#Aziraphale is looking in the direction where Crowley went for almost all of this scene | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pengychan · 4 years ago

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Isaiah 40:31

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

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

A/N: well, shit hits the fan and the end is near.

***

As the boy who was most assuredly Not The Antichrist - but who had nonetheless been their charge for about the first eleven years of his life - walked towards the front door of the bookshop in Soho, entirely unaware of being stalked by a man with a pocket knife, Aziraphale stood in the bedroom of a lovely cottage in the South Downs, not far from the Devil’s Dyke.

He knew it was rather rude, being roughly seventy-five miles away from the place where you happen to have an appointment in about five minutes’ time, but surely it was not too much of an issue, given that they would be right back in the bookshop by crossing the threshold of a rather miraculous door they had installed between the two places. And besides, Crowley had really wanted to show him something.

That something being a luxurious, huge and hugely gaudy canopy bed with gold-plated columns and red velvet drapes that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in Versailles, before revolutionaries took most of its contents to an uncertain fate. As a piece of furniture still occasionally turned up in flea markets, Aziraphale wouldn’t put it beyond the realm of possibilities.

Said bed now occupied the greater part of the bedroom that Crowley had insisted they ought to have in the cottage, against Aziraphale’s suggestion to turn it into another room for his books.

“We already have the loft for those, and the bookshop on the other side of the door,” he’d pointed out. “We need a bedroom.”

Aziraphale, who had actually last slept sometime in the nineteenth century and solely out of boredom while watching an especially poor performance of Troilus and Cressida - in itself far from Shakespeare’s best work, and the lead actor’s lisp had done it no favors - had been slightly taken aback. “But, my dear, we don’t need sleep,” he’d said, getting a snort out of Crowley.

“We don’t need to eat either. So what?”

Aziraphale had to concede he had a point, although he didn’t quite see the allure of laying in a semi-comatose state for several hours while hallucinating the same way he saw the allure of a slice of red velvet cake, and agreed that the cottage would indeed have a bedroom. It was only fair considering the space he had for his books, so that was a compromise he did not regret.

Telling Crowley he was welcome to choose whatever bed he liked himself, however, was something Aziraphale did regret. He knew that Crowley’s taste when it came to furniture ranged from dreadfully minimalistic to unbearably garish, but this - the golden columns, the red heavy velvet - was… a little too much.

“Well, what do you think?” Crowley was asking, looking as proud of himself as he had after moving that golden monstrosity he called a throne right next to Aziraphale’s old trusty armchair in the loft, entirely ignoring the way Aziraphale’s right eyebrow had twitched.

This time, it was the left eyebrow to twitch.

“Well, it is-- rather…” Aziraphale raked his brain for a polite way to put it. “Eye-catching.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Crowley grinned, even prouder. Aziraphale suspected his euphemism had been a little too subtle. “I remembered what you said when I came to save your butt in France.”

“... That I wanted crêpes?”

“That you had standards. French royalty standards.”

“Well, it was not quite royalty level, more along the lines of a noble--”

“This beauty comes straight from Versailles.”

Ah, of course. Of course it did.

“Or, well, not so straight. It went around across Europe quite a bit. But here it is, as you see.”

“Yes. I… I do see.” Aziraphale managed a smile. No harm done, he thought - he didn’t have a habit to sleep as Crowley did, so he would hardly ever need to be in that room at all. He would just entirely forget about that bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

“The mattress is new, clearly. You’ll like it. Real plush.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That sounds nice, but I am not in the habit of sleeping.”

“You should try. Nothing better than some time spent in a semi-comatose state while vividly hallucinating.”

A chuckle. “You’re not making it sound very alluring.”

“Ah, I should up my temptation game. I’m out of practice. When was the last time I tempted you into anything?”

“This morning, actually, you--”

The chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs - a very tasteful eighteenth century clock Aziraphale had long debated whether to move in the cottage or keep in the bookshop - cut him off, and reminded him of… well, of the time.

“I believe Warlock should arrive any moment now - we should head back,” he said, and they did. It looked like the boy might get there before Gabriel popped in to return the book, and if that turned out to be the case… well, Aziraphale really hoped he had enough sense to put the book in a bag or something like it. If not, they may need to have a few words.

There were things an eleven-year-old boy really didn’t need to see.

***

“Ugh, c’mon, they knew I was coming…” Warlock Dowling huffed, taking a couple of steps away from the door of the bookshop which had stayed closed, no matter how hard he knocked. He glanced at the sign in the window; it made just as little sense as it did the first time he read it.

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays). A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

Warlock briefly wondered who A. Z. Fell was, really - the founder? A co-owner? It definitely was not Brother Francis’ name, but he had claimed to be the owner, which was a leap from working as a gardener but not a claim Warlock had any reason to doubt. Brother Francis did not lie, after all. He hated lies and got really cross with him whenever he caught him lying, usually after Nanny-- after Crowley suggested he did.

“Pair of weirdos. Always been,” Warlock muttered, but it wasn’t really a complaint; they were a fun pair of weirdos to grow up around, or else he wouldn’t have tracked them down in London. After checking through the window to see if anyone was in, and seeing, no one, Warlock reached in his pocket for his phone and began looking for Crowley’s number.

Focused as he was on the screen, he failed to notice the man approaching with a hand in his pocket, eyes fixed on him and pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black. On the opposite side of the road Hastur, Duke of Hell, retreated from the mortal’s mind with a smirk and prepared to enjoy the scene with eyes just as black.

***

“... So no, I really doubt the London Dungeon holds prisoners anymore, but it would be an interesting thing to--”

“Silence,” Beelzebub spoke suddenly, stopping abruptly in their tracks and causing Gabriel to almost bump into them and drop the book, something for which Aziraphale would probably be very, very cross with him. He frowned.

“It’s not my fault that they have stopped using the dungeons, if that’s such an issue I suppose we could change plans and--”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you sense-- ah. No, you can’t anymore,” Beelzebub muttered, and looked around with a scowl. “A demon is at work. It was my order that no one was to approach the traitors.”

Gabriel blinked. “Maybe it’s Crowley--”

“It’s not,” Beelzebub all but snarled, staring at someone some distance away. Further down the pavement stood a man that looked… wrong, for the lack of a better word; something not human who made a passingly decent job at masquerading as human, but not quite good enough. Gabriel may not be able to sense demonic or angelic presences anymore, but he could see as much.

“Hastur,” Beelzebub scoffed.

Ah, Gabriel was vaguely familiar with the name - Hastur, Duke of Hell. Not someone he’d be pleased to meet anywhere in general, but seeing him there was especially worrying. He recalled Michael mentioning that out of all demons, he held a particular grudge against Crowley. Was that grudge really so great that he would ignore a direct order from Beelzebub to find Crowley in Soho and… and do what, exactly? “What is he doing here?”

“I’m about to find out. Wait here,” Beelzebub muttered, and walked - no, marched - directly towards the demon. “Hastur, Duke of Hell. What in Heaven are you doing here?”

Their voice caused the demon to recoil and turn his attention away from… whatever they had been staring at on the other side of the road. He was already deathly pale, but he seemed to grow just a tad paler as his gaze rested on a decidedly annoyed Prince of Hell planting themselves before him, arms crossed and clearly looking for a very good explanation why he would defy a direct order not to be anywhere near the traitorous demon that holy water could not destroy.

As he stammered some sort of reply, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the street. A man was walking towards the bookshop coming from the opposite direction, and he was… wait. Wait, he looked familiar - Gabriel had seen him before, a few months earlier, near the church where Daniel’s funeral service had just been held. He’d given him his coat because it was raining and talked briefly with him, and he had found it funny because his name was… his name…

“Noah!” Gabriel called out with a smile, walking towards him. “How are you doing? How’s your--”

The next word - dog? - died on his lips when he got to look, to really look, at Noah’s eyes. They looked no more human than those of the Duke of Hell currently getting a tongue-lashing only a few steps away, and they were fixed dead ahead of him as he kept walking, giving no sign of having heard or seen him. Walking towards the bookshop… and towards a boy fumbling with his phone right in front of it, back turned to them all. Something was off. Something was wrong.

A demon is at work, Beelzebub had said. Gabriel opened his mouth to cry out, to demand that Hastur, Duke of Hell, released that mortal from whatever hold he had on him - but before he could force out a single word, Noah’s hand came out of his pocket and something gleamed in the sunlight.

There was no time to cry out. No time for words, no time to think, no time to demand action from anyone other than himself. Gabriel knew there was one thing he ought to do now, one thing only. Ever since finding himself without plan or purpose, choices had not always come easy to him - the terror of choosing wrong often paralyzing him. But this one came with no effort: it was no choice at all. As a dark shadow fell on a boy he didn’t even know, Gabriel dropped the book he had come to return, and ran.

“NOAH! STOP!”

Noah did not turn, but the boy did. He lifted his gaze from his phone to glance over at Gabriel, clearly confused - then his confusion turned into alarm when Gabriel suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him away.

“Hey! The hell?” the boy yelled, just as the knife descended on the spot he’d been standing only an instant before, narrowly missing the back of his neck. He tried to pull away from Gabriel’s grip, turning to call out for someone to get that madman off him - and froze when he finally saw the man standing behind him, eyes all black and lips pulled back in a snarl, swinging something at him.

Somewhere in his brain, he registered it was a knife. He tried once again to scream - mom, he thought, but if he’d managed to force out his voice he probably would have said something more along the lines of ‘shit’. Gabriel, from his part, didn’t try to speak again; he could tell Noah was beyond hearing him.

So he yanked the boy back once again, and threw himself between him and Noah. The result was, all things considered, extremely predictable.

Four and a half inches of steel buried themselves into Gabriel’s gut with a wet sound that went almost entirely unheard. There was a sense of heat, the pressure of a handle against his flesh and, at first, no pain. Gabriel found himself staring straight into pitch-black eyes for a moment before the pupils shrank to a normal size again, revealing the human eyes, light blue and filled with confusion. Somewhere behind Gabriel, the boy screamed and turned to bang on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

People around them stopped walking to turn, not quite having caught up what was going on but slowly getting there. On the other side of the road, a panicked Duke of Hell disappeared in a cloud of smoke as soon as the Lord of the Flies turned to see what the commotion was about.

Gabriel tried to speak, to call out for Beelzebub - don’t hurt him, he didn’t know what he was doing - but a gurgling sound was all that left him, and something dripped down his chin.

“What…?” Noah muttered, blinking at him, and looked down. “Oh-- oh God, oh Jesus Christ, oh shit-- !” he cried out, voice high and panicked, and staggered back with the knife still in hand, dislodging from Gabriel’s flesh with another wet sound.

Blood came rushing forth, coldness set in, and so did pain. Gabriel’s knees folded, and he hit the ground just as the bloodied knife did. Noah stepped back again, shaking like a newborn calf.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry-- someone call an ambulance, I’m sorry, oh God…!”

Don’t bother calling out for God. They don’t answer. Not for me.

“Gabriel!” Beelzebub’s voice filled his ears, drowning out all the rest. There was a hand on the back of his head, lifting it, and he opened his eyes again to see them looking down at him, wide-eyed and scared in a way he had never seen them.

And Gabriel was scared, too, filled to the brim with the most primal, human terror - the most ancient sort of despair known to man. He suddenly knew why even Yeshua had faltered that night in the Garden of Gethsemane, pleading to escape the fate before him and avoid what he knew was unavoidable.

I don’t want to die.

He tried to speak, choking on his own blood. Somewhere behind him, a heavy door was thrown open and Aziraphale’s voice reached him as though from miles away.

“Warlock! My boy, what is-- oh. Oh dear, what…?”

“What the Heaven is going on?” Crowley’s voice was a couple octaves higher than usual, and suddenly there was silence, time itself stilled; the crowd all around them, Noah, even a bird flying past right above them remained fixed in time like so many statues. The boy was talking frantically to Crowley and Aziraphale, but Gabriel was unable to pay his words any mind. His gaze remained fixed on Beelzebub, and on Beelzebub only.

“Heal me,” he choked out. He felt cold all over, even with the wound itself throbbing in heat and pain the way the wounds on his back had, the day his wings were torn off. “Please.”

“Hastur will pay for this, he-- I-- of course, you idiot, be still--” their hand hovered above the blood-soaked shirt, and suddenly they hesitated. Their gaze found Gabriel’s, and held it. “... Sacrifice,” the Prince of Hell murmured.

“What…?”

“You sacrificed your life for another. That’s it. It’s your ticket back home, Gabriel.”

Home. Back in Heaven, where he belonged. Not quite in his old position - a mortal soul - but still, home. Except that… except that if he returned there as a mere mortal soul...

“No,” Gabriel wheezed. “No. I can’t. I-- would never-- be able to leave it-- again.”

“You never wished to leave it in the first pla--”

“Never see you-- again--” Gabriel coughed, and let out a weak groan at the excruciating pain. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it down his throat, pooling down on the pavement around him; he felt his strength draining away with it. The back of Beelzebub’s free hand wiped some of it off his chin; the other still cupped the back of his head.

“... You will die either way in the end. You do not wish to reside in Hell and I will not force you.” Their plan of leaving behind Hell for good seemed to be far from their mind now. “This may be--” the Prince of Hell paused, and let out a shaky breath. “This may be your best chance, Gabriel.”

“No. Not now. Not yet,” Gabriel managed a smile. His vision was growing blurry. “I will take… all the time I can get. With you.” However little it may be. Such short life spans, but I will make it worth it. I must. I only get one shot. “So don’t-- let me die-- yet.”

For a moment Beelzebub only stared, their hand hovering above his wound. They swallowed, and opened their mouth to say something - only that someone else spoke first. Aziraphale.

“Oh, oh dear, what a dreadful mess-- Gabriel? It’s all right, hold on, I will heal you--”

“Keep away from him!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously, shooting a glare at Aziraphale, at Crowley, at the boy who was currently glued to Crowley’s side, staring with wide eyes at the scene before him and at the crowd frozen in time. The angel reared back, but did not give up.

“I mean to help him. Heal him.”

“I can heal him myself!” the Prince of Hell snapped, and pressed their hand on the bleeding wound. Pain shot up Gabriel’s body and he ground his teeth, waiting for relief, for healing, for the end of suffering… but none of it came.

Beelzebub pulled away a now bloodied hand, taken aback, struggling to comprehend what they were seeing. “It’s… it isn’t working. It won’t heal.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, despair sinking in his chest.

No. It cannot be. Not now, God, please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t let me die now that I have learned to live. Don’t take them from me again.

“... May I try, Lord Beelzebub?” Aziraphale spoke again, ever respectful, but the hesitation in his voice made it plain that he didn’t think they could succeed where Beelzebub had failed. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, and felt something trickling down his temples.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why--

GABRIEL.

That voice, in the back of his mind and yet everywhere. Gabriel hadn’t heard it in such a long, long time, but hadn't forgotten it. His chest shuddered in a gasp, and he tried to speak again, to respond to the call - whether to cry, to beg, to curse he didn’t know. Before he could force out a single sound, another voice rose. Very familiar and decidedly concerned.

“Uuh, angel? Any idea what that is?”

“What-- oh. That might be our cue to move out of the way. Move away-- you too, Warlock, move back, my boy…”

What…?

Gabriel opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Precisely above him, the blue of it was gone; clouds of blinding white had gathered in a circle, and within that circle was only light. The air around him seemed to crackle, and he knew what that meant. Gabriel tried to speak, to warn Beelzebub, but he could only cough up another mouthful of blood. On his tongue, he could now taste something else.

Ozone.

From a distance, once again came Aziraphale’s voice. “Lord Beelzebub, you ought to let go and--”

“No.” Beelzebub’s grip on Gabriel tightened, vicious and desperate at the same time. The air crackled, the clouds swirled, and Gabriel’s vision began to fade. His hand weakly gripped their jacket, but he was unable to do anything else. Beelzebub’s face was but a blur, but ah, their grip was unyielding. His eyes slipped shut, his head rolled against their chest.

“I refuse to let go. God cannot tell me what to do and neither can you.”

Don’t take them from me again. Please, please, please--

“Brother Francis, what the hell--”

“We’ll explain later, my boy - step back now, cover your eyes - don’t look, Crowley, make sure he doesn’t look--”

The crack of thunder covered his next words, filling the world, drowning out all noise. Gabriel felt the grip around him tightening, heard Beelzebub choke out something that sounded a lot like ‘you idiot’, and he opened his eyes.

And then there was only light.

***

In the instant before lighting struck, three things happened in quick succession.

First, Crowley pulled Warlock’s face to his chest to make sure he wouldn’t be blinded as many mortals had been before Heaven learned to somewhat tone it down; second, Crowley turned his back to the scene to avoid looking himself, and shield the boy while he was at it.

And third, Aziraphale’s wings unfolded to shield them both.

There was no heat, which was rather typical of Heavenly things: light without warmth, utterly unlike the darkness and heat - humid heat rather than raging flames, but all the more uncomfortable - that Aziraphale had experienced in his first, and hopefully only, visit to Hell.

Shielded by Aziraphale’s wings, Crowley kept his eyes tightly shut behind his glasses and Warlock’s face pressed against his shirt for several more moments after the last echo of the deafening thunder faded.

“Is it safe to turn, angel?” he asked, while Warlock kept muttering against his shirt a litany of words that mostly sounded like ‘what’, ‘the’ and ‘fuck’, in the order.

This time Aziraphale didn’t bother to make a mental note of talking with the boy about his language. Aside from being relieved the boy had not been stabbed, turned into salt, incinerated, blinded or deprived of his sanity, Aziraphale suspected they would have different, more pressing matters to discuss very shortly. “I’ll check. Don’t look yet,” he replied, and finally looked back.

The crowd of mortals was still around them, frozen in time, unscathed and unaware. The clouds were gone, quick as they had come - but there was a sphere of light before him, crackling with electricity where Beelzebub and Gabriel had been until moments earlier. In that light, there was… something. At first Aziraphale couldn’t make it out, but as he stepped closer and the light began to dull, he could see something all right.

And that something was a pair of folded wings.

At first, Aziraphale thought he must be looking at the wings of a demon and wondered how Beelzebub could survive the full might of the Lord; then, as the light pulsed and faded little by little, he realized that was not it. The wings were not the pure white of angels, but neither were they midnight black. Deep brown with a golden sheen, mottled with darker brown, black, specks of white. The wings of an eagle.

And they did not belong to Beelzebub.

One last crackle of pure energy, and the pulsing light dissolved. Aziraphale worked his jaw a moment, mouth dry, before he finally called out.

“... Gabriel?”

The wings shifted, and slowly parted. Gabriel was kneeling on the pavement, eyes blinking open as though he struggled to comprehend what was happening. In his arms, held tightly against his chest, was the Prince of Hell; their eyes were screwed shut as though they were waiting to be smited still, but they were in one piece - shielded from the full might of God by the Archangel Gabriel himself, who seemed to be just now beginning to process precisely what had transpired.

“What…?” he muttered, and the sound of his voice caused Beelzebub’s eyes to snap open. They pulled back from his chest, on their knees themselves, and looked up at Gabriel - and at the wings spread behind him. They opened their mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again.

“You have wings again,” they finally said. “But they don’t look like--”

Gabriel didn’t so much turn to look at them. “You are all right,” he muttered, and cupped their cheek with a long breath, smiling widely. “Thank-- whoever there is to thank, you’re--”

Beelzebub’s hand grasped the collar of Gabriel’s shirt before he could say another word, and yanked his head down in a sudden kiss. It was definitely not something Aziraphale had expected to happen and neither had Gabriel, by the looks of it, but he seemed… far from displeased. Actually he leaned into it rather enthusiastically, arms slipping around the Lord of the Flies’ waist.

Aziraphale stepped back, feeling just a touch awkward.

“Angel, is it safe to look or no--” Crowley finally spoke up, and turned without waiting for an answer. A rather unwise move, that. His gaze fell on the scene before him, and he let out a groan. “Uuuugh! No it’s not safe, not it’s not, for Satan’s sake it’s seared in my brain now, why didn’t you warn...”

He turned again and took a few steps away, rubbing his eyes beneath the glasses. Warlock, on the other hand, remained exactly where he was - eyes shifting slowly between Gabriel’s brand new wings and Aziraphale’s own, still in full display.

“... Brother Francis, I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” he finally said. “But what, pray tell, the fuck.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, knowing he couldn’t count on Crowley stepping in for an explanation for at least another ten minutes, busy as he was trying to jab his eyes out of their sockets. In the end, he said nothing and turned to survey the scene.

Time stood still and so did every single living being in sight, including the man who had wielded the knife, a horrified expression frozen on his face. Gabriel and Beelzebub didn’t seem to plan on letting their mouths part ways anytime soon, still on the very spot where Gabriel had nearly bled out to death minutes earlier. A few steps away, in the middle of the road, was Aziraphale’s antique pornography book.

With a sigh, Aziraphale went to pick it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure to hide the cover from Warlock’s sight.

“I believe,” he finally spoke, “that we all could use a nice cup of tea right about now.”

***

"But those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall soar on wings like eagles; they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not be faint." -- Isaiah 40:31

***

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#good omens #ineffable beurocracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #warlock dowling #winging it

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besottedghost · 5 years ago

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written for the mafia/brothel au by @new-endings

@ new-endings, Your au was amazing and everything I didn’t know I wanted, but I couldn’t handle the angst....i’m sorry

* there’s slight nsfw in one paragraph

---

It’s just business, dear.

