziraphale said, unable to keep himself from chuckling, “that I’m not surprised. So it’ll be a what? A social club? An event venue?”

Crowley shrugged, hugging himself happily. “Both? All! Whatever they need it for, they can hire it and use it and whatever.” He was positively glowing and Aziraphale had a feeling that anyone who came into the proximity of the hall would pick up on it.

“And when it’s not being used, you’ll live here?” Aziraphale inquired. “I must admit I do like the fact you’ve chosen to settle in London.”

Crowley ducked his head with a bashful smile. “Actually, not just when it’s not being used.”

To Aziraphale’s utter astonishment, Crowley caught him by the hand and pulled him through a small door that opened at the back of the church, beside the stage. It led out into the grounds, closer to the Bentley, and there was another building. It was a round, one-storey building with a high pointed roof and windows interspersed along the wall.

A chapter house, Aziraphale wanted to say, but all his brain could focus on was the sensation of warm angelic fingers squeezing his, tugging him onwards.

Crowley’s pace quickened the closer they got to the building, almost as if he feared he might stop if he slowed down. Perhaps he would have, had his mind had the chance to raise a hand in inquiry, but as it was, he trotted along rapidly, hauling a speechless demon with him.

The chapter house door was open and as soon as he crossed the threshold, the angel dropped Aziraphale’s hand to clasp his own. He gave Aziraphale a quick, nervous smile. “S’my house,” he said. “I’m going to live here.”

It would be absurd, Aziraphale thought, for a demon to get weepy at an angel saying such a simple thing. Truly absurd, for a creature from Hell. “Oh, my dear…” He began and then ended, because, if it was absurd for a demon to get weepy, it was certainly ridiculous for their voice to break with emotion.

“S’not much yet,” Crowley added, clearly relieved to have gotten the big reveal out the way.

It certainly wasn’t, not by Aziraphale’s comfortable standards, but it had a couch big enough for an angel to lie on and a small table in front of it. He spotted a few potted plants tucked in the south-facing window nooks and some small shelves were in the process of being filled with small trinkets and ornaments.

He approached, gazing down at them. Several them were wonderfully – anciently – familiar. “You kept that silly brooch I gave you,” he said, touching the very pin, stolen from Elizabeth I’s own costume, because it’s honey-brown colour so perfectly matched the angel’s eyes.

Crowley shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t get many presents,” he said, but there was a hint of mischief in his voice as he added, “Especially not presents nicked off a Queen.”

Aziraphale widened his eyes, but not at all in guilt. “Oh, my dear, you weren’t meant to know about that!”

Crowley’s small smile broke into a warmer grin. “It was a guess!” He spun on his heel, digging around in a crate behind the door and emerged a moment later, with a triumphant, “Aha!” He held up two wine glasses, still half-wrapped in protective tissue. “We need to toast!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You didn’t wait long for that.”

“Waited long enough for a house-warming,” Crowley responded cheekily, shaking the paper loose and setting the cups down on the table. He beckoned his hand demandingly. “Wine!”

The demon obligingly popped the cork out of the bottle and handed it over. It was a rather nice red, rich and fruity, and Crowley made a sound of approval as he poured. When he set down the bottle, he snatched up both the glasses and held one out to Aziraphale.

“What shall we toast to?” Aziraphale asked, letting his fingertips ghost against the angel’s as he took the glass.

Crowley ducked his head again, the smile warm and happy. “To a home?” he suggested.

“To a home,” Aziraphale agreed, lifting his glass.

The angel sipped his wine, then said quietly, “Aziraphale.”

“Yes, my dear?”

Honey-brown eyes met his. “Thank you.”

Not for the first time this evening, Aziraphale was wrong-footed. “Whatever for?”

When the angel smiled at him, every thought vanished from Aziraphale’s mind. “For helping me to find it.”

And rather than risk an embarrassingly weepy incident, Aziraphale could only smile and raise his glass again in silence.

#fic: inverse omens #october prompts #good omens fic #reverse omens #angel crowley #demon aziraphale

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perhapsitmaybedragons · 4 years ago

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God’s a Right Bastard, But Then So Am I Chapter 5

Actually wrote this one last night and managed to refrain myself from immediately posting.

As always, here’s the AO3 link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633029/chapters/65211916

Or you can read below:

Angels have been around Forever. Demons technically have as well, but when they first started they were angels, too, so it doesn't really count. Patience was a learned practice for all of them, or at least it should have been. They were rushing it this time. Last time they'd used thousands of years of planning and everything had fallen to pieces mere inches from the finish line. It was making all of the angels antsy – this time they were going to get into things as quickly as they could.

But that didn't mean they couldn't find the time to bother someone.

Normally Gabriel wouldn't show his irritation. Or in the old days he might have found someone he could smite without the Almighty getting upset at him. But that was the old days. Smiting just wasn't the way of things anymore, and since they were working with demons he couldn't even take it out on them. Still, he had to bother someone, get under their skin the way that failed Armageddon was under his.

Which is why he was now at Aziraphale's door, a basket in hand.

Aziraphale's eyes went wide when he'd answered – assuming that Crowley had finally showed up to start discussing things he hadn't even bothered to check before opening the door. He tensed up at the sight of the archangel.

“Gabriel,” he squeaked out, motioning desperately behind his hands for the others to hide. “Whatever could bring you here? I did think heaven and I were on the uh...outs, so to speak these days.”

“Nonsense!” Gabriel said jovially, taking great pleasure in watching Aziraphale squirm. He'd already sensed the humans there – and Adam, for that matter. He was only a little surprised – he was actually more surprised Crowley wasn't here, but he figured that was actually a point in his favor. “You know, I just got it into my head – you've been living here since?”

“Since the beginning,” Aziraphale answered automatically, now trying to shut the door in Gabriel's face. Gabriel pushed the door open wider and let himself in. “Now really isn't a good time. Perhaps you could come back later?” His tone strongly implied that 'later' actually meant 'never'.

“Ah, but then you wouldn't be able to introduce me to your friends,” Some people might have described Gabriel's smile as he said that as being 'snake-like'. Aziraphale knew better. Snakes only attacked in self defense or out of hunger. This was the smile that only belonged to the type of predator that played with its food.

Aziraphale considered playing stupid – the words “what humans” almost came out of his mouth, but before he could make that mistake, Adam came out from behind one of the bookshelves.

“You're one of them angels,” he made a face, “You tried to get me to go along with it and destroy everyone.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. “And I am so sorry,” The apology sounded sincere, yet the words also sounded like they were ...dripping. “I am here to make amends, though I suppose it's not the best way to do it. See, I also have just a teeny, tiny little favor I'd like to ask of you, Aziraphale.”

“He's not one of you anymore,” Adam crossed the room, trying to station himself between the angels. Anathema came out of her own hiding place to grab him, Newt trailing just behind her. She managed to grab Adam and pull him back, but he continued scowling, making half-hearted attempts to get out of her grip.

