#Aziraphale will do the right thing unless the right thing is not stealing books

[just-an-enby-lemon]

I think my autistic ass finds way easier to convey a mensage via books than most media. You see while watching the show in the scene were Aziraphale and Crowley first notice the Nice and Accurate Prophesies of Agnes Nutter and Aziraphale sorta freaks out and tunes Crowley my brain interpreted it two ways: Aziraphale knows that the book might help him find the antichrist and decides to tell heaven first and so lies to Crowley or Aziraphale just tunes out because he wants to take a look at a cool book, I do that all the time and it makes more sense. So second one, even if he is weirdly suspicious.

Reading the book I got to the conclusion that actually that whole scene means: now that he knows this is the only book he needs to finish his collection, Aziraphale wants to steal it.

He is lying and pannicking because he is an angel. He shouldn't be stealing book. And he is afraid of Crowley realizing that he will. Both because in his mind this would likely mean that Crowley would stop respecting and maybe even stop liking him and because he just doesn't want his demon to make fun of him (and while the first reason is just paranoia, Crowley would never not love his angel, the second one is valid, Crowley would have loved to make fun of Aziraphale).

Not only that but while Aziraphale is terrifield of Crowley or the angels knowing he is cappable of doing bad things and is ashamed of it, Aziraphale has no remorse and totally steals the book. The scene of him reading it afterwards: it isn't him taking a look at it before giving it back, I was wrong, is him reading his new book. Is his now. His only issue with stealing a book are other people knowing.

[jesmalestiel]

Shakespeare's Sonnets are SO aziracrow coded istg

Okay so last night I was doing a bit of bedtime reading and I picked up my book of Shakespeare sonnets because they are comfy and familiar and omg some of them are so aziracrow coded???

I posted about it on Reddit and @kotias pointed out that almost all of the sonnets are aziracrow coded and she head canons that Shakespeare fell in love with the two of them and his sonnets are about the two of them. And she is so right??? Like the idea of Aziraphale as the fair youth and Crowley as the Dark Lady just fits???

But also I love the idea of the sonnets being things that Aziraphale or Crowley might have written to each other.

The two that really stuck out to me as I was reading are sonnet 36 and sonnet 142. Sonnet 36 is all about how the two lovers need to break up because being together will cause public shame and it is forbidden for them to openly be together. So I really picture that as being something Crowley has written in order that Aziraphale would not be exposed as loving a demon and forced out of Heaven into hell. By the time we get to the modern day Crowley is much more of the mind that they should just run off together, but I think it definitely took her a long time to get to that point and in an earlier era she would have just wanted Aziraphale protected.

Let me confess that we two must be twain Although our undivided loves are one; So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love’s sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailèd guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honor me Unless thou take that honor from thy name. But do not so. I love thee in such sort   As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

And then sonnet 142 I just picture it as Aziraphale being like “loving you is a sin and I hate myself for it but I can’t stop” like.... it's giving “you’re unworthy of my love and I don’t care for the company you keep but I love you anyway and your sins make me love you more" and I just ahhhh. It just fits *so well* in my brain.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving. O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.     If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,     By self-example mayst thou be denied.

[contraststudies]

Thank you for tagging me, @tawnyontumblr​! I’m very bad at doing these writer meme things, so here goes nothing.

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

45 and counting!

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

376,429. Holy moly that is a fuck ton of words (I only properly started posting on AO3 last May iirc).

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Four: Critical Role, Good Omens, Hades, and Kill La Kill.

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

This list is bookended by two PWPs, which I find hilarious given that I seem to have misplaced my smut brain cell sometime in the last couple of months.

On The Matter of Traffic Violations (Good Omens, E)

“Officer Fell,” Crowley says, and leans forward, enough to give Fell a good view of his décolletage. He tilts his head in the way he knows people find deliciously coquettish, glad that he’d had the foresight to apply some mascara before heading out. “I’m so very sorry about this,” he says, looking up at the officer through his lashes. “It’s late, you know, no cars around… Didn’t notice how fast I was going, that’s all.”

[Or: Crowley flirts his way out of a traffic violation.]

Unbinding (Critical Role, T)

This is a great honor, Essek reminds himself, trying not to recoil as fingers run through his hair, working through the tangles. A braid is made of three strands, symbolizing the inextricable bond between the soul, the den, and the Luxon. A recognition of an achievement by the drow who bears it. With each braid, the soul is bound ever closer to its den and to the Luxon.

It is a lesson Essek learned long ago, but one he is never permitted to forget.

[Or: the story of why the Shadowhand wears his hair cropped short.]

No Church In The Wild (Good Omens, E)

The stem of the wineglass in Aziraphale’s hand snaps cleanly in two, but no one seems to hear it—every eye in the room is trained on the redheaded dancer sashaying to the gleaming silver pole, centre stage for all to see.

Oh, Aziraphale thinks faintly. Good lord.

[Or: the one where Aziraphale gets assigned to the red light district.]

abide gold with me (Critical Role, T)

“Okay, Cay-leb,” Jester says, stretching out the syllables affectionately. “You sit right here so we can watch you and Essek try an orange for the first time.”

The Primal Scene (Good Omens, E - a collab with @lookitsstevie​!)

Harriet notices that there’s a crack of light at the end of the hallway coming from the door to the library, and her mood brightens considerably. Perhaps the tutors are still here, putting together their lessons for the next day before they leave for the night. She leans down to pick up a piece of cloth that’s fallen on the rug. Her breath catches in her throat when she realizes what it is – a necktie with a familiar tartan pattern.

She nearly drops the tie in shock at the unmistakable sound coming from the closed door of the library. A sharp, quickly stifled moan.

[Or: Harriet Dowling accidentally bears witness to divine ecstasy.]

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try. I really do. My friends (and maybe some of my readers) know that this is difficult for me, mainly because any sort of recognition reduces me to a gibbering pile of tears. I’m working on it though, even if it does take me a million years to respond to anything on AO3. 

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

God, which one do I choose. I have been referred to as an angst gremlin for a very good reason. I’m gonna go with The Remains of the Day, a Good Omens fairy tale AU I wrote loosely based on Bluebeard.  

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I HAVE. I wrote philtatos, a crossover of Good Omens and The Iliad/The Song of Achilles. It’s the only crossover I’ve ever written, unless we’re counting Variations of an Arrangement, which could loosely count as a crossover of the book/radio/TV versions of Good Omens.

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I have not. And hopefully never will.

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I do, and it’s usually of the angst with a happy ending variety.

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Hm. How do we define stealing? Just kidding. The short answer is no.

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Got one in the works for Critical Role!

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes was actually the first ship I ever really got into, and they’ll always have a special place in my heart even if I never wrote anything for that fandom. Crowley/Aziraphale from Good Omens of course, and more recently Caleb Widogast/Essek Thelyss from Critical Role.

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

Variations of an Arrangement. I loved writing it, and I still want to finish it one day, but it took a lot of brainpower to write and keep track of the plot and I feel like it’s beyond me, at least right now.

15) What are your writing strengths?

I… hmm. Judging by the way people are always yelling at me in their comments, I guess it’s that I can write stories that make people feel things very deeply.

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

I repeat words so often, it’s embarrassing. I use too many “-ly” adverbs. Also, I find myself using the same turns of phrase across several fics lmao.

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

Language is a tricky thing. I don’t want to bore you with discourse. I try not to write dialogue in a different language (especially if it’s not one I speak myself) unless it’s absolutely called for, or if they’re just basic phrases and I’m 100% certain I won’t be getting it wrong. I have read fics where this was done very well though, and I’ve found that it really adds to the atmosphere in those cases.

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

It was for this old anime called Princess Tutu. I danced ballet when I was younger and loved it so much – I believe I was only twelve at the time?? But I think the fic may still be floating around on FF.net somewhere.

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

I wrote philtatos in a four-day fever dream. It’s not the most technically perfect fic I’ve ever written or anything like that, but I think it’s the one that reveals the most about who I am as a person. That is an incredibly cheesy thing to say, I know. I always joke that posting that fic felt like offering my still-beating heart on a silver platter to the void, but there you are.

For Critical Role, surprisingly enough it’s this ficlet I wrote called sinners, a small bite of Shadowdrei where I was parsing my ideas on Astrid and Eadwulf’s dynamic and where they stood when it came to Bren/Caleb and Essek. I didn’t realize how fully formed my thoughts were until I wrote that. Fascinating what your own writing will show you about the things that are in your mind.

Tagging with no pressure whatsoever: @naromoreau @jenanigans1207 @saretton @theseedsofdoom @musegnome!

[perhapsitmaybedragons]

A Little Nudge

The world is garbage and I’m writing fluff so I don’t have to think about it. Good Omens one shot. Fluff. Very dialogue heavy, because I like writing Dialogue.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556994

Or you can keep reading below:

Crowley drummed his nails against the kitchen table as he watched Adam do his homework, periodically wondering which one of them was more bored and whether homework was an invention of Heaven or Hell. Crowley hadn't had a hand in it, that was all he was certain of. Seemed like something Aziraphale would approve of, though.

This had been a new Arrangement, and one Crowley had no designs in. But both he and the angel were certain Adam had retained some, if not all, of his powers. And both were convinced their sides were still up to something, so it made sense to keep an eye on the boy. But it hadn't been intended to be so closely. Just a little while after Crowley had started watching him, he started getting phone calls to come baby sit. Aziraphale, on the other hand, just came by every once in a while pretending to need to talk to the Youngs about mundane things like the weather.

Which just further proved Adam's powers were still there. How else had Mr. Young gotten Crowley's phone number? And how else could anyone explain that both Mr. and Mrs. Young always looked wary around Crowley, but still allowed him to watch their kid? Or that they both got a glazed over, bored look whenever they so much as caught sight of Aziraphale, but still always answered the door when they saw it was him?

Crowley could be patient when he needed to be, and he was wondering when the kid would break and admit why exactly he wanted Crowley to look after him. Especially when his parents had previously left him to his own devices. Adding in an authority figure didn't seem like the kind of thing Adam would decide to do.

But today he kept glancing up from his homework, apparently stealing himself for the favor he was about to ask. Crowley made a point of leaning back in his chair, trying to look relaxed. He was curious and also wanted to get it over with. His mind had gone over all the possibilities for why Crowley had been the one selected for babysitting duty, and none of the options seemed good.

It was unlikely, for example, that Adam wanted to know about his father – he made it very clear that Mr. Young was his father, and the biological one could go back right to where he came from, thank you very much. Possibly he wanted to know what hell was like. Or what the limits of his power were. Or how much trouble he could get into with his powers plus the help of a demon.

But what Crowley wasn't expecting was for Adam to put down his pencil, sit up straight, look Crowley in the eye and ask “Why aren't you and Mr. Aziraphale married yet?”

He folded his hands like he was a business man giving a performance review. Crowley crossed his arms. “And why would we be?”

“It isn't proper,” Adam insisted, “Mum says people in love get married. That's you two, and you've been in love for a while. Is it cause you're both blokes?” before Crowley could respond “I mean, you both look like guys but that's legal, and my dad says,” And here he adopted a gruffer voice, trying to mimic his dad, “'well, it's uh...it's not for me and I don't understand it but there's uh...there's nothing wrong with it'. And Pepper's mum says it's perfectly natural and ok for two guys to get married if that's what they want,” He paused for a moment and added, almost like an afterthought “Or two ladies. That's alright, too.”

“We're not technically male,” Crowley pointed out. “We're not human. Marriage is a human thing.”

Adam brushed it off, “But you're looking like us and acting like us. Wouldn't it help you blend in more?”

“I don't care if I blend in or not,” as though to make the point, Crowley whipped off his sunglasses so Adam could see his eyes. Adam had seen it before, but he always reacted the same way every time.

“Man, I wish my eyes looked like that,” he grumbled. And just like the last few times, his eyes would take on a snake like pupil for just a moment before flicking back to normal. “But you're trying to 'vade the question.”

“Evade?” Crowley suggested helpfully.

“Yeah, that. It's not right to be in love and not do anything about it when you can.”

“Why does a young boy like you care so much about what an old demon and angel are getting up to? Why do you want us to get married so badly?”

“Weddings can be all right. Wensleydale got to be a groomsmen in his cousin's wedding and he said he got a really big slice of a nice cake afterward.”

“You want us to get married so you can have cake?”

“No,” Adam said, pouting now, “I want you to get married because you love each other. And I want you to let me pick out the cake.”

Crowley chuckled in spite of himself. “That angel would probably never let you pick, he cares a lot about food. Probably already knows who the best caterer is in town for this sort of thing.”

“If you're not going to do it just say so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you love him or not? Cause I thought when two people love each other they get married. And you're talking about everything else except whether you love him or not. And when Mr. Aziraphale came to trade gardening tips with mum he looked worried and I think he thinks your side's going to attack soon.”

“You want us to get married to take his mind off of Apocalypse 2.0?”

“Ugh, no,” Adam was getting frustrated. To him, it was the most obvious thing in the world – if you're an adult and you love another adult, you get married. Unless you were married to other people, like in that show his mum watched sometimes. Apparently, then you murdered one of the spouses together and then ran off to Mexico.

But Aziraphale and Crowley weren't married to anyone, and Adam had thought it was obvious that they were in love. At first, he thought maybe it was that part of him that just knew things – the part that had lead to that scary day not that long ago where the world had almost ended. But then Pepper had asked him about them, and Brian and Wensleydale had backed her up. It seemed ludicrous that with everything that had happened, they would all end up focusing on the love lives of the demon and angel involved but well, here they were.

“And have you talked about this with the ang-- with Mr. Aziraphale?”

“No,” Adam said simply, “I think he wants you to make the first move.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. Here some part of him thought he'd been doing nothing but making moves on that angel for the last few centuries. “You are aware we're not a couple, right? Even for humans, you usually don't go from being associates straight to getting married.”

“I think you are a couple.”

“Those weren't the terms of our Arrangement,” Crowley muttered.

“Doesn't matter. Everyone already can see it.”

“You do know that just because people want other people to be together doesn't make it so, right?” Crowley thought for a moment of calling Aziraphale and making him deal with this, but at the same time he wanted to see where this conversation would go. “And that even if we are in love, the way you seem to think we are, we wouldn't have to get married? Even if we were human, humans don't always get married.”

“Not always, but the tax benefits alone usually make it the better choice than just living together,” Adam said with the authority of a child who had overheard that exact argument said by an adult once and was now repeating it with only the slightest glimmer of understanding. “He does know you're in love with him, right?”

“I thought you said we both loved each other,” Crowley was annoyed by how irritated his voice sounded – there was a twinge of longing there that he would like to have been better at hiding.

“Yeah, but I think he needs you to spell it out for him. He knows, but he doesn't know that he knows.”

“I think your parents let you watch too much tv, you know that? I think I should tell them not to let you watch so much of it, and to keep an eye on what you're watching.”

Adam shrugged. “You can try. But I'll still ask you about when you're going to ask Mr. Aziraphale to marry you. I bet you could propose to him with a book – I don't think he'd like a ring. But maybe he would, cause it could match his halo.”

“So you want me to tell him I'm in love with him and then immediately propose to him? That's the long and short of it there, right?”

Adam nodded. “Dog can be your ring bearer. I think I saw that in a movie once. But the dog ran away with the ring and everyone got upset-”

“You just told me not to get him a ring, why would we need a ring bearer if we haven't got a ring?”

Adam thought it over for a moment, cocking his head to the side as he thought. “Ok. So he could be one of the groomsmen with me. And it's not fair to let Wensleydale be one, 'cause he got to be one this year already. But he can be one of those guys who shows people to their seats. And if you ask Pepper to be a flower girl she's going to think I told you to do it and then she's going to punch me, so maybe ask her to be a groomsperson, too?”

“Have you planned out my entire wedding?”

Adam gave a guilty smile that told Crowley everything. “I will take your concerns under advisement,” Crowley had invented so called 'office speak' and this, along with 'per my last e-mail' was one of his favorite responses. It didn't really promise any action, but people responded as though it did.

“You should probably do it now, cause he's on his way over.”

“For what? Your parents won't be back from the movies this soon and he always checked in with them.”

“I told him she'd need help today at 4 o'clock,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the clock on the wall. It was almost 4 and Aziraphale would either be a little early or exactly on time.

“You lied to an angel. You realize that, right? Literal being from heaven and you lied right to his face.”

“Did not,” Adam shook his head, “I lied to him on the telephone. It's not as bad.”

While Crowley was pretty curious about that particular leap in logic, he didn't have time to get into it with Adam. Aziraphale was knocking at the front door and Adam had jumped up to answer it.

“Hello, Mr. Aziraphale! Crowley's here, too.” Crowley couldn't help notice that Aziraphale always got a “Mr” in front of his name from Adam, but he was always just “Crowley”. He wasn't sure which way he preferred it, to be honest.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale greeted him, but then immediately began to look about for the Youngs. “Adam, where are your parents? I thought your mother needed help with something in the house?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“But that's why you called me,” Aziraphale frowned. “Did you lie to me?”