The words felt amplified while Crowley stood there silent, face blank behind dark glasses. His hands were clenched tight around the lead pipe, turning his knuckles white. Specks of blood were splattered across his sharp chin, his angled cheeks, and high above his brow. The sight alone would’ve made anyone run for the door, but the only thing Aziraphale feared was him leaving his life again.

The years without him were monotone and silent. Filled with bittersweet memories that made him ache while drowning out plaguing thoughts with a bottle of wine most nights. How have you changed? Are you taking care of yourself? Is your hair still streaming down your shoulders? Did you find someone who makes you happy as much as you made me?

It grew bearable when the brothel came into his possession, and he assumed the role of Master. Between taking care of his partners, building clientele, and managing the brothel’s reputation, his mind had no time to wander. Routine took the place of disappointment, and the number of years he spent without Crowley outgrew the ones with him. Even in the quiet moments of his days where loneliness waited, it was easier.

It was what he was used to.

Until Crowley sauntered back into his life, handsome as ever, and propositioned him in his office as if there wasn’t a mountain of distance between them. They agreed it would just be that one time. So Aziraphale allowed himself to revel in the pleasure Crowley gave him that far exceeded any fantasies he had. All the while servicing him in return that Crowley enthusiastically enjoyed despite his lacking experience.

It was meant to be a heated memory he would survive on in his empty bed, but his old friend didn’t share the same sentiments.

After that night Crowley never failed in visiting the brothel every week, only asking for Aziraphale, paying more or the same but never less for a night with him. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to look forward to his visits with heat curling in his belly, wondering how Crowley was going to make him cum this time. Will his serpentine tongue lick into him, mouth kissing his hole while fingers were wrapped around his cock? Maybe rough hands will bend his legs back above his head and pound into him with a snarl. Or will Aziraphale get to chock on his cock with his hair being pulled and guided into bucking hips? Moaning angel until he cums down his throat.

It was all different variations of him wrapped around Crowley’s cock, but the end was always the same. Gently being cleaned up and having arms wrapped around him while they laid in his bed. Gold eyes filled with fondness as he listened to Aziraphale talk about his week. Grinning when he laughed from the stories of Crowley’s rancid coworkers, kissing him long and slow before they both fell asleep. Waking up alone each time disappointed and angry for forgetting.

A fuck is a fuck and love has no business here.

“How much for a contract with you?”

Aziraphale blinked, snapping out his thoughts, “I beg your pardon?” He asked because it almost sounded like he wanted to form a contract with him.

A few clients had favorites among his partners. They didn’t want to share them outside of their time together, so they formed a monthly renewable contract. It was incredibly expensive and had additional rules meant to protect his partners that many clients didn’t think was worth the expense. Currently, there were only two active contracts, and only one of them planned to renew.

“You said it was only business,” Crowley clenched his jaw and threw the bloodied pipe next to Gabriel's head. “So how much will it be for you to be mine alone?” He growled and crowded him against his desk.

Aziraphale found it hard to focus with Crowley towering over him, his expensive cologne distracting him along with a stray red curl that dangled on his forehead. He looked down at his shoes and placed his hands in his pockets, toying with the inner seam hoping Crowley would give up and leave.

He did not leave. He offered a price that would comfortably retire two of his partners in their early thirties for the rest of their lives. It was an offer that was too generous and incredibly idiotic.

If the other brothels ever knew the details between him and Crowley, they would be jealous of not having such a client. They would say he had it easy and call him foolish for even hesitating at the offer.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with wide eyes and blurted, “there is no else!”

Crowley froze, and he took the opportunity to move away from him to hide behind his desk, separating them. Giving him enough space to breathe while Crowley looked at him warily.

“Before and after you, there was and will be no else,” Aziraphale swallowed. “So, there’s no need to o-offer such a ridiculous amount.” His hands reached for random papers and shuffled them around. “In fact, I think we should end our transaction. It already brought trouble here by sending out the wrong message. I will have n-no more of it!” His voice trembled, and he accidently knocked over his mug. Cold tea spilled over the edge of his desk and dripped to the floor.

He heard a clack and saw Crowley’s glasses upside down next to his pen. He looked up nervously and saw the same look Crowley always gave him before bedding him. His heart fluttered, and he couldn’t help the way his breath hitched when Crowley’s arms braced him against the desk, trapping him.

Aziraphale turned his head and closed his eyes when he felt them water. Not only did he fail in lying to himself that this meant nothing, but he turned something simple into a mess. Now how was he going to clean this up? What was he supposed to do now that his heart grew three sizes too big since Crowley came back into his life? It felt heavy and warm with every smirk, laugh, and touch he gave him. How long will it be until his heart shrivels back down cracked and smaller than it was before when Crowley inevitable leaves again.

“Why,” Crowley asked softly.

Someone else could give your money’s worth, he could say, and direct him to any of his partners for the hundredth time. He could pretend to be oblivious. Delay this dooming conversation until another distraction or when Crowley would reluctantly leave when he had other matters to attend. But there was a corpse on his floor. And he was tired.

“Why does it matter?” Aziraphale sighed and flinched when he felt fingers brush against his cheek. A rough palm cupped his cheek and guided his face back to Crowley’s. His eyes flew open when he felt his forehead rest against his. Gold eyes were filled with a strange vulnerability he hadn’t seen since Crowley left with a goodbye all those years ago.

“Angel.” Crowley swallowed. His voice low and soft, “you’re everything to me. Always was, and I’d rather be alone than be with anyone else that isn’t you.”

His eyes widened as he stared at Crowley who patiently waited. Warmth bubbled in his chest, and he dared to hope that maybe his love wasn’t unrequited after all. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was afraid.

He left before what’s stopping him from leaving again, his mind cautioned, it would be worse this time. You already gave him your body, how will you recover from giving up your heart to him too?

But he came back, his heart opened up, with his heart on a platter for you. What more are you asking for?

“I love you,” Aziraphale breathed and watched gold eyes lit up while a broad smile broke out on Crowley’s face. He licked his lips and felt a small thrill when Crowley’s eyes flickered down at his mouth. “My dear, I-I loved you then and I love you now.”

An arm went behind his waist and pulled him against Crowley, whose other hand tangled itself in white curls and pressed a short, chaste kiss on his lips. He pressed another kiss, long and slow but sweeter until their teeth clacked from smiling.

“No more separations. No more transactions. No contracts.” Crowley’s hands cupped his face, holding him as if he was something precious. “Let me take you to dinner, angel. I know a place that serves twenty-three variety of crepes.”

Aziraphale beamed and threw his arms around Crowley’s neck before kissing him once more.

---

-i was goina write a scene where Madam Tracy goes looking for Aziraphale only to find him in his office making out with Crowley while Gabriel’s dead body keeps bleeding on his rug but i got lazy

- I did not do any research on brothel’s so i’m not sure if they actually do something like contracts i got the idea from Harlots when one of the worker’s was paid to be a mistress (i think? it’s been a while since I’ve seen the show)

- @ new-endings I don’t think this was the direction you were going for with this au, but I hope you enjoyed reading it! Thank you again for the fic idea that haunted me in the best way possible!!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #tw: prostitution #tw: murder #top crowley #bottom aziraphale #possessive crowley #au

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charliechick117 · 4 years ago

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Apparently there’s this AO3 tag game going around and I thought “Hey! I wanna do it!” so here I am. I stole it from @smuttysmuttysmut so thanks! I’ve been in fandom well before Ao3 so this will be super interesting.

How many works do you have on Ao3?

45!

What’s your total Ao3 word count?

444,138 (but going up!)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Coffee Shops and Lawsuits

According to You

The Sight of a Scribe

It’s an Old Song

A Week of Dwalin/Ori

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

It depends honestly. I try to respond to comments that make me happy or need like, a follow up, I guess? For a while I didn’t reply to anyone and then I tried to reply to everyone and now I’m kind of in the middle.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Um... I don’t really write angsty endings? I guess in “It’s and Old Song” there’s a sadness to the ending where Crowley and Aziraphale don’t remember their old lives together, but they start a new life and I really feel like that was a better story - to choose each other again even if you don’t remember.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Definitely “According to You”! It’s the happiest ending because there was so much angst to get there.

Do you write crossovers? If so, what’s the craziest one you’ve ever written?

I don’t publish crossovers but when I was in college, like eight or so years ago, I wrote the biggest crossover in history based on an OC who was able to travel through every single piece of media I ever consumed. I’m talking Merlin, Doctor Who, Supernatural, The Walking Dead, Torchwood, Good Omens, etc.

It ended up being almost 400 pages long and I still think about adding this OC into everything I write.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I don’t think it was hate so much as misunderstanding. This was an old fic on FFN and I was young and made a choice in characters that didn’t sit well with a reader. I don’t think they hated the fic so much as they hated that choice. And, to be fair, it was a cop-out choice so I can’t even be mad about it.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Nope. I write some more... suggestive things (but I’m an adult so there) but it’s never full on smut.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I did have someone do a podfic of one of my fics!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Kinda, sorta, not really? My sister was writing this AH pirate fic and I helped her write some of the scenes, but it was her fic.

What’s your all-time favorite ship?

This question is unfair. I’ve been around the fandom block for over a decade - how can I pick ONE favorite ship? But, I guess, for the sake of this, if we wanna talk favorite ship to write about? Probably Dwalin/Ori. They’re the two I wrote the most fics for and their dynamic is endlessly entertaining for me. It’s been, what, almost ten years since The Hobbit came out and I still wanna write fics about them? So I guess that counts.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Oh, I have so many. The one that I think fills me with the most regret is “Everything Is Permitted” which is an Assassin’s Creed AU fic for The Hobbit. It’s so self-indulgent and I loved the story and the world I ended up building for it. I really enjoyed adding different AC elements to the world of the Hobbit and I so want to finish telling that story - but I don’t think I ever will.

I also have this Good Omens fic that I’ve been trying to finish - I have the last two chapters but not the three before it so it’s been hanging there, unfinished, for months. Again, the regret of not having it finished it is what really haunts me because it’s got SUCH a good ending once I get there.

What are your writing strengths?

I’m pretty good at characterization. Before I even think about writing a fic, I spend so much time consuming media and taking notes about the characters. I try to find their strengths and weaknesses, what drives them, what they love or hate, who they care for and why they care. I studied psychology in college and nothing brings me more joy than to nail down characterization.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I am SO BAD at describing things. I’ve never been good at describing locations or places or clothes or like... even my characters? Like if someone asked me to describe what my OCs look like, all I can say is what kind of people they are. Sooo yeah, definitely my weakest point.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I think unless you’re fluent in the other language, just stay away from it. My parents both speak Korean and English and there are nuances in both languages, idioms and the like, that are difficult to translate if you don’t speak the language semi-fluently. A direct translation is impossible so, unless you know the language, it’s not worth the risk.

The funny thing is that this also applies to sign language. It’s so easy to just assign sentences to sign language and mark it as sign instead of spoken. But sign language is also impossible to directly translate. It’s something I didn’t realize until my sister took ASL in college. And sure, I get that it’s hard to have a deaf character sign and stuff, but I think it’s important to know that sign language is also a foreign language.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Can I date myself with this? I wrote Red vs Blue fic on Deviant Art. How’s that for old?

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Probably “According to You”. It was one of the first fics I wrote where I had a clear vision of what I wanted to execute and it actually went to plan? I feel so proud of how the whole story turned out, how the pacing went and the dramatic ending. It’s one that I’ve been seriously considering editing and publishing because I’m just that proud of it.

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mtwalker · 5 years ago

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Weekly Writing

Something a little different this week. This is some Good Omens fanfiction that I wrote shortly after I watched the show. A little bit of backstory on sort of why I wrote this. So I read Good Omens when I was in High school, after one of my English teachers had introduced me to Neil Gaiman’s writing via the graphic novel series, Sandman. After hearing about Good Omens, and being in the midst of a deep obsession with Supernatural, I started searching every bookstore I went to for the novel. I eventually found it at Joseph Beth and read it in about a day. Obviously, I quickly fell in love with the novel and pretty much everything about it. In college, I was able to get my friend, @name123things, to read the book after getting her into Supernatural as well. I think my exact words were “Well, if you like the apocalypse stuff happening here, you should read Good Omens.” She too fell in love with the story, and we began waiting for about two years for the show to be released. We watched the whole thing the night it premiered on Amazon Prime and then spent about four hours afterwards talking about how it blew all of our expectations out of the water. The next day, I couldn’t get Crowley’s emotional scene in the bar after the bookshop burnt to the ground out of my head, which inspired me to write this little one shot.

______________________________________________________________________ This was important. He had to know. He just had to. Otherwise it would bother him for the rest of the night, and he would be miserable. And while he wasn’t the happiest of beings, he had an easy solution to this particular problem and he was determined. This was a good idea. He knew it. He just had to be sure.

Crowley banged his fist harder against the auburn door. One more minute and he’d be breaking the damned thing down. Probably. Aziraphale didn’t take kindly to vandalism. But this was important, damn it. And he could just miracle the door back together or something. No problem. Hell, if people would just stop staring at him like he was crazy, that would be fantastic. Didn’t they know he was doing something important? Just leave him be.

Aziraphale cracked the door open, his tartan pajamas barely visible in the dim light of the book shop. He had a concerned look on his face, which made Crowley’s nerves spike.

“Crowley? What’s happened? It’s two in the morning.” Crowley grabbed the angel’s arm in a firm grip and took in a deep breath. His head seemed to clear for a brief moment and, now satisfied, he felt a little foolish standing here on the book shop’s doorstep.

“Nothing. ‘m gonna head home.”

“Wait. You can’t leave.” He stopped, not turning to face the angel. “You’re in no state to drive back. Honestly, I can’t fathom how you made it here in one piece. Come inside.” Crowley closed his eyes and weighed his options. If he went inside, Aziraphale would press him with questions, that he was sure of. Besides, he longed for his nice apartment. There he could sit and dwell without prying eyes. Yes, he should just walk away now.

But then Aziraphale would be disappointed. He’d make that face. The one where his eyes got wide and he pinched his lips like he was holding in how upset he was. He’d fidget with his sleeves and sway side to side a little. He’d watch Crowley walk all the way to the car and wouldn’t shut the door until the Bentley was out of site.

Crowley turned around and walked into the book shop.

“Crowley, please tell me what’s the matter. I’m worried about you.” Crowley was seated in the leather armchair across from Aziraphale. Their postures were polar opposites, as was usually the case. The angel sat on the edge of his seat, a cup of cocoa beside him that had sat untouched for the better part of the last ten minutes. His eyes never left the man across from him. The demon, on the other hand, was lounging. One leg was folded over the arm of the chair while his upper body was turned away, not even facing the man addressing him.

“You worry too much,” He grumbled back, but there was a layer of exhaustion underneath it.

“I feel I worry the necessary amount. You never act irrationally. I just want to make sure you are alright.” There was that face again. How could an angel look so much like a kicked puppy? Crowley was convinced he knew the power that look had. He may play innocence, but after six thousand years, he knew some subtle manipulation. The demon had to hand it to him, there was a little pride in witnessing it. Preferably not directed at him, as it often was.

“Had to make sure.”

“What?” Aziraphale leaned forward. Any further and he might topple out of the chair. Crowley scrunched up his nose while his stomach did some sort of flip. He hated talking about things. Personal things. Feelings things. It was all too serious. They’d been doing serious for the last week. Couldn’t everything just go back to how it was before?

“I had to make sure, okay?”

“Make sure of what?”

“That you were-” He gestured at the angel in a vague way. After a couple seconds of connecting the dots, Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. There was the pity. Ugh. Crowley pulled off his glasses and tossed them to the side, slumping further down in the chair. “Doesn’t matter. It was stupid anyway.”

“It’s not stupid. We both went through quite a lot these last couple weeks, and neither of us have discussed any of it.”

“Discussion’s not really our forte,” Crowley chuckled, picking at an invisible spot on his trousers.

“No, it’s really not.” They sat in silence for a while, taking in everything that had happened with the Apocalypse-That-Almost-Was. They had both almost died. Multiple times. Had fought. Sometimes with each other, sometimes against. For the first time in six thousand years they had to face who they were and what they meant to each other. That was a lot to take in. And they had dealt with it the way they had dealt with all other difficult things that had happened to them. They had tried to ignore it. But this wasn’t an argument over the acquirement of Holy Water, or almost being shot by Nazi spies. This had been different.

“’m sorry.” Crowley was the first to break the silence.

“For what? Knocking earlier? There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“No, not that. I wasn’t here. When you…” He gritted his teeth, looking disgusted with himself.

“Now, Crowley. That wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course, it was. I yelled at you. Said horrible things. Drove off. I hung up on you when you tried to call-”

“You were being attacked-”

“And then when I finally made it here everything was burning, and I ran in and I screamed,” He looked up at Aziraphale, his yellow eyes full of pain from the memory, “I screamed for you over and over, but you were gone. You were dead. And I wasn’t here to save you. I’m always there, but I wasn’t. And you were dead. You were dead, and it was all my damned fault.” At this he stood suddenly and started pacing around the room. He’d let Aziraphale down. It was the one thing he could be counted on, and he had failed. He was so disgusted with himself. The one thing he cared about on this whole damned planet and he couldn’t manage to keep it safe. How useless was he?

A soft hand grabbed his wrist lightly, but the touch made him stop. He couldn’t bring himself to turn to face the angel.

“I’m not dead. I’m right here. I’m alright.” The other man’s hand slid down his wrist and their fingers entwined. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand like it was a lifeline. “It’s not your job to save me, Crowley. I appreciate it. I always do. But if something were to happen to me, that wouldn’t make it your fault. Your job is not to protect me, as mine is not to protect you.” Crowley took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a couple seconds, he felt a hand run through his hair in a soothing rhythmic manner. Hell, that felt good. Something began to burn in the back of his throat. Something that had to do with emotions, Crowley was certain.

Crowley finally released his hand but was reluctant to do so. He slipped them into his pockets to stop himself from reaching out again. At this, the hand in his hair, gently pulled away, and he had to actively hold back a whine. There was only so much emotional crap he could deal with in one sitting, and he was reaching his quota.

“I should head out. It’s late.” He leaned down to retrieve his glasses and slid them back over his eyes, shielding them from Aziraphale’s knowing gaze. He felt like he should apologize for showing up, but the angel had already said there was nothing to apologize for on the matter. Then should he say thank you? No, that felt wrong. He settled for a small wave and a half smile, turning on his heel towards the door.

“Wait.” Crowley paused again, only a couple feet from the door. “You could stay. I want you to stay. As you said, it’s late and you are already here.” “Well,” He took a couple steps back and spun around once more. “If you’re tempting.”

#weekly writing #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #please be kind #I wrote this like a year ago #some of the wording isn't my favorite

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ourownsideimagines · 6 years ago

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Personal Affairs (Aziraphale x genderqueer!Reader x Crowley pre-relationship)

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley, Genderqueer!Reader

Requested: Yes

Requested by: @lordbeezyprinceofhell

Point of View: Second Person

Summary: While looking over the shop for Aziraphale, the mafia decide they’re going to pay a visit. Little do they know, you have Crowley on the phone.

Warnings: Guns, shooting, blood, angst

Words: 1476

A/N: I was writing this along with a fem!reader so if I messed up on pronouns please let me know!!!

---

Watching over the bookshop was one of the greater pleasures in (name)’s life. They’d known the angel for a number of years now, having stopped by in the midst of a rainstorm in hope the kind shop owner would allow them to wait it out. The two of them had got to know each other that night, and (name) found themself coming back, even if they didn’t browse the shelves.

It took a few years for (name) to figure out that Aziraphale and his companion Crowley weren’t quite human. The two looked human, and they sounded human, but there was no way those two men were human. It hadn’t been nearly as hard to work out what they were, in the end. Especially when it seemed almost every time he opened his mouth Crowley addressed Aziraphale as ‘Angel’. At first (name) had assumed it was a term of endearment - in the end, maybe it still was. They weren’t about to judge.

It took a few months of back and forth arguing before the two finally admitted it. (Name) apologized with a new Velvet Underground CD for Crowley and a angel-wing mug for Aziraphale. And after a few more months, and some not-so-great times, Aziraphale offered them a job at the bookshop - to watch over it while he was away, and reorganize if anything needed reorganizing. It was the best paying job (name) had ever had, and they absolutely loved it. They hadn’t sold a single book, at Aziraphale’s request. He’d quickly taught them the art of turning people down, which was both anxiety inducing and very relieving at the same time.

On nights like this, alone in the shop, (name) liked to think about many things. Sometimes, it was about the books. Aziraphale allowed (name) to read them as long as they remained in pristine condition. Other times, (name) would think about how they could better organize a display. They knew the clutter was more to drive off potential customers, but it bothered them. They didn’t want to end up being stuck under a mountain of books they’d accidentally knocked over while trying to reach whatever it is that Aziraphale had asked them to grab.

Oh, and they also tended to think about their angelic boss and his demonic partner. A lot.

(Name) had had a crush on the two of them way before ever finding out what they were. There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t give just to know if the two liked them back - maybe not their arms. They liked their arms very much.

Sometimes, they thought about telling the boys. What was the worst that could happen, after all?

Rejection?

Sure, they could reject them. But they wouldn’t stop being friends, would they? Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t seem like the type to do that, but nerves kept (name) from saying it anyway. They really wanted to stay their friend, even if that meant pinning for the rest of their life.

Tonight, the shop was empty. (Name) hadn’t bothered to lock the front door just yet, they were happily sorting through a few of the newer books deciding the best places to put them, where no one but themself and Aziraphale would find them. A sigh left their lips as they heard the bell above the front door ring. They snatched their phone off a nearby shelf, pausing their music before making their way out to the front.