“Aziraphale can handle himself,” she said reassuringly. Adam couldn't see her face – which was pointed at Aziraphale and trying to communicate the question 'can you handle this?' without having to come out and say it. Aziraphale just thought she looked a little constipated.

“It's just a quick lesson,” Gabriel said, holding up his basket. He pulled the small towel covering the contents to the side. “I have some very nice apples and I thought, well, I had hoped to make an apple pie. But I've never actually baked before,” he turned his full attention back to Aziraphale and ignored the others. “I thought you could help me? It's my understanding you're pretty fond of human food, so you could help me get it exactly right.”

“Pies can be a bit tricky,” Aziraphale agreed. “But apple pie's a bit ...American. Wouldn't you rather an apple crumble? Ooh, or a nice spiced cake – one with caramel or toffee icing, perhaps?”

“No,” Gabriel said shortly, looking annoyed. He had planned for Aziraphale to be on guard and scared the whole time. Not launching into a bunch of other dessert ideas. “It really should be an apple pie. Heard so much about it.”

“He doesn't have the ingredients,” Newt was trying to come to the rescue, but he was thinking in human terms again.

Gabriel moved the basket of apples so that he only gripped it in one hand, did a complicated gesture with the other hand and now he had a basket with anything else one could need to make an apple pie – including a very nice pie tin.

“He'll help you with the pie,” Adam decided for them, “But then you have to leave. And you can't bother Aziraphale ever again. Do you promise?” Gabriel nodded. “I mean it. You're an angel – you can't just make a promise and then do it anyway.”

Gabriel smiled. “You have my word as an angel – I will never, ever, bother Aziraphale and his little book shop ever again.”

Adam and Aziraphale both looked satisfied, so Newt fell in line and breathed a sigh of relief. Anathema, however, was adjusting her glasses and squinting. “You should probably get started on that pie,” she suggested. “Adam could give you a hand.”

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale agreed. He grabbed an apple from the basket and offered it to Adam. “Here, you could try the first bite, make sure they're good enough?” He smiled at the reversal and made a mental note to tell Crowley later that he'd tempted the human into biting the apple this time – but Gabriel snatched the apple out of Adam's hands before he could take a bite.

“Sorry,” Once more his tone as apologetic, but Adam hadn't missed the flash of anger that crossed Gabriel's features. “I have exactly enough for the pie. You understand.” Adam didn't – if Gabriel had never made a pie before, how could he be certain he had exactly enough? But he didn't press.

“Well, we'll just pop into the kitchen,” Aziraphale explained to Newt and Anathema. He seemed to want them to do something, but he couldn't communicate it with Gabriel there. They stayed planted where they were and watched as the two angels and the Anti-Christ disappeared into a kitchen that was only sometimes there.

Anathema waited until she felt as confident as she could that they wouldn't hear her. “His aura's wrong.”

“I thought you couldn't see Adam's?”

“No, not Adam's. The angel – Gabriel, not Aziraphale. There's something tinged there. Aziraphale's aura is solid white except at the edges where it's sort of black, but the kind of black you can see stars in. Gabriel's looks like ...like a white silk shirt that someone's done a pretty good job of washing a stain out, but if you look closely enough it's still there.”

“Well, maybe his aura's always looked like that?”

“No, it hasn't. I saw it when he was trying to get Adam to restart Armageddon. Back then it was solid white.”

“Well, you said Aziraphale's isn't solid white at the edges, should we really be worried about this?”

She grumbled. Newt had agreed to read all of her occultist books and magazines, but he still didn't believe in a good portion of it. “Auras changing like this is a big deal, especially for someone like an angel. They're supposed to be timeless and unchanging.”

“Maybe it's because the definition of goodness changed,” he offered. Newt had not yet figured out that sometimes someone wants to be listened to without any input. Anathema thought she was explaining things, Newt thought they were spitballing ideas together. She groaned.

“Maybe, it's possible but I don't think so. I wish we knew some more angels so we could test it,” she moved forward just enough to peer into the kitchen. Aziraphale was making Adam wash his hands before he would allow the boy to help in any way. She grabbed Aziraphale's phone from where he'd left it – on top of one of the bookshelves.

“Why are you using his phone?”

“Does Crowley answer anyone else?” She said shortly, stabbing at the buttons to dial.

“Aziraphale?”

“Crowley!”

“What are you doing with angel's phone?” Crowley sounded slightly amused. “That's you, Anathema, right?”

“Yes. Crowley, listen – there's an angel in the bookshop.”

“Er –yeah, he owns the place. That's kind of been his thing for a hundred plus years.”

“No,” she paced as she talked. “Not him! One of the other ones. Gabriel?”

“Gabriel's there?! What the hell are you all still doing in there?! Get out, get out right now. And put Aziraphale on the line, he should know better than to let Gabriel in there-”

“Crowley,” she interrupted, “Aziraphale is in the kitchen with Gabriel. Oh – um..and Adam, actually. And by the way, we've all been trying to get a hold of you lately. They're helping Gabriel make an apple pie.”

“What?” Crowley asked flatly.

“An apple pie,” Anathema now wished she hadn't brought it up. It sounded ridiculous and it sounded so ...wholesome. Two angels helping a curly haired, sweet blond boy making an apple pie? She was pretty sure her mom had sent a postcard like that to her aunt once.

“Ok. Keep an eye on all of them, but maybe this is just a power move,” Crowley seemed to be deep in thought. “I'll be on my way soon. After someone starts giving me some answers.” He hung up and Anathema momentarily wondered if he were also in a hostage situation – just one were he was the captor.

“Sit and wait,” she said to Newt's questioning expression. “But if he offers us any of that pie, I wouldn't take it.”

Crowley set the phone down and adjusted the gramophone on the coffee table. “I know you're there and I think you know that I know, so let's just have a nice chit chat before I run off to save my incredibly stupid friends.”

I'm glad you have friends now, God offered meekly.

“Come off it and let's get on track. What were those vials?” He had a sneaking suspicion and if he was right things were about to get even worse. Right now he just had to get Her to show her hand. Something he didn't think anyone – human, angel, demon or other – had ever managed. He waited with his arms crossed, feeling a little like a petulant teenager. The kind that's been forbidden from doing something really fun, but the parents settled on their reasoning as 'Because we said so' instead of coming out with the truth.

The vials are their plan. Part of it, at least.

“Yes, obviously! I think I could riddle that part out for myself. I want to know what the vials do. What's in them, can they be counteracted? Should I have thrown them out when I had the chance?”

Silence.

“You know, if you aren't going to help me I can't keep helping you. And I don't think you'll be able to keep your promise anyway. Can you?”

I can, She insisted.