“Yep!” Adam nodded enthusiastically. “I'm sorry.”

“Doesn't look sorry to me,” Crowley muttered.

“Well, dear boy, you're forgiven, but can I ask why you lied?”

“Needed you to come over so you could talk to Crowley!” Adam admitted, ushering Aziraphale in and practically throwing him into a chair at the kitchen table. The one right next to Crowley. Adam shut the front door.

“Crowley and I talk to each other all the time,” Aziraphale only looked more puzzled now. He gave a small wave of his hand and his coat moved from being on him to being hung up neatly on a coat rack (that hadn't been there when he came in).

“Adam has gotten it into his head that,” And here Crowley stopped. He wasn't embarrassed by the thought that he and Aziraphale were in love. Crowley knew exactly how he felt about that angel. But the idea he had been so obvious that a child had picked up on it was making him uncomfortable. And despite Adam's insistence, he wasn't completely certain where Aziraphale stood on the topic.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted Crowley to continue.

“I could leave?” Adam suggested. “Give you two alone time?”

“In your parents' house?” Crowley didn't say it, but he wanted to point out that it wasn't the most romantic of locales.

“I could go up to my room or something.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale shook his head, “It's your house and if it's so important to you that we both be here, we should discuss it. Is this, perhaps, about your uh...non-earthly father?”

Adam pulled a face. “That guy's not my dad.”

“True, very true,” The angel nodded his approval. “But then what did you want us both here for?” He shifted his attention back to Crowley. “I'm sure we'd both try to help, whatever it is. We're both in that unique predicament of no longer being on the side of who sent us, so the three of us are ..ship mates, if you will.”

“Mating's got something to do with it,” Crowley muttered so low that neither of them heard him.

“You're an angel, right?” Adam demanded.

“Well, yes, but-”

“So you're supposed to tell the truth, right?”

“I don't know what you're-”

“And you're in love with Crowley,” Adam finished, his eyes boring straight into Aziraphale's.

“I'm not certain this is an appropriate conversation for us to be having,” Aziraphale sat up, ram rod straight and started dusting at his already spotless pants. “Is there something else I could help with?”

“No,” Adam said stubbornly. “If you're an angel then you should do it right. You have to be honest – do you love him?”

Crowley's breath caught in his throat. It had never occurred to him to press Aziraphale in this manner, though he was pretty certain he wouldn't have, even if he had thought of it. Aziraphale was resolutely looking away from both of them, staring at the floor. He looked like he was having an internal debate with himself. After what felt like an eternity of silence, he finally spoke up.

“Yes,” he said softly.

“Wait,” Crowley jumped out of his seat and flung his glasses off so that he could look Aziraphale in the eye. “You're in love with me?”

“Well, yes...” he admitted. “But aren't you in love with me, too? I had thought you were. Did I misunderstand?”

“Did you misunderstand?! Did you misunderstand?” Crowley paced back and forth in the kitchen. Adam and Aziraphale exchanged glances, both confused about what was going through the demon's mind now. “I didn't bloody think you felt the same! This whole time! How long, angel?” he demanded.

“At least since Germany...possibly further back. I don't know.”

“And this isn't one of those things where you mean like a friend, right?”

“No. I mean, at first, yes, I loved you like a friend and then it ...it became more.”

“And you knew how I felt and you didn't say anything?!”

“I didn't think I needed to,” he shifted. “I thought you knew and that we didn't do anything because of ...well, you come from there and I come from the other side so I didn't see how it could possibly work.”

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“Now what, he says!” Crowley threw up his hands and looked at Adam, giving a 'do you see what I've been dealing with all this time' look. “Now neither of us is with our original sides – heaven tried to kill you, hell tried to kill me and we were both tossed back here. Aziraphale,” Crowley put his hands on the other man's shoulders, “There is nothing holding us back anymore.”

“There's nothing holding us back,” Aziraphale repeated in wonder. “We could ...I could...”

Crowley pulled him up from his seat and immediately went in for the kiss. Adam looked away, trying not to intrude on their moment.

Aziraphale pulled away first. “There's a child present.”

“It's just a kiss,” Crowley muttered, “That kid's seen way worse on tv.”

“That's true, I have,” Adam admitted. “Neither of you has any secret spouse you're going to have to kill, right? I like you two, I don't want you to have to go off to Mexico.”

“What is he talking about?”

“No idea, angel,” Crowley had his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and seemed intent not to move it.

“So are you going to get married now?” Adam persisted. “Now that you know he feels the same?”

“But we aren't human-”

“Don't even start with him, it's a lost cause, trust me. Look, Adam, we are not getting married. ….at least not yet.”

“Do you think we should?” Aziraphale looked thoughtful. “If we end up moving in together it would seem more proper, don't you think?”

“And it will save you money on taxes,” Adam offered helpfully.

“We'll revisit the question,” Crowley insisted. “You and I have a lot of catching up to do. You'll be all right then, Adam?”

“Yeah, my homework's done. Will you still come sit with me sometimes?”

“Do I even have a choice in the matter?” Crowley pointed out. Adam gave a crooked half grin in response.

“We all have a choice. You just needed a little nudge this time.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Dining with Green Eyed Monsters (Rated PG13)

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are attempting to enjoy a quiet, romantic dinner together on their wedding anniversary. But they're constantly being interrupted by a (gorgeous) young waiter who has eyes for Crowley. (1389 words)

Notes: Written for the @ineffable-valentines prompt 'champagne'.

Read on AO3. 

“Changes to the bookshop, hmm?” Crowley leans forward in his seat and watches Aziraphale finish his slice of Devil’s food cake the way he always does - with rapt attention, as if Aziraphale’s mouth is a cinema screen playing the latest, greatest summer blockbuster.

“Not changes, per se,” Aziraphale replies, smiling into his napkin as he dabs his mouth. He knows Crowley doesn’t give a rat’s rear end about his renovating the bookshop, but it’s sweet that he’s giving the conversation his full attention. “More of a re-arranging. I’m thinking of putting a new releases section right up front where customers will be sure to see it the moment they walk in.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley gasps in mock horror. “Say it ain’t so!”

“What?” Aziraphale’s left eyebrow arcs at his husband’s exclamation. “What are you on about?”

“Don’t tell me you’re selling out! Caving to the masses! That you might actually …” He gasps again dramatically, drawing the attention of the diners at the table beside them afraid he might be choking “… sell a book!”

Aziraphale waves him off. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear boy. It’s more a ruse than anything. I find that most people pop in looking for a recent best seller, and when I tell them I don’t have it, they start wandering, looking for something else. If I stock the latest James Patterson drivel or whatever passes for literature nowadays and display it front and center, they’ll see it, buy it, and be off without ever stepping farther than five feet in. That way, I have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Well played, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s face softens. “That’s quite clever. And, may I say, diabolical.”

Aziraphale’s smile grows so wide, the dimples in his cheeks almost meet in the middle. “I’ve been doing your job for so long now, I might just have a bit of demon in me.”

“Well, that little plan of yours has me so turned on, you’ll definitely have a bit of demon in you later on.”

“So how are things going? Anything else I can get for you? Is dessert treating you okay? Shall I refill your water glass? Bring over another slice of cake? I don’t know if you know this, but our cheesecake is world famous,” their waiter says, shooting over from across the dining room, directing his rapid-fire commentary solely at Crowley.

Aziraphale sighs and dabs his lips with his napkin again, needing to hide his mouth before he shoots fire from it.

Benedict the man had said his name was - twenty-five years old (from what Aziraphale can tell), six-feet even, slim but muscular … and completely smitten with Aziraphale’s husband.

Nothing new. It happens quite a bit. Aziraphale chalks much of it up to Crowley being a demon. He gives off an air of sin that humans find irresistible. That and his natural sex appeal make him good at his job.

It’s also one of the reasons Crowley doesn’t go out in public unless he absolutely has to.

The unwanted attention can get aggravating.

Like tonight, or any other night they go out to eat, which they’ve been doing a lot of ever since they got married. Eating out has always been one of the cornerstone activities of their time spent together. They have no intention of giving it up. For the most part, lust-sick mortals will scram when told to do so.

Except this man, who bounces back to their table every time he has a second free. Why? Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale have any idea, but he can’t seem to take a hint. Plus he’s got unforgivable timing, interrupting several professions of undying love and one or two sexual innuendos.

Innuendos that, if given the opportunity to flourish, might have shortened the duration of their meal considerably.

Crowley told the man point blank to get lost, which he did for all of three minutes. Aziraphale is amazed the young man managed to stay away from their table long enough for them to hold this brief conversation in its entirety.

Twice Crowley suggested a magical solution - transporting him to Indonesia was the first, wiping his mind and implanting some sort of foot fetish to boot the second. But Aziraphale told him not to, arguing that Benedict is a kid working to make ends meet, and that, at heart, he really is a decent human.

But stranded in Indonesia with no memory and a raging foot fetish sounds more and more appealing every time Benedict leans in close and bats his eyes at Crowley.

“There is something you could do for us,” Crowley says, his eyebrows bouncing up as he suddenly gets an idea.

“Anything,” the waiter whispers, eyes darting boldly to Crowley’s mouth, and behind his napkin, Aziraphale wonders what type of weather Indonesia is enjoying this time of year.

“We would like a bottle of champagne. Your finest, please.”

“Ooo,” the waiter says, sounding intrigued. “Celebrating something?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Our wedding anniversary,” Crowley stresses with words coarse and clipped.

“Fantastic,” the man says in that same hushed whisper, unfazed. “Be right back.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolds when the waiter hurries away.

“What?”

“I was hoping you were going to ask for the check. Don’t you think it’s time we get away from that man and his covetous glances? Unless you’re enjoying the attention, that is.”

“Pfft.” Crowley reaches across the table to take his husband’s hand. “Not an inch. I just want some champagne. That’s all.”

Aziraphale appraises his husband suspiciously. “A … ha.”

“Here we are!” the waiter says, appearing as if in a puff of smoke, which Aziraphale had begun to suspect. He presents the bottle … and a single flute … to Crowley. “Monsieur’s champagne. Our finest, as requested.”

“Perfect! Thank you,” Crowley says. The waiter beams from the praise as he uncorks the bottle and fills the flute. Crowley picks up the glass, gives the champagne a sniff, then passes it over to Aziraphale. “There you are, my love. Why don’t you take the first taste?”

Aziraphale looks at the champagne, then at his husband, not entirely certain what he’s playing at but more than willing to follow along. He smiles his brightest, most appreciative smile, takes the flute delicately by the stem, and lifts it to his lips. Slowly he sips, his eyelids fluttering closed as the alcohol fills his mouth, bathing his tongue, his taste buds firing one by one with the fruity flavor of this exquisite beverage. He swallows, forgetting for the moment that two sets of eyes are watching, one more complimentary than the other, and sets his glass down.

“Scrumptious.” He slides the remaining champagne towards his husband, offering him the rest. “You definitely know how to order well, my dear.”

“If you’d like, I can bring you another flute,” the waiter offers snappishly, finally seeming to notice Aziraphale there, that he’s been there all night with Crowley, monopolizing the attention that he craves, “so that you can have a taste.”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley says, his eyes not leaving his husband’s face, tracing the lines of his rosy cheeks, the contours of his plump, wet lips. “I can steal a taste for myself.” Crowley puts a hand on the neck of the bottle, as if preparing to take a swig straight from it. Instead, he leans towards his husband, grabs him carefully by the back of the head, and crashes their mouths together. The kiss is long, indulgent, a spectacle for Benedict’s benefit. It’s not meant for the young man to fantasize about. It’s meant to show him what he can’t have. “Mmm … you’re right,” Crowley mutters before their mouths separate. “Scrumptious. We’ll be taking that bottle to go, please.”

Benedict doesn’t answer.

When Aziraphale’s eyes finally leave his husband’s to check why, Benedict has gone. Crowley’s gaze follows Aziraphale’s to the vacant spot beside their table. He crows in triumph.

“Finally!”

“Was that quite necessary?” Aziraphale asks, his smile unquenchable.

“I’d say yes. As it is, if that didn’t work, I was going to resort to dry humping you on the table. In fact …” Crowley presses on the tabletop with both the palms of both hands, presumably testing its stability.

“Don’t. even. think. about it,” Aziraphale warns.

Crowley grins. “Oh …” he winks “… I’m thinking about it.”

[ourownsideimagines]

They Say You Can’t Go Home Again, but I Found Home in You (Crowley x Fem!Angel-ish!Reader)

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Fem!Angel-ishReader, Madam Tracy, Shadwell, Gate Soldier

Requested: Yes 

Requested by: @adela-topaz-caelon

Point of View: Third Person Reader

Summary: (Name) is an Angel who, while not fallen, was booted from Heaven. She and Crowley have been dancing around their feelings for each other, and Aziraphale decided that the start of the apocalypse is a good time to finally point it out.

Warnings: I may have cursed? Otherwise, just the usual minimal editing.

Words: 1669

A/N: This is done in one large part, then a small little drabble kind of thing. 

—-

By standard terms, (name) was not an Angel. Not anymore, at least. She had not fallen after the “Great War”, but quickly found that she did not belong - if threats from Michael and Gabriel weren’t enough to get the point across, being thrown out by Sandalphon and Uriel definitely was. 

(Name) had fallen, just not in the most traditional way.

A fallen angel, though, was a fallen angel in Heaven’s opinion. She would no longer be allowed into Paradise, not that she much minded. She had her Heavenly-issued body and the ability to create miracles. What more could she need?

After a few hundred or so years she came to one conclusion. Friends, she decided. She needed friends.

So she sought out the only being she thought might be even the slightest bit kind to her - the Principality and (former) Angel of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale. He’d been living on Earth for years, and sure, maybe he knew about her ‘fall’, but there was a part of her deep down that prayed to whoever might be listening that he wouldn’t care.

It was just after the flood, and Noah sailing his arc that (name) went looking for him.

And hundreds of years later, the two were closer than close could be. And, of course, being friends with Aziraphale ultimately meant becoming friends with a certain yellow-eyed demon. (Name) was surprised to say the least when she’d first learned of the friendship, though seeing as Aziraphale was affiliating with her she couldn’t for the life of her think why he wouldn’t befriend an actual demon.

At first, she and Crowley got along as well as two fallen angels could (though he sometimes refused to refer to her as such, since she was simply booted while he had to burn the whole way down). They clashed on various occasions, snarky remarks were swapped, and looks were taken in secret.

(Name) would be lying if she said she wasn’t attracted to Crowley. There was just something about his cocky personality that drew her in. And those eyes. Those eyes could kill her and she would thank them.

Of course, (name) would never admit this out loud. There was no way she’d ever admit to actually liking Crowley - at least, not yet.

As the impending end of the earth advanced, she found herself sticking around the angel and the demon more often. She’d accompanied them to care for Warlock, posing as the new house cleaner. She kept an eye on both Aziraphale and Crowley, acting as a buffer for anything too brash. She would comfort Warlock when the two became too much for him, telling him they were just ‘old, silly fools’, then offering to sneak him into the kitchen to steal some cookies. (Name) didn’t have a side, as far as she was concerned (unless, of course, she was counting the side she, Crowley, and Aziraphale had unofficially made). She saw no wrong in contradicting either of their doings.

Crowley, or Astaroth, as she’d been going by had been rather upset about this. She didn’t want the plan to be messed up, but after that time she’d caught (name) reading to Warlock in the middle of the afternoon until he began to nap she said nothing more on the situation.

(Name) had liked Crowley’s longer hair. She was disappointed when he decided that, when he was no longer Nanny Astaroth, that he would cut it short. More masculine. Not that he looked bad - no, far from it. She just wondered, silently to herself, how nice it would have been to be able to braid it.

Perhaps, if they truly stopped armegeddon, he would grow it back out and allow her to-

No, no. She shouldn’t be thinking about that. There were much more pressing issues, such as trying to figure out her way over the hellfire that had taken over the M25. (name) had gotten a call not ten minutes ago from Crowley, telling her to get to Tadfield’s air base. 

Had (name) been told from the beginning that this is where she would end up, she would have laughed and asked ‘in how many years?’ before going off to perform another miracle (almost 6000 years, would have been the answer, not that she would have expected one).

The rain was beginning to come down hard, and in the distance she could hear police sirens. She needed to get over the fire wall, and she needed to do it now. If her watch was right, she didn’t have nearly as much time as she hoped she would.

Knowing she had only one choice, since she would not survive driving through it, (name) focused on one thing and one thing only - her wings.

It had been centuries since she’d stretched them out, and the sound of her jacket ripping made her wince. She could miracle it back together later, but the sound was unpleasant all the same. When they’d finally finished breaking free, she stretched them out. She used the smallest amount of her powers to keep them dry, and after taking in a deep breath, she launched into the air like someone who was riding a bike for the first time in years - shakily done, but done nonetheless.

The flight to Tadfield was the most liberated (name) had felt in a while. Far below here, people buzzed in panic, and she eventually caught sight of a speeding car she would have once recognized as Crowley’s vintage Bentley. She heart dropped as she watched flames lick the carriage, and melt away the tires. She was certain he would make it to Tadfield, but at such a cost it hurt even her.