“Hey, Mis-ter Fell,” the sing-song voice made (name)’s blood run cold. They stopped before entering the main part of the shop. Quickly, they unlocked their phone, and dialed up the only number that came to mind - Crowley’s. He told them to only use it in emergencies, since he didn’t like his phone being clogged up, so (name) hadn’t used it yet. They hoped to someone that Crowley would pick up. After muting their phone, (name) wedged it between a couple of books before taking in a deep breath and resuming their greeting.

“Hello, welcome,” They said coolly. It was a group of three men, dressed in black slacks, dark shirts and fancy shoes. (Name) was positive that at least one of them had a gun, they could see the bulge in on his side. “Is there anything I can do for you gentlemen?”

“Where’s Mr. Fell?” Asked the man with the gun. He was the largest of the three, and his fingers were decorated with many different rings.

“He’s not in right now,” If Crowley had answered the phone, they would be listening in by now, (name) was certain of it. Wherever they were, (name) hoped that if things got out of hand they would reach the shop soon. “If you need him, perhaps you can come back at a later date?”

“You here that,” The man turned to his friends. “Mr. Fell isn’t in right now.” The men began knocking over piles of books, much to (name)’s dismay. They had just finished organizing the clutter and now the men were making it worse.

“What the hell are you doing,” They said, taking a few steps in the men’s direction. “Stop that-” (Name) squeaked a bit as the big man drew his gun, pointing it at them almost carelessly.

“Look, love, this isn’t anything personal,” He said. “It’s between us and Mr. Fell.” The click of the hammer being pulled back made their whole body go stiff. “So, why don’t you take your pretty little face and get the hell out of here?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” The man’s grip on the gun tightened.

“I said no. I asked you to come back later.”

“And I don’t think you heard me correctly.” The man sneered. “It is between us and Mr. Fell. Nothing personal.”

“It feels pretty personal.” (Name) took a step back as the man took a step forward. “I think it’s time you left.”

“I don’t think you understand our situation,” The man growled. “I’ve got the gun. I’m in charge now.”

“Seeing as you don’t work here, I can’t see why you’d be in charge.” (Name) was stalling now, praying to whoever might be listening that it wouldn’t be much longer.

“I’m gonna count to three. If you aren’t out of this bloody shop, I’m gonna shoot you.”

“Now, I really don’t believe that’s necessary.” (name) rushed out.

“One,”

“Please, I’m sure we can settle this-”

“Two,”

“Oh, god, please tell me you picked up the phone-”

“Three.” (Name) took in a sharp gasp as the gun went off, crying out as the bullet tore through her shoulder, splattering blood back onto the nearby bookcase. The lights flickered momentarily, and as if in a scene from a horror movie, something appeared. Then men didn’t get out a scream before the shop went dark. (Name) had sunk to the floor, holding a hand over the bleeding wound. When the lights came back on, they could have cried in relief. Crowley and Aziraphale stood in the middle of the shop, stone faced. Aziraphale adjusted his bow-tie while Crowley’s gaze snapped in your direction. The first thing (name) noticed was that he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. The second thing they noticed was the light blood splatter on the ground at their feet, which disappeared with the snap of Aziraphale’s fingers.

Crowley rushed to (name)’s side.

“Let me see,” He said. He gently grabbed (name)’s wrist, and dragged their hand away from the wound. Crowley didn’t have much of a reaction to the sight. He placed a hand over the wound and (name) took in another sharp breath as a sense of relief courses through them. When Crowley pulled his hand back, the wound was gone, as was the blood and even the hole in their shirt. “Come on. Up you get.” Crowley hauled them to their feet.

“I’m so sorry, I know you two were busy.” (Name) said.

“Why in Heaven’s name are you apologizing, my dear?” Aziraphale gaped. “You were in trouble, there’s nothing you could do about that.”

“I could have handled it better. Probably could have avoided getting shot.”

“If you hadn’t called, you could have wound up dead, (name).” Crowley said. “Don’t apologize.”

“Okay.” (Name) murmured.

“Now,” Crowley straightened his jacket. “How about we take you out to dinner. Something nice. After all that, I don’t imagine you want to spend the rest of your night in here.”

“I believe that’s a swell idea.” Aziraphale agreed. “What do you say, (name)?” (Name) glanced around the shop. The books that had been knocked over where still there, but the men who had done the knocking over were nowhere to be seen. The man with the gun was nowhere to be seen. Their blood, which had decorated the shelved not even five minutes ago was nowhere to be seen.

A miracle, they decided.

“Yes.” They said. “I think I’d like that.”

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ineffable-endearments · 6 years ago

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Choices (they’re usually the Serpent’s thing, but the Angel tries his hand with them, too)

CW: mentions of suicide/ideation

After getting discorporated, Aziraphale asks Crowley whether he went to Alpha Centauri despite knowing that Crowley can’t be anywhere but on Earth right now (Aziraphale navigated his way from Heaven using an actual planet Earth globe).

Then he indicates that he needs Agnes Nutter’s book even though he likely doesn’t actually need Agnes Nutter’s book for his own purposes (he tells Crowley to get the book, but he’s also able to find his way to the airbase without the book, he’s able to tell Crowley to go to the airbase without the book, and then Crowley brings the book and immediately gives it back to Anathema; Aziraphale does not protest, and it’s really only a matter of good luck that he managed to grab Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy as it floated by).

Aziraphale could have skipped the song and dance about Alpha Centauri, and about needing his book, and skipped straight to “Hallo, please meet me at Tadfield Airbase.” But he DIDN’T. These smaller asks are gentle hints, ways of trying to probe whether Crowley is still willing to help him out after those two enormous fights they just had.

AND. He probably already knows the answers. He probably knows Crowley will always help out. Aziraphale still wants to give Crowley a choice before getting him involved in confronting the Antichrist directly. I am not quite sure whether he’s doing it for more selfless reasons (purely wanting to let Crowley be safe) or self-centered ones (wanting to reassure himself that he’s been chosen). I suspect, though, that it’s both.

At the Tadfield bus stop, too, Aziraphale suggesting that the bus driver should drop him off at the bookshop is another request for Crowley to make a choice. He may or may not remember that the bookshop is gone, but even if he thinks it’s still there, I don’t think he wants to go there alone; if that was the case, then the timing of the statement would be rather awkward, maybe even unnecessary. This is to say nothing of Aziraphale’s facial expressions, which practically shout “this is not just about the bus ride!”.

I think by saying he should have the driver leave him at the bookshop, Aziraphale is stating that he intends to stay here on Earth, but also isn’t sure if perhaps Crowley will deal with his own angry Side by leaving Earth (as Crowley had suggested earlier that day), and he wants to prompt an invitation to stay together but only if Crowley wants to give that invitation (meaning he plans to stay here).

I’ve analyzed the phrase to Hell and back, but it can’t be said enough times: “I don’t think my Side would like that” is another prompt for Crowley. Aziraphale wants to make sure Crowley understands what staying here might mean for both of them (permanent death). Remember, this also comes after the delivery man asks if Aziraphale believes in life after death. “Well, I suppose I must do,” he answers, and gives Crowley a strange, loaded look.

Because that’s what they’re both staring down right now.

We comment about Aziraphale being manipulative, and he certainly can be; he is definitely trying to play a complicated three-sided Chess game with Heaven, Hell, and Earth (I think that’s what the Chess board in his bookshop symbolizes), and he almost never says exactly what he means. But he wants Crowley to genuinely make his own decisions. Every time he hints at wanting Crowley to do him some little favor, Crowley does it...but the hint is based entirely in the assumption that he’ll WANT to do it. Crowley usually has an out.

There are about 3 scenes when Aziraphale specifically does not give Crowley a choice, and these stand out for important reasons as well:

1. 1862, the Holy Water breakup. It’s pretty obvious that this breakup was triggered by Crowley’s willingness to put himself in danger. Aziraphale complains that he’d get in trouble if Heaven found out about the Holy Water, but the Arrangement has been breaking Heaven’s supposed rules for centuries now. Aziraphale just leaves, not giving Crowley a chance to argue.

2. The Bandstand breakup. It was a long and tortured argument, but there were two moments when Aziraphale tried to not give Crowley a choice. First, when they were both refusing to kill the Antichrist, and Crowley was about to walk away, Aziraphale said “You can’t leave, Crowley. There’s nowhere to go.” Second, when Crowley answered that by saying they could both just leave Earth together because they’ve been friends for so long, Aziraphale told Crowley it was unequivocally over.

One could easily say the lack of choice was because Aziraphale was angry at Crowley for not wanting to kill the Antichrist and for not trying hard enough to save the world. But remember, Aziraphale already thinks he has a plot in place for saving the planet. He’s begging Heaven to help, and even if Heaven won’t help, we already saw him making a phone call to move the humans (the “Witchfinder Army”) into position to potentially neutralize the Antichrist. Before coming to meet Crowley he had just had a conversation with Shadwell, the one after which Shadwell called him a Southern pansy.

“You can’t leave,” Aziraphale says, not because he was going to try to force Crowley to kill the Antichrist, but because nowhere on Earth is going to be safe except on Heaven’s side. Especially if nobody is going to kill the Antichrist, which neither of them wants to do.

“There is no Our Side. Not anymore. It’s over,” Aziraphale says when Crowley reveals that there is in fact another possibility, because he is not going to leave Earth and he wants Crowley to make his own decision about where he goes, without Aziraphale. In this case it’s not so much that he’s taking away all choices from Crowley as he is trying to remove himself from the equation so Crowley will make the decision for himself and leave, if necessary. It’s taking away the relationship decision.

So wait, how is that keeping Crowley safe?! Well, it’s because their relationship and Hell’s possible discovery of it is what made Crowley seek a stash of Holy Water. In 1967, when Crowley tried the church heist, Aziraphale knew Crowley was determined to deepen the Arrangement, their relationship, or to die trying.

This whole time, because of that Holy Water request, Aziraphale has been thinking he was the Dangerous Thing, that the hope of being with him is what was causing Crowley to be so careless with his own life. I think at the Bandstand, once he realized Crowley would never be “safe in Heaven’s arms” and also realized he was going to be dying here on Earth if the Antichrist was not neutralized, Aziraphale was hoping if he just removed himself from the picture, disavowed their whole connection for all time, Crowley would finally decide Aziraphale wasn’t worth the trouble.

During the scene in Soho when Crowley asks Aziraphale to run away with him one more time, Hell has finally discovered that Crowley botched the Antichrist situation. Crowley says he’s leaving, and Aziraphale does not make a move to stop him. That sad, resigned expression he wears is probably the face of an angel who doesn’t want to lose his best friend but already thinks that Crowley will be better off without him and should, ideally, be heading for the stars, if he knows what’s good for him.

And then events bring us to Tadfield Airbase.

3. Tadfield Airbase. “Do something, or...or I’m never going to talk to you again!”

The bandstand breakup passes. The bar scene - “I lost my best friend” - is the moment Aziraphale finally, finally realizes Crowley has no self-preservation instinct AT ALL without him. And then he once again gives Crowley the choice to help out. That’s one of the most notable choices he gave Crowley...but he didn’t dawdle over it, because they both already knew the answer. It was important to make it a choice, though.

They find themselves together, with a motley group of humans and the Antichrist, facing down Satan. And Crowley is once again resigned to death.

Aziraphale now knows - and, now that he doesn’t think Heaven is going to help them, is capable of accepting! - that nothing else would compel Crowley like their bond. Aziraphale has been cruel to be kind before, but never like at this moment, when he finally acknowledges the reality of their relationship and forces Crowley to keep fighting, to find some spark of hope or a creative solution somewhere.

Aziraphale thought the Holy Water, if anything, was representative of the threat he posed to Crowley’s life. There are so many ways he was worried about this, from the symbolic reality that Crowley had accepted the importance of their relationship as something that could kill them, that he would defy Hell for, to the literal reality that Crowley could use it to actively kill himself. But in the end, it’s losing Aziraphale that caused Crowley to give up and resign himself to his fate.

It’s getting Aziraphale back that gave him the spark of hope needed to carry on, and after that, Crowley finds faith in both Aziraphale and in Adam and humanity.

By encouraging Eve to eat the apple, Crowley gave humans the ultimate choice, the one that made humans what they are. And in his own way, he’s been giving Aziraphale choices, too - helping Aziraphale understand that no, Heaven’s way isn’t necessarily the only way. For the most part, Aziraphale assumes his role is to preserve the status quo.

However, Aziraphale DOES purposely frame his and Crowley’s relationship as a choice. The only times he doesn’t are times when he thinks there’s a direct threat to Crowley’s safety that can’t be mitigated. This is why the series starts with a shot of Aziraphale’s wing shielding Crowley and ends with a shot in the Ritz that calls back to the very same scene; Aziraphale has been trying to shield Crowley the whole time.

#good omens #ineffable partners #ineffable spouses #ineffable husbands

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dolphin-bouillabaisse · 6 years ago

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GO-ctober Prompt, 19

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #19 - Sling

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

(Note: This is set pretty much years after the Apocanope, and they’re all settled, and being friends, and Crowley can, sometimes, in the quiet moments, even admit it’s all very nice and he likes it (and them), even if it feels out of character from time to time.)

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Aziraphale and Anathema could hear the exasperation in Crowley's voice from the nursery all the way to the living room.

“I was just trying- this is very new, okay?” Newt tried to protest (he'd learned to be a bit more forward with the two powerful entities Anathema called their friends, but a deathglare from Crowley was still enough to silence him).

“So's the baby, and you're gonna break her if you keep at it like that. And what you're doing is not new, we had those in Mesopotamia, you humans should know how to do it by now.”

Anathema gave Aziraphale a quizzing look, who could do nothing but shrug. Not a very re-assuring thing for a new mother to see (or hear) after leaving her baby alone with its father and a literal demon (even one she trusted without a doubt) for the first time.

“Here, let me do it. You have to pull it over this way, and then twist it.”

“That's what I tried to do!”

The voices from the nursery continued, and Anathema leant over for a whisper. “What exactly are they doing?”

“Oh, don't worry dear, I'm sure it's-”

“Tadah!” Newt came through the door with arms outstretched, a proud smile on his face. The baby swaddled in fabric across his chest gave a slight gurgling sound, as if to join in.

“Oh!” Anathema's worried face lifted. “You figured out how to use the sling!” They'd gotten it as a gift a week ago, and it had laid unopened next to the changing table ever since.

“There's not much to figure out, these things are old as anything.” Crowley came in after Newt. “You humans just forget some of the best basics and have to rediscover them all the time.”

“At least they're always willing to learn.” Aziraphale interjected as Anathema nodded.

“Exactly. That said, would you mind showing me how to do it too? In case Newt forgets again.”

“I'm a bit surprised, to be honest.” Anathema mumbled to Aziraphale as they were cleaning up the kitchen after tea. “I wouldn't have expected Crowley to be the one of you two to know about babies.”

They both looked back into the living room, where Crowley was swaying around with the baby in his arms while Newt was on the floor, trying his best to put together the crib Anathema's mum had sent over, and which they hadn't had time to built before the baby came (so far, she had been absolutely content to sleep in the large, flat, padded carrier his parents had gotten them).

“I mean, I know he's good with Adam and the others, but a baby is a whole different thing.”

“Oh, he's good with all ages, dear.” Aziraphale's smile was endlessly soft, and Anathema knew she would never see it on his face other than when he was talking about Crowley. “For as long as I can remember, Crowley's always had kids.”

A short pause, a questioning look, and Aziraphale was left stammering. “No- not like that, I mean, he hasn't had- only humans- I mean- he's always cared for children, is what I mean.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I like children, too! But he's always been more, well, hands-on. Is that the right phrase?”

Anathema nodded. There was a lot to unpack here, but it was neither the time nor the place to ask her usual bout of questions about their past.

Their eyes went back to Crowley and the baby instead, who was currently busy covering Crowley's designer jacket with drool, and Aziraphale remembered Crowley in tunicas, in medieval gowns, in thick woollen cloth, in blazer and pencil skirt, always in the same pose, a quietly gurgling baby in his arms.

–

3 am, and the phone was buzzing. Aziraphale only grumbled as Crowley sat up to answer it.

“It's the witch, angel, I can't just ignore it.” He mumbled before tapping the green phone button (a sentence Aziraphale knew all too well by now, considering he heard it almost every other day, when Anathema called or messaged with questions, with worries, with anything she didn't dare bring up to anyone else). What followed was, as always, a series of hm's, aha's and okay's before he sighed and leaned back into bed.

“Is her belly really firm?”

Pause. An answer from the other end. Aziraphale could see a grin building on his face.

“Make her fart.”

“Crowley!” He could hear Anathema even through the phone.

“No, I'm serious. Get her to fart somehow. If that doesn't help, go to A&E, but I promise you it will.”

He hung up after a bit more from the other end of the connection Aziraphale couldn't make out, and snuggled back down into his angels side.

“Admit it,” Aziraphale smiled, even if being woken up at 3 am by a panicked mummy was not his idea of a good night. “You really like this.”

“What?”

“Anathema coming to you with all her questions.”

“Well, I am pretty smart.”

“And you love helping out with the little one.”

“Well, she's a kid.” Crowley buried his face in tartan pyjamas, but Aziraphale could tell he was smiling as well. “What's not to love?”

–

“I know this is very last minute, but would you mind babysitting Mory tonight?” Anathema's voice was almost apologetic as she stood in the bookshop, the baby in one arm, a bag of supplies in the other. Newt, next to her, held a few bags more. “Newt's mum said she'd take her, but she got sick, and we can't cancel-”

Crowley'd already lifted the baby out of her arms. “You wanna pick her up later, or in the morning?”

“Oh, we'll come pick her up later, don't worry. And thank you!”

Crowley grimaced as she put the bag down to place a peck on his cheek. Aziraphale got a smiling wink. “We'll bring some of those pastries as payment, okay? And maybe some wine?”

Aziraphale smiled over the edge of his book at the little scene unfolding on the sofa in front of him. The baby had been fed (by Crowley), bathed (by Crowley, with a little help from him), changed (by Crowley), and was now soundly sleeping and snorting (on Crowley, who was lying on the sofa in his usual sprawl, only now with a tiny human on his chest, and Aziraphale was surprised to notice it was not that unusual a sight for him). The demon shot him a glare that very clearly said what he was not willing to say out loud, lest he wake up the baby.

“Are you gonna be able to hand her back to Anathema, dear?”

Crowley snorted and sat up, carefully placing the baby in her carrier. “I always give them back, don't I? No baby stealing from this demon.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale tried to return to his book, but there was something still stuck in his mind. A wrong turn of phrase he'd used weeks ago, a thought that had crept in.

“Have you ever... I mean... did you ever want one you don't have to give back?”

Crowley stared at him, which didn't make the situation any less uncomfortable.

“You know what I mean.”

“You're asking me if I want to have a baby? Is that really your way of bringing this up?”

“I was just- I was thinking about it, well, not it, more about you-” the stammering was not helping him get his thoughts out, and Crowley's amused smirk wasn't either, “I just realised that as far back as I've known you, you were always a caretaker in some way. You love children. It's not such a leap of imagination, isn't it? That you might want to keep one?”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley sighed, a short pause looking at little Morrigan still snuffling and moving in her carrier. “I do love children.” Another pause, before he looked back up again, a smile on his face that was luckily far less sad than Aziraphale would've expected it, albeit not a happy one either. “But can you imagine the chaos- logistics not withstanding, just, the whole implication of us – and the morals of it? Really, no.” Crowley ended his sentence, which hadn't really said much at all, but more than enough for Aziraphale to understand. He nodded. “I'm perfectly happy being the nanny.”

Aziraphale looked at him, as he brushed over the whisps of black hair on Morrigan's head, and he could tell. He was perfectly happy.

“Okay, so I have a question.” Anathema was bouncing the pram up and down, much to Morrigan's squealing delight. She'd just woken up, which was pretty much the only reason why she wasn't already on Crowley's lap, where she usually ended up during any of their meetings. “And I trust you'll tell me if it's really inappropriate, or insulting.”

“Sure.” She'd bombarded Crowley with questions ever since Morrigan had been born, and both of them with very different questions long before that, and only about 20% of those had been inappropriate, so that wasn't anything new.

“And we can absolutely change the wording if you want, besides, Newt and I don't really believe in the- the original religious aspect of it anyway, we don't need the whole ceremony, but it's a tradition, and I think it's a good one, and he agrees-”

Aziraphale sneaked a smile in Crowley's direction as she blabbed on, and was not surprised to see it returned. They both knew where this was heading.

“Anyway.” Anathema interrupted herself long before either of them could and picked the baby up out of the pram, handing it over to Crowley almost immediately. “Newt and I wanted to ask you if you would be Morrigan's godfathers.”

“You mean that's not what we've been doing already?” Crowley's voice was mocking in a way Anathema knew all too well, and she answered it with a grimace.

“You are impossible.” The grimace turned into a smile as the baby began slobbering over Crowley's hand holding her upright. “But I suppose you're right. We would just like to make it official, then.”

“We'd be honoured, Anathema.” Aziraphale tried to give the situation a bit more gravitas, which was a fruitless endeavour with these two. Anathema was already rambling, only spurred on by Crowley's nodding replies.

“But you have to know, we don't want it to just be a title-”

“Yeah, I agree.”

“You're already babysitting a lot, and we might have to ask for more favours in the future-”

“As always.”

“And we'd want you there for birthdays, too, and first school days and graduations and-”

“Sure.”

“And she's going to bug you when she gets older, and she'll have a lot of questions-”

“Well, we're pretty used to that, she's your kid after all.”

A toothy smile, and Anathema finally stopped and sighed with a smile on her own.