“How can you? You don't know what's happening anymore!” He pushed himself off the sofa and glared down at the gramophone. “You didn't know for sure that those vials would be there or what they do, did you?”

You always did ask too many questions, Her voice was soft now. There was no accusation – she said it fondly, actually. it made you realize things before any of the others. You're right, Crowley. I can still see flashes – I still see all of Earth, all of the humans – but most of the angels and demons are hidden from me. I can't even see into the uppermost boardroom in heaven anymore. I have a sense for what they may be doing, but I no longer know. It's recent, but they've decided they don't want me to know.

Several thousand years ago, right before he'd fallen, Crowley would have been gratified to finally hear God being forced to tell him an absolute truth, especially one that admitted that even she didn't always know what was going on. But this? This was horrifying.

“How did they even manage that?” He didn't mean for it to come out sympathetic, but it did. “You're everywhere, see everything.”

“Not anymore.”'

“Ah. Well. ...sorry about th---shit,” Crowley headed toward the door. “Gabriel's at Aziraphale's – if you don't know what he's up to right now...” he didn't finish the thought, just slammed the door behind him.

Good luck God said as though anyone could hear her anymore.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #gabriel #good omens god #adam young #anathema device #anathema #newt #newton pulsifer

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atombombbibunny · 5 years ago

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A Place to Stay

Aziraphale x Crowley

hi.

This is my first attempt at writing a Good Omens fic, I finally watched and fell in love with the show. I never wanted it to end. I melted at every episode. And one of my favorite half threats Alziraphale uses to get Crowley to do something is. “Come up with something or-or I’ll never talk to you again.” He knew that would work, uhg my heart.

Anyway I hope you enjoy it.

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“You can stay at my place if you like”

The two sat silently on the uncomfortable rumbling plastic bus seats. Both stuck in their own minds, Aziraphale continued to open and close his mouth. Looking off to the rest of the bus, unable to release any words to his friend. Usually he could say anything- well not anything, to Crowley but at this moment his tongue felt thick and his throat felt dry. The human bodies were such strange things.

The bus began to pull out of Tadfield, Crowley watched as the drivers face filled with confusion but continued on. He sighed lightly and sunk into the seat more, his sharp knees digging into the seat in front of him, he side eyed Aziraphale quickly and saw the worry lines on his forehead become deeper than usual.

“Out with-it Angel.” He grumbled from his slumped position. Aziraphale straightened himself out and pulled at his bowtie gently. “Well, ah. Your place, what is it like?” He side tracked, Crowley rolled his eyes from behind his shades, knowing all too well that wasn’t the original question Aziraphale had. “Oh, you know. The normal Demon den, fire and the like.” Aziraphale looked own at the lazy Demon eyes widening a little. Crowley finally moved from his relaxed position and straighten up next to match Aziraphale. “Joking Angel, only joking.” He said with an arched eyebrow peeking up from the sunglasses frame. “Did you actually believe me?” Aziraphale shifted in his seat slightly, he looked past Crowley for a flash to see the lights of the city beginning to appear. “Well no, erm, a touch? You must understand so much has happened in the last 24-48 hours.” Crowley hummed to his response, “Well its rather normal, for me at least.” Crowley thought to himself for a quick second before swiping his hand to the side. Aziraphale wanted to question the random hand movement but quickly disregarded it.

The two were back to sitting in silence.

A while later the bus pulled to a stop and the two departed, not before of course Aziraphale thanked the awfully confused driver.

Crowley opened the door to the flat and allowed Aziraphale to enter first. Aziraphale looked around at all corners as he crossed the long threshold, all cement, it still wasn’t what he had pictured when Crowley said it was normal to him.

Crowley quickly passed the Angel through the hallway and pushed the wall, which began to open to a living area. Aziraphale followed behind the tall lanky Demon to see the coziest looking room, a fireplace already crackling, two large tall forest green velvet chairs, filled with throw blankets and a few pillows and a small bookshelf filled to the brim that there were some books sitting atop it. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley who was scanning the room himself. The Angel smiled as he pieced together what the hand wave meant on the bus. “Its quaint” Aziraphale said rather quietly, Crowley nodded. “Yes, its rather nice innit. I mean, I usually don’t have the fire place going, rather warm myself most of the time.” Crowley quickly corrected, although there was no need for it, the jig was already up.

“Well.” Aziraphale started. “It’s been a long night, I wouldn’t be offended if you needed a rest.” He said his eyes busy scanning over the books, mind you none of them were first editions. His heart sank a little at the thought. But they would do for the night. Crowley shrugged. “I’d rather have a drink to be honest.” He said walking towards the tall chair to the left, his hand grazing across the soft velvet. “You?” He asked the Angel who was still focused on the bookshelf, he smiled gently before nodding. “Yes, a drink would be rather fitting.” Crowley promptly left the room without a word and Aziraphale took to the chair on the right, it was rather plush and he couldn’t help but sink into it. There was soon a glass of red wine dangling in front of his face.

Though Aziraphale did feel quite tired and a bit restless he couldn’t turn down a drink after the Armageddidn't. He grasped the glass and took a sip, a bit bitter for his taste but it would do. Crowley flumped into the other chair, taking a swig before setting it on the side table in between them.

A second ticked by. “Did you mean what you said?” Crowley asked his gaze unmoving from the fire blazing against his shades. “What dear?” The Demons heart pounded in his chest rather painfully, oh how he missed hearing the Angel call him dear.

“That if I hadn’t done something back there you would have stopped talking to me?” Crowley’s head dropped slightly, attempting not to show the hurt flowing through his veins. Aziraphale played with the rim of his wine glass, he shifted in his chair. “Well, ah, no. I mean yes, in a way.” Crowley finally moved his head in the Angel’s direction. “In a way?” He half asked half mocked. “Well, dear, we would have been separated, or worse, killed had something not been done. We would no longer have means of conversation had we not done something with Adam.” Crowley nodded accepting the answer but still not feeling positive. “Oh Crowley, I hurt you, didn’t I?” Aziraphale wanted to leap from his seat and wrap his arms around the sulking Demon. “What? Nah, we don’t get hurt. Ya know in the emotional way, physical, that’s a whole other story.” Aziraphale hummed in response, knowing he was dodging the truth. “Well, you meant what you said, didn’t you?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “What are you babbling about?” The Angel rolled his eyes before taking a long sip of his wine. “That I am your best friend.” He set his almost empty glass to only have it refilled the second it touched the side table. “Well I’d bloody expect you to know that, we’ve only known each other for 6,000 years.” Aziraphale released a short chuckle. “I suppose we have, how time flies.” Crowley picked up his glass and swirled it before finishing off the now stirred warmed liquid, he had only just realized his glasses were still on, he pulled them off his face and placed them and the wine glass down, rubbing his temples. Aziraphale couldn’t help but watch his every movement. “Really dear, if you need rest, please don’t be put off it because of me.” Crowley downed the now full wine glass. “S’okay, rather not.” He muttered snapping his finger and filing it again. “Why not? Your bed is there, at least you have one.” Aziraphale said nodding towards what he assumed was another wall to his room. “Just drop it.” Crowley said, once again unmoving. “Crowley, please.”- “I said drop it Aziraphale!” Crowley said jumping from his seat legs first he briskly moved towards and out the door. The Angel sat rather shocked, he quietly removed himself from his chair and followed the loud footsteps the what appeared to be the kitchen. Crowley was struggling with what appeared to be a bottle of Ouzo. “Planning on cooking?” Aziraphale asked from the doorway, a little too shy to enter the kitchen its self “Planning on forgetting.” Crowley growled finally unscrewing the cap, he lifted the bottle to his lips before it was pushed down and pulled from his hands. “Crowley, what on earth are you doing!?” Crowley looked down at the gentle being underneath him, whose eyes searched his face for an answer.