On the short list of things that Crowley loved, (name) knew the first to be his car (she secretly hoped that she was second). As she approached the airbase, she began feeling winded.

She really hadn’t done this in a long time.

(Name) touched down a short five minute walk from the airbase. She didn’t want to risk the chance that someone would see her and try to shoot her down. From down the road, she saw three figures. One was an older man, a large obtuse gun strapped to his back, another a soldier holding his gun close, and the last a woman dressed in very colorful attire. Even from afar, she knew the woman - even if she didn’t recognize the face.

“Aziraphale?” She called, and all three people turned. The soldier raised his weapon, but (name) went straight to Aziraphale.

“Ah, (name),” She smiled gently. They embraced, but (name) quickly pulled away.

“Who’s this?” She asked, gently flattening Aziraphale’s sleeves.

“Oh, right. This lovely woman is Madam Tracy. Madam Tracy, this is my good friends (name).” There was no pause between Aziraphale’s words and the woman's. “Oh, a pleasure.”

“Very much so,” (name) agreed. She got the sudden feeling that the others were staring at her, but she ignored it. “What happened to your body, Aziraphale?”

“Ah, yes, about that. Got discorporated. How did you know to come here?”

“Crowley called-” (name) paused when the familiar tune of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, and the smell of burning metal and rubber breached her senses. She turned quickly, watching as the flaming Bentley swerved around the turn and came to a stop at a safe enough distance.

The door open, and Crowley slipped out, a book in one hand as he used his foot to kick the door closed.

“Wouldn’t get that kind of performance from a modern car!” He said, albeit not with much heart. He didn’t even look at the Bentley before making his way over to them. (Name) lurched forward towards him, and he stepped back in surprise. She gently grasped his arms, looking at his soot covered face.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” She said. Crowley’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he was looking behind her.

“Uh, you, um,” He was stumbling over his words.

“What?”

“Your wings,” He said, and (name) felt her blood go cold.

She had forgotten about her wings. She backed away, suddenly embarrassed, and willed them away.

“Next time you decide to drive your car through a fire, at least let me know beforehand.” She muttered. “I saw you about a mile back and got worried.”

“You were worried about me?” He smirked. She rolled her eyes. “I’m honored, really.”

“Shut up.” She said.

“Crowley, (name), I do believe the flirting can be saved for later.” Aziraphale interrupted you. “As cute as watching you two had been for the last handful of centuries, I really do think getting inside is out main objective, yes?” (Name) felt her cheeks flush red.

“We’re not- she’s not-” Crowley stopped suddenly. “You’re not… You’re not flirting are you?”

“Are you serious? At a time like this?” (Name) motioned to the armed guard.

“I was just curious.” He mumbled. (Name) sighed, but grabbed Crowley’s hand.

“We’ll talk about it later, Crowley. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

---(a little added bonus because didn’t exactly wanna write the whole airport scene)---

“Would anyone here care to explain to me what exactly is going on?” Adam Young’s father asked. Crowley turned to (name), whom had clung to him amidst the stopping of time and Satan rising. She  was winded, to say the least, and she was prepared to sleep for years, even if she didn’t truly need to.

“I should ask you the same.” Crowley mumbled. (Name)’s eyes snapped up to him. “What is going on… here… between us?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Aziraphale interrupted the two of you. “You to have been in love with each other for years, honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

“Aziraphale,” You hissed.

“I’m just so tired of seeing you two dancing around each other. It’s ridiculous.”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley’s words were cut off suddenly when (name) grasped his scarf, tugging him to her. He stared at her, eyes wide open. (Name), not exactly caring whether or not anyone was watching gave him a gentle smile.

“C’mon you old serpent. Tell me where you think we are.”

[caedmonfaith]

Taking the Cake

This is a gift for @katsinspaxe in the @goodomensholidayswap - I hope you enjoy it, and Merry Christmas!

(Special thanks to @lostinfic​ for letting me steal her idea and for being a good sport. I owe you one, dear. <3 )

Summary:  Aziraphale has noticed his handsome neighbor, but hasn't had an excuse (or the nerve) to talk to him. He gets his chance, though, when a bakery delivers a package to the wrong door a few days before Christmas and his neighbor comes knocking.

Alternate Universe - Neighbors, fluff, christmas fluff, unbeta’d. Read it on ao3!

Aziraphale was just turning the page of a very interesting book, contemplating getting up and getting himself a snack, when a knock came at his door. He looked up at the sound, wondering who it could be, then sat his book to the side and went to answer it. Perhaps it was a delivery (although he wasn’t expecting one) - or maybe just someone knocking on the wrong door. It happened often enough, living in such a large building of flats where everyone had identical doors.

He opened the door with a pleasant expression to find his recently-moved-in neighbor standing there with a brown, string-tied box in hand. The man was tall and lean with ginger hair, dressed very stylishly in all black, black sunglasses over his eyes, and was devastatingly handsome. Aziraphale had noticed him coming and going in the building for the last few months, but hadn’t ever had a reason - or the nerve - to speak. Even now, he felt the words drying up in his mouth in the face of his gorgeous neighbor. Then the man smiled, and Aziraphale suddenly felt a little wobbly.

“Hi,” the man said, almost in a drawl.

“Hello,” Aziraphale answered with a somewhat nervous smile, gripping the door a little more tightly to keep himself upright.

The man held up the box in his hands. “I believe this is yours. It was delivered to my flat by mistake.”

Aziraphale peered at the box. “I’m not expecting any packages…”

“You’re David Fowler, right?”

He felt himself deflate a little, figuring this misunderstanding would lead to the end of their interaction. “No, I’m sorry. My name is Aziraphale Fell.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think Mr. Fowler lives down the hall, last flat on the left, before the lift.”

“I see.”

The man looked a little crestfallen, and Aziraphale didn’t like seeing that look on his face. He’d much prefer to see his neighbor smiling, so he smiled gently.

“It was awfully kind of you to bring it here, though,” he offered.

The man cringed a little and made a sound that sounded like 'ngk', but didn’t acknowledge what he’d said. “I, um, I saw that it was from a bakery and thought maybe you’d like a little company while you ate it.”

Aziraphale was stunned. This handsome stranger has sought him out to spend time with him? Oh, he was all aflutter.

“It’s from a bakery, you say?” he asked, temptation pulling at him.

“Yes. It was just delivered a few minutes ago, and it smells fresh. Seems a shame to let someone else have it, when it so conveniently fell into our laps, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he took a deep sniff, catching the scent wafting from the box. It smelled heavenly, absolutely divine, and if he said ‘yes’, he’d get to spend some more time with the man at the door. He felt his determination to do the right thing wavering.

“I don’t know,” he protested weakly, “It’s getting close to Christmas. Mr. Fowler may need this baked good to serve at a party or something.”

The red haired man gave him a lopsided smile. “Can you think of one person in the whole world who would appreciate this cake more than you or I would?”

Oh, how Aziraphale was tempted. It would be so easy to give in and share this dessert - whatever it was - with this handsome man. And he wanted to so badly.

“But Mr. Fowler --”

“Will call the bakery when he doesn’t get his cake and they’ll figure out the mistake. Then he’ll get another cake delivered to him for free.”

It was true, that was what was most likely to happen. There wouldn’t be any harm, not really. And best of all, he’d get to spend some time with his alluring neighbor, perhaps get to know him a bit - which Aziraphale found he really wanted to do.

“Oh, alright,” he said, caving. The other man smiled bright enough to outshine the sun, and Aziraphale felt his heart flutter again.

“Excellent,” the man said, “Can I come in?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” He held the door open and allowed the handsome stranger to come into his flat, then closed the door behind them.

“I’m Crowley, by the way,” the man said as Aziraphale bustled in, coming to a stop in front of him. The man didn’t make a move to remove his sunglasses, and Aziraphale was oddly disappointed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crowley.”

“No, no. Just Crowley, please. Mr. Crowley was my father.”

Azriaphale gave him a look. “Do you have a first name?”

“Anthony,” Crowley replied. “But nobody calls me that. Really, Crowley suits me best.”

He smiled. “Alright, then, I’ll call you Crowley.”

They stood facing each other silently for a moment in Aziraphale’s lounge, and he struggled to think of what to say. Nothing clever or witty was coming to him.

Crowley raised the bakery box a bit. “Did you want to…?”

“Oh! Yes! I’ll just get us some plates and forks, shall I? Come, you can sit that down on the table.”

Crowley followed him into the small kitchen, obediently sitting the box down on the table while Aziraphale bustled around, looking for plates and forks. When he turned back around, Crowley was looking around at the stacks of books.

“This is a nice place you’ve got here,” he said conversationally.

Aziraphale smiled. “Rather a lot like your flat, I would imagine.”

Crowley gave him a grin. “A bit, but our decorating styles are rather different.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. My flat is barely decorated at all, unless you want to count the plants.”

Aziraphale slid into his usual seat at the table and Crowley sat across from him. “You have plants?”

Crowley nodded. “A few, yeah.”

“How interesting. I’ve often thought about bringing a plant of some sort in here to liven the place up a bit. Perhaps you could recommend something for me?”

The ginger man beamed. “I’d love to.”

Aziraphale smiled and opened the box, giving a little gasp of delight when he saw what was inside. It was a cake, beautifully decorated with holly leaves and a Christmas tree.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” he exclaimed.

Crowley nodded. “It is,” he agreed.

“It almost seems a shame to cut it.”

“Nah. Cakes were meant to be enjoyed, not just looked at.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale sighed, but with a smile. “Here goes nothing.”

He cut into the cake, slicing himself and Crowley each a generous piece and laying them on plates. Then he passed the plate over to Crowley and picked up his own fork, excited to dig in.

The first bite was a revelation. The cake was moist and flavorful, the buttercream was light and airy, and the flavors mixed wonderfully on his tongue. He closed his eyes and let out a little moan of bliss.

“That good?” Crowley asked, but his voice sounded a bit strangled. Azriaphale opened his eyes to see if he was okay, and Crowley cleared his throat and looked down at his own cake.

“It’s divine,” he answered with feeling. It may have been gained in a dishonest way, but this cake was the best thing Aziraphale had ever tasted.

“Good, that’s good,” Crowley said, spearing his own cake.

Aziraphale raised another bite to his lips. This one was somehow better than the first, and he couldn’t help the little sound he made.

Crowley cleared his throat again from across the table and shifted in his seat. “So, uh. How long have you lived here?”

“Three years in February. You?”

“I just moved in back in June.”

That explained why Aziraphale hadn’t seen him around before the summer. “Do you like it?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s nice, I suppose. I could deal with a bit more hot water, but I’m practically cold-blooded, so that might just be me.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Oh, I don’t believe you’re cold-blooded.”

“No, really. I might as well be a snake. I’m nearly always cold.”

“Well, it has been colder than usual lately.”

They chatted lightly over their cake, talking about all manner of topics. Aziraphale learned that Crowley was what he called a ‘professional tempter’ - he was employed by companies and wealthy families to test the loyalty of prospective employees or mates. Aziraphale found this fascinating, and figured that was how he’d been so easily tempted into taking the cake. He was usually quite upstanding, but he’d succumbed quite easily to petty theft.

“How about you?” Crowley asked politely. “What does the man with the unique name do?”

Aziraphale was a bit shy to answer. “Nothing so exciting as you, I daresay. I’m a bookshop owner.”

Crowley gave him a sly smile, then glanced around at the stacks. “Seems you have half a shop’s worth here.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks colored. “You must think me a terrible bore.”

“On the contrary. I find you very interesting.”

He gave a small smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

Aziraphale bit his lip in pleasure. Unless he was very much mistaken, this gorgeous creature was flirting with him - and he was delighted. It had been years since anyone had taken an interest in him, and for it to be a man this handsome and interesting? Aizraphale was flattered beyond words - and deeply, deeply attracted.

They chatted some more, and Aziraphale discovered why Crowley hadn’t removed his sunglasses.

“I’m rather sensitive to light, particularly certain types of light. More than an hour or so under LED light bulbs and I end up with a terrific headache.”

“Oh, you poor dear. Well, my lightbulbs are traditional, if that helps.”

“It actually does. Do you mind if I take them off?”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered in his chest. “Oh, not at all.”

The gorgeous, ginger man removed his sunglasses and Aziraphale nearly gasped. His eyes were a light brown, almost golden, and absolutely stunning. He could very easily see himself getting lost in those eyes.

“They’re lovely, dear,” he managed, flushing bright red. To his very great surprise, Crowley flushed, too.

“More cake?” he offered, not wanting this time together to end.

“Please.”

Aziraphale cut both of them a second slice.

~*~O~*~

Aziraphale was still thinking about the visit with Crowley three days later. It had been so nice spending time with him, and Crowley was so lovely - in every conceivable way. By the time he had left that night, Aziraphale had been beset with feelings - the likes of which he hadn’t had in many years. He wanted to see more of Crowley, but couldn’t think of a clever way to express that desire. Besides that, he wasn’t entirely sure that his advances would be welcomed. Sure, he had suspected Crowley was flirting, but he may well have just been friendly. The more he thought about it in the quiet of his flat, the more likely that seemed. It was most likely that Crowley had simply wanted to meet his neighbor and Aziraphale, who hadn’t had a relationship with anything but a book in several years, had mistaken his intentions. Why, Crowley probably had a girlfriend or something, and Aziraphale would be best served to put the ginger man out of his thoughts.

Except he couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Crowley’s smiling face. Every time he glanced at his little kitchen table, he thought of the hours he’d spent there, chatting with Crowley. And when he ate the leftovers of the cake they’d nicked, he wondered what it would be like to kiss those thin lips.

Blister it all, Aziraphale had a bonafide crush.

He did his best to will it away. He told himself that sharing cake with Crowley was a one-time thing and was not likely to happen again. He told himself that Crowley was almost certainly not interested in him the way he was interested in Crowley, that all the romantic interest was one-sided. He told himself he was being stupid, and to get over it.

It didn’t help.

So, three days after they’d shared cake, Aziraphale was still lecturing himself as he was getting ready to go out for the evening. He had a bit of holiday shopping to do, and figured he’d get some dinner while he was out. Perhaps sushi from his favorite place. That would be scrummy. And maybe it would clear his head from thoughts of his neighbor.

He tied his scarf around his neck and opened his door, stepping into the hall. As he’d done every time he’d left his flat for the last three days, he glanced over at Crowley’s door. He’d just had time to take in the string-tied box sitting at his neighbor’s doorstep when the door opened and Crowley stepped out, narrowly missing the box. He froze when he saw it, then glanced up at Aziraphale. His face spread into a bright smile, and he said, “Hello!”

Aziraphale could feel himself blushing, but replied, “Hello, yourself. It looks as if you’ve got a package there.”

Crowley bent over and retrieved the package, looking at it as he stood back up. “David Fowler again. It looks like the baker made another mistake.”

“Seems so,” Aziraphale said.

The other man’s smile turned mischievous. “Should we…?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said with regret. “Not this time. We should probably just take it to Mr. Fowler’s door and leave it.”

Crowley looked a little disappointed but nodded. “You’re probably right.”

For a moment, Aziraphale was at a loss for what to say, then Crowley broke the silence.

“You were heading out?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I was just off to do a little shopping for Christmas and pick up some dinner.”

Crowley looked down at the package in his hands, then back up at Aziraphale. “Tell you what. I’ll deposit this cake safely on Fowler’s doorstep if you’ll let me take you to dinner.”

Aziraphale’s face flushed hot and he stammered. “Oh, I don’t know… I really shouldn’t like to impose…”

“It’s not an imposition. I want to take you to dinner. And I know just the place. Let me? Otherwise, I’ll have to talk you into stealing this cake so we can share it again,” he teased.

It seemed impossible to deny that Crowley was flirting now, and Aziraphale was positively over the moon. “You devilish thing,” he teased back. “Alright. Let’s get some dinner - if you promise to put that cake on Fowler’s doorstep.”

Crowley’s smile was huge and near blinding. “Sure. Absolutely. Whatever you want.” He closed his door, locking it, and started towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale locked his own door while Crowley waited patiently, box in hand, then the two started down the corridor together, towards the lift and Fowler’s flat. With a wink, Crowley stooped and lay the bakery box on Fowler’s doorstep, then pressed the doorbell. Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Aziraphale with a bright smile. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale smiled back, his insides fluttering pleasantly. “Yes, let’s.”

~*~O~*~

It had been a wonderful evening. Crowley had shocked Aziraphale by taking him to the Ritz for dinner, explaining that he was there quite a lot on business, so he didn’t need a reservation. Aziraphale had been floored, but did his best to keep his composure - even as he fell a little farther under Crowley’s spell. Conversation had been so easy - they’d talked like they’d known each other for six thousand years. Crowley had asked about the origins of Aziraphale’s name over a delectable dinner, and Aziraphale had explained that his parents had been fascinated by angels. Crowley had given him a lopsided smile and said, “I am, too.” Then, from that moment, he’d called Aziraphale ‘angel’. Every time he did, Azirphale’s heart skipped in his chest.