“Alright. Don't know why I was so worried about all that.”

Later, as Aziraphale and Crowley were left standing in the door, waving after the pram rattling down the street, the angel couldn't help but smile as he took the demon's hand.

“Godparents. What a lovely surprise.”

“Not really a surprise, angel.”

“I know, but still.” He squeezed his hand, leant on his shoulder. “It's very sweet of her.”

“We'll get a chance to do it right this time, I guess.”

“Oh, dear. You've been doing it all perfectly well for centuries.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #Anathema Device #Newt Pulsifer #my writing #prompts #october prompts #Anathema and Crowley are perfect snarky BFFs and I will die with that headcanon #also Crowley is absolutely soft for kids and I will also die with this headcanon

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aha-my-villainous-thoughts · 5 years ago

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Please, Keep Me. (Good Omens)

Well then. That was a lot longer than previously planned. The whole concept of NaNoWriMo is great, but the practical application is tricky. This chapter was exhausting, and reminded me why I hate writing weird characters. It doesn’t help that I switched countries half way through writing it, and could only pick it up in snatches through Christmas, 200 words there, half a page there.

Doesn’t matter. Part 1 here!

I have a series of chapters planned out in a random order, I’ve been trying to form them into the type of plot I wanted, we’ll see what happens. I just plan to enjoy spending time in this little world and maybe will restructure it once it’s more or less complete.

Part 9

The wooden bookcases slowly gave way to tall trunks of trees, their branches twisting over them in a wide canopy. Light peaked through but only in a dim series of warm shards. The floor became knotted with roots and packed down earth, moss growing underfoot as they made their way through the blackberry patch. Looking back they could see the dull glow of the library, but the trees stretched around them in every direction, tree trunks obscuring the dimensions of the forest they found themselves in. Crowley led the way with a certain version of confidence, his senses so flooded with the sensations of the forest he forgot to feel any form of trepidation. There was a stillness here that didn’t sit quite right. Stillness in a library was one thing, but stillness in a living forest was another. Crowley turned his head, searching for the sounds of birds or animals but he could only hear the rustle of leaves, the gentle creak of branches.

Had he been paying attention he would have noticed that the angel - usually so keen to fill the silence with observation - was also uncharacteristically quiet. He could still sense Aziraphale close behind him, feel his feet on the ground and the swish of his robes, but the Keeper was also completely absorbed in their surroundings.

As they continued along the path the tall trees began to shrink a little, bringing the canopy closer to the forest floor, and became more twisted and relaxed, if there was in fact a way for a forest to appear relaxed. There were definitely birds here now, and sunlight breaking through leaves to encourage bushes and flowers to weave their way upwards. There was no real order here, only a pleasant thriving chaos that Crowley approved of greatly. Weaving their way through what could have been an orchard of fruit trees - although oddly devoid of fruit. They had spent time reading up about all the different types of fruit trees and the kind of soil they favoured, the light they enjoyed, the kind of harvest to expect. Crowley knew without looking behind him that Aziraphale was peering into each cluster of branches with a dim hopeful expression of veiled curiosity, hoping to find a shining red skinned apple to pluck down or maybe even a peach. He didn’t have to look behind him, but he did anyway, and seeing the angel’s careful expression as he parted leaves to search for fruit was enough to make his heart beat a little harder.

Aziraphale would go without a second helping of freshly picked fruit this day it seemed, as all of the trees were harvested. They soon uncovered the reason why.

Coming to a small clearing in the woods, the trees thinned out to allow the sunlight to pour through and fill the space with a warm glow. Crowley had heard about sunlight casting out warmth, but it was the first time he had ever experienced the sensation like this. Moving into a beam he wriggled with delight feeling the warmth spill across his skin. Twisting over to let the sunlight cover his belly he greedily soaked up as much of the heat as he could.

Crowley had bathed in pure starlight every day for all of his existence. He had wrestled stars into orbs, harnessed cosmic fire and sent it spitting across the night sky in a brilliant comet. He had held fire in his hands, letting it play over his fingers like a living creature. None of these were like this, this was so delicate and soft and good.

Filtered through skies of emptiness and dust, the roaring heat of the sun reaching out and only barely skimming the soft earth with its fingertips. All that destructive energy reduced down to this one glorious little pool of warmth that filled Crowley with its very purpose.

He continued to wriggle indulgently, coiling around himself like a rope knotted onto itself. When he finally looked up he found Aziraphale’s blue eyes creased up in a fond smile, the angel kneeling next to him. He stilled, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Aziraphale’s smile only grew.

“Does it feel good, little thing? Oh, my little thing,”

The gentleness in Aziraphale’s voice could have broken Crowley, and he slowly unknotted himself until he was back in his traditional coil, lifting his head to meet his angel’s eyes. He wanted to say something. He wanted to agree, to nod and say ‘Yes, your little thing. I’m yours. Please,’. He wanted to whisper Aziraphale’s name, if only so the angel could hear how softly he would hold his name in his mouth, how carefully he would form it with his tongue.

But that would mean revealing the deception. And curse him, he was too weak to tear it away just yet.

Aziraphale reached out one hand and slipped his fingers into the beam of light, watching it illuminate his skin. He cast out his fingers, turning his hand over to feel the play of shadow across his palm. His hand kept coming, and brushed against Crowley’s jawbone lightly, fingertips tracing the heat from his scales.

“Glorious,” he whispered, “Beautiful,” he told Crowley, his eyes practically glowing.

The moment broke just before Crowley’s resolve, with a sudden rustle in a nearby bush and a sound of feet thumping across moss and tree roots. A patter of little feet as a small creature ran through the orchard and appeared just to the other side of Crowley, his eyes snapping to the movement and following the animal. They both turned, and watched as the animal barrelled its way into the clearing and towards the large twisted oak tree in its very centre. Around the old roots woven into the dirt there was a sloping sandy bank which dipped before rising up to meet the forest around it, where the two observers now hid behind a large felled trunk of an old tree now coated in moss. Aziraphale crouched carefully, peering over the edge with his nose stuck right up against the trunk. Crowley slunk his way up it, already perfectly suited for disguise.

The animal that had bolted past them wasn’t much larger than Crowley’s snake form, but with four legs and two long ears which moved from being flat against its head to loose as it reached the opening in the roots of the oak tree and collapsed - somewhat dramatically - on the sandy porch of the tunnel leading into the ground. It had collapsed in front of a larger version of itself, but this animal happened to be wearing a large blue cotton dress with a very clean white pinny, and a shawl tied around its shoulder with a cerise pink ribbon wound through its border.

“Rabbits!” whispered Aziraphale, with the kind of excitement reserved for only the greatest of discoveries. “I’m sure of it!”

The mother rabbit - for that was who she was - bent down to the young rabbit panting for breath on her doorstep and smoothed back his ears, but there was no denying from the set of her shoulders that she was scolding him as she did so.

Straightening up, she turned and went back to the mouth of the tunnel where three little rabbits sat as good as gold. It was only then Crowley realised why Aziraphale had been denied another juicy snack. There were baskets stacked with fruit all lined up neatly along the low table the little rabbits sat at, some almost overflowing with apples, pears, peaches and berries. One sat with a bucket at her rear paws and was hulling strawberries one by one, dropping the little green heads into the bucket. Another was chopping apples one by one, quartering them and slicing away the cores into a small pile of seeds. The last one was washing the pears, cupping them gently in her paws.

The whole scene was so soft and calm, even with the little rabbit’s abrupt arrival, that Crowley felt Aziraphale soften next to him, crossing his arms over the edge of the tree trunk and sighing gently.

“Do you suppose they’re making jam?” he asked Crowley wistfully, his eyes glimmering as he coveted the box of raspberries closest to them. Flicking his tongue Crowley could taste the tang of fruits in the air, and judging by the deep breath Aziraphale drew in, so could he.

“Or maybe some crumbles? Quite a lot I would imagine…”

They watched for a little longer, both sitting together in silence watching the rabbits go about their business. After a little time, the mother rabbit returned with a warm pail of water and a flannel tied to a stick. The little male rabbit made a motion as if to slip away but she caught him by the ear and tugged him over to it before setting about poking, prodding and pestering him through all of the rituals of a bath. His sisters giggled at him a little, but did not stop their work.

Eventually he was deemed clean enough and sent inside to get dry, the mother returning to help her little daughters with the day’s work.

Crowley watched them a little longer, but soon grew bored. He nudged Aziraphale’s arm, slithering his body off the trunk and returning towards the path.

“Oh, must we? But… oh, alright,”

Pushover, thought Crowley with a smirk.

They picked a path around the clearing, treading softly as to not disturb the family of rabbits, and Aziraphale pointed out a well trod path weaving between trees. They continued on at a leisurely pace, Aziraphale lifting his face up to the small snatches of sun coming through the canopy and Crowley picking his way between roots and small flurries of flowers along the path. Soon the canopy grew thicker and the light dimmed, the flowers giving way to moss and the occasional bramble that Crowley carefully avoided. A stillness descended over the forest ahead and around them, not quite silence but devoid of movement or birdsong.

“Maybe we should head back the way we…” Aziraphale trailed off as they looked behind them, and found that the path they had been following seemed to look exactly the same as the path in front - any patches of sunlight and rabbit warrens no longer visible. They stood for a moment in a pensive silence, within Crowley could practically hear Aziraphale’s thoughts as they played out across his face - a mixture of concern, amusement and curiosity. A rustle of leaves drew his attention away from his angel, and he turned to spot a flash of red well ahead of them through the trees. Footsteps became clear, crunching dry leaves underfoot.

Very soon a figure appeared not far from them, a petite one a head or so smaller than Aziraphale and dressed in a red cloak and hood. Aziraphale noticed her too, and gave a small and enchanted gasp. Crowley understood this immediately, and knew without looking up that the Keeper’s face was soft and glowing with feeling upon sighting this little person. It was well understood that the forms She had gifted them were the blueprints upon which She had designed her dear humans, and although they had seen a handful of wonderful creatures in their adventures, nothing had prepared them for seeing a real living person - a person with free will, wild thoughts, and an appetite for life only those with a limited time of it feel.

As the figure drew closer Crowley could see she was possibly female, if only signalled by her bare legs and the dress she wore under her red cloak, if not also by the brunette pigtails and freckled nose framed by her wide dark brown eyes. She was young, no older than an adolescent but closer to a child. He wondered for a moment if his form would scare her, but as she came close to them it became obvious that she was as unbothered by the appearance of a giant snake in the forest as she was to the appearance of an angel accompanying it.

“Hello,” she said, stopping in front of Aziraphale and shifting her woven basket in her hands. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and shining with excitement, and he stammered over his words.

“Oh! H-hello,” he said, his hands wringing slightly in a motion that Crowley mentally translated into ‘Oh look! I’m talking to a human!’.

“Are you lost?” she asked him, unperturbed by his general flustered nature.

“Oh, um, yes, well, I suppose you could say that,” he got out, gesturing behind them. “The path seemed to have… well, changed, if you like,”

“It does that,” she agreed, shifting her basket again. “We’re not far from a signpost, I’ll show you,”

She turned her attention to Crowley and cocked her head a little to the side, looking him up and down.

“My, what a large snake you are,” she said, following his body along to his tail with her eyes. He said nothing - obviously - but blinked slowly. Apparently little girls were not scared of snakes of any size, maybe this form wasn’t scary at all. Maybe when the time came for the Earth to be finished, he would have to find out what humans actually found scary, just to be sure he knew.

“I suppose it’s all the better to cuddle with,” she said after a moment of study of his coils. “After all, what else would all that tail be for?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Naturally, a wonderful cuddler, I assure you,”

Crowley turned his head to Aziraphale with an air of bafflement, and also a little part of his mind yelling that, yes, of course this long body was for cuddling, feel free to try it, but Aziraphale chose that exact moment to ignore his gaze and turn pink at the tips of his ears.

“After you,” the angel said, motioning for the little girl to pass in between them along the path. He held out his hand in offering and she handed him the basket gratefully, the contents covered up by a cheerful red and white checked cloth.

“Where are you going?” she asked as they fell into step, with Crowley following along behind.

“I suppose you could just say we’re exploring,” Aziraphale told her, twisting to look at her as they walked. Crowley smirked to himself as the Keeper tripped a little, but couldn’t pull his eyes away from the human child.

“You picked a good place to explore,” she told him, pointing forward. The path was approaching a clearing with a large single sign post staked into the ground at a slight angle. The break in the trees illuminated the wooden boards that lined its length, and there were little white flowers growing at its base. They came closer and Crowley could see each one of the boards pointed in different directions away down multiple branching off paths, all with names painted on carefully.

“You see what I mean?” she said, taking her basket off Aziraphale and gesturing to the dozens of paths leading off around them. “Lots to explore, but don’t get lost again,”

“We’ll try our best, thank you so much,” Aziraphale told her, smiling. “Where are you going today?”

“To my grandmother’s house,” she grinned, reaching into her basket and pulling the cloth back. Aziraphale made another noise Crowley was able to translate into pure desire, and moved forward to peer inside. On one side rested a meat pie with thick buttery pastry, wrapped in bees cloth and smelling strongly of sage and onion. On the other was a pile of chunky gingerbread men, with chocolate eyes and gumdrop buttons. In the middle was a large sprig of lavender tied in a ribbon, and nestled underneath it flashed something sharp and silver.

“Oh, that’s… that’s a big knife you have there,” commented Aziraphale, his gaze interrupted from studying the golden brown gingerbread.

“That’s for any wolves that might be lurking around,” she told him, shrugging. “And for the pie,”

“Ah, of course,”

“Anyway, have fun on your adventure. It was nice to meet you and your big snake,” she grinned, and covered her basket up again. She waved and set off down her own path, her red cloak swinging with each step.

Aziraphale watched her leave, smiling with a fond glow in his eyes. Crowley watched Aziraphale instead. He could watch Aziraphale all day. Should he feel jealous seeing the swell of love in the Keepers face looking at these creations? Maybe, but he found he just couldn’t. Not when he got to be there in the orbit of the angels uninhibited love. This was reaffirmed as Aziraphale turned his gaze back to meet Crowley’s gaze and that glow deepened into a wide smile with the crinkling by his eyes.

“Oh, little thing, wasn’t that special?” he sighed, his hand loosely clenched over his heart, his robes caught between his fingers. “I… I never thought they would… that they would be like that,”

Crowley flicked his tongue, moving closer to Aziraphale. He understood what the Keeper meant, could feel the same excitement in his own chest, albeit more of an echo to the Aziraphale’s delight. He was rewarded by Aziraphale’s fingers skating across the bridge of his head, pressing with warmth against his scales.

“Isn’t She just such a wonderful artist?” the angel murmured. “Such wonderful, intelligent, brilliant creations,”

Crowley wriggled with delight, before turning away in pleased embarrassment. There was only so much pure unadulterated love a snake could take.

Looking at the signport, there seemed to be endless options scanning out in every direction possible. As Aziraphale joined him by the towering pole of destinations, the Keeper began to read some of them aloud.

“The Shire… The Crooked House… Hatter's Tea Party - ooh! The Chocolate Factory!”

Crowley would have rolled his eyes playfully, but he was distracted by his own series of destinations, some promising sights he couldn’t imagine.

The Dungeons… Diagon Alley… Toad Hall… Cair Paravel

“It seems there may be more than we can see in one day, little thing,” commented Aziraphale. “I don’t know about you, but that only seems like a good thing to me,”

Days on days exploring the forest and its treasures with his gentle angel? Of course it was a good thing, how could it possibly be anything other than good?

“You should pick, dear one, I picked blackberries and you were clever enough to find us the rabbits, so I know you will pick an excellent adventure,”

Crowley circled the post, but other than names there was no other information given in terms of distance. It was likely in this bizarre world that it didn’t matter much, he felt confident that the library wouldn’t leave them walking for long before offering them up another wonder.

With this in mind, he chose from among the first Aziraphale had read out, followed the arrow of the sign and set off in a manner he hoped would make it obvious for Azriaphale to follow him. He was correct in two things: firstly, that Aziraphale followed him, and secondly, that the strange magic of the library didn’t make them wait long.

The path wound up the side of a small hill, the trees becoming thinner and bendier with soft draping leaves that trailed down and tickled Crowley. The sunlight was softer now, more of a hazy glow of late afternoon. Reaching the peak of the hill, they found themselves looking down into another clearing, one which seemed to contain a much more lively scene than others they had stumbled across.

The whole clearing was crisscrossed with strings of lights, with hanging brightly coloured lanterns that increased the warm glow of the whole scene immensely. Paper chains were randomly thrown into the fruit trees that lined the area, a sign that someone had taken great care to create the linked chains, and someone else had taken no care in arranging them. Under this canopy of lights there was a long table, which apparently seemed to be a procession of smaller tables of varying widths and heights arranged into one long table and covered with an enormous pink tablecloth. Positioned around the table were a wide variety of chairs, from wicker garden chairs to overstuffed chintz armchairs and even the occasional deckchair. Some of these chairs had occupants, but the majority were vacant. Whilst Crowley studied the occupants with narrowing gold eyes, Aziraphale seemed entirely focused on the many, many overburdened plates and saucers on the table.

“Oh, little thing, look!”

Every inch of the table was covered in brightly coloured teapots and stacked towers of teacups and saucers, none of the china matching and some of them cracked and leaking tea onto the tablecloth. In between the numerous teapots were plates and tiered trays stacked high with dozens of examples of finger foods. It was these finger foods in particular that Aziraphale seemed focused on, and Crowley couldn’t blame him, for the majority of them appeared to be miniature versions of the cakes, pies and desserts he had been reciting to Crowley with great joy in the library. Tiny cupcakes with rainbow spotted wrappers and swirled icing, mountains of buttery pastries striped with chocolate, a pyramid of perfectly curved meringue shells in every colour imaginable.

Whilst Aziraphale composed himself, Crowley returned to his study of the party occupants. The central figure seated at the head of the table was an oddly proportioned man with an oversized head - or at least, he assumed it was oversized, maybe She did intend for the males to appear different - topped with a large velvet bottle green top hat, with some artefacts arranged in the ribbon. He was dressed in clashing colours, with a mustard waistcoat and high-waisted slacks which appeared liberally stained with tea. Whilst all of this suggested the man in the top hat was perhaps a little strange, it was the enormous yellow bowtie with haphazard red polka dots that confirmed he must have been just a little mad.

The host was obviously in the middle of a long speech, gesturing wildly with an empty cup of tea in one hand and the other unable to rest in between pointing, fluttering, adjusting his hat or tie, or occasionally curling into a fist for emphasis. His guests seemed to be unmoved by his speech, although they appeared to be unmoved by anything. One was a larger version of the rabbits they had seen earlier, although with usually elongated proportions and long grey wiry hair frizzling away from his body, giving the illusion of a hare struck by lightning. He had several ears of corn stuck into his coarse hair, and a few remnants of brambles and hay attached to his person, whether rumpled into his cranberry red patchworked coat, or waving along with every slow bored blink of his eyelashes. The hare was at least sitting upright with his eyes open, which was an improvement on his neighbour, a much smaller animal with short soft hair who appeared to be slumped into the highchair it was propped up against and completely asleep.

“How curious,” murmured Aziraphale, his face close to Crowleys to whisper. Crowley flicked his tongue out, angling it to press briefly against the angel’s cheek. “Do you think they would mind… additional guests?”

Crowley fought a smirk, and gave out a low hiss of amusement instead. Making the decision for his indecisive friend, he uncoiled and began to move down the slope towards the party. As he got closer, it became clear that the host was lecturing his guests on the importance of saucers, and how a great many cups had lived ling without a saucer, and by gum, it was their duty to see to it that every saucer had a cup of any size, colour, pattern or purpose.

It was the hare who saw them first, Crowley leading the helm while Aziraphale covered the rear.

“Ah, new guests! Please, come, join us! Please!”

The Hatter at the end of the table stopped mid sentence and looked thunderously towards them at having his speech disrupted, but the storm clouds lifted quickly as he saw two new guests to educate.

“Welcome, welcome, come and sit!”

Aziraphale - pink with pleasure for the interaction of more of Her genius devices - sank into a low and enthusiastically springed armchair made of a violent yellow velvet intertwined with roses. He sat back a little too far and was unable to reach the table, so quickly reseated himself and his eyes grew ever wider at being face level with the afternoon tea. Beside him, Crowley slithered up onto a stool and arranged himself in an artful coil, the stool not having enough space to accommodate his tail, but kept him within reach of the Keeper and nearly directly in the eye line of the newly awoken dormouse who glared at him suspiciously (and sleepily).

“Come, guests, tell us your names!” insisted the Hatter, “But only if they are completely new names,”

“Yes, we won’t do with reused names, simply won’t do!” agreed the March Hare.

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, tearing his gaze away from the finger sandwiches. “But whyever for?”

“For we won’t go sharing them about, too greedy if you should want for more names than others,”

“Precisely!” agreed the Hatter, stirring his tea with his finger.

Crowley glanced sideways as his companion, and saw that Aziraphale’s face was crumpled up in mild confusion, but his fingers had laced in a way that he could sense a debate coming on.

“Is it greedy for two to have the same name? Or is it greedy for one to have two or more names?” he offered, leaning forward a little.

“It is greedy to do any of the above, phonetically glutinous!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to pursue the point, still confused and a little ruffled by the ridiculousness of the conversation, but he closed it again. He looked at Crowley with an odd expression, but Crowley did the snake equivalent of a shrug.

“What are you celebrating?” Aziraphale diverted, with a note of hope in his voice. “Is it a party?”

“Why of course!” agreed the Hatter, “Why else would we be drinking so much wine?”