“Did ’ya not hear what I just said?” He said attempting to fish the bottle from Aziraphale’s grip. “Yes, but what are you attempting to forget? You need rest my dear.” Crowley soon got the bottle back in his hands. “I can’t!” He shouted before throwing the bottle at the wall, having it crash and shatter. Aziraphale flinched lightly but continued to watch the Demon begin to crumble. “I can’t sleep.” Crowley said breaking slightly, Aziraphale hesitated slightly before pushing forward and placing his hand on the Demon’s face. “Why my dear?” Crowley was shocked at the touch but remained unmoving in Aziraphale’s soft warm hand. “Every time I even close my eyes, I see your bookshop up in flames and you nowhere to be seen, Angel I thought I lost you.” Crowley for the first time since he had his body felt the sting of tears forming in his eyes. “Oh Crowley.” Was all that escaped Aziraphale mouth as he watched his Demon fall to his knees, he soon followed slowly and gently wrapping his arms around Crowley’s sharp shoulders. “I’m here now Crowley.” Crowley’s eyes found Aziraphale’s and there was on a brisk second before his lips met the Angels. Aziraphale shock lasted but a brief moment before his eyes fluttered shut and his body melted into the kiss.

Their kiss went on for what felt like 6,000 years. Their heads both swimming in the moment as Crowley’s body felt like it went up in flames, he wanted to check to make sure it wasn’t actually on fire, but oh how he didn’t want to break from this. Aziraphale felt every moment of the two of them melt into this one kiss, ever hair on his body stood as his hands cupped his Demons face.

The moment did have to end eventually, though neither of them had to exactly breathe, they did have to speak to one another. “I’m not going anywhere again.” Aziraphale assure as he brushed a lone tear from Crowley’s cheek who swiftly nodded and leaned into the Angels touch. “I have been waiting eons for this moment Angel.” Aziraphale hummed and gently pressed his nose onto Crowley’s. “So have I.” Crowley loved watching the Angels eyes which began to shine. “Demons don’t get emotional you say?” Aziraphale says with a slight grin, Crowley held back the urge to push the Angel to the ground, instead he pulled him in for another kiss.

#aziraphale x crowley #crowley #aziraphale #angel #demon #good omens #good omens fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #My writing #anothony j crowley #a.z. fell #a place to stay #ineffable husbands #first kiss #angst

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fangirlfiles1 · 5 years ago

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Apocalypse and Apple Pie

Fandom: Good Omens

Summary: An angel and a demon mourn the end of the world with the last human on Earth. And some apple pie of course, for irony’s sake.

TW: Character death

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20471408

Summary: An angel and a demon grieving the end of the world with the help of the last human on Earth. And a slice of apple pie, of course.

“We don’t have to stay here and watch this, Angel. We can go. Any time you like.”

But of course not. Aziraphale stayed. He watched, and he cared, and it hurt. If it had just been Crowley on his own, he would have left as soon as the first shuttles were taking people to the newly colonized Mars. He would have laid claim to one of the first homes and recreated his old flat as well as he could (which would have been perfectly, with the help of a quick demonic miracle). But it wasn’t Crowley on his own, not now, and it hadn’t been for a very long time. Aziraphale and Crowley were an inseparable pair.

So, without a single complaint, Crowley also stayed. He watched, and he tried his hardest not to care, but it still hurt.

-- They could fly there, or even appear with a snap of their fingers, but Aziraphale insisted on walking. He wanted to feel the dying Earth beneath his bare feet for as long as he could, he said. He wanted to soak her in through his heels and keep her with him somehow. So, they walked without stopping, wedging dirt between their toes and under their nails as if they could revive the planet with the touch of their divine skin.

Crowley hung back a few strides, tucking his fingertips into his pockets and watching his angel make the farewell pilgrimage. Aziraphale looked worn, frayed along the edges. His skin was tanned from the journey, a thin layer of scruff warmed his jaw, and his once bright eyes were dull and almost permanently misted. Beyond human perception, not that it mattered now, his wings drooped and his feathers lacked their usual heavenly shine. Heaven’s attention had moved elsewhere and the angel hadn’t yet followed. It was only getting worse.

“M’tired, Angel. Let’s stop. We’ll get there tomorrow either way,” Crowley complained, his hips sagging as he planted his feet on the path. He pulled his hands out from his pockets and stretched them out over his head before letting them swing loosely at his sides, making a dramatic show of his aching body. The request to stop was entirely for himself, of course. It wasn’t at all for Aziraphale (It was. Completely. They both knew it, too).

Aziraphale blinked, pulled from his thoughtful stupor as he turned to watch the performance. His expression flickered between disapproval and gratefulness, before it finally settled with a nod. “Oh, alright. But only a short break. We’re running out of time, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Crowley said as he looked around, finding an old rusted bench nearby. Perfect. He flopped himself heavily on it, his knees unfolding to the sides as he stretched his arms along the back of it.

Aziraphale blinked again. Crowley had taken up the entire bench in his sprawling. A wave of Crowley’s hand cleared up his confusion and the angel’s face softened. They had done this many times before. He settled himself on the ground in front of the bench, not minding the dirt one bit, and he let his wings unfurl over the demon’s lap.

Crowley set to work. His fingers gently ran through the soft feathers, straightening them and massaging in the natural oils to restore their sheen. Aziraphale had never been good at grooming his own wings, often finding himself coated in a thin layer of bookshop dust. Though, it had been a long while since their bookshop days. Crowley had taken it upon himself to maintain them for him. His angel should always shine.

“She’s the last of them,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley couldn’t see his face, but he knew his eyes were closed, imagining what they would see when they arrived at the home of the last human on Earth.

“Not really. They’re like cockroaches, you never can quite stomp them out.” Aziraphale bristled at the comparison and Crowley backtracked, “er, in a good way. They’ve spread to Mars and before long they’ll spread across the rest of the universe too.”