After dinner, Crowley had taken him to a shopping district and they’d shopped for Christmas. He’d assumed Crowley would get bored, going from shop to shop, but the red haired man seemed perfectly at ease. If there had been any remaining doubt that Crowley was attracted to him, it was erased after a couple of hours in the shops. Crowley touched him unnecessarily: little touches to the elbow or the small of the back at first, but after the third shop, Crowley offered his arm and Aziraphale took it gladly. From that moment, his hand had been nestled in the crook of Crowey’s elbow if it wasn’t occupied doing something else. And even then, as soon as possible, he’d had his hand right back in Crowley’s arm. Crowley never complained about the tedium of shopping, and carried Aziraphale’s bag like a perfect gentleman.

It seemed his neighbor was full of delightful surprises, and with every passing moment, Aziraphale fell deeper and deeper into something he didn’t dare name yet.

They were about two blocks from their building, still arm in arm, when Crowley surprised him yet again.

“I was looking for an excuse to talk to you, you know,” he remarked casually, changing the subject.

Aziraphale looked up at him with wide, surprised eyes. “You were?”

Crowley nodded, his cheeks slightly red. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or his confession. “I did. I saw you coming and going sometimes and I just… I don’t know. You looked like someone I wanted to know. But I couldn’t think of any way to introduce myself. I was just steeling myself to come knock when that cake was delivered to my flat by mistake and I saw my opportunity.”

“I’m so glad you did,” Aziraphale said with feeling.

“I knew your name wasn’t David Fowler. I just wanted a chance to talk to you.”

Crowley lowered his arm, causing Aziraphale to let go. But his hand wasn’t unoccupied long before Crowley had captured it in his own long-fingered hand. Aziraphale’s heart beat an exultant rhythm.

“Now I have a confession to make,” Aziraphale said as they approached their building.

“What is it, angel?” Crowley questioned, his thumb running along the back of Aziraphale’s.

“I was looking for an excuse to talk to you again, myself, after we shared the cake. I’m not terribly creative, though, and couldn’t come up with anything. I’d resolved to give myself until after Christmas, then I was going to come back to your door and ask you over for New Year’s.”

Crowley pressed the button to call the lift, smiling. “You were?”

“That was my plan, yes.”

“What’s your plan now?”

Aziraphale flushed. “Well, I’d still very much like to spend New Year’s with you, if you’re amenable.”

Crowley’s answering smile was bright. “I’ll say yes on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That you let me see you again before New Year’s. Hopefully more than once.”

Aziraphale giggled. “I may be able to accommodate that. How many times, pray tell?”

Crowley pretended to be considering. “Well, there are ten days until the New Year, so… I don’t know… how about twelve?”

“Twelve!” Aziraphale exclaimed with a laugh.

The red haired man grinned behind his sunglasses. “You’re right, I should ask for more. At least fifteen.”

Aziraphale was laughing when the lift doors opened and they stepped into the corridor, still hand in hand. Both froze, however, when they spotted the brown, string-tied box still sitting on Mr. Fowler’s doorstep where Crowley had left it several hours before. Both men stared at it for a moment, then glanced at each other, smiles blooming on their faces.

“Should we?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“It would be the perfect finish to a lovely evening. The best evening of my life.”

“Really?” Aziraphale flushed with pleasure.

“Absolutely, angel.”

He bit his lip happily, but said, “We still shouldn’t.”

Crowley tugged his hand a little. “C'mon, Aziraphale. It would be a service, really. It’s been sitting there for hours, going stale. Why, I bet it’s barely edible by now.”

He giggled. “You fiend.”

“And it would be helping the business, too. If Fowler receives a stale cake, he’s likely to leave a poor review, and that could harm business.”

“You’re a naughty man, Anthony Crowley.”

“And you’re an angel, Aziraphale Fell.”

Aziraphale sighed a little, smiling. “It’s very tempting, I admit, but we really shouldn’t. That would be stealing.”

Crowley gave the hand he held a gentle squeeze. “Well, if you won’t steal the cake with me, perhaps you’ll allow me to steal something else?”

“What’s that, dear?”

“A kiss.”

Aziraphale’s heart pounded in his chest and his knees felt weak. His eyes widened, but he nodded at Crowley.

Time seemed to crawl as Crowley removed his sunglasses, then leaned forward, his eyes darting from Aziraphale’s mouth to his eyes and back. Aziraphale couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears - the building could have crumbled around him and he wouldn’t have known. His eyes were locked on Crowley, and he gasped when the other man reached up and touched his face. The heat in his eyes sent a thrill down Aziraphale’s spine.

Then they were kissing, and oh, yes. This was what Heaven was meant to be. Choirs of angels sang a joyful chorus and it felt as if the sun were shining down on them, warming them. His blood fizzed in his veins and he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he’d just fallen in love.

The kiss was soft, gentle, and everything a first kiss should be. Crowley’s lips moved slowly over Aziraphale’s, not demanding, just caressing, until Aziraphale felt Crowley’s thumb caress his cheek. He whimpered a little and parted his lips, and Crowley took the invitation he presented. The next thing he knew, his bottom lip was being nibbled and his tongue was seeking out Crowley’s taste.

He had no idea how long they stood there - he was utterly lost to sensation - but the lift dinged behind them, breaking the spell. They didn’t pull apart, though: their breaths mingled in the small space between their lips, and Aziraphale’s eyes were locked on Crowley’s.

“I’m not ready for this evening to end,” Crowley murmured, stroking his cheek softly. “Can I come in?”

Aziraphale nodded, glancing down at Crowley’s shining and kiss-swollen lips, feeling a surge of pride that he’d done that - and that he was about to do much more.

“Please,” he whispered, looking back up into Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley gave a little smile, then bumped his nose against Aziraphale’s in a move so affectionate, it made his heart lurch in his chest. Then Crowley pressed one more kiss to Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Let’s go, angel.”

~*~O~*~

Several hours later, Crowley emerged from Aziraphale’s flat, poking his head full of messy ginger hair out of the door and glancing up and down the corridor. His clothes were disheveled and some were missing, his glasses were gone, and he was barefoot - but he smiled. Casually, he walked down the corridor to Fowler’s doorstep, picked up the still-abandoned bakery box, then whistled a jaunty tune as he strode back to Aziraphale’s flat, where Aziraphale was in a similarly disheveled state, getting plates and forks.

[khliorah]

i have a lot of thoughts and feelings about that heckin church scene and i just need to get them out lmao

we know from the script book that aziraphale and crowley haven’t talked to each other in 100 years at that point (ever since crowley asked aziraphale to get him holy water). and then when they’re in the church crowley points out that there’s holy water just... right there. right in the church. no guards. right where he’s standing.

why, in that 100 years, didn’t he just go into a church and get it himself? (i’ll mention having other people get it for him in a sec) yes, he would have had to do a ton of maneuvering in order to actually get it, but he definitely could have done it. is it because going into a church hurts him? we know that it does (‘like being at the beach in bare feet’); like walking on hot sand. it hurts the sensitive parts of your soles when you do that, the parts of you that haven’t been calloused enough to deal with the pain.

but he goes into the church and he hurts himself... to save aziraphale??? even after 100 years of not talking. and in the script book it mentions that aziraphale thought that they weren’t friends anymore, so it’s safe to assume that crowley probably thought the same. and yet he went anyway. he pushed through the insecurity and pain anyway.

so yeah, crowley goes into the church and performs a miracle for aziraphale, and he still wants the holy water after all these years, not because he wants insurance in the sense that aziraphale thinks. not because crowley is going to use it to destroy himself. but because crowley knows without a doubt that he will always and forever, as long as he possibly can, try his hardest to protect aziraphale and keep him out of trouble. and he needs to be prepared when someone comes after him because of it.

that’s why he needs the holy water so badly and that’s why 20+ years later he’s getting a ragtag group of people together to steal some for him. he’s desperate for it but he’s also not willing to put himself in unnecessary danger unless it’s... for aziraphale. and that’s why it’s so shocking to him when aziraphale produces it for him. because deep down he knows that aziraphale would also do anything to protect him. (isn’t that why aziraphale is always saying that this or that would destroy him with concern and horror in his voice? (because he also means that it would destroy him if crowley got hurt because of him)) 

aziraphale wasn’t refusing him the holy water because he was being uppity, he was refusing it because he was afraid that it would take crowley away from him forever.

and it’s with that realization that crowley propels himself into trying to keep aziraphale with him in the bentley as long as possible. and aziraphale says that he goes too fast for him because he’s scared and he hasn’t completely come to terms with what they’re becoming, together (although at that point he is absolutely sure that he’s in love with crowley in some sense. that shit at the end of the church scene with the fuckin miracled books and the romantic music starting up was ABSOLUTELY aziraphale realizing the depth of his feelings for crowley.)

okay and this part is like. devastatingly important to me. in the script book, once aziraphale gets out of the car and is standing and looking after it as crowley drives away with the holy water, it mentions that we’re supposed to be seeing a neon light lighting aziraphale’s head from behind ‘like a halo’... ‘blinking on and off again’... his halo blinking on and off, because he’s struggling between his desires as his own person and his sense of duty to the divine, ineffable plan. because crowley has made him see, throughout the years, culminating in the church scene, that not everything is completely black and white. that he isn’t totally good and crowley isn’t totally evil, that there’s a little bit of good and a little bit of evil in everyone on both sides. and that him and crowley are probably more towards the human side of things, but with love being the major driving force for everything.

okay also like... i need to talk a little bit about how the end of the third episode’s cold opening would have been the most perfect way to tie in what terry pratchett wanted (and what they were supposed to make) the theme for any adaptation to be: everyday by buddy holly

everyday, it’s a-getting faster

everyone said ‘go ahead and ask her’

love like yours will surely come my way

(picture me sobbing)

[fortune-fool02]

Who are you?

Crowley x demon reader

Part one

Warning: angst, fluff

It was highly frowned upon. By both Heaven and Hell. Many of them refused to believe it was possible, but if done correctly, it was. A demon or an angel could become human. Have their powers sealed away within themselves and be untrackable by Heaven or Hell, yet there was a heavy flaw with this:

If a demon or angel went through with this, their memories would be stored away along with their powers. However, if they wished to have their powers restored, they could have it all stored inside of a Trigger. A simple object that no one would suspect. If opened by the owner, all their powers and memories would return, and their human persona would disappear.

***

[Name] smiled as she paid for the shopping and left the shop. Her eyes fell upon a man begging in the street. A frown pulled her lips. Walking past him, she dropped some spare change in his hat, and continued walking. It made her feel good when she helped others, regardless of how much it is. Whether it’s holding a door open, helping them reach something or even giving them directions somewhere. It always made her feel good, knowing that she was helping.

After she set everything away once she got home, she pulled a chair out and sat down, her eyes rising up to the night sky. Stars littered the darkness, glowing beautifully. A smile lifted her lips. Each time she looked up at the night sky, something inside her head would shift. A glimmer of nostalgia would spark before dying quickly.  

***

Crowley frowned. He watched [Name] from his Bentley as she dropped some money in the homeless man’s hat. She was... so human, it almost hurt. Aziraphale may have told him not to contact [Name] in anyway until she was ready to remember everything but he couldn’t stay away from her. When would she be ready? Her trial was months ago, why are they waiting? 

He sighed softly. His gaze falling to the locket slightly peeking from under his sleeve. It was a gift from her before she left, he was able to tie it into a bracelet. A dull pain ached in his chest, he pulled it over and drove off. 

Aziraphale may say she’s not ready but Crowley needed to see her. Face to Face.

***

[Name] walked through St James’ Park, her eyes on the ducks. Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention as a young male leaned the spot beside her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, his gaze looking towards the lake. She nodded,

“Yes, it is.” she smiled. Her gaze turned to him, taking in his appearance. Fiery red hair curling around his shoulders slightly. Dark sunglasses completely concealing his eyes. He turned to her and held his hand out,

“Crowley.” he said, she shook his hand,

“[Name], pleased to meet you.” The pair turned back to the lake. “Do you come here often?” she asked, he nodded. 

“Yeah, it’s usually the place where me and my friend meet up.” he said, glancing at her. Something about this man seemed familiar. Though he did say he comes here often, she’s probably just seen him around. 

“Are you waiting for your friend?” he shook his head,

“Not today. On my own.” he replied. [Name] thought for a moment, a smile lifting her lips,

“Would you like to go somewhere to eat then? We can get to know each other.” Crowley smiled at that and nodded.

***

The cafe was small and quiet. [Name] led Crowley to her usual table by the window and the two ordered. As they waited for their orders, they started talking.

“And that’s when he tried to steal the book and my friend went ballistic. Well, as ballistic as he could get.” the two laughed over Crowley’s story. “So [Name], tell me, where did you grow up?” he asked once he calmed himself down. [Name] thought for a moment, 

“I lived... in Tadfield.” she replied. Crowley rose his brow slightly, waiting for her to continue. For some reason, each time she tried to remember specific details of her past -parents’s names, places she visited, schools- nothing would turn up. She kept getting flashes of nameless faces, places that she had never visited. But never things she wanted to remember. 

“And?” Crowley leaned forward, concern etching in his face. She looked up at him, her smile long gone.

“And I don’t remember anything else.” the words slipped from her lips before she could stop them. Crowley placed a hand on her arm, a comforting motion.

“How about we talk about something else then?” he offered, though his expression remained the same. [Name] looked at him, 

“Such as?” Their orders arrived and she took a sip of her coffee.

“Dreams.” 

***

[Name] stood in a dimly lit area. Multiple, strange looking people surrounded the area, talking or arguing about “The Great Plan”. She made her way through the crowd, each of them stepped out of her way as she walked. 

--- 

“Hello Azirap....” the young woman turned her head to the light blonde haired male, her fiery haired friend smiled at him. He motioned to her, “This is [N---]. She’s a friend of mine.” 

---

The fiery haired male sat in the driver seat of the old car. His eyes hidden by his sunglasses. She looked at him, a soft smile on her lips. He mirrored her smile. Slowly, they leaned in, their lips connecting like to puzzle pieces. His arms wrapped around her, her arms sliding around his neck. 

“I love you, [Na--].” he whispered,

“I love you too, Cro----.”

---

She stood in a room filled of old books, each individually cared for. Her eyes on the two males. 

“No, this is a ridiculous plan!” the fiery haired man said, pacing back and forth. She sat on her seat, her eyes shifting down to the silver locket that sat in her palm. They had no choice.

“Cro----, please. This is the only way to ensure they won’t find me.” she said, the light blonde male nodded.

“She’s right. They will hunt her unless we do this.” he said, his expression riddled with the pained reality. She stood up and placed her hands on the fiery haired male’s face.

“Please.” He gave a heavy sigh, holding her hand close. 

“What if you don’t remember us?” There was a heavy silence at that question. She looked down at the locket then back up at him.

“Then make me remember.”

[yamisnuffles]

Tartan Clad Conundrum

Because art alone wasn’t enough, here’s a bit of fic. Here is the art and here is an AO3 link. Basically some more angst for the sake of angst, revolving around the thermos of holy water.

-

There was a particular feeling Crowley got when he drove fast. Which was, of course, every time he drove. Going slow was both a waste of his time and of the Bentley's potential. If he believed in wasted potential, he never would have tempted Eve with that apple. The Bentley was full throttle potential. Every moment there was a choice to be made- go left, go right, stop, go, and on and on. Choice even cascaded off to those around him. There was only one right decision for any of them to make- they got out of his way or their fragile little lives came to an end- but it was up to them to make that choice. If a shiny bauble on the ground just happened to catch their eyes before they stepped out into their road in front of him, well, he was just giving them more options and appealing to their greed. If lanes seemed to grow miraculously wider or other cars all but hopped out of the way, it was simply because he wasn’t to be constrained by pathetic human limitations.Truly, it was all a proper demonic activity.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles shone white through his skin. He smashed his foot down on the accelerator until London became a blur. The needle on the speedometer leapt upward until he heard a sloshing sound when he rounded a corner. Crowley’s eyebrows raised. He took his eyes off the road to find the source of the sound and only had a moment to revel in the thought of Aziraphale tutting at him for doing so when he saw it. Not the angel but wearing blasted tartan all the same. He slammed on the breaks. His arm shot out just in time to catch the thermos as it launched from the seat.

He was vaguely aware of screeching tires and blaring car horns above the wild drumbeat of his heart. His hand was shaking so much he was forced to put the thermos back on the seat for fear of dropping it, which wouldn’t do at all. Not that it would break open from such a fall but because Aziraphale had given it to him and… and…

Crowley hissed out a string of curses and grabbed the thermos with one hand while the other jerked the door open. It was pure coincidence that he was outside his building. He hadn’t driven with any intent beyond going too fast to think of anything beyond, well, going too fast. Perhaps he was there simply because he wanted to be. He certainly didn’t want to be at a particular bookshop with a particular angel, asking him, “Why?” until he didn’t have a voice left to ask.

“Sssix thousssand yearsss,” he groaned, his voice growing sibilant and rising enough to get the attention of a few passersby.