“Oh! But I don’t see any wine,”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale again, who now was looking utterly forlorn at the absence of the wine.

“That’s because there isn’t any,” said the March Hare.

“Why would you say you were drinking wine when you only have tea on the table?”

“Because it’s rude to sit at a party’s table without being invited!”

“But we were invited, you invited us,” “Rightly so!” interjected the Dormouse, glaring at Crowley through the handle of a large duck shaped teapot. Crowley ignored the mouse, but kept it in his side-view in case it did anything stupid. Aziraphale sighed heavily, and leaned back into his chair a little, and flashed a look at Crowley that he interpreted as ‘maybe She hasn’t worked out all the kinks yet’. In return Crowley blinked slowly and flicked his tongue at the Keeper, before looking meaningfully at the cakes. If they could make no sense at the table, they may as well eat.

“May I?” asked Aziraphale, straightening a bit and gesturing at the tiered tray of cupcakes in front of him. He didn’t wait for a response, and reached out for a little finger sized puff of cake with a long stripe of icing along it. Crowley waited for the cake to disappear and for the long waited moan of pleasure his angel would give on finally tasting his beloved sweet treats.

This expectation was almost immediately dashed, as Aziraphale lifted the cake to his mouth but then stopped and inspected it closely.

“What kind of party celebrates with stones painted like cakes?” he asked, partly to himself and partly to the collected audience. Crowley came closer to look. The ‘cake’ was in fact a smooth river rock painted to resemble sponge and topped with a chalky paste for the icing. The sprinkles appeared to be coloured in wood chips. Crowley could feel his angel’s disappointment keenly, and watched as he morosely placed the rock back onto the table. Examining the remainder of the tier revealed macaroons made of old doorknobs stuck together with jam, finger sandwiches comprised of pieces of paper glued together and chocolate kisses that were most certainly mud. Crowley slithered onto the table to investigate the remaining plates, with a dim hope that maybe there was something present he could offer to his angel.

“Only the best rocks for this party, for we only have it once a day!” said the Hatter, with what seemed like an out of proportioned sense of pride.

“What do you do with them if not eat them?” asked Aziraphale, getting exasperated. His eyes followed Crowley’s investigations, with the kind of pout that melted ice.

“If we ate them then how could we share them?”

“Share them? Oh good Lord…” sighed Aziraphale heavily, sinking back into his chair and covering his face with one hand. Crowley returned to his angel and slithered across the arm of the chair, dragging his tail against the Keeper’s sleeve in what he hoped conveyed some comfort. “Are you sure there isn’t any wine?” he asked, with his last little shred of hope.

“Why have wine when you could have tea?!” laughed the March Hare, standing to pour himself another cup to one side of his already full cup.

“And why have cake when you could have rocks?” agreed the Hatter, now using one of the paper sandwiches to stir his tea.

“And why have sense when you could have bafflement?” moaned Aziraphale under his breath, with a frustrated tone and a roll of his eyes as he stood. “Come along, little thing, let’s take our leave,”

Crowley hissed in agreement and they left the tea party behind them, neither looking back.

“And why have guests when you could have riddles?” came from somewhere behind them.

“And why have answers when you can have questions!” came a response.

As they came to the edge of the clearing and started along the path, Aziraphale fell into step beside Crowley and sighed heavily. Crowley stopped and looked up at his angel, who looked very tired and disappointed. Upon meeting his gaze, the angel smiled gratefully and Crowley felt the familiar warmth spread out under his scales.

“You know, I do love your company, little thing,” Aziraphale sighed. “I am very thankful to have you close,”

Crowley wriggled a little in delight. Aziraphale reached his hand down and cupped his fingers carefully under Crowley’s jaw, rubbing his thumb along the ridge at his snout. Crowley flicked his tongue out and traced it along Aziraphale’s inner wrist, enjoying both of the familiar scent of his angel as well as a shiver brought forth by his tickle.

“Why have nonsensical wonders when one could have a companion like you?”

Crowley was set to wriggle again, but this was interrupted by Aziraphale’s follow up.

“Intelligent, observant and blissfully quiet,” sighed the angel happily, before removing his hand and setting off along the path. Crowley stared after him, indignant. He hissed lightly, lowering himself back down the earth and sulking as he followed the angel back towards the library.

“That’ss what you think.”

Following their return to the silent shelves and endless corridors of the library, it was agreed by Aziraphale and seconded by Crowley’s flicked tongue that Crowley would be choosing the next adventure, and possibly the one after that, since Aziraphale felt that the Tea Party arrangement hadn’t really panned out how he had hoped, whereas his beloved little thing seemed to have struck gold more than once. It was also agreed that they would choose very carefully which creations they engaged with, as they weren’t sure if the quality of conversation was really up to par at this stage of creation.

“I’m sure She’ll have all the oddities fixed by the time it all gets going,” assured Aziraphale, but there was a slight frown buried in his brow, an odd expression that Crowley knew translated into more of a hope than a certainty.

There was no need for either of them to be concerned, but of course they weren’t aware of that. It would be quite some time before Aziraphale would finally be able to locate and cross off Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from the shelves of the children’s literature section. By this time, they had already discovered so much more than they had hoped for, and were feeling a lot more confident that when they finally got to meet a human, if they were ever required on Earth, that the whole affair would probably be more like a mundane version of babysitting rather than a Mad Hatter’s tea party.

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moiraineswife · 6 years ago

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Knocking On Heaven’s Door - An Ineffable Husbands Fic

*blows dust off my ao3 account* I am Returned. This time ineffable flavoured. Thanks to the ineffable discord peeps for coaching me through this. U all know who u are <3

Title: Knocking On Heaven’s Door

Summary: The apocalypse is averted, but neither Crowley nor Aziraphale counted on one thing not even Agnes Nutter saw coming: Me. And my veritable mountain of angst. Crowley is hurt and sad. Aziraphale is indignant and comforting. H/C ensues. Tw: Eye horror.

Teaser: “You are many, many things, Crowley,” he said, quietly, “But you have never, not even for a moment, in all the thousands of years I have known you, been cruel.”“

’S far as you know,” Crowley muttered, petulantly.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, calmly, refusing to rise to the obvious bait, “As surely as I know every inch, and every crinkled corner, of every page of my favourite book...I know.”

Link: AO3

“I hope that’s booze.”

Logically, Aziraphale knew he couldn’t have a heart attack. Emotionally, he seemed to be experiencing one anyway.

It was almost quarter past nine on Tuesday, and it had been a pleasantly mild, affable night. Aziraphale, pouring over some of the new books Adam had left in the shop for him to uncover, had found the craving for hot chocolate becoming unbearable enough that it had torn him from his work.

He had then discovered he had no milk in the fridge. He could, of course, have made it with water but...He had standards, thank you very much.

So he had taken a short trot to the little corner shop in the next street, the opening hours of which were almost as unusual as his own, but by some little miracle not caused by him, always seemed to coincide with his schedule.

It had been, perhaps, fifteen minutes, all told, between his leaving and returning, and in that time, something had decided to take up residence on the low couch in the back room. Something that was shaped, and slouched, and sounded very much like-

“Crowley?” he ventured, taking a tentative step deeper into the shop and lowering the milk bottle, along with any delusion of it being an effective weapon against an intruder.

“Were you expecting someone else?” the lazy, achingly familiar, voice drawled from the shadows.

Aziraphale moved closer still and lit a lamp, one of the dimmer ones, out of consideration for the demonic nature and sensitive eyes of his guest, out of habit. And there he was. Crowley, in the flesh, sprawled on the couch in all his lanky glory, looking as though he’d been there all the time.

There was such a familiar rightness about the scene that it took Aziraphale a moment to recall his indignation.

It slammed into him, full force, like a very large freight train, as he remembered how wrong it had felt for so long without him.

“I was expecting you quite some time ago!” he blustered, his emotions a terribly complex cocktail of the type Crowley favoured, driving his voice several octaves higher than usual.

A part of him wanted to embrace the stupid, demonic fool out of sheer relief. He would be lying, which, as an angel, he tried not to do, if he said he hadn’t been concerned about him during his absence.

But for all that, another part wanted to throw the milk bottle over him to make him react instead of sitting slouching there without an apparent care in the world.

Still another part was still quite tempted to drop the milk bottle all over the floor out of sheer shock.

And another part just wanted to collapse into the nearest chair and massage his temples while miracling up some very strong tea because it was all, frankly, just a little too much to take in.

He did none of that.

Instead he glared at Crowley, as much as he was able, he never felt his corporation quite had the face for glaring. No more than he had had the substance for it, if it came down to it. But for special occasions, he would make the effort.

Then he said, with as much indignation as he could muster, which he was actually quite impressed with, “It’s been nearly-“

“Yeah,” Crowley interrupted with that usual languid cool that Aziraphale normally found a soothing counterpoint to his own rather manic way of dealing with the world, but that right now as just downright infuriating. “Sorry about that. Had some stuff to do,” he said, vaguely.

As far as apologies went, it was definitely bottom five. And there had been quite a lot of competition for those spots over the centuries.

Aziraphale swelled indignantly, like a very indignant bullfrog.

“Stuff?” he repeated, with all the infuriated incredulity the angel Gabriel had directed at him once after learning he had used a, not entirely small, miracle to ensure that his favourite sushi restaurant didn’t close down.

“Crowley, I thought-“

“So, is it?” the demon interrupted, apparently not listening to a word Aziraphale was saying, or rather spluttering, at him.

“Is what- what?” Aziraphale said, thoroughly confused.

“That,” Crowley supplied, helpfully.

“Crowley-“ Aziraphale began in his best ‘you’re testing my patience, you stupid demon, just spit out what you’ve got to say so we can return to the little matter of your terrifying vanishing act’ voice.

“What you’re holding in your hand, angel,” he said, impatiently, as though he, Aziraphale, were the one being difficult in this scenario, “What you just went out and bought. Is it booze or what?”

“Actually, it’s milk,” Aziraphale replied, with dignity.

“Milk?” Crowley echoed flatly.

“Yes. I ran out, you see. And I was working, and I usually don’t want for much of anything when I’m working, especially if it’s a particularly good book, which this one was. But all of a sudden I had rather a strong craving for a mug of hot chocolate, but then I found I had no milk. And I could have used water but, well, I’m not an animal, so...“ Aziraphale babbled.

He was good at babbling. Probably too good at it, if truth be told. If there was a religious order that specialised in rambling, he felt sure he should join it. Not that there was ever likely to be anything quite as ridiculous as that, but one never knew.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice was screaming at him and demanding to know why he was justifying himself in this moment, but he wasn’t paying it too much attention.

“Right, yeah, ‘course,” Crowley muttered. “Some things don’t change, I guess, no matter what happens to the world.”

“Crowley-“ Aziraphale began, finally taking heed of that little voice and trying to drag the very resistant conversation back to the ground it should be on at present.

“Even after the apocalypse,” Crowley interrupted him.

Though, as interruptions tend to require the intent to speak over another person to silence them, he didn’t feel that was quite the correct word for what Crowley was doing.

Crowley didn’t seem to be very aware that Aziraphale was trying to ask him questions. Or that he was speaking to him. Or that he was speaking at all.

He simply mumbled on, barely aware that he was speaking for that matter.

“Crowley-“ Aziraphale tried again.

“Sort of apocalypse,” Crowley said, head bobbing vaguely.

“Crowley-“

“Not really apocalypse at all, since Adam fixed it, y’know.”

“Crowley, I-“

“Some things changed, I suppose,” he mumbled, “Some things changed a lot. But not you, eh, angel. You’ll always just be you. Ineffable and angelic and-“

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, loudly.

Crowley jerked as though he had just branded him with holy lightning. “Yeah?” he said, raising his sunglass covered face to him, “Sorry. Carried away.”

At last he managed to put down his milk bottle on a nearby table, or other convenient hard surface, of which there were many in his bookshop, by design. He swept over to the couch Crowley was slouching in, and peered down at him.

Here, he consoled himself, definitely, solidly, here. Physically, anyway. Mentally, Crowley seemed to be somewhere else entirely, but that wasn’t altogether unusual for him.

“Crowley I, I-“ he stammered, but apparently, simply because he now had an opening to speak, it didn’t make the words any easier to say, “I thought that you were dead,” he finally managed to say, in a kind of strangled whisper, as though his throat resisted releasing the words until the very last second.

A half-smile twisted Crowley’s lips at that. Usually his smiles, even the wicked ones, were still tinged with enough humanity that they never appeared all that sinister at all. And, in all their time together, Aziraphale had never seen one that even scratched the surface of what you might describe as demonic.

This, though...This was not a smile that he recognised. There was something dark in it, something hollow, and ancient, and twisted. He felt some part of himself turn cold in return.

Crowley cocked his head to one side and said, with an admirable attempt at his usual languid ease, which was undercut by the way he had smiled just now,“We can’t die, angel. Remember?”

“I- don’t you be flippant with me!” Aziraphale blustered in response, feeling this reprimand was not at all going the way it had in his head. There wasn’t an awful lot of reprimanding for a one thing. And for another, Crowley clearly wasn’t understanding just how serious this had been for him.

They had passed quite some time, long, dusty centuries even, in the past, where they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of each other but this...This was different. They were different now. Before they had always, ultimately, been working for their respective head offices, and the Arrangement they’d had had always been secondary to that.

Now...Well, now, they had foiled an apocalypse together. They were on their side, now. Wasn’t that what Crowley had insisted to him? Things had felt different, they had been different. He was sure of that.

And he had worried. Being worried was something of a natural state of being for Aziraphale. Even when there was nothing to conceivably be worried about at all, his mind found something, latched on, and made mountains out of molehills until he had something suitably distressing to fret over.

This had begun as a mountain and twisted into a veritable Everest after only a few days. By this point, it had turned itself into an earth-consuming, Satanic sized, world-ending volcano of a thing, and it had nearly been enough to discorporate him all over again.

So, with one thing and another, Crowley’s current lackadaisical attitude, while in many ways expected, wasn’t really cutting it at present.

“I thought something terrible had happened!” He burst out, no longer able to keep his emotions in check, “I thought they had done something dreadful to you, and that’s why you hadn’t come back. I thought you’d been discorporated into a thousand tiny pieces, which had then been scattered to all the worst, most terrible, most twisted, and God-forsaken, isolated places in heaven, hell, and the known universe, to force you to exist forever in perpetual torment and agony!”

“With an imagination like that, you could be a demon, Aziraphale. Sure you haven’t Fallen after our little adventure with the antichrist?” Crowley said, sardonically.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to snap back the reply that this deserved. But then he shut it. And shook his head. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and composed himself as much as he could.

Then he whispered out the final thought, which had been the worst of all, “I thought that I would never see you again, Crowley.”

A little desperation tinged his words, desperation to make the damned demon do something, say something, feel something. So Aziraphale didn’t feel like the greatest fool anyone had ever seen in six thousand years for caring about him.

He didn’t understand how Crowley could be so...So unconcerned, so unbothered by any of this. He knew that the demon liked to put on a front, to pretend ignorance, or obliviousness, or simply that he didn’t care about anything.

But Aziraphale knew him better than that. He knew that that was a front. He knew that the demon did care. He knew that, behind those serpent’s eyes, there was a good heart, and a good person. He knew Crowley...Didn’t he?

“Well,” Crowley said, at last, “Now you can.” He gestured vaguely at his form, slumped on the couch as he had been slumping in it since Aziraphale had first purchased it, “Sorry to disappoint and all that.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, slow breath, which was all that stood between Crowley and a bottle of now lukewarm milk being smashed over his head.

“Really, Crowley,” he said in exasperation, “Sometimes you can just be so, so, so-“

“Demonic?” Crowley supplied, helpfully.

“Stupid,” Aziraphale concluded, with an affected little shudder to appropriately punctuate the point.

There was a long pause, in which Aziraphale duly hoped that Crowley was considering his recent actions, feeling serious remorse for them, and that any moment now, an apology would be forthcoming. A proper apology, this time.

“Have you got anything to drink?” Crowley slurred, in a way that told him he’d already helped himself to a number of alcoholic beverages on his way over here.

“Have I-“ Aziraphale repeated faintly.

Sometimes, sometimes, Crowley really did test him, really did tempt him to commit all manner of unnameable, unthinkable sins. There many little dinners, for a start. The Arrangement, for another. Preventing the apocalypse. And, in this moment, putting his hands around his throat and throttling some sense into him.

But no. That wouldn’t do. It would not be very angelic of him. So he resisted. With difficulty, it should be noted.

Instead, Aziraphale took a deep breath, stalked purposefully back over to his milk and said, “I shall make us both a cup of tea, and then we will talk about this,” he said, in a tone that strongly implied, you see if we don’t.

“Not gonna lie,” Crowley called after him as he headed towards the kitchen, “I was kinda hoping for something a little stronger.”

“I think you’ve had more than enough already, to be frank,” Aziraphale replied, a little tartly.

“Glad to see the near end of the world hasn’t changed you at all, angel,” Crowley half-shouted bitterly as he retreated into the sanctity of the kitchen.

If only you knew, Crowley....If only you knew.

Aziraphale could, naturally, have used a fairly minor miracle to create them tea but...There was something so familiar, so oddly routine, and comforting, and human about the process of making tea, that he leaned into it, and allowed it to calm him.

When he returned to the living room with the two cups of tea on a tray with a small plate of biscuits to go with it – because he might be angry with Crowley at the moment, but he wasn’t a barbarian – the demon hadn’t seemed to have moved from his spot sprawled on the couch.

With the light flickering on his face as it was now, hollowing out his already gaunt cheeks, and casting deep, dark shadows across him, he almost seemed a corpse.

Aziraphale stuttered in the doorway for a moment, before he managed to step forwards and set the tea tray down feeling a little troubled, all the same.

In all the years he had known him Crowley had always been a being of intense, continual, restless energy. He had to be doing something. Mostly he had to be doing at least two things at once to be in any way satisfied.

Whenever Aziraphale had left him alone for longer than it took to, well, blink, he had usually found him pulling books from their proper places and rifling through them, simply because he could, or was bored, or couldn’t think of a reason not to. Typically a combination of all three.

He opened his mouth to remark on the strangeness of this, but was distracted by a dark smudge on one of the demon’s high cheekbones, and changed tact mid-breath.

“Oh, you have something on your face. Here, let me-“

He reached forwards without thinking, but Crowley raised a hand and brushed it away before he could get near enough to even consider touching him.

“Oil”, he muttered, as Aziraphale drew away, and tried not to let the strangely keen pang of hurt show on his face, “From the car. It’s acting up a little, since Adam fixed it, y’know.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, automatically, internally cursing himself for not sticking to what he had practiced in the kitchen – firm, stern, committed to his indignation.

“What for?” Crowley asked, frowning.

“The car. I know Adam sorted it out for you, just as he sorted out my bookshop,” he looked fondly around at the place, “But I know how much you loved it just as it was.”

“Demons don’t love things, angel,” Crowley replied, harshly, “Kinda the point.”

“All the same,” Aziraphale said, gently, refusing to be baited into an argument of this sort again.

He had long ago learned not to try and correct Crowley when he spoke like this. It did neither of them any good.

Aziraphale had long since suspected that Crowley’s Fall still caused him pain, even to this day. He had never fully embraced his new role as a demon. There just wasn’t enough difference for him between angels and demons to ever accepted that he was completely one, or completely the other.

But sometimes he snarled, viciously, the truth of his being, as if to remind himself what he was supposed to be, and to reprimand himself for not doing it properly.

Aziraphale had always considered that conflict, tragic as it was, one of Crowley’s greatest qualities. For at the centre of that conflict lay his heart, always at war with his nature.

“You heard from your side recently?” Crowley asked unexpectedly after some time, during which he hadn’t so much as looked at his tea, which had caused Aziraphale to purse his lips at the distinct lack of manners on show, even for a demon.

“No, I haven’t,” Aziraphale replied primly, sipping his tea pointedly and frowning slightly.

When last they had spoken, Crowley had insisted that neither of them had sides any more. They were simply on their own side.

He shifted into a more comfortable position and then said, “Have you?”

“Nah,” Crowley shrugged with characteristic nonchalance.

Aziraphale relaxed again, though with a slight nagging continuing to badger him all the same.

“Out of sight out of mind, I suppose,” Crowley mumbled, more to himself than to Aziraphale.

He still hadn’t touched his tea.

Aziraphale frowned slightly, and set his down on its saucer with a little more force than was strictly necessary, so it made an audible and insistent little tinkling sound to remind Crowley of his own.

“So,” he said, when it seemed blindingly obvious Crowley was content to sit in languid silence, staring vaguely into space, not addressing the planet-sized elephant in the room between them. “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?”

Crowley sneered with such unexpected venom that Aziraphale started in surprise, “Since when we do we do that?” he demanded.

Since, but for us, the entire world almost ended. Since we cut ourselves off from our people, and everything we’ve known for six thousand years to do what we both felt was right, leaving us alone in this world, devoid of understanding, compassion, or aid, save for each other.

That was what Aziraphale thought.

What he actually said, rather lamely, was, “Well, you haven’t been around for some time, you know.”

He forced the words to be slow, and measured, forcing a control he certainly didn’t feel in this moment.

He had also tried to inject them with Crowley’s casual coolness, too, but he felt that was stretching the bounds of reality to a point even Adam couldn’t have managed, and gave up half-way through.

“Is it that unusual I might be curious, or even, dare I say it, a trifle worried about your whereabouts?” he demanded. Crowley said nothing, and now feeling rather foolish, he added, “Particularly after recent events I should add!”