With a quiet sigh, Aziraphale leaned back more comfortably against Crowley’s knees. “I mean she’s the last one here. On Earth, their home.”

“I know what you meant, Angel.”

They fell silent as Crowley finished, turning his attention to Aziraphale’s pale curls instead. He had to be the messiest angel, always frizzy and fussed, too busy with other thoughts to focus on the state of himself (though his clothes were a different story. Those were always carefully cared for. Vintage). He turned between Crowley’s knees and rested his crossed arms on the demon’s thigh, closing his eyes. Finally, he would take a much-needed rest.

With his angel taken care of, Crowley finally let himself look at the world around them.

It was desolate and dirty. The humans as a whole had tried, at the end. When it was clear that it was beyond saving, many of them had tried to bury it to rest in the best ways that they could. But others, those with more power, tossed it aside off the rim of a metaphorical garbage bin and let it fall to the ground without a care. They didn’t seem to feel the pain of being forced away from their home through fire, flame, and rocket fuel. They should.

But their situation and his were entirely different matters, he reminded himself, of course they wouldn’t understand.

Everything was brown, nothing growing in sight here or anywhere else. Crowley would scream at the entire world to grow if he could, to turn green again for his angel who loved it so much. And for himself who loved it just as much, though admitting that would make the loss hurt more.

The buildings around them had begun to crumble, glass cracked and shimmering along the ground at the edges where dirt met brick and drywall. It had taken many years to get to this point. They watched the humans scramble for their own survival, finding hope in other planets and making it to Mars at the last moments. They had been kind, bringing more people than Crowley had expected. It wasn’t just the rich. It wasn’t just the seemingly more important. Still, it wasn’t enough.

Many had been left behind. Those who didn’t want to go, and those who did but couldn’t make the trip. They had survived for longer than they had all expected as the angels and demons observed. Crowley had wanted to leave as soon as he could, but Aziraphale wanted to stay. He wanted to help, and he wanted to say goodbye. Crowley agreed. They began to die, and Crowley ached to leave again. Aziraphale couldn’t tear himself away, especially not now. So, they journeyed instead. They walked across God’s brown Earth and stopped to visit each of the humans that remained, giving them a bit of light before they were gone. Though that was more Aziraphale’s doing than Crowley’s. He stood on the sidelines, waiting.

Now their journey was almost over.

“We should keep going,” Aziraphale whispered, a badly disguised exhaustion in his voice. He had slept for only a few minutes, but it would have to do. Crowley knew he wouldn’t get any more out of him.

“Alright.” -- The house was pristine. Well, as pristine as a house could be at the end of the world. It showed signs of a once brilliant garden that made Crowley’s heart twinge in his chest. There was a worn-out welcome mat and faded valances over the windows. It looked like a home.

Aziraphale wasted no time in stepping up to the front door, straightening himself up with a roll of his shoulders and knocking three distinct knocks. Crowley hung back with his hands in his pockets, one hip jutted out to the side. He didn’t feel like he belonged on this journey, but he was there. He would watch quietly, as he always did. This wasn’t the time or place for demonic mischief. Let it be known though, as soon as he got to Mars, he would be unleashing all of the mischief that had been building up inside of him. It would be chaos, and he would be delighted.

They waited for a few minutes before Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, unsure. They couldn’t be too late, could they? If the last human were gone, they would have felt it, just as they had increasingly felt the loss of each one as their numbers dwindled. It had gone from a subtle awareness to a punch in the gut every time. No, it was definite. There was still a life in that house.

Movement in the window caught Crowley’s eye and he pointed to the door just as it opened, revealing, dare he say it, the most cliché, kind-looking old lady that he had ever seen. With silver hair and a deeply lined face, he could see her hundreds of years in the past wearing a pink floral apron and holding a perfectly latticed apple pie in her hands. It just felt right. “Sorry boys, it takes an old woman a few minutes to get to the door these days. But if I had known that I was going to have visitors, I would have cleaned up.”

Aziraphale turned to her, shocked by the blatant and immediate trust that they had been given, then he fell into a gleeful laugh. In that moment, he was a bookshop owner in bustling Soho again, and Crowley couldn’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitched upward. That was his angel, stunning and ethereal. Every part of him seemed to brighten. This was simultaneously the best and worst part of their journey for Crowley. Seeing Aziraphale back to himself made him feel like everything was alright again, but it was also painfully performative. Every moment of his joy drained him more, and his frivolous miracles had only increased to spite it.

A bouquet of daisies appeared behind Aziraphale’s back and he brought it forward with his signature dramatic, someone help him, whooshing sound effect, holding it out to her. “Your home is lovely, as are you.”

Heaven had moved with the humans, and their power with it. Aziraphale was working with a low battery, and he wasn’t holding back. It was endearing, but Crowley wanted to grab his hands and scream at him to stop it, to save his energy for their journey off of this planet instead. He refrained. The reaction was always worth it, anyway.

Her face was stunned, staring at the bouquet with her mouth agape. “Are those real?” She carefully reached out and took them, bringing them to her nose and breathing deeply as her eyelids fluttered closed. She was inhaling a touch of Heaven, and she clearly appreciated it for all that it was worth. “Sweetheart,” she finally spoke again with a strange sort of mischief in her voice, “how on Earth did you manage this?”

Crowley felt like he should recognize the glint in her eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn’t place it.

“Call it a miracle.” Aziraphale was positively beaming as he held out a hand. As she reached out and shook it, her frail fingers seemed to get lost in his grip. They were slim and bonier than Crowley himself. He was all angles and she was all joints. He could only imagine how they ached. “My name is Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.”

“Eve,” she said softly.

Crowley snorted, then immediately shook his head and raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Sorry- It’s just er, a tad ironic.”

“Dear, perhaps this isn’t the time,” Aziraphale scolded lightly.

“Come on, Angel. You know it is. Just a smidge. Or more. Definitely more.” Crowley grinned and joined the two on the doorstep, shaking her hand as well with a playful bow. “As he said, the name’s Anthony J. Crowley. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He was pleased to see her cheeks turn rosy as her eyes crinkled with smile lines. He still had his charm. “Now, as lovely as all of this is,” she began, “I can’t help but feel that we’ve skipped over a very important question.”

“And what would that be?” Crowley urged. He couldn’t help but get involved with this one. Part of him, the part that he was currently entertaining, was highly amused by the irony of her name. God still had a sense of humor, it seemed. The other part, which he stomped down with a mighty aggression, was inexplicably furious. It was just a reminder of how all of this was intentional. All part of a plan. It always was. Everything that went right was thanks to the plan and everything that went wrong was just an inevitable part of it. This was another tick on the list of things that hurt that could have been avoided if God only saw him, only cared enough to ease his suffering. Just this once. Not even for him, but for all of the life that this planet had been teeming with. For Aziraphale.