Those who dared swivel their necks were chased off with a glare. Even hidden behind sunglasses, not many humans could stand their ground with a pair of demonic eyes planted on them. Crowley slammed the door to the Bentley behind him and vacillated between holding the thermos like a baby and a bomb as he walked inside. By the time he got up to the flat, his right hand was shaking so much he had to use the left to still it. He went to slam down the thermos on the table in what passed for his office, only to stop a moment before potentially disastrous impact and place it more reverentially. As soon as it touched the surface of the table, he skittered back a step or two. He stalked around it, giving it such a wide berth that it was impossible to tell which was the predator and which the prey.

Crowley fell gracelessly into his chair and tucked his hands under his arms. He was coiled tight, ready to strike. Problem was, there was nothing to strike at, so he coiled in on himself tighter and tighter until his muscles ached from it. It would be better if he put the thermos in the safe that had conveniently sprung into existence the moment he’d pulled up in the Bentley. It was there, just behind him. Not that he had looked at a single thing other than the thermos since entering the flat but he knew. He knew it every bit as much as he knew he was going to do no such thing. He was going to leave the thermos right where it was and stare.

In order to do the job right, he flung his sunglasses aside. They clattered to the ground somewhere in the distance. Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was a tartan clad conundrum.

Crowley let the tension unspool from his limbs, leaving him limp. He cushioned his chin on his arms so that his eyes were level with thermos. He couldn’t bring himself to look away, not entirely, but he blinked rapidly, half convinced that it would vanish if he stopped looking. Of course it didn’t. It remained exactly where he’d placed it being… ineffable.

What had changed in the last hundred and five years? Was it just repayment for some odd favor? Or because Crowley was going to steal it anyway? Maybe the angel hadn’t liked the idea of him stealing from a church. But, no, that couldn’t be it. Aziraphale had hardly had an issue with him blowing one to bits, so long as his books hadn’t joined the church in its destruction.

He rolled various explanations over in his head but nothing felt right. He was reaching for the sake of reaching, aiming wide because he wasn’t sure if he could handle grasping the truth. Love for an angel he’d long since decided was like holy water- it threatened to consume him until only it remained. If that angel were to… if Aziraphale were to return that…

Crowley picked up his head so that he could rake his fingers through his hair and across his scalp. He tugged, tilting his head up. He saw beyond his night dark ceiling, beyond the clouds and the stars above, to something he could no longer rightly see. Not ever.

“Wasn’t one fall enough for you? Had to let me fall again, did you?”

There was no answer. There never was and never would be. Not unless you counted Aziraphale and if the Principality was meant as some sort of answer to Crowley’s prayers, Her plan really was ineffable. The more time Crowley spent with Aziraphale, the more questions he had. Six millenia meant he was nearly drowning in them. What sort of angel up and gave his flaming sword away to a couple of humans? What sort of angel treated every meal like a sacrament? What sort of angel wiggled in delight? What sort of angel spoke with a demon? Laughed with a demon? Gave a demon holy water?

Crowley started to reach for the thermos, not even aware he was doing so, and pulled up short with unintelligible noises burbling up from his throat when he caught himself in the act. He felt if he could only look at the holy water, he might be able to make himself believe. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Aziraphale; he trusted the angel with absolutely everything he was. That was precisely why he’d asked him for the holy water in the first place. There wasn’t another being in all of existence that he would have trusted with such a request. What he hadn’t accounted for was a thermos that passed from trembling hands to trembling hands, for promises of picnics or a meal at the Ritz, and especially not for going too fast.

It could have just been about his driving. It certainly would have been easier for him to pretend it was. He’d ridden with Aziraphale enough times now to know the angel wasn’t fond of the way he hurtled down the road. However, you didn’t go and say something like that- with that tone of voice and that look- and intend for it to be a commentary on driving. Which wasn’t to say Crowley wouldn’t wait as long as Aziraphale needed. He would wait until the end of the world and beyond, if need be. Still, after so many millenia, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go any slower, especially now that he had real hope for the first time since the Beginning.

He put his hand on the thermos cap. He shouldn’t, really shouldn’t, but he did it anyway. Had he been less painfully aware of everything he did at the moment, he might have thought he’d accidentally frozen time for the way everything suddenly became excruciatingly still. Aziraphale had given over a part of himself. Crowley could feel the holiness of it radiating like a star, and he should know, having had a hand in their creation. He didn’t pull it any closer, didn’t do anything really, beyond hold on to it. 

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“Ngk.”

Crowley’s hand shot back immediately, as though he’d been burned. His breathing became ragged and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He wanted more than anything to talk to Aziraphale about all this. By Go- Sa- somebody! He had to know if Aziraphale really felt what Crowley thought, hoped, dared believe the angel felt. Unfortunately, such a discussion was also the absolute last thing he wanted. That would entail him admitting to six thousand years worth of feelings because even if Aziraphale suspected something, he couldn’t possibly know how long it had been eating away at Crowley. If he did, the word “fast” would never have passed the angel’s lips.

Crowley all but jumped up to his feet. He would have to lock the thermos away, for safe keeping and to stop himself obsessing over it, but that could wait. For now he was going to sleep. If he was lucky, another century long nap would find him. Not believing in his own luck, he knew he’d only sleep until morning and that only because he was such a determined sleeper. Maybe the morning would bring answers. Optimistic though he might be at his core, he also knew a thing or two about belief and he knew he absolutely did not believe he’d ever understand why Aziraphale had chosen to give over even one small, thermos shaped part of his heart.

[luckyspike]

You really dungeon my dragons babey - a Good Omens fanfic about D&D

Here’s the AO3 link if you want to read it there instead.

Basically, Newt wants to start a D&D group. Anathema recruits two players: one is a being of neutral good, and the other chaotic evil. Roll initiative.

-

They’ve lived in Jasmine Cottage for about two years when Anathema started to worry about Newt a little. Not much, but a little. Oh, he wasn’t sick, there was nothing wrong with him per se, but, well. She thought about Tadfield, and the cottage, and Newt.

He worked in the village, doing grant writing for a non-profit. It was a wonderful job for him, and he fell into it shortly after the Nahpocalypse - Adam said Pepper’s mom was looking for someone to help her out with the business, and things had just gone from there. Anathema still harbored some suspicion that Adam had had perhaps a little more to do with it than just overhearing Pepper’s mom talking shop, but he swore innocence (not that she believed him, but he was such a good kid she let it slide) and Newt loved the job, flourished in it even, and Anathema had been content. She herself earned a living doing telephone psychic readings*, and made herself a fixture in the village. After all, what quaint little village doesn’t love having a witch in this modern age? She did her readings, and helped out at the primary school when they needed it, and coordinated the community garden. Eight months into her residency, a bashful RP Tyler approached her and apologized, actually apologized for accusing her of smoking fatty spliffers (which she and Crowley had adopted as the de facto term for anything involving marijuana at all), and thanked her for coming to town and her service to the community, even if she was a witch. She had ingrained herself into the little village of Tadfield, and she made friends, and in spite of not having a road map for her life any longer, she was happy.

And Newt, she thought, seemed very happy too. He said he was happy. He went to work and returned home and fussed over Dick Turpin and meddled with computers in the office (he had not improved, but he had a good time, so that was what counted). He played with The Them when they asked him, and helped them with homework, and always was on Anathema’s arm whenever she went out. He took her on lovely dates, and made her laugh every day, and was so wonderfully Newt that she couldn’t imagine life without him. Agnes, blast her, had been very right about that one.

But even in light of all that - in light of the perfect life they seemed to have settled into in Tadfield - she worried. She thought about her life and his, and contrasted the two, and thought about how she had friends in the village and long-distance that she liked to call, visit, do things with. And she thought about Newt, and considered that most of his activities were solitary. She mulled it over for months. He was much more introverted than she was, true, and valued his personal time, but unless he was doing something with her, or with The Them, he entertained himself exclusively.

She wondered if that would be his choice.

She brought it up in the fall, two years in, over lunch at the pub in the village. He paused, sandwich in hand, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed and then said, “I’m not really sure I follow what you mean.”

“I mean,” Anathema went on, stealing a few chips from his plate, “that I just want to make sure your needs are being met. Are your hobbies okay, or is there something that you want to do but haven’t been able to because you don’t have anybody to do it with?” She raised her eyebrows. He frowned. “I mean, I know some people in the village, at the air base, so maybe I could introduce you if you want to like, take up, oh, I don’t know, horseshoes or something.”

“Horseshoes?” He laughed. “Why horseshoes?”

“It was just an example.” She shrugged and stole a few more chips. “I’m just asking, no pressure. But you know, you work on computers by yourself, and take care of Dick Turpin by yourself -”

“Sometimes Brian helps.”

“Mostly by yourself,” she amended, “and you don’t do pub quiz nights or a book club or anything, not that you should want to do those things, of course, but, you know, do you?”

Newt took another bite, and smiled at her, which managed to be charming even with a cheekful of roast beef. “Never really been one for pub quiz or reading. Well, except the newspaper.” He swallowed. “Thanks for asking but, you know I really am very happy.”

“Good.” She returned his smile, and stole another three chips. At this point, Newt had resolved himself to simply not getting any, and didn’t say anything. “Just making sure.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Newt idly watching the cricket match on the pub TV and Anathema checking in with a cat she’d spoken to a few weeks ago who had been very disgruntled and wanted to be sure her owner knew to stop giving her a certain brand of food. The cat assured her that all was well, and thank you for checking, and Anathema was just about to return her attention to her boyfriend when he spoke. “You know, there is something I haven’t done in years, used to do it as a kid, but it might be fun if we can find a few more people to do it with.”

“Oh?”

“You ever played Dungeons and Dragons?”

Anathema kept her face carefully blank. “Is that … like, Dungeons and Dragons, where you roll dice and pretend to be a wizard?”

“Yeah, the roleplaying game. Have you ever played?”

“No.”

“It’s pretty fun if you have a good group,” Newt went on happily. “I used to play with a few people when I was in sixth form. We got together twice every month and the one guy - his name was Martin, I think - would run the sessions. I was a barbarian.”

“A barbarian?” Anathema laughed. “Seriously?”

“Yeah! Named ‘Urgular’.” He sighed. “He died about four months into the campaign, got killed by some harpies, but Martin let him get resurrected by magic so I could keep playing.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Wish I could remember his last name … I really should have kept in touch with him. Maybe my mum’ll remember.”

Anathema shifted in her seat, sitting on her hands and thinking it over. “How many people do you need to play?”

“Oh? Oh, at least four. Three players and one dungeon master. That’s the person that runs the game session,” he clarified, when Anathema raised an eyebrow and smirked. “It’s better if you have four players though, so a group of five is better. That’s how many we had.”

Anathema thought about it, chewing her lip. “So say we could get three other people.”

“Who?”

She held up a hand. “Say we can get three other people. Would you want to play? You’d probably have to run the game, unless we find someone who’s played before.”

Newt looked surprised. “You’d play?”

“Of course.” She shrugged. “I’ve never done it before, but I listen to that podcast you like where they play, and it seems like fun.” She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to ask around?”

“I can ask around too,” he said, eagerly. “You know what, yeah. Yeah! Let’s see if we can get some people together for a session, just a one-shot session, and see how it goes. If it’s fun, we can make it a regular thing!”

Anathema laid her hands on the table. “Alright, that’s settled. I’ll ask some people, you ask some people, we can see if we can make it work. And you’re sure you’ll still have fun if you’re in charge?”

“Might even be more fun,” he replied, with a glint in his eye. “Yeah, let’s do it. You know, I can think of a few people to ask, let me know if you find anybody too.”

It proved harder than she thought. First of all, while she was sure The Them would be more than willing to play, she wanted to try to keep the group to adults. She asked a few friends from the air base, but they all turned her down for various reasons (one sergeant had been very eager and accepted initially, but called her a few days later with the news that she was being transferred back to America, and wouldn’t be able to join). She asked around at the school, too, but in most cases they cited problems finding childcare or reluctance to play. Newt had somewhat better luck, and managed to find one person to join - Pepper’s mother, his boss - but he, too, struck out after pooling his group of coworkers. Days turned into weeks, and the issue gradually slid from both of their minds, although Pepper’s mom would ask Newt about it sometimes, checking for any developments.

Anathema had completely forgotten about it, actually, until one evening about a month after their lunch at the pub, when she was on one of her sporadic but always-pleasant phone calls with Aziraphale. They were talking - just social chat, nothing serious - and he asked after Newt, as usual. “He’s good,” she said, lounged back on the sofa, legs crossed and free hand tucked into her sweatshirt pocket against the early winter chill. “No big developments. He likes work, he’s still awful with computers, and he still loves his car.” She adjusted her glasses, and sighed. “We were trying to get together a group to play Dungeons and Dragons - he used to play in school and he liked it a lot - but we’ve been having trouble organizing it, so, you know, holding pattern on that.”

She was surprised when the angel said, “Oh, the roleplaying game with the dice?”

It was so out-of-the-ordinary for Aziraphale, perpetually stuck 100 years in the past, to know anything modern that she needed a second to recover. “Yeah,” she said, eventually. “You know it?”

“There’s a group that meets in the bookshop once a month to play. I make them tea.” Of course he did. “It seems interesting, I suppose.”

Anathema blinked. Should she … ? Oh, why not? she figured. You stop the apocalypse with someone, playing some roleplaying game was hardly a marriage proposal**. “We have room in the group - Newt was hoping to get five people, but right now we only have three, and he said we could play with four.”

She heard him humming as he thought. “Why not? I’ll have the group in the shop give me a lesson.”

She laughed, and tried to imagine that conversation. “I don’t know how to play at all, so I’m assuming it’s fine if you don’t know anything.”

“Well, perhaps just a brief overview. You said a group of five would be preferable?”

“Yeah, but we’ve had so much trouble just finding four. And Newt and Marion - that’s Pepper’s mom - are really eager to start playing, so if you really want to join we can -”

“I’ll bring Crowley.”

That gave her pause. Crowley was … he was a demon of many talents and a colorful and varied history, but somehow she was having difficulty imagining him playing D&D. “Has he … played?”

“Not that I know of.” She almost cut in, but something in Aziraphale’s tone of voice - yes, yes, it was mischief, that was it, Anathema had learned that early on because for an angel, Aziraphale did like to stir it up every once in a while - stopped her. “I’m sure he’ll take right to it.”

“You think?”

“At the very least it will be extremely entertaining. He doesn’t do anything by halves.” A tinge of concern broke in. “It can be a blessing and a curse.”

“No, no he doesn’t.” She smiled, already imagining various ways Newt’s game could go with the introduction of an actual being of chaotic evil. “Will he say yes?”

“What’s he going to claim, work conflict? He’ll say yes.” He sounded smug. “I’ll tell him about it later tonight. Do you have a date established for this?”

“Not yet - we’ll have to talk to Marion and make sure it works for everybody. If you tell Crowley tonight, can I text him the possibilities?”

“Certainly. I look forward to it.” The amusement dropped, and he changed the subject, “Which, speaking of Crowley, did I tell you he’s set on having an exhibit at Chelsea Flower Show next year? He’s got so many plants in the house I’m starting to think we’re going to have to start breathing just to make sure they get enough carbon dioxide …” He went on, and Anathema listened, but she was also thinking. She couldn’t wait to tell Newt.

-

She sent a text with a few Saturdays to Crowley two days later, after she told Newt, he had time to freak out about it slightly***, and Newt had spoken with Marion about her schedule. If the demon was unhappy about it, she couldn’t tell, although he was usually not particularly emotive in text message format. They exchanged a few more messages, setting a final date and confirming, and that was that as far as she was concerned. Two days before the chosen Saturday, she decided to start working on her character. Newt had been working on the game session furiously since she’d told him she’d found two more players, and she suspected he was diligently trying to engineer a way that Crowley’s character could not die. Either that, or he was writing a really brilliant story. As she flipped through the player manual, chapter 1, and read about classes and races and abilities and points, she smiled and considered, knowing Newt, it was probably both.

She did get a little stuck, unfamiliar with the mechanics of the game, and on Friday night she and Newt sat down with a bottle of wine to go over both her character (he had already checked Marion’s at work earlier that day just to be sure everything was as it should be) and allow him to express any anxiety he continued to have about the game. She assured him that she felt he would do a great job - he would, there were no computers involved at all and Newt really was a very good storyteller - and that Crowley certainly wouldn’t kill him with both Aziraphale and Marion, an outsider, present, and therefore Newt had nothing to be concerned about. He clearly disagreed, but it did seem to calm him down somewhat, and he only tossed and turned for about 30 minutes before drifting off to his usual dead-to-the-world slumber that night.