Sarcasm was now starting to do rather more than tinge his words. It was oozing into them, filling up the gaps between the words, dripping between the contours of the letters. He did try not to lower himself to such things too often but, well, sometimes one just didn’t have a choice in present company.

Then there were the words themselves, which were definitely starting to run away with him. And he wanted to stop them, he did, he didn’t want to accost Crowley like this, that had never been his intention.

Only, well, now it was happening, and his voice was rising, and he was getting to his feet without ever telling his feet to get him, and he was ranting, yes, definitely ranting now, and a part of him didn’t care because, blast it all, it felt good after all this time.

“I had no idea where you were! You could have been anywhere! Anywhere! Heaven, or Hell, or some other forsaken place in between! I didn’t know when I would see you again. I didn’t know if I ever would see you again!”

He was breathing hard now, as though he had just run a race, but Crowley just continued to sit there, face perhaps a little tighter than it had been before, a muscle twitching in his jaw. But still, resolutely, saying nothing.

When he spoke at last, there was a cold, empty bitterness in his voice Aziraphale had never heard there before, “Thought you’d finally gotten rid of me, did you?” he asked.

This was so unexpected, so utterly, completely impossible to have foreseen that Aziraphale simply stared at him, mouth slightly open, eyes popping, as he continued, “Or maybe hoped-“

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, the bite in Crowley’s voice more than sharp enough to pull him unceremoniously from his state of temporary dumbfounded shock, “Crowley, I would never, I-“

“That’s the trouble with me, see,” Crowley said, thickly, his head lolling rather alarmingly on his neck as he fixed Aziraphale with a terrible grin, “I’m like a bad penny. I just keep turning up.”

“You, you shouldn’t say things like that,” Aziraphale said quietly, utterly thrown by the way this conversation was going, which was not at all what he’d anticipated or prepared himself for in the kitchen.

“What?” Crowley demanded harshly, “The truth, you mean? Thought that’s what your lot were all supposed to be about- The truth.”

“The truth can be....brutal, sometimes,” Aziraphale said carefully, “And cruel.”

“Right, well, that’s my department covered then, isn’t it? Is that what you mean?”

“No! Don’t twist my words in a way you know I would never use them,” Aziraphale said sharply, frown deepening.

Something was wrong. He had known it from the moment he spotted Crowley sprawled there on his couch but...Now he knew it.

“You are many, many things, Crowley,” he said, quietly, “But you have never, not even for a moment, in all the thousands of years I have known you, been cruel.”

“’S far as you know,” Crowley muttered, petulantly.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, calmly, refusing to rise to the obvious bait, “As surely as I know every inch, and every crinkled corner, of every page of my favourite book...I know.”

Crowley said nothing to that, he just swayed slightly in his corner, expression curiously blank.

Aziraphale folded his hands neatly in his lap then examined them as he added, quiet but audible, “And, just for the avoidance of any and all doubt, you are, you know.”

“Am what? A demon? I’d spotted that for myself, thanks.”

“Wanted,” Aziraphale murmured softly. “You will always be wanted by me. And you will always be welcome here,” he said, firmly. “No matter what you may have done, or what may have happened. Always. Unconditionally. Eternally.”

Crowley was silent for a long moment, then he frowned slightly and hissed, “What are you getting at, angel?”

“Something is wrong,” Aziraphale said, simply.

He hadn’t wanted to address things quite so directly, but it seemed he now had no choice.

“Nothing is wrong,” Crowley jeered, in mocking mimicry of Aziraphale, waving his hand.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice that it trembled slightly.

“Something is wrong with you,” he pressed, firmly.

Crowley snorted, “There’ve been a lot of things wrong with me for about six thousand years,” he said, sardonically, “Have you just noticed?”

“You are out of sorts, you have been all night,” Aziraphale continued doggedly, refusing to be derailed now that he had started. “This is not- This is not like you, Crowley. Not at all.”

“Maybe it is,” the demon ventured, a cruel twist to his lips as he said it.

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale said, firmly.

If he knew anything in this strange new world of theirs, he knew that.

“Well maybe you just don’t know me as well as your precious old books!” Crowley hissed, baring his teeth at Aziraphale.

“You see!” Aziraphale erupted in frustration, “This is precisely what I’m talking about!”

Crowley suddenly surged to his feet and Aziraphale, startled, took a little step backwards.

He swayed a little unsteadily then said, thickly, “Aizraphale?”

“Yes, Crowley?” he replied, a little uncertainly.

“Go fuck yourself,” the demon spat.

He flicked his fingers in a vicious little movement, and the cup of still undrunk tea shot from the table like a bullet and smashed against the wall.

Aziraphale gave a little gasp as Crowley pushed past him, heading for the door, his shoulders hunched. Too stunned to do anything, Aziraphale simply stood, staring at the shattered remnants of his favourite tea cup lying amidst the slowly spreading pool of overly milky-tea he’d teased Crowley gently about for centuries.

He looked up at the sudden banging sound, which was all the warning he had to realise that Crowley had collapsed to the floor and was now shaking.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, dropping down beside him and reaching out a trembling hand, “Crowley, what-“

He broke off, breath catching in his chest like a fly in a cobweb.

Something dark was trickling from beneath the lenses of Crowley’s glasses. It was black. Black like the ink that gave life to his beloved books and black like, like-

“Crowley-“ he whispered hoarsely.

The tips of his fingers brushed Crowley’s cheek, so gentle, so tentative, as though he were the one that was holy, and Aziraphale feared to sully him with a touch, feared it may crumble him into nothing. And just like that he would be gone again. And Aziraphale would be alone again. And that was a terror worth Falling a hundred times to avoid, but-

“We can’t die,” Crowley breathed softly, panting, as the ribbon of black wound its way down his cheek like a tear. “But we can wish we could.” Something in Aziraphale’s chest stuttered, and died. “We can still hope for it, angel,” Crowley continued, his words slurred, not with drink, he realised, belatedly, but with pain. “We can beg for it. We can pray for it.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, shaking his head weakly, the last efforts of a dying man trying to rid himself of the flies that called for his end.

Crowley shuddered, “But we can’t die, angel. For all our miracles, and all our power, all our divine origins...It’s the only thing we can never have.”

He didn’t want to hear this. He couldn’t stand to hear it. He had wanted explanation from Crowley, but he had wanted to tell him he’d gotten drunk in Paris a month ago and lost track of time until he sobered up. He didn’t want this. It couldn’t be this.

But he couldn’t stop him. He had never been able to stop him. For six thousand years he had drunk in the words of this demon when he knew he shouldn’t, when he knew that it could corrupt his angelic soul and damn him for all eternity.

But it had never felt like damning. It had never felt like corruption. It had felt as though his soul had been the blank pages, and Crowley’s words had inscribed themselves, each one, upon it. He was a part of him, now. He had woven himself into the fabric of his being from the moment he had slithered up beside him in Eden.

After all, a book without words was as pointless as a pen with no paper, as pointless as a teapot without tea, as pointless as good without the balance of evil...As pointless, in fact, as an angel without his demon.

So he asked. Though it broke him. Though it shattered him in a way no discorporation ever had. He asked him.

“Crowley, my dear boy, what did they do to you?”

Crowley couldn’t speak. He tried. He opened his mouth, but for once, no words dripped like honey from that easy serpent’s tongue of his.

Aziraphale didn’t need them to. He never really had. When you knew someone as long as they had, there were some things that didn’t need to be put into words to be known.

His hands curiously steady, for they needed to be, he needed to be, in this moment, Aziraphale reached up and placed his hands gently on Crowley’s glasses.

They were his shield, he knew. The great lie he told the world. There was a vulnerability to him without them. He seemed more naked, fully clothed, without them, than he ever could have standing in nothing but his skin with them.

He paused, trembling, and waited until he got the jerky nod of approval from Crowley before he gently slid them free, folded them up, and laid them down as tenderly as he would a baby bird.

“Look at me,” he whispered softly, sliding a finger beneath Crowley’s chin and encouraging him, gently, oh so gently. “Please, Crowley.”

Crowley, breathing heavily, did as he was bid, raised his head from the pool of shadow that had been his last protection against the horror of reality.

Aziraphale felt his stomach clench, and then turn.

He had known it. He had known it from the first moment he saw Crowley sitting there, somehow, he had known it. But that didn’t make it any easier to witness.

Where once his eyes, his beautiful, bright eyes, like glowing stars in a world of darkness had been, now there was nothing. Nothing at all. Two gaping black holes that silently wept black blood and mourned their own passing.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered as he collapsed down onto the floor beside him, trying desperately to control himself for Crowley’s sake.

Even though all he wanted to do was cry, and fold him into his arms, and sob until there was nothing left of either of them.

Even though all he wanted was to rage, and storm the gates of Hell and rain holy water down upon them like a hurricane the likes of which had never been known before, until there was nothing left of them. Until he had obliterated it all so thoroughly that the mere memory of Hell was erased from the minds of anyone who had heard of it, and was wiped out from the pages of books that had once held its foul name.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had to be strong, and he had to be here. Crowley needed him.

“Crowley,” he whispered, pain stretching every syllable of the word.

“Don’t,” Crowley mumbled, shrugging away from him, hunching in on himself, “If I wanted your pity, I’d ask for it.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to deny that he’d been feeling any such thing. Then he closed it again. Angels weren’t supposed to lie, after all...

“Crowley,” he whispered, voice suddenly hoarse, throat tight from his attempts to restrain his emotions, his body shaking for the same reason,“Crowley, you must let me put this right.”

The demon made a small noise of disbelief in the back of his throat, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him.

He had failed him. He had not been there when this had happened, when he had been taken. If he had, perhaps he might have stopped it, perhaps he might have stopped them when they’d come for him, kept him safe, and-

No.

No had he been there he would have stopped it.

He would have stopped it, and reminded the filthy demons that would do this to him why they should never have so much as looked at his Crowley in a way that might even consider harm to him.

He would have reminded them why he had been given charge of the Eastern Gate of Eden. He would have reminded them why he had been entrusted with that flaming sword. He would have reminded them why Heaven had won the first war and that, just because he was an angel, that most certainly didn’t mean he didn’t know how to hurt. He did. And he would.

The only pity would have been that there would have been nothing left of them afterwards to remind the others.

“You can’t, angel,” he muttered bitterly, shaking his head.

“I can try,” Aziraphale replied firmly.

“I have,” Crowley spat out, hunching in on himself again with a look of pure self-disgust at, what he perceived, as the weakness that confession implied. “I have tried. I’ve tried everything, I- It- It’s hopeless,” he finished, shaking his head, still trembling uncontrollably. “They told me,” he choked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “They told me I could try everything, could try it for another six thousand years, and it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“You haven’t tried what I can do,” Aziraphale said, as gently as he could, holding his tongue with difficulty on the fact that of course the demons would lie to him about something like this, just to further hurt him. “You couldn’t have. Perhaps- They could make insurances against your power, as it mirrors their own, but not against mine.”

Crowley shook his head again, but he didn’t speak, and there was, perhaps, a faint glimmer of hope in him now, that had not been there a moment ago.

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale said trying, and failing, to stop his voice from cracking, “You must let me try. You must.”

It was selfish, a part of him knew, and the other part hated him for it.

Oh he wanted to help Crowley, of course he did. But he also wanted to do something about the abyss of guilt that was opening up within his heart and burrowing straight down into the depths of his soul.

He had let this happen. He had not been careful enough, not watchful enough. He had not been there for him when this happened. Crowley had been forced to go through it alone. And now, in the aftermath, Aziraphale felt a compulsion so powerful it might destroy him if not relieved, to help, to do something, to fix him.

He always had.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, watched the hope, the faint, terrible glimmer of it, flicker to life in him, like the embers of a fire that still glowed even after it had been doused.

Then, just as suddenly, he watched them die.

“You can’t angel,” he said again, shaking his head more firmly this time, fists clenched tight as if to stop himself begging for it.

“You can’t possibly know that!” Aziraphale burst out with desperate impatience.

“I dunno if it’ll fix me,” Crowley bit out, his own temper flaring, “But I know your lot aren’t going to like you using a miracle this big on a demon,” he spat out the word as though it were poison. Then he continued, more flatly, “They’ll come for you, angel. And I’ve got enough to deal with it without adding that to the list.”

It would have hurt less if he’d stabbed him.

Crowley turned away, shaking his head, defeated, certain he knew precisely how Aziraphale would respond.

And for six thousand years before this very moment, he would have been right.

Even after everything that had happened, everything they had gone through, everything they had done, he had still not fully chosen a side. Not truly. Not in his heart.

He would have agreed with him.

He would have hurt, and he would have hated himself, and he would have been wracked with guilt about it for several centuries. But he would have remained on the fence. Trying to have his cake and eat it as it were. Not committing. Not choosing.

He chose now.

“Let them,” he said, very quietly.

Crowley started, “What?” he said, sounding a little dazed.

“Let them come,” Aziraphale said, more firmly, “Let them come, and let them try to stop me.”

Crowley was staring at him, mouth slightly open as Aziraphale swallowed and averted his eyes, sitting up a little straighter.

That had been frighteningly easy. He meant it. They both knew that he meant every breath of it. And it should have scared him, it should have terrified him but...But it didn’t.

In the moment, it seemed as though he had only just chosen, and the moment was suitably momentous for that.

But in truth, he had chosen years ago. Centuries, if truth be told.

“So,” he said, firmly, clasping his hands neatly together in his lap, trying to pretend his heart wasn’t beating so hard and fast it felt as though it might explode at any moment,“What do you say?”

At last, Crowley gave a shaky nod of consent, “Can’t do any harm, I guess,” he said, with an awful attempt at nonchalance, as though it didn’t really matter to him whether Azirphale tried or not, outlined by a poignant, desperate hope that Aziraphale felt radiating through the shattered remnants of the thing that had once been his heart.

“Just, just as long as you’re sure, angel,” he added softly, “There might not be any going back after this.”

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale said, softly, “I am surer on this than I have ever been of anything in my life, I promise you.”

Crowley reached out clumsily, found Aziraphale’s hand, and squeezed it once.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, briskly, pushing himself to his feet and trying to push away his mounting emotions with action.

He knelt down, lifted Crowley carefully to his feet, apologising softly as he winced. The he guided him back to the couch he had recently vacated.

Crowley collapsed down with his usual inelegance, leaving Aziraphale to kneel down primly in front of him.

“I’m going to put my hands on your temples now,” he said, quietly, and caught Crowley’s sharp nod of confirmation that he had heard and consented.

Aziraphale gently laid the tips of his fingers on either side of Crowley’s ravaged eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared himself. It had been quite a while since he had done this. Or at least, since he had done anything quite as, quite as bad as this.

“I, I’m going to begin now,” he warned him, “This may sting a little.”

Crowley let out a soft snort of derisive laughter at that.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale began softly chanting, his eyes half-closed, focusing, channelling every bit of power at his disposal into the healing, chanting softly under his breath as he did so.

Once or twice he felt Crowley twitch beneath him, but the demon did not pull away, and as he finished, letting his eyes flutter open properly, he could see a bright light flickering within the empty holes where Crowley’s eyes had once been.

He could see it shaping into eyes, taking cues from Crowley’s body, and mind, and memory, as to what had once been there, putting right what had been lost. He could see them becoming clearer, sharpening, focusing, solidifying-

Then Crowley screamed.

He screamed as though Aziraphale had just shot holy water directly into his veins.

As Aziraphale watched, petrified, he slid from the couch, trembling and clutching his head, still screaming, and screaming, and screaming.

It was the worst sound Aziraphale had ever heard in six thousand years. Worse than the first war between Heaven and Hell, worse than any atrocity he’d ever experienced on Earth, worse than anything he could ever have imagined.

Until it stopped.

The silence that followed was more devastating than the end of the world could ever have been, and every part of him became cold as death in answer.

Crowley’s body trembled. Aziraphale felt his very existence shiver, and he knew that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Crowley had come to him after, after what they had done to him. Because of course he had. Because that was what he did. It was what they both did. They came to each other when they needed someone most.

And they would have known that. Those demons that had done this to him. Of course they would have known that. And of course they would have set things up so that when he inevitably tried to heal him, instead he would, he would-

Oh God. Oh God. Oh-

“Aziraphale-“ Crowley rasped, one hand reaching out blindly, desperately, seeking for him, an anchor amidst the storm tossed seas of his fear, which was palpable.

The angel dropped down beside him and took his hand. Then decided, to Hell with it, and he simply drew the demon into his lap, cradling his body, not sure which of them was shaking more in this moment.

“I feel strange, angel,” Crowley whispered, gazing blindly upwards as though he could suddenly see more than he ever could before. “I feel...I feel...cold,” he frowned slightly, as though he’d just realised the absurdity of what he’d said. Demons were creatures fuelled by hellfire, they did not get cold. Not unless-

“I don’t think I’ve been cold since I, since I-“

He broke off and convulsed in Aziraphale’s arms and in that moment he felt sure – with the kind of burst of blinding certainty that comes with the kind of horrific revelations that leave permanent scars upon the soul – that this would not be a mere discorporation. This had been designed for Crowley to-

“No!” he burst out, giving him a little shake, which was decidedly not something he had ever been taught when he learned healing rituals, but seemed to have the desired effect on Crowley all the same. “No, Crowley I, I forbid this, I absolutely forbid it,” he choked, because if he forbade it absolutely there was no way it could happen.

“Do you- Do you hear me, Crowley?” he demanded sharply, the effect somewhat ruined by the way his voice broke on his name. “I forbid you, I forbid you to die on me.” He carded his fingers through the demon’s thick red hair, barely knowing what he was doing or saying, “Not now,” he breathed, tears dampening his eyes, “Not after everything.”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted hoarsely, stirring slightly, “We can’t die, ‘member?”

“Then I forbid you to leave me!” Aziraphale snapped, half-terrified, half-frustrated that, even on the edge of discorporation, the demon was the most vexing creature he’d ever come across in over six thousand years, and entirely overwhelmed. “In any way. At any time. For any reason! Because I can’t- I won’t- I, I refuse to do this without you, Crowley!”

Crowley stilled, and Aziraphale felt the shadow of death whisper on the back of his neck like a cold breeze.

“Crowley!” he cried in desperation.

Aziraphale’s wings burst from his back in his panic, sending books and papers scattering over the floor. In some distant, inconsequential place, he had the shattering of his own teacup.

“Crowley, no! Stay with me now, come on, stay with me. Oh God. Oh God please. Please don’t take him from me. Crowley, Crowley please don’t leave me. Please. Oh what have I done?” he rasped, tears flooding from his eyes as he gripped the demon close to him, as though he thought to fuse them together and keep him safe within his soul. “What have I done? Oh Crowley, Crowley, Crowley-“

Crowley made a soft, muffled sound against Aziraphale’s waist coat, and Aziraphale started, drawing back slightly and peering down at him with streaming eyes.

“Crowley?” he whispered in disbelief.

“Untwist your knickers, angel,” Crowley ground out with characteristic tact, “’M alright.” He patted Aziraphale vaguely on the back and repeated, a little more firmly, as though he knew Aziraphale hadn’t quite taken it in, “’M alright, angel.”

Oh.

Now that he looked at him properly he realised that, by some miracle or other, he rather did seem to be alright. He felt heat and colour flood his cheeks

Aziraphale felt as though he had just aged another six thousand years within the span of around six seconds.

He closed his eyes and deflated dramatically, “Oh thank-“

“Language,” Crowley intoned.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale replied, automatically.

“Fuck” Crowley groaned, shifting uncomfortably in Aziraphale’s arms, “Promise you’ll never do this to me again, angel. It’s more painful than watching you do your magic act.”

Aziraphale snorted, rather inelegantly, through his tears, and hastily wiped his nose.

Crowley frowned up at him, face scrunching, “Angel, are you crying?” he demanded.

“No!” Aziraphale cried, indignantly, “I most certainly am not.”

“You are,” Crowley crowed, with rather indecent delight, given the circumstances.

“I, I-“ Aziraphale blustered, “For God’s sake, Crowley! I thought I had just killed you! I’m sure that in my position you might be a little, well, distressed, too!”

Crowley seemed to seriously consider this for a moment. Then he said, easily, “Nah, wouldn’t be that bothered to be honest.”

“Oh shut up!” Aziraphale snapped, but with a certain level of affection.

Crowley wheezed with laughter. Then just wheezed and began hacking and spluttering in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale, because he was an angel after all, patted him on the back and miracled him up a glass of water.

Aziraphale pulled him a little closer, running his fingers absently through his hair, thinking a number of decidedly unangelic thoughts about what he would like to do to the demons responsible for this whole affair.

Finally, Aziraphale decided that the universe had reached a balance between Crowley’s general well-being, and his shredded nerves. So he scooped the demon up, steered him back to his couch, deposited him there (gently), then moved towards the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Crowley demanded, something that almost sounded like fear bleeding into his words, one hand half-raised, fingers brushing at the hem of his sleeve.

“Don’t let this go to your head now, dear,” he said, “But I’ve decided you were right. We need something decidedly stronger than tea.”

He returned some time later, rather longer than it should have taken to fetch two glasses and fill them with wine, during which he composed himself as much as he could.

Crowley was still sitting where he had left him, looking only mostly dead now, as opposed to utterly.

Aziraphale gently tapped him on the shoulder with his glass, and waited patiently as he fumbled a little before taking it from him.

He took a long gulp, then considered, as Aziraphale sat primly down on the chair opposite him, and sipped his wine a little more slowly.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to comment on the vintage and the unusual flavours of this bottle of wine in particular that had been lurking in the back of his shop for quite some time now.