He gave his fury another stomp down and returned his attention to the woman before him.

“What on Earth are two handsome boys doing on my doorstep at the end of the world?”

Crowley laughed as Aziraphale gave his usual scripted response. It was enough for her to let them inside. It always was. -- Crowley surveyed the area as she guided them into the living room, poking his head unsubtly into doorways. The interior of the house was just as cliché as the exterior, with lace doilies and fake potted plants everywhere. No one could get their hands on proper plants these days, (not even Crowley without the help of a demonic miracle, and even with that it was far too much work) so the fake ones had become all the rage. She had fading pink wallpaper and a plush, rosy carpet. Crowley had no idea how she hadn’t just crawled straight out of the past and plopped herself here. It really didn’t belong in this time period.

It looked perfect at first glance, but a closer look revealed a thin layer of dust over everything. Food ration tins and wrappers were piled just out of sight in a corner of the kitchen. There was a slight stench to her and her clothing, heavily covered by a flowery perfume. She kept up appearances as well as she could, but she was clearly struggling to care for herself at this point in her life. Aging was one thing, aging alone was another.

She didn’t seem to mind his intrusive spying though, gratefully accepting Aziraphale’s help to settle down into a rocking chair with popping joints and a weary sigh. It seemed like she was just happy for the company, and maybe she knew she was close enough to the end that it didn’t matter if they were raiders come to steal everything from her.

“Thank you. Now please, do sit. Talk to me, tell me about the world.” She gestured to the couch across from her with a soft smile.

“The world is beautiful, even now,” Aziraphale said with a soft longing as he did as he was told. He looked up at Crowley, expecting him to join, but the demon pretended not to notice. He was occupying himself looking at pictures instead. Aziraphale quickly accepted his distraction and carried on alone. “I’ll tell you anything you like, but I want to hear about you and your life, too.”

Crowley only kept half of his attention on the conversation, matching up her words with the pictures on her mantle. He picked one up and held it carefully. Smiling faces stared back at him as he dusted off the glass. Two women standing on the front porch, the more proper and poised one clearly being Eve. She stood next to another who hung an arm over her shoulders with a blinding, playful grin, holding up a peace sign with her fingers. They were married, if the matching rings on their fingers had anything to say about it. Three kids, two boys and one girl, sitting on the porch step and looking like they were playfully teasing each other. It had been a while since Crowley had seen such life. He ached to join them, up there on the red planet. He had a soft spot for kids.

He could imagine them all, running around this house and filling it with noise and joy. The mischief the kids could have gotten up to, stealing cookies and fighting over toys. Screaming tantrums scattered between happy laughter. Tired parents flopping down on the couch once the kids had gone to bed, expecting a night alone but interrupted by the youngest child with a nightmare instead. Stolen sex in the moments where the kids were at school or with friends. Covering for each other when they got caught getting into trouble. All of those cliché things to fit this cliché house and its cliché resident. He longed for it. He would never admit how he longed.

“—remember the sunset, before the sky was filled with too much dust to—"

Eve was cut off by Crowley interjecting. “What happened to your family?” He held up the photo, turning to address the two that had been deep in conversation for a while now.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warned. They were here to help them, not to hurt them by bringing up memories of the past. Crowley ignored it.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. Bring it here, please,” she said, holding out a lightly trembling hand.

He brought it to her, watching her run her fingertips over each of the faces and smile. Slowly, he moved back to join Aziraphale on the couch. He sat on the very edge, leaning his elbows on his sprawled-out knees and watching her like prey, not intending to miss a single emotion that passed over her face.

Aziraphale’s fingertips trailed along his inner forearm and took his hand, pulling it into his own lap and lacing their fingers together as he leaned forward too. They watched intently together.

“This is Rose,” Eve began, with a small upward curve on her lips. Aziraphale’s fingers tightened in Crowley’s, reacting to the tangible feeling of love that had burst from her. “She was the brightest of us, the best of us. She was so smart, and such a wonderful mother…”

Crowley took note of the past tense. He had assumed, but there was the possibility that she had left with the kids, taking them to their new safe haven. The kids. That’s what he needed to hear about. Tell him about the kids.

“Charlie, the oldest… he has her smarts. He’s a scientist, you know. He helped with the plans to fit people on the rockets. He tried so hard to get me to come with him… Ada, the middle child, here,” she pointed to the girl in the photograph, holding it out so Aziraphale could see. “She does maintenance on the space station. She’s so good with her hands, she can fix everything. Used to fix the television set for me to get channels I wasn’t meant to have, little devil.” Her eyes glanced up at Crowley, who suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable. He wasn’t sure what that look had meant, and the timing of it set him on edge. “And the baby, Oliver. He’s going to school. I think he still is, anyway. Last time I spoke to him he talked about dropping out… but I like to imagine that he’s still studying art…”

They were alive and thriving, it seemed. Present tense. Crowley leaned back, letting his thigh fall against Aziraphale’s in relief. He made a mental note to find Ada when they finally joined the rest of the humans. She seemed like she would be fun.

“They sound lovely,” Aziraphale said, his eyes lighting up with delight.

“Oh, they are,” Eve smiled widely, remembering more that she wasn’t saying. “They are.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” Crowley asked.

She shook her head, the smile falling. “I don’t belong up there. This is my home…” Then her face hardened, and the story was over. “I’m sorry boys, but I need my rest.”

Crowley wanted to ask so many more questions, but Aziraphale nodded and stood, pulling Crowley along with him. He led them to the kitchen while she leaned back and closed her eyes. It was such an abrupt stop to the conversation. Crowley wanted to shake her until she opened her eyes and continued her story. He needed to know why she didn’t go with her family. They were hers, and she belonged with them, not with this dying shell of a planet. People aren’t supposed to shove their children out and stay behind without a word.

As soon as they were alone in the kitchen, Aziraphale’s arms were around Crowley’s shoulders and wrapping him into a hug. “I’m sorry for making you do this with me, dear. I know it’s difficult.”

“I chose to stay,” Crowley muttered, staying perfectly still. He had too many things on his mind. It felt like he was being torn in two. But that wasn’t the point, they weren’t talking about him. They were supposed to be talking about her family. He wanted to charge right back in there, but Aziraphale didn’t release him.

“For me. You want to be up there. I know it’s hurting you.” Aziraphale leaned back to look at him, pressing a warm hand to his cheek. Maybe he was just an angel high off the love that he had felt from her, but his eyes were damp. “You love them all so much, I know it’s hard for you to—”

“They’re cockroaches, like I said,” Crowley hissed, trampling whatever compliments and reassurances Aziraphale was planning on giving him. “They ruin what they’re given, and they abandon it like it doesn’t even matter. They killed our planet and they’ll kill the next one too, and the next one and the one after that. They’ll kill their way through the entire galaxy if they’re allowed.”