Saturday dawned gray and rainy. Perfect, Anathema thought, for staying in. She dressed in her most comfortable flannel dress, and set to making bread for the afternoon. Newt had picked up a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, nuts, and jams yesterday as well, and she was planning on serving the bread with it, which would allow everybody to eat whatever they liked and as much as they liked. Aziraphale had kindly offered to bring something sweet to compliment the savory, as well as a bottle of wine (which Anathema knew would amount to several bottles of very nice wine, per his usual), so rather than getting any wine out she pulled down a bottle of whisky from the cabinet, as well as the usually-unused espresso machine. Around nine-thirty, she heard Newt upstairs, moving around and getting ready, eventually padding into the office, presumably to make any last-minute adjustments. Anathema, with the bread in the oven and everything as ready as she could think to make it for whatever might happen that afternoon, went to the living room to make a few scheduled phone calls - there was a horse in Surrey who wouldn’t go in its stall, and a dog in Indiana that kept eating chair legs, and two owners who were very concerned about their respective pets - while she waited.

Marion arrived first, promptly at two. Anathema welcomed her in, hung up her raincoat - “it’s awful out there, cold and coming down like anything, glad Pep and the others were happy to stay in rather than try to go to that chalk pit in this weather” - and led the way to the living room. “We’re expecting two more,” she explained, raising her voice a little as she went to the kitchen to get the other woman a glass of water. “They’ll be fashionably late, as usual.”

“Friends of yours?” Marion asked when Anathema returned. “The bread smells delicious, by the way, thank you for baking.”

“No trouble, my pleasure. And yeah, we met them a couple of years ago when I was new in town. I had … some trouble with my bike (In that Crowley hit it with his car, she thought) and they gave me a ride home. Of course I forgot some stuff in their car, so we had to meet again so I could get that back, and we just sort of stayed in touch ever since.”

Marion beamed. “How nice. I’m very excited - I’ve always wanted to play this, but I could never convince anyone in the commune to play with me.” She laughed. “Much more interested in guitar circles, that group. Anyway, after I left, I went straight back to school and it was just me and Pep and I got so busy raising her and working and all that I sort of forgot about it. Funny how it worked out though!”

“Yeah,” Anathema laughed. “I’ve always been a big believer in things working out the way they’re supposed to. Can I get you anything else to drink? Newt should be down in a minute.”

“Oh some tea would be lovely, thank you, Anathema.” She pulled out a character sheet and a notebook, and smiled encouragingly. “I need a minute to look over this anyway.”

“Yeah,” she laughed, standing. “Newt helped me last night with that. I think I have about a tenth of what I’m going to need to know handled.”

Marion looked relieved. “Thank goodness someone feels the same way. I was afraid I was missing something.”

“No, not at all. Newt’s the only one that’s played before, although Mister, um Mr. Fell, that will be joining us, he owns a bookshop in Soho and said there’s a group that plays there once a month, so he’s picked up a little from them.”

“Oh, interesting!” She nodded, and then returned to her notebook, double-checking the scribbled numbers and items against the player manual. Anathema excused herself and headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on - Newt was on his way downstairs anyway, if the creaking of the floorboards was any indication, and Crowley and Aziraphale probably weren’t long off.

The kettle had just clicked off and Anathema had poured three cups of tea - Newt, Marion, Aziraphale - as well as made one espresso - Crowley - when the knock came at the door. Fashionably late, as usual. She left the tea to steep, and answered it. The duo were on the step, Aziraphale with two notebooks tucked under his arm and a bag of what Anathema assumed to be dice in his hand, and Crowley holding two bottles of wine and balancing a plate of biscuits, possibly nominally happy. It was pouring, they did not have any semblance of raingear, and they were perfectly dry. Typical.

“Come in!” She stepped aside to allow both entry - the horseshoe above the door sizzled in the rain as it heated and cooled - and exchanged a hug with Aziraphale before taking the wine and plate from Crowley. “Can I take any coats? I made tea. And coffee. It’s extremely hot.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Crowley stayed hunched in his jacket. “It’s freezing. How is it not snowing?”

Aziraphale patted his shoulder. “Because it’s not actually freezing, dear, it’s just winter. And I told you to bring the heated coat.”

Anathema blinked. “Heated coat?”

“S’got batteries in, stays really warm,” the Serpent of Eden replied. “I’ll be fine in twenty.”

“I’ll get the coffee. Newt and Marion - that’s Pepper’s mother - are already in the living room. If you want, I’m sure Newt can double-check everything for you before we get started. He helped me last night, and I think he’s just making sure things are alright with Marion now.”

Aziraphale looked relieved. “Oh, good. I’m fairly certain I have the right of it at this point, but the group at the shop cancelled this month because of exams so I couldn’t have anybody check it beforehand.”

“Mine’s fine,” Crowley said. Anathema tried not to think too much about the grin that accompanied that. “Got it all figured out.”

“Right. I’ll, uh. I’ll be right in then.” By the time she finished setting the drinks on a tray and joined everyone, introductions had been made and papers and notebooks and dice were laid out on the table. Newt had laid her place for her, to his right, while he had a little cardboard screen set up. Aziraphale and Marion were chatting and Crowley was studying what Anathema could only assume was his character sheet, holding it so it was concealed from the other players, and he was positively beaming. It couldn’t be good. She knew that look. Aziraphale was, resolutely, ignoring him.

“Okay,” Newt said, nervousness apparent in his voice but determination on his face. “Now we’re all settled uh, why don’t we kind of go through everyone’s character together, just basics to sort of clarify who your character is and why they might be going on an adventure. Anathema, do you want to start?”

She nodded and picked her sheet up. “Ok. I’ll be playing Tovi, a halfling sorcerer. She was initially raised by a close family, but the homebody lifestyle was not exciting enough for her, so she decided to strike out on her own.”

“Great! Awesome. And we checked your sheet already, so that’s fine. Marion?”

Marion sat forward, hands on her character sheets, reading carefully. “I’ll be playing Brandeen, a human warlock. She comes from a very religious family who shunned her when she formed a pact with Ghaunadar.”

“Good name, Ghaunadar,” Crowley said. “Very spooky.”

“I thought so, too,” Marion agreed, folding her hands in her lap. “Anyway, that’s me.” She looked to Aziraphale, to her right, who set his tea down carefully.

“Ah, so this character is called, ah, Aldriel Lightmace, and he’s an elf paladin. He was initially in the army, but on completion of his service he chose to continue traveling rather than return home.”

Newt nodded. “Sounds great, and your sheet looked fine.” He swallowed, and looked to the demon, grinning like a jackal to his left. “I’m almost afraid to ask.” Aziraphale sighed, Marion giggled, and Anathema propped her chin in her hand. “Crowley?”

“I,” he said, every single indicator being that he was delighted with himself as he slapped the notebook down on the table, “will be Chastity the tiefling bard. I was forced to leave town for 1) being a demon and 2) being annoying.”

Aziraphale scowled. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Play what you feel comfortable with, the book said. Anyway you’re one to talk.”

Anathema covered her eyes. “Are you going to sing?” She had heard Crowley sing before, either after many drinks or a particularly potent fatty spliffer, and it had made her second-guess all of the things she’d heard about the beautiful harmonious choirs of angels. Of course, Crowley was not technically an angel anymore, so maybe he’d lost that at some point. If not, then she’d considered that the beauty of the Heavenly Choir had probably been greatly over-exaggerated.

“Of course I am.”

Newt grimaced. “Great. So that’s … that’s actually an okay party in terms of balance. Should be fine for today, anyway. Can I see your character sheet, please? Just to … just to check?” Crowley handed it over, the big reveal done with, and Newt duly checked it for accuracy. “Right. Fine. You don’t need many intelligence points anyway, I guess.” He handed the sheet back, and visibly steeled himself. “Okay. So … that’s everyone. Is everyone ready?” He took a breath. “Right, so we start in an inn, at the bar. The inn isn’t crowded, there’s a group of three adventurers talking to a grizzled old dwarf in one corner, he appears to be giving them a job, and there’s a few other patrons at the bar. There barkeep is cleaning a glass. What do you do?”

Anathema considered it. “I think Tovi is at the bar ordering a drink.”

“Brandeen is sitting quietly in a corner by herself, watching.”

“Aldriel is going to approach the elf sitting alone at the end of the bar and -”

“Chastity is going to hit on Aldriel immediately.”

Marion and Anathema laughed. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, exasperated. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Marion held up a hand. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Too long,” Aziraphale answered peevishly, while Crowley sat back, still grinning, arms crossed over his chest. “Alright, so if you’re going to do that, Aldriel will -”

“You don’t want to hear the pick-up line?”

“I do not.”

Anathema and Newt shared a look. Newt, under the nerves, was smiling a little. “I do,” she said.

Crowley leaned back in. “So anyway, Chastity walks up to Aldriel and says ‘glad I brought my library card, because I’m checking you out’.”

“That’s awful,” Aziraphale groaned. Marion and Anathema laughed. Newt’s smile broadened. “Truly horrible.”

“Innit, though?”

“Brandeen is definitely watching this with interest,” Marion added, still laughing.

“I think Tovi heard what might be the world’s worst pickup line and turned around, too.”

Aziraphale considered this. “Aldriel punches Chastity in the face.”

“Okay - what?” Newt stopped. “Uh, I, what? You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Newt tapped the table. “Because I think technically you have to be lawful good and -”

Aziraphale corrected, “Actually, Aldriel took the Oath of the Ancients, therefore he is able to be neutral good.” He squared his shoulders. “This demon has sullied my purity, and I won’t have it. I punch her.”

Newt blinked, and then sighed. “Alright. Fine. Both of you roll initiative, I guess.”

The game rolled on from there. Luckily, Newt thought on his feet quickly enough to stop the barroom brawl between what would be the party’s two healers before either of them killed the other. Anathema reflected that it was actually quite good Crowley had started off with that, because it lightened the mood considerably and made everyone feel more comfortable with the game. Not that she would ever tell him that.

Gradually, Newt managed to coax Marion’s character into talking to the NPC he needed them to in order to get their quest, and they set out on a relatively straightforward mission to deliver a package to the neighboring town. Anathema quickly learned, however, that in Dungeons and Dragons, a straightforward quest usually leads to four hours’ worth of bickering, irrelevant tangents (“Aldriel wants to investigate the interesting rock formation you mentioned.” “But it’s on the other side of the woods -” “Yes?”), further attempts at pick-up lines, Crowley singing five absolutely terrible “songs” (discernable as songs only because the gameplay implied it, and a clear attempt at singing was made, without any actual success), Marion’s character also singing a song to her patron to try to gain an extra spell slot (she did get a point of inspiration, and Anathema rather suspected that it was because unlike Crowley, Marion was actually quite a nice singer), Anathema’s character getting attacked by a coyote for trying to follow Aldriel, an actual planned encounter with highway bandits, and, eventually, success at delivering the package, although it should be noted that this was only because Newt, having exhausted his reserves of patience, acceded that someone had probably remembered to pick the package back up after Tovi and Chastity threw it into a ditch to better loot the dead bodies of the bandits.

Later, Newt would tell her that all things considered, that was a very normal session, and it had gone well. She’d breathed a sigh of relief and then wondered what a chaotic session would look like. Probably best not to ask.

They had switched to wine halfway through, when the biscuits came out, and Marion was cradling her glass in both hands. “What fun, hm? We’ll have to do it again sometime. That is, if it’s alright with everyone.”

Newt shot Anathema a desperate look, and she shrugged. “I’d be in, but maybe not for at least a month. The holidays are coming up and everything, I’ll probably be visiting America.”

Marion nodded. “Oh yes, certainly. No, I definitely won’t have time until after the new year.”

“Yeah, definitely have to do it again.” Crowley elbowed Newt, who clutched his wineglass more tightly, in a protective stance. “Great idea, Newt.”

Anathema didn’t miss the subtext to Aziraphale’s question of “Do you think we’ll use the same characters again?”

Newt considered it. “I guess it’s up to you all. You’re still low enough in level that I can write a scenario either way, and we can do whatever everybody would prefer.”

“I’d like to play Brandeen some more, at least while I get comfortable with the game,” said Marion. She took a sip of wine, and then looked at her watch. “Oh, look how late it is! Pep was expecting me half an hour ago.” She downed the rest of the wine and looked outside. “Still miserable outside as well.” She stood and shook hands around the table while they said goodbyes, exchanged a hug and a kiss on each cheek with Anathema, and then waved, for good measure. “Lovely meeting you. You said you live in South Downs?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Right along the coast, yes.”

“Well, drive safely. And thank you both,” she said, turning to Anathema and Newt, “for the hospitality. It really was very lovely.”

“Let me get your coat.” Newt followed her to the door, leaving Anathema alone with the pair of supernatural entities, who were debating the quality of the wine Aziraphale had brought. When they heard Marion exchange her final goodbyes with Newt, and the front door closed, Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

“Really? A demon who was kicked out of town for being annoying? And where did you learn those dreadful pick-up lines?”

Crowley laughed. “Play what you know, angel. Anyway, not like you really mixed it up with the whole holy warrior bit. At least I was a bard.”

“Yes, we’ll address that later, possibly on the drive home.” He looked to Anathema, trying to be apologetic while simultaneously trying not to laugh. “I’m so sorry, Anathema, you really can’t take him anywhere.”

She chuckled. “You’re always welcome here. Both of you. If you want to stay, I was going to make spaghetti for Newt and I tonight, and there’s more than enough …” She trailed off, and looked to the kitchen. “There’s still half a bottle of wine in there.”

“We’d hate to impose,” said Aziraphale. “You’re certainly welcome to the wine. It’s the least we can do for the lovely afternoon.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it.” She moved to the kitchen, picked up the wine, and topped both glasses off. The bottle did not feel any lighter afterwards. “Stay awhile, wait to see if the weather clears up. They way it’s been raining people’ll be hydroplaning and who knows what.”

“Half the fun of driving in the rain,” Crowley suggested, earning him a disapproving look from Aziraphale. He sighed. “Listen, you don’t have to invite me twice - the less I have to go out in this weather the better.”

“If you’re very sure, Anathema.”

“I am very sure.” She sat down on the couch and nursed her wine a little as Newt came back in. “They’re staying for dinner.”

“Oh. Okay.” He scooped his own glass up from the table before joining her on the couch. “Should I get it started then?”

“Not just yet.” She elbowed him in the side, gently. “So that was fun. How about you, dungeon master? Did you have fun?”

“I …” he thought about it. “Yeah, I did. I have a lot more respect for Martin, too. He was the dungeon master when I learned to play,” he added, for Crowley and Aziraphale’s benefit.

“Is it really called a dungeon master?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds kinky.” Anathema snorted.

“Or game master,” Newt said, hurriedly.

“Eh, slightly better. Not much.”

“Would you want to do it again?” Anathema asked. “Like, be in charge again? I’m sure it wouldn’t be as good but if you want a break, someone else could take the reins next time. We could trade it around, even.”

Newt waved a hand. “No, no I’ll do it again. I kind of have an idea for a longer story, if everyone is willing and able to do more than one session at a time.”

Aziraphale looked to Crowley. “We don’t have anywhere to be in the near future that can’t be re-scheduled. I’d like to hear the story out, as well.” He tilted his glass to Newt. “You ought to write a book, you know, you’re very good.”

“Oh. Oh, uh. Thanks,” Newt mumbled, suddenly studying his wine very closely indeed, a red flush overtaking his ears and cheeks. “That’s … that means a lot, coming from you.”

Crowley scoffed. “No it doesn’t, just because he reads every waking minute doesn’t negate that he’s a being of eternal love and light and goodwill and whatever. He’s always nice.” Newt blinked at the demon, who, at length, shrugged. “I’ve heard worse stories.”

“Crowley,” the angel admonished.

“Fine, I’ll go so far as to say you’re alright even, but you’re on thin ice, Pulsifer.” Newt blushed again - on the Crowley scale that was probably a solid 7/10 rating at least. The demon swallowed a gulp of wine. “Still, I’ll hear you out for another round. We’ll see.”

“It’ll need more work, first. I’ve only just got a rough idea.”

Anathema shrugged, and leaned into him. “You have at least a month. Probably more, the way scheduling always works. You can take your time.” She smiled. “And, you know, maybe a rough outline is okay, since you never know what everyone’s going to do.”

“That’s my motto,” said Crowley. “Set up the big picture and after that just wing it. Er, in a manner of speaking, anyway.”

Newt considered it. “I was thinking … for authenticity, it might help if some of the characters actually spoke another language? Is there really like, a real-life^ equivalent of Infernal?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Could you -”

Aziraphale was already shaking his head ‘no’ when Crowley answered. “Not unless you fancy bleeding out of all your orifices and throwing up maggots, no, I can’t.” He brightened up. “I do speak Russian though, is that different enough? 98% less chance of cursing you to eternal damnation.”

Newt nodded. “That’s fine.” His eyes narrowed. “Why only 98%?” Aziraphale was studying Crowley too, a faint smile on his lips.

“Yes, dear, that sounds like you have … experience.”

Crowley looked offended. “Not me personally, no. Not my style. Ages ago, though, Hastur -”

“Ah, Hastur. That explains it.”