But Crowley said, a little thickly, “Six thousand years. Figure I’ve seen pretty much everything there is to see. ‘S no great loss really, is it?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and bit his lip until it was painful to force himself to control his emotions.

“Crowley, I am so-“ he began, shakily.

“Don’t,” Crowley interrupted him, a bite of impatience in his voice.

“What?”

“Apologise.”

“But my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs softly, unable to stop himself, “What they’ve done to you, I-“

“Wasn’t your fault,” Crowley said, gently.

Somehow, the words didn’t sound mechanical, or knee-jerk, or forced, or even bitter. Instead, there was an aching softness to them, a warmth there has no right to be a...A deep sincerity.

Aziraphale knew, in that moment, that he had heard more truth spilled from his demon’s lips than all the angels of Heaven had ever spoken in their holy immortal lives. Or likely ever would.

And so he spoke his truth. Because fair was fair. And because he couldn’t stop the words from coming.

“It should have been me,” he whispered, hoarsely, trembling, “I should have been there. I should have been punished, too.”

Crowley frowned, frowned the same way he had that time they had both gotten extremely drunk together, around 1932, and he had asked Crowley, jokingly, how long they’d been on Earth together in seconds.

The poor dear had looked so thoroughly confused, and in the end, had broken down sobbing, saying he couldn’t do maths quickly enough because there were always more seconds adding on all the time and he could never count them all.

His face was a perfect mirror of that confusion in this moment, too.

“Good would that have done?” he demanded, finally.

Then he shook his head and taking another swig of wine, as though that would be the end of that conversation.

“I was responsible too,” Aziraphale croaked, unable to find any levity in the matter whatsoever. “Any punishment should have been shared equally between us. The burden should not have been placed entirely upon your shoulders.”

“It’s not as though you asked them to just punish me and leave you out of it. And-“ he added forcibly, voice rising along with a stern finger to silence Aziraphale. Even though he could no longer see him, he seemed to have been able to sense the impending interruption all the same. “Pretty sure I tempted you into it, technically, so you know...”

Aziraphale laughed at that. It was a hollow, bitter thing, and it echoed off all the harsh truths Heaven had carved into him over the years.

“What a mockery they have made of us,” he said, darkly, “When a demon has to tempt an angel into doing the right thing.”

He shook his head, and downed the rest of his wine. He was going to need to open another bottle soon, they were getting through it rather quickly. And with good reason.

“’M glad you’re okay,” Crowley said, so quietly, Aziraphale almost missed it.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale said, with impulsive politeness, quite sure he’d misheard.

“I’m glad that they didn’t hurt you,” Crowley repeated, more loudly this time.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply mouthed at Crowley like a stunned goldfish.

Then Crowley suddenly let out an almost hysterical little laugh, that just as quickly choked and died, rising as what he might have sworn was a muffled sob. He took another long swig of wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned a tortured face to Aziraphale. It took everything in him not to rush forwards and embrace him.

“When my lot took me, I figured your lot had come for you, too,” Crowley said, suddenly, with the inexorable forward motion of a train that has come off the rails, doesn’t know how to get back on them, and cannot stop, so must plough resolutely on and hope for the best.

“I thought that was it. We were both done. No more tricks, no more games, no more chances just- Over.”

Aziraphale stared at him, quiet, gripping his now empty wine glass so tightly he feared it might shatter. But he didn’t really care.

He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t think he could stand to hear it. But he couldn’t not. Crowley needed to say it, and he needed someone to listen, needed someone to share this burden with. And Aziraphale would not, could not turn him away when he needed him.

“All those films humans make, they always say in them that when you’re about to die, you think of all the things you should have done. All the things in your life you would have done you never did, or all the things you would have changed, but I never did.”

“What-“ Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried again, “What, what did you think of?”

Crowley raised his hollowed, empty eyes to him and said, simply, “You.”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the wine glass he was holding. Something, luck, demonic miracle, divine intervention, stopped him.

“I thought of, of all the stupid stuff. Stuff I didn’t even think would matter all that much at the time. But stuff that made me...made me happy. Made me feel like me. D’you know what I mean?”

Aziraphale nodded, then he, he remembered, and managed to rasp out, “I, I think I do.”

“Rain storms in Eden,” Crowley said, a faint smile daring to tug at the corner of his mouth, “Shakespeare in the globe. Jail cells in Paris. Ducks in St James’ park.” He swallowed, throat bobbing, and went on, more softly, “I dunno why that’s what I thought of. I dunno what good it did but...I think it was right. That at the end, it was you and me, the way it was at the start. And I guess, if the humans are right...It just shows that...I did the right thing. That, demon or not...We did the right thing.”

Aziraphale couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe, either. The fact that he didn’t, technically speaking, need to, shouldn’t be considered when determining his emotional state.

“And I figured, one way or another, however it happened, I’d never see you again,” Crowley said, his voice something that resembled more half-whisper than speech, now. “Guess I was right. Even if it didn’t happen the way I thought it would,” he said, gesturing towards his ruined eyes with a stab at black humour.

Aziraphale closed his own with despair.

“That’s the hardest part, y’know,” he mumbled, “It’s not the car, or the driving, or the humans and whatever weird shit they’ll come up with next. It’s not even my plants.. It’s you.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, with a near-hysterical little laugh of incredulity, “You’ve seen me for six thousand years. I don’t think you’ll forget what I look like it- It’s not so bad as all that, surely?” he said, with a false optimism that sounded hollow even to his ears.

“But that’s what I was most afraid of. In that moment. When it was-“ he swallowed, “When it was happening.” Aziraphale resisted the urge to leap from his chair and seize Crowley’s hand and hold it tight, as if that would stop the hurting, with great difficulty. “And I realised...I realised afterwards that I was right.”

Aziraphale stared at him. He could breathe now. But he didn’t dare to. This moment felt holy, sacred, to interrupt it with anything, even the faintest breath, would have been sacrilege.

“They were right, too,” he continued, “They knew just how to torture me. Now I’ll never get to see you again, all big eyes and flapping hands ‘cause I drive too fast. Or how pleased you look when they remember at that little cafe down the street that you don’t like your beans touching your toast, ‘cause you’ll never ask. Or that little smile on your face when you read your favourite part of your favourite book for the hundredth time or-“ he took a deep breath, as though his brain had caught up with what his mouth was saying, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue.

But then he did.

Almighty be praised. He did.

“Or the way,” he said, so softly, “The way you look whenever you look at me.”

“Crowley-“ Aziraphale began, voice strangled.

“Don’t,” Crowley interrupted him, and he sounded so broken, and so divine, all at once, that he found he couldn’t speak. “Even if I can’t ever see it again, I know, I know what I’ve seen before.” He raised his head, and somehow found Aziraphale, pinned him with that empty stare and said, “I know you, too, angel. And I know...I know how you’ve looked at me when you thought I couldn’t see. I know...Don’t I?” he breathed.

Those last words sounded like a prayer.

Crowley hadn’t prayed for six thousand years. Since before his Fall. And now here he was, metaphorically on his knees, praying for him.

And just like that, Aziraphale felt himself fall.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel like damnation. It didn’t feel as though his soul was burning in the unearthly fires of Hell. It didn’t feel wrong, or traumatising, or like the death he never thought he could know as an immortal but for that.

It felt like coming home.

And so he said, soft, and gentle, and right, “Yes, my dear. You do.”

Crowley sat and stared at him with pure awe on his face. In all the years he’d known him, Aziraphale had never seen that expression before, and had never thought to see it either.

But in this moment, with adoration carved into his features as if by God herself, the candlelight gilding him with a radiant warmth, Aziraphale knew, somehow, that this was how Crowley had looked when he’d painted the stars onto the empty canvas of the night sky.

And he knew, with just as much inexplicable certainty, that that was where he belonged.

Aziraphale was never conscious of moving. He never gave his body instructions to go to Crowley. Yet suddenly, he was there, right beside him, Crowley’s face cradled gently, so gently, in his hands.

And he knew, with a deep, absolute certainty that radiated from his soul, that this was where he belonged.

How absurd, for an angel to belong with a demon. But it wasn’t absurd at all. It was right. Neither could exist without the other. That was the fundamental truth of good and evil. You couldn’t have one without the other. Two sides of the same coin, so to speak. They were both wholly necessary to the other’s existence. They had been for six thousand years and, Aziraphale felt quite certain, would continue to be for another six thousand.

The ball of his thumb traced lightly over the smooth angle of Crowley’s cheekbone, like a sculptor marvelling at his life’s greatest achievement.

And it was.

Six thousand years this moment had been in the making. For six thousand years, every breath they had drawn, every step they had taken, every word that had slipped past their lips had done so to bring them here.

They had carved this moment out from a universe that had never wanted it. With blood, and sweat, and tears, they had made it happen anyway.

Six thousand years.

Six thousand years for a single touch.

It was worth it.

Every single, interminable, ineffable second was worth it for this moment. To be able to touch him like this, skin against skin, their truths laid bare at last, their hearts held out in their hands. It felt rather as though his soul had just brushed against Crowley’s soul, in the most perfect collision since the Creation.

Aziraphale was an angel. He had been made from Heaven, made by God’s own hands, an instrument of Her will, a sliver of her own self.

But not until this moment had he truly understood the meaning of divinity.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, sounding quite drunk, though he’d barely had a single glass of wine, “I can taste what you had for lunch right now. That better mean you’re about to kiss me.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh and shook his head, a smile blossoming across his lips, “You are incorrigible, you know.”

“Demon,” Crowley reminded him in a low hiss, baring his teeth in a terrible grin that immediately made Aziraphale want to kiss it off his stupid handsome face.

“Yes, you are,” Aziraphale agreed, fondly, thumb gently stroking his face. “But I am an angel, and must remember my manners. So, yes, I fully intended to kiss you, my dear, but I had to ask your permission first.”

Crowley let out a soft groan, “You have it,” he breathed, “By everything holy and damned, you have it, angel.”

So Aziraphale kissed him.

Contrary to popular belief, the world did not stand still the moment their lips met. Explosions did not take place within their chests, or their hearts, or their souls. Or anywhere else for that matter. And a choir of heavenly angels did not descend from above to serenade them, which would have been wholly inappropriate, anyway.

What did happen, was two wandering souls that had been lost for a very long time, finally found their way home.

After a long time, or, perhaps, no time at all, Aziraphale was never very sure, they drew apart.

What he was sure of was that Crowley smiled at him when they did, and said, “To us?”

And Aziraphale smiled right back and breathed, reverently, “To us,” before Crowley kissed him again.

******************************************************************************

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pengychan · 6 years ago

Text

[Good Omens] Winging It - Daniel 7:4

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

A/N: This chapter is brought to you by Gatwick Airport's free wifi and also sheer spite. Mine, not the airport's.

I'll only be able to be online on my phone for a couple of days, until I sort out my Internet key because wifi is still a mirage where I'm going. So I might be slow to reply to comment - but I'll get to it as soon as I can, I promise!

***

“I-- I didn’t mean to! He came out of nowhere-- I couldn’t brake on time-- oh God I never go that fast, I don’t know what came over me…!”

It sure had been a bad crash: as they ran up to the scene, Crowley could see that the car’s windshield was shattered and the bonnet crumpled by the force of the impact. A shame, that: it had been a nice car. As it was often the case with traffic accidents, there was a lot of confusion: the cries of the distraught driver, a small crowd of bystanders stopping to watch in horror, a few people trying to help and screaming for someone to call an ambulance.

The person closest to Gabriel was a woman kneeling over his mangled form - hands hovering over him but without touching anything, the way humans do when they desperately want to help but don’t know how. Aziraphale had always found it endearing: without realizing it, they were holding their hands exactly the way an angel healing the sick would.

“A doctor!” she was screaming. “Is there a doctor here? Anyone?”

“We’re doctors,” Aziraphale spoke quickly, causing Crowley to roll his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses; it’s not a clever lie to tell when you have just stepped out of the shop you have owned for something like two hundred years. Luckily, angels and demons both had a knack for getting mortals to believe them if they just willed it hard enough.

“I’m not touching him,” Crowley muttered as the woman stepped back to make way for them, only to be entirely ignored.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale called out, turning Gabriel’s face towards him. He was alive and conscious, at least, eyes wide and fixed on him. He tried to speak, but he could only cough up frankly concerning amounts of blood. His legs were bent at an odd angle, too, and stark white bone poked out of his left arm; the shirt he had just miracled on him was in tatters, asphalt embedded in his skin. “All right, all right - could be worse. I’ll heal you.”

“Why?” Crowley asked, and lifted his hands quickly at Aziraphale’s exasperated look. “No, I mean it! Have you considered that if he dies, he might just-- go straight back to Heaven? I would be a win/win. Wouldn’t he want that? Hey, Archangel Fucking Gabriel, nod if you want that. Or, uh, on second thought, do not. I think your neck is broken. How about you blink?”

Put like that, Aziraphale supposed it would make sense. He probably wouldn’t return as an angel the way he used to be, but he would at least be home… or would he? “We don’t know that,” he muttered. “For all we know he might go straight to Hell, given that-- oh, don’t look at me like that!” Aziraphale protested, looking down to see Gabriel had somehow found it in himself to look offended, even with his face and… just about everything else a literal bloody mess. “You were cast out, and-- and--” Ah, they really had no time to argue, not with so many people around to watch and an ambulance approaching. “Crowley, can you buy us time?”

A sigh. “If I must,” Crowley muttered, but raised a hand without further ado, and snapped his fingers. Everything and everyone around them - time itself - came to a standstill. “There. Now we can end him without witnesses.”

“Crowley.”

“Just kidding.”

“No, you were not.”

“Mostly kidding,” Crowley admitted. Truth be told, the only reason why he wasn’t being very serious was the sheer relief upon finding out, in the most unexpected way, that not only Aziraphale was not in danger: somehow, he was under the direct protection of God.

Not bad, that. It looked like Gabriel, the insufferable first of the class, had already received due punishment for what he’d tried to do to his angel. So maybe he shouldn’t give him an easy way out, after all. He may as well stay and face the music, live like the humans he so dismissed. And, as a perk, Crowley would take every chance to make the experience just… a little bit worse.

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps able to guess them all too well, Aziraphale sighed and looked down at Gabriel. He was still, like everybody else, staring at nothing. It did make him easier to deal with, Aziraphale though, and proceeded to pass a hand over him for the second time in less than a couple of hours.

Ghastly as they looked, the injuries were made by mortal means, and closed much more readily than the deep holes on his back had. Within moments the bones were set, the neck straightened, the wounds closed. Gabriel’s eyes maintained that distant cast, of course, but he’d be fine as soon as time restarted.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Crowley muttered sarcastically.

“He can’t talk. His mind is frozen in ti--”

“What, you think he’d be thanking you if he could?” Crowley groaned, and stood. “All right, let’s drag him back in. Then we come back out, restart time, and convince everyone the car only ever hit a pole.”

“Sounds sensible,” Aziraphale agreed, miracling away the blood on the car’s shattered windshield and pooling on the ground with a wave of his hand. When Crowley began to drag Gabriel back - literally drag him like a potato sack, he just grabbed his arm and began walking towards the shop - he almost protested, then decided against him.

Given the scope of the headache he was giving him, Aziraphale was fairly sure he deserved it. He didn’t think he was supposed to have headaches, but then again angels are not supposed to turn human as punishment for trying to destroy other angels, and yet there they were.

The world was even more full of possibilities than he’d previously thought.

***

“It’s not possible. You must be mistaken.”

“I am not, my Lord. It was definitely the Archangel Gabriel - I met him when I went upstairs with the Hellfire, for the angel they couldn’t burn. Oh, I knew something was off about him. This Aziraphale, I mean. When I saw him I wanted to try punching him, but he looked at me and--”

A furious buzzing noise caused the demon - someone so insignificant, Beelzebub didn’t know his name nor cared to - to abruptly fall silent, cowering. Beelzebub stood from their throne and took a step forward, towering over him. Figuratively, of course. It’s hard to really tower over anyone when the form you use the most is several inches shorter than most.

“Are you telling me,” Beelzebub spoke slowly, “that you went there to have a look at the angel they couldn’t burn, tempted a passing driver into speeding while you were at it, and that the car struck the Archangel Gabriel.”

“It did, sir. It was him. Didn’t recognize him until a moment before the impact, but I’m sure.”

“And he stayed down. Bleeding. Like a mortal.”

“Yes. It did seem really odd. Then the demon Crowley came--”

More furious buzzing at the mere mention of the name. The demon swallowed. “I mean-- the traitor came. Along with the other traitor. The one from upstairs.”

“And?” Beelzebub snapped. It got tiresome, really, how underlings kept pausing while reporting as though waiting for a reaction. Why do that, anyway? It wasn’t like the Prince of Hell was known to offer pats on the back and cookies - although at one point in time they had appreciated the traitor’s idea to get humans to bake cookies with raisins instead of chocolate chips, as well as the samples he had brought to the meeting.

“Well-- the traitors ran to him. I think they told the mortals they were doctors, and talked to him.”

“Did you catch what they said?”

“No. I don’t think he answered - he was in pretty bad shape. For a moment I thought he was dead.” There was a laugh, echoing in the mostly empty room. Standing by the throne, Dagon stood silent. The underling shifted. “Er… it’s funny because that would be absurd, of course. Angels don’t die in car accidents.”

“Nor they lie bleeding,” Beelzebub said quietly, frowning. “Yet he did.”

You can’t have him, Michael had snapped when Beelzebub had inquired about the fallen angel who had, apparently, not fallen all the way to Hell. He's not a demon. He’s not one of yours.

“I demand a meeting with Gabriel, at least he can--”

“He is unavailable.”

… Well. Now that certainly painted an interesting picture. Could it be that the one to fall, and yet not to Fall, was an archangel? And Gabriel, out of all of them? Had he been punished with mortality for… for what? Strategic meetings aside, which were needed to maintain a certain… order until their final war, Gabriel had always done everything painfully by the book.

“Do go on,” Beelzebub spoke quietly.

“Well, I remember they knelt next to him, and then… nothing. I swear I blinked and they were gone, and everyone was acting like the car had hit a pole - they must have done something.”

“Time,” Dagon spoke. “The traitor can pause time. They must have taken him somewhere else."

"Or destroyed him," Beelzebub mused. They crossed their arms, their scowl deepening. "I doubt either has warm feelings for him." Or for us, they thought.

"But one of them is an angel - surely he wouldn't… er." The demon - Beelzebub settled to call him Disposable 24601 - paused, having clearly realized how utterly stupid the statement was. Angels had killed plenty of times, and there had been that business of drowning out a sizeable part of Earth's population which, as far as Beelzebub was concerned, amounted to Heaven taking over what should have been Hell’s job.

It was almost as annoying as the swarms of flies unleashed upon Egypt. That had been nothing short of a personal insult given that those were supposed to be their trademark. Was God the Lord of the Flies? No. Was Moses? No. That was Beelzebub and Beelzebub only, and yet of all of the insects they could have picked, it just had to be flies.

It was one of many things they had meant to make God regret dearly once the Armageddon was underway, but now it looked like they’d have to wait indefinitely for a new chance. That really pissed them off.

"But they could have left him to die," Dagon was muttering, unaware of Beelzebub’s thoughts of vengeance. She was better at quiet observations than at rallying troops, really, and her observations were rarely wrong. She wasn't the Lord of the Files for nothing.

"Or ended him there while time stood still," Beelzebub agreed. "No need to take him elsewhere."

A nod. “The situation is-- unusual. Even by the current standards of unusual. Shall we send--”

“I’ll look into it myself,” Beelzebub cut Dagon off, causing her to blink. For good reason, too - they rarely left Hell, leaving work on Earth to lesser demons - but this was no ordinary matter.

An archangel had been cast out of Heaven, one of those most loyal to God’s plan, and they had every intention to find out why. Plus, as far as they were concerned, Gabriel belong in Hell now - just like every angel cast out of Heaven up to that point. Beelzebub wasn’t going to give him a pass, losing out on a new soldier for Hell, because Heaven had decided to pull a distinction between fallen and Fallen out of their halos.

Michael could take the fine print and shove it; Hell had a claim on the being formerly known as the Archangel Gabriel, and Beelzebub had every intention to uphold it.

***

“I can’t stay here.”

“I agree with him there.”

“Can you not agree on-- listen. You need to at least eat something.”

“I am not eating that. Never.”

“It’s sushi. It’s good, I told you. There’s the soy sauce, and--”

“And you drink it.”

“Crowley, please.”

“Oh, come on. Let me have some fun. Hey, Archangel Fucking Gabriel, see the green thing? It’s wasabi. Eat a spoonful.”

“Gabriel, you absolutely do not do as he says.”

“I have no intention to consume any of this. The smell alone makes me sick.”

“Mhh, maybe you should try having a toast…”

“Whatever that is, I refuse.”

“All right. You should at least drink some water, you must be dehydrated.”

“Give up, angel. It’s worse than trying to force Warlock to eat his vegetables.”

“You never tried to get Warlock to eat any vegetables.”

“And it made meal times a whole lot easier.”

“He got scurvy!”

“And you healed him, so no harm done. He sent Nanny Ashtoreth a postcard, by the way. He and his mother are going to the States now that his father was moved. Said he’d have preferred to return to England.”

“Oh, I received one as well! He said he’d try to convince his mother to come back for a visit. He’d like to say hi to Brother Francis. A darling boy, considering his upbringing.”

“Yes, his father is a prick.”

“... We also raised him as we would the Antichrist.”

“Don’t all nannies do that?”

“You and I remember Mary Poppins very differently.”