Aziraphale let him ride out his outburst with practiced patience, his hand falling from Crowley’s cheek to his chest. He would wait until Crowley was done, until his rage had cooled from an angry boil to a simmer, and then they would talk. But that didn’t happen, not this time. Crowley squirmed out of the angel’s grip and stormed off to the porch, slamming the door behind him. Aziraphale didn’t follow.

A dust storm had kicked off outside, but it didn’t dare touch him right now. He stomped down the steps, turned, and gave them a swift kick accented by a loud growl. Then he sank down onto the lowest step and hung his head in his hands. “You just sit up there and let them destroy everything that matters,” he mumbled. “You can’t just step in for once, can’t just help them clean up their mess this one time.”

He slammed his fist down onto the wood and turned his face to the dirty sky. “You call them your children, but you don’t even bother to guide them! They pray to you! How many begged you to fix this? You could have. You could have saved everything!”

This was pointless, he knew, and he slumped down to lay on those steps and stare at the ground. Getting angry wouldn’t change anything. What was he doing having this outburst now, anyway? It was the same old thing. He should be used to it by now.

He had just wanted things to stay the same. He had finally settled into a life that he could get used to. He had planted roots and he didn’t even have to yell at them to grow. They burst up through the ground and blossomed more beautifully than he could have ever imagined. His life with Aziraphale was perfect until the world went to shit. He thought that the big one would be Heaven and Hell versus the humans, but he was wrong. It was Heaven and Hell and the humans versus Crowley and the planet. He loved them, but he also hated them. That’s where his anger lied. He had made his home with them and they betrayed him.

Maybe he wouldn’t go join them on Mars. Maybe he would just lay on this stoop until the world swallowed him up in its last dying breaths.

Aziraphale wouldn’t let that happen.

He still wanted to join them, anyway. If only to make their lives hell (he couldn’t help but love them, still). -- Eventually, he put himself back together and reentered the house. Everything had been cleaned to a shine, and Crowley cursed himself for leaving Aziraphale to his own devices. He didn’t have enough left in him to be doing all of this for her. Crowley found him after a few minutes of exploration, cleaning the bathroom sink by hand. His sleeves were rolled up, a sponge held tightly in his hands. So, it wasn’t by miracles after all. Was he unable, or did he just want to keep his hands busy? Crowley didn’t ask.

“You’re awful at that, give it to me,” Crowley muttered as he pushed Aziraphale aside and snatched the sponge.

Aziraphale looked unbothered, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and watching him. It was a familiar gaze, taking stock of the hurt and the anger and organizing it into the right places of understanding. “You and Eve have more in common than you think,” he finally said.

“Ah, the Biblical names. You caught that too. You’ve always been so clever.” It was a lazy deflection, and he really hadn’t expected it to work. It was completely ignored, and rightly so.

“She loves the world so much that she couldn’t leave it behind. You love it so much that you wanted to leave, before it made you accept that it’s dying.” His tone was gentle, making Crowley bristle down to his core as he aggressively scrubbed the porcelain sink. “I know you’re angry, dear. I hate to admit it, but so am I.”

Crowley’s hands stilled, his fingertips digging into the edge of the counter. “It has been a while since you baked, hasn’t it?”

“Er- what?” That comment had hit him like a foul ball. Where had that come from? He turned to blink at Aziraphale in confusion, met with a smug grin. That bastard of an angel was up to something. It had completely sideswiped his rage and sent it hurtling off into space.

Standing, Aziraphale rolled his sleeves back down and straightened his tartan bowtie. “I’ve heard that you can do a lot with an apple. Surely that hasn’t changed?”

It was said like a challenge, one that Crowley would definitely meet head on. Before he could respond, Aziraphale gave him a swift kiss on the cheek and disappeared from the bathroom, leaving Crowley to continue scrubbing. Wait. He suddenly realized that he had been roped into finishing the cleaning.

“Bless it,” he hissed. -- The smell of apples and cinnamon wafted through the house, and Crowley was proud to say that it was absolutely devilish. Not even Aziraphale would dare to call it heavenly. He had imagined Eve as the one with the apple pie, but now it was him. He had even found a pink floral apron, just as he had expected. He had tied that around his waist the moment he saw it, of course.

“Is that…?” Eve’s groggy voice drifted in from the living room as she woke and Crowley grinned.

“It is,” Aziraphale’s voice confirmed, that bastardly mischief still in his voice. If God wanted to be ironic, then so would Crowley. He would watch Eve take a bite and he would revel in it. The first and last women on Earth would taste the forbidden fruit under his watchful eye. It wouldn’t do much, of course. Not at this point. But for Crowley, it was just the amount of spite that he needed to get through all of this until they could leave and put it all behind them. He would pretend it never happened, and every day would bring him further away from the end of the world. Just like the 1400s.

He focused on his presentation, perfectly cutting the slices and setting them onto plates. When he brought them out, he had a sharp grin on his face, laying on the charm. He was thrilled by her hungry eyes, immediately reaching out for the plate and bringing it up to her nose just as she had done with Aziraphale’s flowers. After she had savored the scent, she looked at Crowley with a raised eyebrow, suspicious and amused. “Dare I ask where you got the apples?”

“Better not,” Crowley purred as he turned and handed Aziraphale a plate, settling onto the couch next to him with one of his own. “But I will tell you, they are sinfully delicious.”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Aziraphale sighed fondly with a roll of his eyes. The demon was playing it up too much, but he seemed to enjoy it just a little bit. Eve didn’t seem to mind the questionable sources, digging into the pie like it was the first meal she had ever eaten. It had been a while since she had eaten real food, if her ration remains were to be trusted. Crowley watched, feeling just the right amount of satisfaction to tide him over. Then he glanced to Aziraphale, and that satisfaction only grew. Take that, God. There was an angel devouring the fruit of knowledge, knowing exactly what it was. Or, what it was a descendant of at least. Apples had lost that power as soon as the first one had been bitten into, but the metaphor still stood.

They ate in silence, each savoring the taste of real food for the first time in a while. It wasn’t quite as good as the real thing, being cheated up by a demonic miracle, but it seemed even better in the current times. Finally, Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and set his plate on the coffee table in front of him.

“Eve,” he began, his shoulders back and chin up, determined. “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh?” She said, lowering her fork to her plate and looking at him expectantly. Then with a whoosh of air that tickled the back of Crowley’s neck, Aziraphale’s wings extended into the realm of human perception. “I am an angel, and Crowley is a demon.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He had not been given the whole ‘revealing Heaven and Hell to the human’ memo, but apparently that was a thing now. There wasn’t even any build up to it. No dramatics. He just kind of, let loose and revealed the secret like it was nothing. Aziraphale nudged him and Crowley sighed. Fine, dramatics be damned, then. He let his own black wings stretch out behind him as well with a shrug. He muttered, “the fruit of knowledge strikes again.”