“Right, it’s actually kind of a funny story, mostly because Hastur looked like an idiot at the end …”

And so it went, past the time Anathema decided to finally make the spaghetti and found a pot of water miraculously on the stove and boiling, next to a saucepan of what smelled like an absolutely amazing Bolognese sauce, past the meal itself and the subsequent cleanup, and well into the night. The wine bottle did eventually get lighter - eventually - after Newt fell asleep with his head on her shoulder. Aziraphale finished it off, while Crowley sobered up - she still wasn’t used to that - and they stood. “Don’t get up.” Aziraphale waved a hand in her direction as he collected the notebooks, dice, and biscuit plate. “We can find our way to the front door, my dear, I promise.” He wobbled a little. Crowley sighed.

“I can, anyway. Come on, angel.” He slid his arm around Azirphale’s waist, half supporting him and half guiding him, and spared a wave. “Thanks again. Text when you want to do it again.”

“We will.” She blinked, suddenly sleepy, the soft cotton-candy of sweet dreams induced by good red wine already drifting in at the edges of her thinking+. “Hey, sorry, uh, would you mind getting the lights on your way out?”

There was a click of a switch and darkness, followed the distinct sound of Aziraphale stumbling over the mat in the front hall and Crowley catching him. Then the front door, opening, closing, locking (she’d never given them they key, but then again, why bother?). She listened, or tried to stay awake to listen anyway, for the grumble of the Bentley as it pulled out into the night, but she was already asleep against Newt, her fingers laced through his.

-

* Actual psychic readings - Madame Tracy wished she had been as good as Anathema. Never mind that the bulk of Anathema’s clients were people who wanted to speak with their pets, rather than their relatives.

** Which Crowley and Aziraphale were still skirting, although neither of them would admit it. At least they were finally admitting they were ‘more than best friends’. “Probably even super best friends,” Crowley had told her about a year ago, as he passed her a fatty spliffer.

*** “What if they take it too seriously? What if there’s actual flaming swords again? What if I have to kill Crowley’s character and he banishes me to The Pit?” to which she had responded, “He’s not on speaking terms with Hell anymore, Newt, I doubt he would do much more than curse you or burn Dick Turpin up with Hellfire.” It was a bit mean, but the wailing it had prompted was choice entertainment.

^ Anathema had to consider the gravity of that statement give all they’ve learned in the past 2 years, as well as what it said about her and Newt that neither of them questioned it.

+ The hangover would not be terrible, either, she knew, which made it even better. Not that the wine was so good that you couldn’t get hungover off of it, but, well, she’d been drinking with the angel for a while now. She had in inkling of how it would go.

[crumplelush]

Hello! For the send me a character meme: Crowley, Tommy Shepherd and Neil. Choose one or if you want, maybe all three? Thank you and have a great day.

Sorry for the super late response. I actually filled this out the other day and then tumblr deleted it and I couldn’t face typing it out again.

Crowley:

A morning or a night person: A night person. It’s so much better for skulking.

A waffle or pancake person: Pancakes. It starts with Aziraphale’s obsession with crepes (as do most things to be honest) and Crowley eventually finds American pancakes which he prefers.

Coffee or tea person: The biggest argument he’s ever had with the angel was over this exact question. Aziraphale is a consummate tea drinker. Crowley is definitively a coffee man shaped being.

Cake or ice cream person: He likes both, but cake is slightly higher on the list.

Paper or e-book person: Don’t tell the angel but e-books. He likes sleek gadgets and buys the newest thing when they’re released. A bunch of books cluttering up his home doesn’t go with with his aesthetic.

Beach or mountain person: He’s a snake, he likes the heat. And it’s much easier to prod people into temptation at the beach.

Pen or pencil person: Pen. He has one of those super expensive fancy NASA designed pens.

Video games or board games: Board games. Video games bore him, they’re too easy to beat. But he can spend hours in the bookshop playing games with his angel.

Type or handwrite: Handwrite. No one he contacts knows how to text or email so it’s his only choice tbh, but even if he did there’s something about handwriting that just feels right to him.

Rather be too cold or too hot: Too hot. Snake remember?

Sing or dance: Dance. Demons don’t sing. That’s an angel habit. Demons do dance (albeit badly, as we have seen).

An OTP I have including them: Obviously his husband Aziraphale.

A NOTP I have including them: Him with anyone else tbh.

A hidden talent they have: Cooking. He learns how to make crepes after the whole revolutionary France fiasco, but he continues learning as he finds it soothing. He doesn’t eat unless with the angel, but making food calms him down.

Tommy:

A morning or a night person: The advantage to being a speedster is that he can go from one to the other with little time inbetween, but he prefers the night because there’s fewer people.

A waffle or pancake person: Pancakes. It’s a Young Avengers thing.

Coffee or tea person: Tea, it’s nice and calming.

Cake or ice cream person: Ice cream

Paper or e-book person: Paper. He can turn the pages at his speed, whereas e-books he has to wait for the page to load.

Beach or mountain person: Beach. It’s everything he loves. Swimming, volleyball, ice cream, very attractive half naked people...

Pen or pencil person: Pen

Video games or board games: Video games. Board games are boring.

Type or handwrite: Type. He loves texting.

Rather be too cold or too hot: Too cold. It’s easy enough for him to warm up by vibrating by he can’t cool down easily.

Sing or dance: Dancing, he loves it.

An OTP I have including them: Tommy with Noh Varr, Tommy with Kate.

A NOTP I have including them: Tommy with David. I shipped them at first when they were friends, but then David kissed Teddy and I can’t ship David with anyone now

A hidden talent they have: Knitting. He takes it up to have something productive to keep his hands occupied, and is very good at it.

Neil:

A morning or a night person: Morning. He’s an early riser and he loves his early morning runs.

A waffle or pancake person: Waffles. It’s one of the few things that he and Andrew both eat. His with blueberries and Andrew with multiple syrups and creams.

Coffee or tea person: Coffee. Being a college student, and an athlete, and attempting to be a real person with a real relationship all take their toll and he needs a substantial quantity of caffeine to get through the day

Cake or ice cream person: Neither. If pushed he’d prefer to go to an ice cream parlour because he can get sorbet and buy Andrew some ice cream.

Paper or e-book person: Reading isn’t really his thing, but Andrew has Thoughts about books and paper is apparently the way to go

Beach or mountain person: Mountain. He’s not fond of the beach for obvious reasons.

Pen or pencil person: Whatever is closest to hand. 

Video games or board games: Video games. It’s a thing that the underclassmen do on days off and he likes it

Type or handwrite: Handwrite, it’s just easier

Rather be too cold or too hot: Too cold. He can steal borrow Andrew’s hoodie.

Sing or dance: Absolutely not. He has danced on the odd occasion but it’s not fun.

An OTP I have including them: Andrew, obviously. 

A NOTP I have including them: Him with anyone else. I do not like Kandreil.

A hidden talent they have: He’s a Disney princess. Animals flock to him for some reason. He emits some kind of aura that makes him trustworthy and they absolutely love him. Andrew has lost count the amount of times he’s found Neil surrounded by forest creatures on the college green. He swears it’s only a matter of time before Neil convinces them to do his housework.

[cipher-fresh]

Snowfall in London

a good omens fic, I suppose. about as kid-friendly as you could get, other than some drinking. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop, like usual. It was snowing, so after the angel and the demon paid for their meal at the Ritz, they sang loudly in the Bentley to whatever forgettable not-Queen song was playing on the radio and watched the snow come down rather heavy. The Ritz was planning to close as soon as the last customer paid for their meal and left, and the two were the last customers allowed in. All the employees were antsy, just waiting for the customers to leave so they could go home. The roads had been salted, however the new snow buildup would have a problem with that. The Bentley drove carefully.

When they got there, the angel miracled-open the lock. The building was dark, and Aziraphale had tried to remember to switch off the lights when he left. He flipped the lightswitch by the door. Nothing happened.

“Sss’ cold in here, angel.” Crowley commented.

“Yes, Crowley, I noticed. Think the power’s gone.”

Crowley frowned.

“Can hardly see anything-” Aziraphale complained, stepping tentatively to walk to the back of the bookshop. Crowley walked over to him, seeing him bright as day, demon eyes, and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. “Thank you, Crowley. But you don’t have to lead-”

“Little power outage all it is t’ stop an angel?” Crowley asked. “Might tell Down Below and get a promotion.” Crowley grinned, and stuck his tongue out, but Aziraphale still couldn’t see anything. “Hmmph.” Aziraphale complained.

“How’d you live before electric lights, angel?”

The angel stopped. “Oh. You can let go. Let there be light.” Crowley obliged and let go. Aziraphale gestured with his now-free hand and a bright blue glow encompassed the room. Crowley exhaled through his nose. He really should stop breathing, it was a bad habit, but other people stared if he didn’t breathe. Especially after running, because he’d steal things from Aziraphale’s hands and run down the trail in St. James park so Aziraphale would be annoyed.

The two walked to the back room and Crowley opened the door. They sat down in some chairs, and Aziraphale buttoned his tweed jacket. Aziraphale remembered to miracle the lock back on the front door.

“Anything you can do about the heat?” Crowley asked. “Er. Lack thereof.”

“Not really, my dear. I never used to be too annoyed by the weather. Fell asleep in the 1890s, once, the whole room was dreadfully hot when I woke up. Thought I’d lost my Grace for a moment. Tried t’ make it colder, couldn’t do much. Unless you want me to light a candle.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Hrgh. Fine. Guess I’ll suffer.” Crowley squirmed in his seat, swiveled around and put his legs over the armrest, his head leaning uncomfortably on the other armrest.

Crowley eventually miracled a bottle of something expensive and the two wound up handing it back and forth. Aziraphale had been reading before as Crowley remembered how much fun things were when he wasn’t sober.

The two complained about the power outage for a while, and Crowley laughed at Aziraphale for not being able to see in the dark. Aziraphale would roll his eyes and say “please, my dear.” And swat Crowley’s face away. Aziraphale was careful to put the book under the seat so he didn’t spill anything on it. Crowley eventually started complaining about how Aziraphale would tease him for his hiss. He’s pretty much buried it, but when not sober, or quite emotional, he’d hiss.

They put down the bottles after a while, after Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand when the angel had grabbed the bottle and then the bottle was dropped. Aziraphale cleaned it up and both cleared the alcohol from their bloodstream. Crowley checked his phone and looked at the time. “How long until the power’s fixed y’ think, angel?”

“Not sure, Crowley.”

The two had known each other for a long time. Sometimes, you could just spend time with someone you know and not say anything because the other’s presence is enough. Rambling about something was a plus.

Crowley felt agitated. He had got up and paced the room a bit. Aziraphale checked his Nokia. The demon rubbed his sleeves and held his chest with his arms. He’d seen humans comfortable in colder temperatures. Aziraphale watched him and gestured he sit back over by him. Crowley got cold a lot easier than the angel, or most demons for that matter. Snakes were cold blooded, that must’ve factored into it somehow. The cold was bothering him.

He sat down by Aziraphale’s chair, but on the ground, so the angel rearranged himself to look down at the Adversary. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Would you hand me the book under the chair? I put it under the chair to make sure I didn’t spill anything.” Aziraphale breathed. He thought for a moment. “Y’know, Crowley, you could go home. No need for you to be all cold here, there’s likely power at your flat.” He looked back down, to see his friend holding up the book. Aziraphale grabbed it, and put it on his lap. He looked at it- Crowley, in snake form, had grabbed the book with his mouth when he handed it to the angel.

“You old serpent.” Aziraphale smiled. The angel held out his arm. Crowley slithered onto Aziraphale’s arm. Careful not to constrict it, Crowley hung his head over Aziraphale and the angel held that arm a little bit away from himself. With his other hand, he took the book and opened it.

“My dear, I’m going to do some reading. If you could-” Crowley started moving up Aziraphale’s arm and up his shoulder. Aziraphale laughed, and the snake hung himself around his friend’s neck, lying on his shirt and under the collar of the tweed jacket, the sort of like a blanket for Crowley and a scarf for Aziraphale.

“Well then. You want me to read out loud?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded, and made some hissing noises.

“Right. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…”

[iineffabilities-blog]

@squadron-of-damned (continued)

He finds a chair somewhere, it was maybe a little miracle, pulls it to the other side of the desk and sits down. Then, irritated he can’t actually see Aziraphale over the table, he carefully relocates few piles of the books somewhere else. He frowns: “Do you ever clear this place? Half of the dust here has to remember Saint George.“

He puts his feet on the table and grins: “Depends on what do you call a plan. I have a… Not exactly a friend, you can’t really say colleague either. A fellow of mine, one of the few with rather adaptive thinking, got discorporated recently. It wouldn’t be much of a problem if he hadn’t left some… unfinished business back there.” The grin gets even wider as Crowley takes his shades off and stuffs them in his breast pocket. “And because he knows me as a man of many great talents, he asked me to fill in until he gets is sorted down there. However if I go, it means I have to let you stay here without my supervision and since I know you, when I return whole London is going to praise their Lord and savior and Covent Garden will be the biggest temple in Europe. So the only options I have here is to politely decline to help a brother in need, I don’t want to do that, or drag you with me, which I can’t say I find pleasing but it is not insufferable.”

Crowley gives it a moment to sink, then puts his feet down and clears throat: “It’s probably a week or maybe two in a small village near St. David’s,” he resists the urge to spit on ground, “a cottage and a garden. There are books, I have already asked.” He looks a little ashamed he has do add this little detail.

Aziraphale is pulled further and further away from the text in front of him as Crowley continues to make himself at home. The chair was one thing. But then he was going and touching his books and MOVING them. It caused his feathers to ruffle, an uncomfortable jolt to his insides. “No-- no, no-- If you please-- just don’t...” all of it either unheard or ignored and soon enough the Angel was staring the Demon in the face. Corner of his mouth twitching upward at the sight of his eyes as opposed to dark sunglasses. He’d come to appreciate those serpentine eyes. 

And then he was back to the matter at hand, “Let me see if I can understand this correctly. You’d like me to accompany you on a demonic retreat of sorts. Might I remind you what I am. Why on Earth would--”

But Aziraphale knew that Crowley knew the Angel didn’t have nary a care about the Humans buzzing about London. That he couldn’t care less what side they took so long as they left him alone in his little shop. Of course Aziraphale did the occasional good deed now and then, if only to make good with the Home Office, but mostly he was content just to not be bothered. 

“--unless, this is you stealing me away for your own reasoning.” A shy bite to his lower lip and those cherub cheeks pinked right up. Embarrassing, really. “A cottage getaway, hm? Perhaps I can make arrangements.”

[not-a-space-alien]

The Gay Gordons

Characters:  Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Aziraphale, Crowley

Rating:  G

Word count: 3,800

Warnings: None

Summary:  Sam and Dean pick up an investigation as a favor to Castiel and find something a bit unexpected.

 On LJ

 On AO3

Somewhere in the world, under a highway in the shape of a wiggly sigil, there stood an angel.  This angel was wearing a trench coat.  He liked wearing trench coats.  It was a good thing no one had ever asked him why he liked wearing trench coats, because he would not have been able to give a sufficient answer.

A black car pulled up beside the angel, and two men got out.  One of the men was the size of a moose and had flowing hair that must surely have gotten into his eyes at inconvenient moments.  The second man would only be called short in comparison to the first; he could only be summarily described by the word “gruff.”

“All right,” said the gruff one as he slammed his door shut.  “What was so important that you asked us to come all the way out here?”

“Thank you for coming, Dean,” said the angel, whose name was Castiel.  “I wouldn’t have asked it unless it was important.”

“We had to book tickets on a red eye,” said Sam, a bit annoyed.

“A plane!” said Dean.  “A freaking plane!  This better be good, Cass.”

The angel shifted from foot to foot.  “I don’t know if I’d say it’s good, but it’s certainly very important.”  He took a deep breath.  “Sam, Dean, I am desperately in need of a favour from you two.  You’re the only ones I know who can pull it off.”

“All right,” said Sam.  “What do you need, Cass?”

“Well, I…”  Castiel look uncomfortable.  “Please remember that I do not ask this lightly.  This is a very touchy subject.”

“Just spit it out already,” said Dean, who was already running out of patience for this whole endeavor.

“One of my brothers has been behaving suspiciously.  An angel named Aziraphale.  I have tried to confront him about it, but he refuses to engage me.  I cannot get near him.”

“What?  Why not?” asked Sam.

“He is avoiding me,” said Castiel.  “I would like to leave it at that.”

“Okay…” Dean began, gesturing to the trunk of his car.  “So you need us to take out some asshole angel?”

“No,” said Castiel with barely contained exasperation.  “Dean, I didn’t say to kill him.  Would you please contain your bloodlust for a moment?”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“What exactly do you want us to do, then, Cass?” said Sam, sounding annoyed with both Dean and Castiel.

“Find out exactly what he’s up to,” said Castiel.  “He can sense my angelic presence a mile away and avoid me, but he wouldn’t really take notice of humans observing him.”

“All right, we can do that,” said Sam.

“But you owe us one,” Dean interjected.

“Yeah, anyway,” said Sam.  “You said he’s been behaving suspiciously?  What’s he been doing?”

“He’s been having regular meetings with a demon,” said Castiel.

“A demon?” said Dean.  “Doing what?”