The discussion went on, and Gabriel paid attention to precisely none of it. The word ‘Antichrist’ would have made him listen intently before, but not anymore. What did it matter? The Armageddon had not happened, the war had not happened, the plan he’d spent his existence following and preparing for was null and void. And even if it weren’t, he had no say in such matters anymore. No mortal did.

They should have let me die. Let me go home.

The thought made something ache in his chest. He had never thought of Heaven that way - home - until now. And why would he? Heaven was simply Heaven, his obvious and natural place; he’d never been anywhere else for this long, nor wished to be. You don’t quite think of any place as home until you’re away from it and longing to return.

I want to go home.

For all we know he might go straight to Hell. Oh, don’t look at me like that! You were cast out.

No, not Hell, never, not him. It was impossible. Incomprehensible.

Ineffable?

Gabriel had never needed to ask himself as many questions as he did now, nor had he ever felt so lost. It made his head hurt in ways even the earlier incident and the bickering going on in the background hadn’t. Was this what humans had to do day by day? Question everything and make choices without guidance, on the hope they weren’t the wrong ones as they played a game whose rules were unknown? No wonder they had turned so self-destructive. Gabriel held back a groan - why oh why was his throat so parched - and tried to stop thinking. He could not.

How could this be happening? Why was it happening to him-- he had done everything right. He had followed the instructions, the orders. He’d done everything he had for the greater good, and yet there he was, exiled and doomed to walk on Earth for… how long? Was it temporary? Would he have to wait for the end of a mortal lifespan before he was allowed to go back?

… Would he be allowed back at all?

Too many questions and not a single answer. It would drive him mad; however insignificantly short human lives were, the idea of spending the next decades with that doubt in mind and no answers made it feel like half an eternity. Was he supposed to do something to return home? Was he supposed to earn it, to atone for… whatever he had done wrong? But how? He had no plan, no instructions, no nothing. If only God could send him a sign, any sign as to what he had to do--

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

There was a low, keening noise; Gabriel didn’t even realize it had come from him. All he was aware of through the veil of despair was a sudden silence as he burrowed his face in his hands, the bickering gone. There was a touch on his arm. He didn’t flinch away.

“There, there.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded just a touch awkward. He slid something across the table - the glass. “Have this, at least. It’s only water.”

“I don’t want--” he croaked, his throat and mouth so dry it hurt, but Aziraphale cut him off by waving a hand. How many times had he done that, silenced him with a gesture because his blabbing was of no importance? He shut his eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

What he had meant to say was that he couldn’t stay on Earth; where that would leave him, since Heaven was closed to him and the thought of descending to Hell filled him with yet more dread, there was no telling. The universe was vast, but he lacked the power or means to travel it now. He was trapped.

Aziraphale, however, seeed to understand it differently. “Yes, it is a little awkward-- listen, there is a decent hotel nearby. The Underlook Hotel. You can stay there for now, all right? You’ll be safe. A room has just been reserved and paid for.”

“A hotel-- that’s--?”

“A place where humans like to get naked. You walk in the hall and take off your clo--”

“You definitely do not take off your clothes,” Aziraphale cut him off, giving him an annoyed look. “I’ll explain you everything you need to know, Gabriel. But you need to drink.”

Gabriel stared at the glass; there was ice in it, and the sight made the thirst even worse. He almost spoke again to say he didn’t know how - he knew it went in through the mouth, but then humans did something with their throat to get it down and he wasn’t sure what it was - the thirst was so bad, he just reached for the glass and brought it to his lips, anything to make it end.

The water was cool relief in his dry mouth, and the act of swallowing for the very first time came without any thought at all; the water went down the right way, he didn’t choke and oh, the relief was immediate and so great he couldn’t even muster the pride to pretend otherwise.

The demon, Crowley, looked more than slightly disappointed. “Well, you know how to drink,” he muttered. “By the way, do you know what to do when the water needs to come out again?”

Still reeling over how good that drink of water had felt, Gabriel blinked at him in confusion.

“... I’ll take it as a no. So, you’re fully human, no? With all that it entails?”

“What?”

“Got anything in your pants?”

“In my--?” Gabriel reached down, entirely missing the way Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and stilled. There was something, a bulge beneath the fabric that hadn’t been there before. He’d seen enough humans naked at the dawn of time to have a vague idea of what it would look like if he disrobed. Which he had no intention to do. “... This wasn’t here before.”

“Well, there you go. A pair of wings for a pair of testicles.”

Gabriel gaze him an unimpressed look. “It doesn’t seem a fair exchange.”

“It’s not,” he agreed, and turned to Aziraphale. “Well, angel, I won’t be the one to explain him biology. For when, you know, the water needs to come out.”

“The water needs to come out?” Gabriel repeated, now rather lost. “But I just consumed--”

“And he’ll have to eat at some point.”

“What-- I’m not-- I have a book,” Aziraphale said suddenly, and stood. “I’ll go fetch it - you’ll find it useful,” he added quickly, and left before Gabriel - who would later read the children’s book about potty training Aziraphale was about to throw at him, and come to the conclusion that humans are positively disgusting - could say anything.

He gave Crowley a wary look. “What are you talking about?”

The demon grinned widely. “Oh, I could tell you,” he said, letting the dark glasses slip down his nose to look at him with snake-like eyes. “But why spoil the fun when you can find out all by yourself?”

***

“Ah, to be a fly on the wall!”

Beelzebub knew that was something mortals said often, whenever they wished to be able to see something they shouldn’t be able to. They were on to something: there was a lot to be said in favor of being, literally, a fly on the wall. Or rather, right now, on the window.

Not quite as good as being inside, but it offered them a good view of their target. He looked… bad. Relatively bad, because when you dwell in Hell your idea of looking bad is very, very different from that of most being in existence. And they liked bad, anyway; Beelzebub took no small measure of satisfaction in knowing that, should they show themselves to mortals with their true visage, they would run screaming.

However, for an angel’s standards - and for what had been Gabriel’s standard, especially - he did look bad. More dishevelled than Beelzebub had ever seen him and tired; dark shadows under his eyes, skin gray-ish, his hands shaking as he drank some water.

There he was, one of the Almighty’s lap dogs until he’d been kicked out by his master to become Hell’s newest recruit. Maybe he wouldn’t make too much of a fuss; he was ill-suited for life as a mortal, and there were perks to joining the forces of Hell. Either way, Beelzebub had said they were going to claim him and they would. Their honor was at stake, at that point, however questionable said honor was.

Hell’s concept of honor was a tiny bit skewed, too.

As they kept watching, both traitors stood and so did Gabriel, more slowly, slipping something that looked like a small book in his pocket. Honestly, Beelzebub have burst in to claim him already if not for the traitors sitting right there.

So, you're probably thinking, "If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?" And very, very soon, you're all going to get the chance to find out.

It wasn’t that Beelzebub was in any way scared of them, of course, it would be laughable, but...

I think it would be better for everyone if I were to be left alone in the future. Don't you?

… Well. Best to avoid unnecessary confrontations. Gabriel would be alone, at some point. And when that happened, the Lord of the Flies would be ready to act.

***

The Underlook Hotel, where they dropped him off after an unnecessarily fast car ride that would have made Gabriel throw up if his stomach hadn’t been emptier than a pint glass after Nigel Farage’s passage, was a small but clean establishment, with large windows that let in what sunlight was to be found in London, which wasn’t much that day. The entrance hall had a long front desk and a smiling receptionist sitting behind it, and Gabriel headed towards it - more on a guess because he actually knew what the process was supposed to be at that point.

“Good afternoon,” the woman at the reception said, voice entirely too cheery. Truth be told she would have been very happy to personally set fire to about half the guests and a quarter of the staff, as do many people who work in the hospitality sector once their will to live has taken enough blows. This usually happens within the first two months and a half, a scant couple of weeks more than it takes to destroy the soul of a retail worker. Still, like most people working in the hospitality sector, she could hide it with a smile. “Can I help you?”

Gabriel nodded. “I have a reservation,” he said, and glanced down at the card. “Room 217.”

“Let’s see...” The woman typed, stared at the screen, then nodded. “Gabriel F. Archer?”

No. I’m the Archangel Gabriel. The Messenger. That’s all I ever was and will ever be, it can’t be gone forever, it just cannot. And what does that F stand for, anyway?

But of course, that was not a viable answer. With a knot in his insides and a weight in his chest, he nodded. “That’s me,” he said, and managed to smile. It would have probably looked more real if he’s pulled up the corners of his mouth with his fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Lovely. Now let me-- oh, I see you completed your check-in this morning.” That was good, he supposed, because he knew nothing of what a ‘check in’ would entail. “Need help with your luggage?”

“I don’t have any--” Gabriel began, then paused, and glanced down. By his feet there was a single, black suitcase. He stared down at it for a few moments, and worked his jaw before speaking again. “... I think I can manage,” he said, and picked it up. It felt heavy, but of course it was not. He was just laughably, ridiculously weak. His very name - God is my strength - felt like a mockery now.

“Good. The lift is that way - your room is on the second floor. Do you need anything else?”

Gabriel hesitated. He didn’t want to ask, he really did not; it would feel like admitting defeat, that he truly was a mere mortal in need of gross matter for nourishment. But his stomach was almost cramping up, and he felt faint, and he gave in. After all, he couldn’t really keep pretending after finding himself, bleeding, on the hard ground. “Would you happen to know where I may be able to acquire some edible matter?”

That gained him a startled look. “Some... what?” she asked. In the back of her mind the Weirdo Alert light - it comes free after the first month working in the hospitality sector, along with several neuroses - began flashing yellow.

Right, they had a name for it. What was it, again? “You know… food?”

“Oh! Of course. It’s a bit late for lunch, but dinner is served from six - would you like to reserve a table? I’ll do it for you. You’ll find some snacks and drinks in the mini fridge in your room.”

“... I see. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! Here for business, or are you on vacation?”

“Exile,” Gabriel muttered, turning her Weirdo Alert light red, and walked towards the lift without another word, dragging the suitcase and focusing on nothing but putting one foot in front of the other. Once alone in the room, he’d-- he didn’t know. He’d tried to ask, after Aziraphale gave him a mobile phone and his number, desperate for any indication of what he should do.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You figure it out, Gabe,” the demon Crowley had muttered, still sitting behind the wheel, sneering. “It’s the gift of free will.”

It didn’t feel like a gift at all; it was terrifying, and he’d thought at least Aziraphale would understand, but he… didn’t.

“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You do whatever you want from here on.”

Wanting was a foreign concept to Gabriel. He’d never wanted anything, only ever done what he had to do for… for the greater good. The only thing he wanted now was to shut his eyes and open then again to find he’d been living some sort of nightmare, to be vanquished by daylight. He only wanted things to go back the way they were.

He only wanted to go home.

By the time the lift stopped on the second floor, something peculiar had happened - his vision was blurry. Gabriel blinked it away, and found his cheeks wet. Oh, wonderful, now that mortal body was leaking the water he’d been forced to consume. Was that what the demon had meant when he talked about the water coming out? He’d probably have to read the book he’d been handed, although the illustration on the cover looked absolutely puerile and unlikely to hold any meaningful information about his condition. It would give him something to do, if nothing else.

Or maybe that could wait. Maybe he’d pray, first thing - throw himself on his knees as soon as he found himself finally alone and pray like he never had before. Maybe God would listen. Maybe he’d receive a sign, guidance, anything that would tell him what to do. Yes, he’d do that; it wasn’t much, but it was still the closest thing he had to a plan.

As he walked down the corridor and to the door of his room, he didn’t notice the fly that buzzed after him.

***

“The first beast was like a lion with eagles’ wings. As I watched, its wings were pulled off, and it was left standing with its two hind feet on the ground, like a human being. And it was given a human mind.” Daniel 7:4

***

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#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable bureaucracy #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #winging it

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eturni · 5 years ago

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Day 8: Choir

Day 8 of @drawlight‘s advent calendar challenge. https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/189391982184/drawlight-drawlight-aziraphale-crowley-for Today is choir in which I muse (likely incorrectly) about how choirs of angels work and there are scenes in both Bethlehem and 2023 London.

Also I... may have got carried away and this one is a little longer than usual.

The thing about angels was that all of them could sing. To one end or another. It was why the idea of heavenly choirs was so deep in many humans’ psyches.

The thing about angelic choirs was that angel song was not like human song. The passed missives across the heavens, they called love and war and creation and destruction. Most importantly they conveyed emotions and intentions to humans who could not understand the grand depth of knowledge that their words alone held. Fear not. Gloria in excelsis deo et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Hallelujah, the smoke from her burning is a pillar to heaven.

The point is, of course, that all angels were part of a choir or another and all angels could sing but that the song was the intent. The song was the feeling.

The demon Crowley had not sung in almost four millennia. There had been halting, scratching wails when the demons first fell that were almost singing but for the cloying ruin of boiling sulphur against their vocal cords. Many demons gave up there and then.

The demon Crowley was a well-known glutton for punishment when it came to pushing against the bounds of what he was told he could do. He had not stopped singing there and had instead worked his throat into shape even as the denizens of the new-formed hell scrabbled for power and influence and built up the form of what would be. Every one of his songs had been a dark, jagged thing: railing at being forced out for thinking for himself or rebelling still against the boxes he’d been put into as both an angel and a demon.

Read on A03 (likely the safer option for this one) https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638803/chapters/51813601 or:

And then there had been the apple. Crowley found the tree of knowledge and had enough inkling of what it would mean. Naturally their Mother would punish humans for the sin of Knowing. For wanting to be more than placid innocent dolls. He sang then; not with the power of a choir but with a soft, coaxing sweetness that imparted enough of his own Knowledge that Even could choose if further knowledge would be worth their punishment.

And then there had been a wall and an angel atop it and a wing to protecting against the first rain.

Crowley had watched after Aziraphale, leaving his spot on the wall towards where the first true death had happened at the end of his own heavenly-issued sword. He had watched this very strange angel and he sang.

It was love, of a sound he had never made in heaven. It was no love of their Eternal Parent, it was not the love of his purpose or of humanity or his brothers and sisters. It was a sound that was small and uncertain but grew into the space around him and permeated the garden he had yet to leave. It was a sound that almost filled out the hollow space in him but left the corners that it missed stark and barren in contrast.

Crowley stopped singing soon after that, especially when he was too near to Aziraphale. Being close happened a lot in the early days, of course, when there were so few humans to tempt and protect. Every time he was close enough to feel the angel the new song bubbled up in his chest; slowly changing and filling more of the emptiness and in direct contravention to everything he was and everything Aziraphale called him.

It became second nature to not sing. To push it down. To close his throat against lyrics and chords and eventually the words, the terrible human words, that he found very nearly matched to what his song wanted to impart.

It was a terrible thing to bear, a song that no heavenly or demonic choir could ever join to. The feeling his alone in a way that a non-human’s voice should never sing alone.

His few attempts at singing did set him in better stead for when the first Christ was born (not the one that set the whole Armageddon in motion – heaven’s one). Midwinter may be a bit of an odd time for there to be young lambs but there were shepherds on the hillside regardless and there was a heavenly choir and the whole of Bethlehem was so crawling with angelic auras that Crowley couldn’t make out where Aziraphale might be.

He had been about to duck out of the city altogether and give up his tempting of the wise men as a lost cause when he’d all but tripped over the poor young lass chosen to give birth to the man of the hour.

He ducked into a stable as his ears rung with the praises to heaven and stumbled into a young woman giving birth with no more support than a lone carpenter and a couple of very confused animals.

She’d been bearing up surprisingly well as such a young woman in her first labour but had taken one look at his serpentine eyes, dark clothes and taken a breath to obviously start screaming.

“Glory be to God for the birth of your wondrous child.” The song leapt from his lips as an imperfect echo to the choirs outside. It was discordant and it tasted foul like blood scratching up Crowley’s throat but Mary relaxed regardless. Then further with the next word out of his mouth. “Midwife?”

The birth itself went miraculously well for one literally conducted in a stable and mum and dad had been so relieved that they let Crowley hide out in the corner as the presences around them slowly started to diminish. He was so on edge that he completely forgot that he was supposed to derail the sages from getting there until they were already in the blessed stable.

At that point he gave it up for a bad job and spent his time teaching Mary how to get the kid to latch on properly and making sure she got herself fed. They needed an adversary for their adversary so it wasn’t exactly <i>undemonic</i> after all.

- - - - – -

It was years later (millennia) that Aziraphale sat with Crowley in the back room of the bookshop a handful of years after the failed apocalypse and sat staring into his glass of mulled wine thoughtfully. By this time there were a few more windows in the bookshop that were topped with an array of plants; most of which currently wore little santa hats. There had been nothing Crowley’s cleaning habits could do about the chaos of the shop because it put off customers but they’d done a decent job by now of turning each of their own spaces into something a little more shared.

“You know, Crowley,” the demon perked up immediately at Aziraphale starting a conversation with his name and that lilt to his voice “I never had much to do with Christ himself. The birth was such a pantomime and those much higher up than me got all the significant jobs to do. They tended to just say that I’d get in the way, especially after the apple fiasco. Longest agent on earth and they sent me off to make sure that the star would stay in the right place. As though it were just going to disappear.” He shook his head and took a few fortifying gulps of wine.

Crowley pulled a face but knew by now that it was easier just to let his angel ramble and get there in his own time unless they were on a deadline. “Yeah but they were always like that. Never knew what they had in you.” He smirks a little at the unspoken unlike me.

Aziraphale tutted and shook his head. “No that’s not- I mean that’s very kind of you but that’s not my point. The point is… Yes, the point is that there were a few accounts that never made it into the bible. About the birth itself. Well, of course you know about the extra gospels yourself so it’s not all the birth, but you understand my meaning.” Crowley nodded, though he really did not understand the meaning at all. He was hoping Aziraphale would get to it still. “There was one from Mary herself, you know. Almost entirely ruined with age and poor preservation but nothing that a few years of some very careful miracles couldn’t help to restore. You know she mentioned an angel who actually helped with the birth. And one who seemed ‘much reduced in the ostentation of their song’.”

Crowley stilled and very carefully nodded. “You got there after all then?” He hedged, despite the knowing smile that was growing on Aziraphale’s face. “You always were better at speaking with humans. Not that you’re good at it, mind. Just better than angels that have never met a human.”

“Well, quite. I’m certain that this being was a lot more informal than even I could be. And well versed with human needs.”

“Hng. Any idea who might actually be better with humans than you?”

“Oh, Crowley, do give over. My point is that I was wondering if you really do sing my dear.” Aziraphale absently looked over to the tree stuffed in the corner and wondered if he should be darkening the wings of the angel on top. He was sure it would give Crowley some kind of kick at least.

Crowley sighed deeply and rolled his eyes, his head and his spine until he was laid out across the comfortable couch with a dramatic air that the Georgians would envy. “Not really. Had to get out of a tough spot.”

“Oh but you, can. I always thought it was something that was lost in… and I just… well it’s always a tough subject to broach, you understand.”

Crowley huffed and beckoned Aziraphale over with a crook of his head. The other came and Crowley revelled, just a little, in the simple pleasure of placing his legs over the other’s lap and knowing that he wouldn’t be denied. “I can sing but I don’t. There was- I don’t sing the same any more and I wasn’t certain about it. The things that come out… I’m still not sure about them so it’s better to not. I mean, it’s supposed to be sending messages from Her anyway, right? That’s not my job any more.”

He hedged, just enough explanation that he hoped Aziraphale would drop it without leaving him so intrigued that he absolutely had to follow up with questions. Unfortunately he was watching his angel and could see that glint in his eyes and the slightest shift to pleading that told him he needed to run now or be prepared for the angel to ask him something he could never be prepared for.

“Oh my dear, I’m certain that whatever you have to impart is much more significant than any other angel or demon They aren’t on our side after all.”

Crowley felt his ornamental heart stutter for a stop at the moment. They’d had some time, of course, but it still did things he couldn’t express to hear Aziraphale so freely and enthusiastically claim his side as their own.

It was enough to make something like anxiety settle in his stomach and send his heart at double the pace when it finally remembered how to beat because he’s was suddenly actually considering this. If they did truly have their own side he had to wonder if this was safe. If he could do this and dare to hope that he wouldn’t be pushed back, that it wouldn’t be too fast.

Then Aziraphale’s hand was on his knee, calm and steadying and a touch too hot when he was already just this side of flustered. “You don’t have to my dear. I just wondered but I wouldn’t want to push this.” The smile he gave Crowley was pure angel. Kind and understanding.

Crowley gulped and shook his head. Then nodded. Then realised that he wasn’t certain what either response really meant. He licked his too dry lips and opened his mouth.

In the place of words there was song.

The song wasn’t any human language and was not even enochian in such a sense. It was a different beast altogether; as much it’s own harmony as any tune and as much a feeling as any words.

It lasted perhaps six seconds before the demon couldn’t stand it any longer. He was about to close his mouth when Aziraphale’s hand squeezed his knee convulsively and another voice joined Crowley’s.

It was perfectly in balance. A celestial harmony against his demonic tone that balanced into something purely…

Purely theirs.

Almost human and not.

The only other being who ever stood a chance to understand the six millennia of feeling in Crowley’s spirit and he did. It mirrored it almost perfectly.

He finally dared to look over (he didn’t have much of a choice as his eyes had snapped to the other without checking with his brain first) and found Aziraphale all but glowing, in that way that only he could, and with everything Crowley had not dared dream of open in his eyes and his voice.

They formed a choir of just two and the song of it reached out through Soho and into London and lit the hearts of the people it found with something that they couldn’t comprehend; only feel.

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #Ineffable Husbands #fic #honest to god this chapter isn't even a mini fic at this point

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