There was no extreme reaction, no shock or surprise. They had never revealed themselves to a human before (well, not without the whole dramatic build-up of killing the four horsemen and stopping Satan himself. That hadn’t exactly been an intentional revelation, and the humans didn’t even remember it, so it didn’t count), but he had expected at least… well, something.

“Is that all?” She asked, taking another bite of pie.

“Er, yes. That’s… all.” Aziraphale was dumbfounded, looking at each other’s wings to make sure they were there and glancing at Crowley, who only returned the questioning look with another shrug. Until-

“Wait. You’ve known the whole time!” Crowley realized abruptly, setting his own plate down on the table with a clatter. “That’s why you trusted us. That’s why you weren’t surprised by the flowers!” He laughed with a snake-like roll of his head. “Ooh, you’re a sneaky one, aren’t you?”

Eve laughed then, a tired sound that seemed to get stuck in her chest halfway up. “When you’re as close to death as I am, and far from the rest of humanity, I think Heaven and Hell stop caring about their secrets so much.”

Aziraphale was taking a bit longer on the uptake. “But… why didn’t you say anything?”

“What would I say? It didn’t matter to me. I just enjoyed the company. Though I really wasn’t expecting you to reveal your secret. So, if it makes you feel any better, I am a little surprised.” Eve gave him a slightly apologetic smile.

“I… wanted you to know that you were being looked after. You’re the last person on Earth, and—”

Shaking his head, Crowley made a gesture for Aziraphale to shush. He hadn’t meant to tell her that part. He didn’t want to make her feel alone.

Eve set her plate down on her lap, letting out a slow breath. That was definitely news to her. “Wow. I guess…” Crowley braced himself for an influx of human emotion, but it didn’t come. “I really stuck it out then, didn’t I?”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, surprised by this woman yet again. She had accepted all of this already, it seemed. Crowley wondered for a moment why they were even there. She had the whole moving on thing down to a science. Eve shook her head, leaning back in her rocking chair and closing her eyes. She didn’t want to discuss it further, clearly. She looked tired, and her hands hung loosely off the arms of the rocker. Crowley had another sudden realization, that she was far worse off than she seemed.

With a dismissive sigh, she changed the subject. “Tell me about the world, Aziraphale. All of it. And don’t leave out any of the parts about you two.”

Aziraphale looked completely unsure of what to do. But she had made a request, and he wasn’t about to deny it. “Well…” He looked to Crowley, seeking permission and receiving a nod in return. It was a good story to end with. “In the beginning, there was a garden. He was a wily serpent, and I was on apple tree duty…” -- It hurt, when she was gone. Crowley felt it tear at his chest, but Aziraphale was the one who had it the worst. He sat on his knees by her side for a long time, both of his hands holding one of hers. There were other humans, she wasn’t the last, but she was special.

“So,” Aziraphale finally said after a long time of mourning. It looked like he was praying, but there was nothing left to pray for. “They’ve finally left the garden.” Crowley set a hand on his shoulder, his voice soft and low. “They left the garden a long time ago.”

“I know, but… this one really felt like Eden. To me.” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, tears falling from his eyes. It finally made sense then, why he had to make this journey. They had all been forced out of Eden once the humans fell. Even the angels had been sent away to Heaven, leaving the garden to die behind stone walls and locked gates. But to Aziraphale, he had found it again. He had loved it and cared for it, and despite his efforts, he was being locked out of it again. The gates would be closing soon.

“Oh, Angel.” Crowley gently took Aziraphale’s chin in his hand and pulled him up to his feet, kissing his temple. He didn’t have words of encouragement, that wasn’t his strong point, but Aziraphale could feel everything that he needed to hear rolling off of him in waves. He had done his job. He had gone above and beyond. While Heaven had moved on, he stayed to finish what had to be done. “Let’s put this garden to rest. We’ll build a new one, wherever you want to go.” -- They buried her in the dirt just off the front porch step. No miracles did it for them, just shovels, sweat, and hard work led by heart ache. When they were finished, they swept the dirt away from the porch and left the welcome mat clean. She would have wanted it ready for any potential visitors, even if they weren’t coming.

When it was done, they climbed the tallest hill around and sat at the top of it. The sun was setting, burning red behind the dust and the dirt and the crumbling atmosphere. It was horrifying, but it was also somehow beautiful.

“A long time ago, you wondered if you did the right thing,” Aziraphale said quietly, staring into the sky. “Giving them knowledge, setting them free. I think you did.”

“Don’t tell anyone else that,” Crowley sneered, staring at Aziraphale. He had seen the burning sky before. He didn’t need to say goodbye to it. It hurt too much. But looking at his angel and hearing him say that he had done the right thing all those years ago… that was what mattered. He had tried to run away from it, but he couldn’t do that this time. Crowley wasn’t one for goodbyes, but he would let Aziraphale say his.

“I wish we had more time.”

Crowley knew that tone. It was the one that Aziraphale used when he wanted something that he didn’t feel he deserved, that he couldn’t bring himself to request. His lower lip curled between his teeth, contemplating. He really couldn’t say no though, now, could he? Definitely not (It was just a stain on an old jacket, the end of the world). “A few minutes, but that’s all I can give.”

He stood, closing his eyes and lifting his hands, bringing up the last drops of Hell power remaining in this place. Time came to an abrupt stop. The dust stilled and the sun hung like a still portrait in the sky. Aziraphale inhaled deeply, lifting his chin and feeling the warmth on his face. He was beautiful, and he was sad.

Crowley stood beside him and waited, not daring to speak or touch. And maybe when he felt his power to stop time coming to an end, he looked at the sky too. And just maybe, for a second that wasn’t, he let himself feel the warmth of the sun too, the gentle burning that wasn’t Hellfire, but that gave life to the world. But he definitely managed to say goodbye, despite how it hurt. This time he would fly upward out of Eden.

Aziraphale didn’t need to say thank you, and Crowley didn’t want to hear it. When time resumed, he knew that they were finished. Their pilgrimage was finally over.

“Can we make a pit stop on the way?” The angel asked as the sun dipped down below the horizon.

“Of course, Angel. Where to?”

“Alpha Centauri.”

The demon smiled and took the angel’s hand, finally leaving the Earth behind. The gates closed and locked. Something shifted beneath the dirt of a home that held just enough love, and just enough defiance, to give life to something new.

Roots burst forth from an apple seed. Maybe it really was all part of the plan, not that Crowley would ever know that.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. This story is really special to me so I would love to hear your feedback. Please share it if it touched you in any way!

#Good Omens #Good Omens Fanfiction #Ineffable Husbands #Aziraphale #Crowley #Aziraphale/Crowley #Original Character #Ineffable Husbands Fanfiction #Good Omens Fic Rec #My Writing #Apocalypse and Apple Pie

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