“That is what I need you to find out,” said Castiel.  “To be frank, Aziraphale doesn’t have a very good history with Heaven.  I’m not the only one concerned about this.  An angel and a demon working together...  It doesn’t bode well.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sam agreed.  “Something big must be up.”

“Okay, do you have any leads?” asked Dean.  “Where we can find this Aziraphale guy?  Who’s the demon he’s hanging out with?”

“Well,” said Castiel hesitantly, like he was about to shatter thin ice, “the demon’s name is Crowley.”

Sam and Dean both rushed to comment, but Castiel talked over them as quickly and loudly as he could:  “It’s a different demon, Dean.  It’s definitely not the same Crowley.  It’s a different class of demon altogether.  Apparently it’s not that unusual for demons to steal each other’s names.”

“You’re sure?” said Dean.

“I’m sure.”

Dean got a sour look on his face, as though he were disappointed with that news.

“Okay, Cass,” said Sam.  “We’ll take care of this.  Don’t worry.”

“Oh, as for where,” said Castiel.  “I have the name of a certain bookshop where you might find Aziraphale.  If you can manage to get there while it’s open…”

Dean absolutely insisted on stopping by the palace so he could try and antagonize the guards into breaking their motionless vigil.  It didn’t work, of course.  It never works, Sam told him, but Dean tried anyway.  

“They get this all the time, Dean,” said the exasperated Sam fifteen minutes in.

“I’ve never been here before.  Give me a break, okay?” said Dean.  “I deserve a little something for surviving that plane ride in and driving this lame rent-a-crap instead of Baby.”

When Sam finally pulled him away, they made their way over to Soho.  Upon finding the described bookshop, they parked the disparaged SUV across the street and sat outside for an hour to observe.

The only activity was a woman going in at about 2PM and coming back out five minutes later empty-handed and looking harried.  They could see nobody moving around inside the shop through the storefront.

“All right, I’m tired of waiting around,” said Dean.  “Let’s go see what’s up.”

The bell on the door jangled as they pushed it open.  “Excuse me,” said Sam, and then stopped when he saw the inside of the shop.

It was a chaotic mess.  There were stacks of books covering every shelf in a disorganized panic, riots of volumes shoved anywhere they would fit: every inch of the cabinets, the floor, stools, the windows, on top of a ladder that was swaying unsafely.  The shelves crowded so close together that it looked like it would only be possible to pass between them by turning sideways.

“My God,” said Dean.  “There’s somebody alive in here?”

“Feel free to browse,” echoed a bored voice from somewhere within the labyrinth.

Sam hesitantly started forwards, picking his way across the floor where he could find empty space to step.

“Nice aesthetic he’s got going on,” said Dean.  “Very Temple of Doom.”

“Can you maybe take this seriously?” said Sam.  His stern tone was defeated as he knocked a shelf and a slew of books cascaded onto his head.  Dean exploded into laughter.

“Watch your step,” said the bored voice.

It was a few minutes of trekking before they finally managed to reach the other side of the store, where a rotund man with unkempt curls of hair leaned on a counter with his nose buried in a thick volume.  The only clear space in the entire corner was a sunny spot in the window behind the man, where an enormous python lay curled up.

Dean recoiled at the sight of the snake.  Sam bravely stepped towards the counter.

“Good afternoon,” said Sam.

“Americans,” the man muttered.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Sam.

“You just have it loose in the store?” said Dean.  “Where anyone could walk in and step on it?”

“He doesn’t bite,” said the man behind the counter, snapping the book closed.  “Usually.  What can I do for you two?”

Now, the man-shaped being behind the counter did not look like the type of person who would have much experience with anything besides staying indoors doing dull activities like puzzles and Sudoku and reading.  If Sam and Dean had suspected that this particular individual had plenty of experience scaring away intimidating men in suits asking invasive questions, they might have tried a different approach.*  But they didn’t, so Sam dropped his wallet open to reveal his badge.  “We were hoping to have a word with you.”

*Little did they realize the quickest route to their goal would have been to simply remind him that lying was a sin, which would have caused him to break down crying and tell them everything they wanted to know.

“And may I ask what exactly the American FBI is doing investigating a matter in Soho?” said the man.

“We’re looking for someone named Aziraphale,” said Sam.  “Do you know anyone by that name?”

“It’s just sitting in the window unsupervised,” said Dean, who still had not approached the counter.  “You don’t think that’s freaky at all?”

“He is an invited guest here, while you are not,” said the man behind the counter grumpily.  “If either he or you should leave, I would think it should be you.”

“Aziraphale?” said Sam, desperately trying to get back on topic.  “Name ring any bells?”

“Afraid not,” said the man, scoffing.  “What kind of name is that?”

“What about Crowley?” said Sam.  “Sound familiar?”

“Never heard of him,” said the man.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll be closing soon, so if you aren’t going to buy something I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“The sign on the door said you’re open until 5,” said Sam.

The man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  “You have the nerve to walk into my shop, insult my snake, and then argue with me about my business hours.  Americans!”

They found themselves booted onto the street with the door locked behind them.

Dean stormed back over to their rented car darkly.  “Okay, it was definitely that guy.  He’s the angel.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because he’s an asshole,” said Dean, opening the door.  “Get in.”

Sam suggested they should go back to the motel to think up a plan and do some research, but Dean insisted on driving around and passing the bookshop regularly for the next few hours.  When it started to get dark, Dean parked across the street and stared into the dimly lit storefront.

“Dean, what are we doing?” said Sam.

“Surveillance.”

“Surveillance.”

“Yeah.”

“The store’s closed.”

“So what?”

“So I don’t think there’s anything to surveil, Dean!”

They sat in silence for a while.

“It really bothered you, didn’t it?”

“Nobody just keeps a snake in their shop, Sammy!” said Dean.  “It was just sitting on the windowsill!  I mean, at least that creeper in Colorado kept them in his house.  This is out in public!  Anyone could just walk in!”

“Dean, it’s not like the snake is relevant just because it creeped you out.”

“You know what, Sammy?  Shut up.  I know the snake is relevant somehow.  I’ve got that gut feeling.  Did you see that guy?  Nerd.  Top to bottom.  One-hundred percent ultra-nerd.  What kind of nerd has a pet snake?  What kind of bookshop owner has a snake?”

“Dean, would you forget the snake!”

They both stopped as the door to the shop jingled open and a man in a black suit walked out.

“You see,” said Dean, gesturing to the man with both hands.  “You see?  What did I tell you?  Surveillance.”

“Where the hell did that guy come from?” said Sam, trying to get a good look at him without drawing attention to himself.  “I definitely didn’t see him walk in.  And I’m pretty sure there’s not enough room for there to be an apartment or anything attached he could be coming from.”

The mysterious man put his hands in his pockets and whistled as he walked down the sidewalk leisurely.

“Surveillance,” said Dean again, cranking the emergency break.

They tried to follow the man, but they couldn’t make the car go slow enough without going at a suspicious crawl, so they ended up circling around.  But they saw him walk from Soho to Mayfair like he was savoring a nice, sunny day.  He stopped for a moment to duck into a dark alley and knock a trashcan over, and at another point they saw him walk into an electronics store and walk back out with a stereo he had purchased and a pack of batteries he had stolen.

“What is he doing?” said Sam as they observed him open someone’s gate and let their dog loose.

“What is he doing?” said Dean as they watched him take someone’s mail out of their mailbox and put it into their neighbor’s.

The evening proceeded in this manner without deviation until the mysterious ne’er-do-well received a phone call while tying knots in someone’s garden hose.

“Yes, angel, I went straight home,” he said as he cranked the water on ever so slightly.  “I’m back at my flat right now.  No, not causing any trouble at all tonight.  No, of course I’m not lying.  Me?  Lying?  I’m hurt.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and scampered across the street, where he accessed a gated apartment building without a key and finally disappeared.

Dean shoved the car into a parking spot across the street.  The two brothers sat in silence for a minute.

“Okay, that was weird, right?” said Dean.  “It’s not just me?”

“I mean…” Sam had a puzzled expression on his face and was thinking very hard.  “Demons are agents of chaos, and Cass said it was a different kind of demon.  Maybe this is like a…mischief demon?”

“You think that’s him?  The demon?”

“Maybe?  I don’t know what else that could have been.  Just a really lame human prankster?  A trickster with very weak supernatural powers?”

“I’m done messing around with this,” said Dean, getting out of the car.  “Let’s go.”

“Dean, wait,” Sam said, then scrambled to follow.

As they approached the apartment complex, Dean veered to the side, distracted by a shiny black automobile.

“Whoa, look at that!” said Dean, whistling.  “Hey, dude, this is definitely the demon’s car.”

“How can you tell?”

Dean pointed to the license plate, which said AJC666.

Sam gave him a sarcastic look.  “It’s not the demon’s car, Dean.”

“It totally is.”

“Why would a demon need a car?”

Dean looked at him sourly and turned towards the doorbell.  He scanned the tenant directory.  “Hah!” said Dean, pointing to one name.  “Look!  AJ Crowley.”

They rang the bell.  “Top floor flat,” said a suave voice from the intercom.

“Hi, we’re looking for Mr. Crowley,” said Sam.  “May we come in to talk for a minute?”

“Certainly,” the voice purred.  “I’ll have a bottle of wine waiting for you.”

What happened next was a bit blurry for the two brothers.  They both clearly remembered going up an elevator and knocking on a door, but after that it was blank until they came back out, foggily walking towards their rental car.

“Wh…” said Dean, finally becoming aware of himself.  “Huh?  What happened?  Sam?”

Sam looked like he was struggling to resolve his vision against a bright light.  “Huh?”

“What just happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What time is it?”

Sam looked at his watch.  “Quarter to eight.”

“What time did we go in?”

“”bout…seven thirty wasn’t it?”

Dean looked at the car muzzily.  “Did we meet Mr. Crowley?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh.”

He turned back around and buzzed the intercom again, but no one answered this time no matter how many times he tried.

Sam and Dean were beginning to despair of their skills as detectives.  A rude bookshop owner a man who liked to be a pain in the ass for others wasn’t much as far as results go.  They ended up doing more surveillance than they usually did, going back and forth between Soho and Mayfair aimlessly.  Dean morosely watched out the windshield while Sam typed on his computer for research.

“I got nothing,” Sam sighed, clapping his computer closed.

“I might have something,” said Dean, noting that the door to the book store had opened.  The man who had been behind the counter appeared outside for the first time in days, slinging a scarf over his shoulder and walking off into the night.

“All right, let’s see where he’s going at midnight on a Tuesday,” said Dean.

He tried to start the car quietly and follow the bookshop owner surreptitiously; fortunately the man did not seem to care much about observing his surroundings and simply motored forwards like he was late for an appointment.**

**He was.

They followed him until he disappeared into the confines of a fancy building which definitely did not look open.

There was a black car out front.

“I told you!” said Dean, punching Sam’s arm.  “It’s the demon’s car!”

“All right,” said Sam.  “Whatever.  Let’s just go see what they’re up to.  This must be what Cass was talking about when he said they were meeting regularly.”

The building was definitely closed; they ended up having to pick the lock to get in.  They tiptoed around, making their way up to the second floor and peering out from a balcony overlooking an empty ballroom to see that Crowley was sitting alone in the middle of the floor, legs crossed, looking bored.  The stereo he had bought earlier sat on the floor next to him.

Sam and Dean leaned back to avoid being seen.  “All right,” Dean whispered.  “Now let’s just wait and see what they’re doing.”

It was only a few seconds until the door at the far end flung open and the bookshop owner, who at this point they figured was Aziraphale, strode forwards, shedding his jacket and hat in an irritated way.

“You’re late,” said Crowley.

“You say that like you aren’t late every other week,” snapped Aziraphale.

“Did those two bother you again?”

Aziraphale paused.  “Those two?”

“The Americans.”

Sam and Dean tensed up.

“Oh, them,” said Aziraphale.  “All the customers tend to blend together, to be honest.  No, I haven’t seen them.”

“They followed me to my flat,” said Crowley.  “They’re demon hunters.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale.  “That must have been awfully frightening for you.”

Crowley waved a hand as he stood up.  “Never mind them.  A bit of hypnosis did the trick to get rid of them.”

“Hah,” said Dean.  “That’s what you think.”

“All right, then.  Shall we get started?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley tapped the stereo, and chipper accordion music filled the room.  “Absolutely,” he said with a wicked grin.

“What are you doing, you bastard?” said Dean.

Aziraphale held his hand out, and Crowley took it.  Aziraphale put one hand around Crowley’s waist, and they held their joined hands up and began to sort of gallop around the room to the tune of the music.

Sam and Dean watched this incredulously.  It went on for a solid two or three minutes.

“You’re seeing this right?” said Dean.  “I’m not dreaming this?”

They both went tumbling down to the floor.  Crowley smacked the polished lacquer face-first.

“Angel, what was that?” the demon hissed angrily.

“Your feet got in my way.”

“My feet got in your way?” Crowley said, rising and stomping over to him.  “I was perfectly in step!”

“No, you got out of line a bit there, my dear.”

“I was perfectly in line!”

“You were off a bit, I’m afraid.”

“You had your arm around my waist and steered me right into the ground!”

“I did no such thing!”  Aziraphale crossed his arms and flicked the music off.  “Your rhythm is all off.”

“If you would just let me lead this would be so much easier!”

“Demons cannot dance,” said Aziraphale.  “Not at all.  I lead.”

“Angels don’t dance either!” Crowley fumed.

“Not true.  I can dance the gavotte.  You can’t dance anything.  Between the two of us, I’m the more experienced dancer.  It doesn’t make any sense for you to lead.”

Crowley smoothed his hair out, looking like he was fighting the urge to throw a fit.  “Fine.  Fine, whatever.  Let’s just try it again.”

He clicked the music back on.  They assumed the same starting position.  They eased into the rhythm, feet clicking on the floor, their stormy expressions contrasting sharply with the upbeat, cheerful music.

It only took a minute for them to go down this time.

“It’s one-two-three-four-spin,” said Crowley, seething as he righted himself.  “You’re not doing it right.”

“I’m doing it perfectly fine!” Aziraphale shouted.  “You’ve got it wrong and keep tripping me up!”

“Listen,” said Crowley.  “I was in Scotland when this dance was invented.  Why did you ask me to help you learn it if you weren’t going to listen to me?”

“I was also in Scotland when this dance was invented, and you didn’t do it correctly then either!  You were too busy preening about how good you looked in a kilt.”

“I don’t recall you complaining about how I looked in a kilt, you know,” said Crowley.  “Maybe if you had spent less time staring at my arse you could have learned the Gay Gordons properly.”

Aziraphale looked angry enough to argue, but he simply pulled a phone out of his pocket.  “Here, let’s watch the video again.”

They both sunk to the floor and crowded around the phone as a YouTube video played, loudly enough for Sam and Dean to hear all the way up on the balcony.

“The next dance is a march called the Gay Gordons,” said the tinny voice from the phone.

“There, you see!” said Crowley viciously, pointing to the screen.  “You were doing it wrong.”

“I was not,” Aziraphale said indignantly.  “I was doing it exactly like that.”

“No you weren’t!”  Crowley dragged the video feed back and replayed it.  “You see!”

Sam and Dean watched as the arguing went on for much longer than the dancing had.  They were able to glean from the conversation that the pair had been doing this regularly for months now but had made no progress.

Time dragged on into the early hours of the morning.  They did not reach the end of the song even once.  Every attempt was punctuated with increasingly violent commentary upon the other’s performance.  Every failure was accompanied by an argument that lasted longer than the time they had spent on their feet.  Every passing minute was infused with more and more frustration.  The replay button the YouTube video was beaten half to death.

By the time the light of the sunrise began to stream through the windows, the demon unplugged the stereo and hauled it up, clutching it to himself.  “I’m done.  I’m done with you.  You’ll never learn how to do anything but gavotte.  Never.  Good luck on completing your New Year’s resolutions without me.  Goodbye.”

“At least I know how to gavotte!” Aziraphale hurled after him.  “That’s more than you can say!”

“I never want to dance with you again!  If I never see you again in my lifetime it’ll be too soon!”

“So next Tuesday at the same time, then?”

“Yeah, all right, Tuesday is fine.”

The demon disappeared through the door.  The angel slumped onto the dance floor, looking defeated.

Sam and Dean looked at each other awkwardly.

The angel turned his head up and looked directly at their hiding spot.  “You don’t think I’m that bad, do you?  I should be able to learn it eventually, right?  It only took me a few decades to get the gavotte quite right.  What do you think?  It was mostly him messing it up, wasn’t it?”

Sam and Dean high-tailed it out of there without answering him.

They found Castiel at the meeting spot under the highway where they had last seen him.  The two dragged their feet up to him, looking haggard and bewildered.

“Thanks for meeting me,” said Castiel.  “Did you find anything?  What are they doing?”

“Those regular meetings?” said Sam.

“Yes?”

“I, uh…” said Dean.  “I don’t think you really need to worry about them accomplishing anything malicious.  Or anything at all, really. They’ll be stuck on the Gay Gordons for years.”