#I knew that crowley was close to Leonardo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mimisempai · 1 year ago

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You were always on my mind

Summary

An innocent question from Muriel about Crowley's sketch of the Mona Lisa leads to an unexpected reaction from Aziraphale, and allows the angel and demon to talk about a past they do not share.

Notes

The characters of Leonardo and Salaï are based on their characterization in Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood.

On Ao3

Rating G - 1494 words

"Crowley?"

The demon, who was watering his plants, turned to Muriel and saw that they were standing in front of his precious sketch of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa.

As he approached, Muriel turned to him and, pointing to the painting where the inscription read, "Al mio amico Antonio dal tuo amico Leo da V." they asked, "Were you really friends with Leonardo Da Vinci?"

Neither of them saw Aziraphale, who had stopped to put away a book in order to listen to Crowley's answer, for he himself knew nothing of the origin of this friendship.

He had seen the inscription "To my friend Anthony". But he had chosen to ignore it, or rather to ignore the odd feeling it aroused in him.

Leonardo and Crowley sat across from each other over a drink, both quite intoxicated, but still lucid enough to talk.

Crowley looked around at all the sketches of the same woman, then pointed to one hanging on the wall and said, "That one, that's the best, even better than the finished painting.

He pointed to the canvas on the easel.

Leonardo rested his head on his hand and replied, "I got her bloody smile right in the cartoons, but it went all over the place when I painted it. Her husband had a few things to say about it when he was in yesterday, but, like I told him, Signor del Giocondo, apart from you, who's ever going to see it?"

Crowley chuckled, "Well said! Leo, if it's all right with you, I'd like to buy this from you."

The demon pointed to the sketch pinned to the wall and added, "I'll give you eleven florins for it."

Leonardo shook his head and said, "Antonio, canaglia! I want twenty!"

"Fifteen!"

Leonardo held out his hand and replied, " Deal. Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, win you?"

Crowley shook his hand and explained.

"Wow. And what was he like?"

Crowley replied with a gentle smile, "An interesting guy, much more open-minded than people of his generation, and way ahead of his time even before I told him a few secrets. The kind of person you don't forget."

Aziraphale briskly closed the book, causing Muriel and Crowley to turn at the noise. Then, pretending not to see them, he put the book down and returned to his desk, feigning concentration on a manuscript while seething inside.

He hadn't liked the look on Crowley's face when he had spoken of his "friend." He hadn't liked it at all.

Crowley and Muriel had continued to chat in front of the painting, but Aziraphale tried not to pay attention, and soon, lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that Muriel had come out.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale tried not to show his distress as he turned to Crowley.

The demon continued, "Maggie asked me to give you this."

He showed him a plate with a slice of apple pie and continued, "She said she made it for you to thank you for your little arrangement. How about a little break with a cup of tea?"

Crowley was so thoughtful that Aziraphale felt even worse for being consumed by jealousy. He nodded and followed Crowley to the round table, avoiding looking at the painting as he passed.

He sat down at the table where Crowley had placed the plate and a steaming cup of tea. The demon sat down not far from him, a mug of coffee in his hands.

Aziraphale avoided his gaze and took a spoonful of cake. The cake was delicious, but given his state of mind, Aziraphale had to force himself to show his appreciation.

Crowley, not fooled, frowned and asked, "Angel, is something wrong?"

Aziraphale said hesitantly, "You never told me about your friendship with Leonardo Da Vinci."

"Oh, that? Well, you see, Angel, sometimes so much time passed between our meetings in the past that, amidst all we had to say and do, there wasn't room to cover it all. I had come to Florence for some temptations, but, as usual, the ingenuity of human beings in matters of sin surpassed me, and I found myself here with nothing to do. One evening, in a tavern, I made the acquaintance of his assistant, Salaï, who told me that I had the type of figure his master liked to draw, and dragged me to Leonardo's studio. And after that evening, when I bought the sketch of the Mona Lisa, we met again several times to drink and talk, he was much more enlightened than his contemporaries, clever and an excellent artist as well as a good drinking companion".

Aziraphale, growing increasingly annoyed, replied, "And besides, he knew your name was Anthony, or should I say Antonio."

He couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice and Crowley noticed and asked him bluntly, "Are you by any chance jealous, Angel?"

Aziraphale didn't answer and looked away.

"Angel?" insisted Crowley, who had moved closer.

He grabbed the Angel's chin, forcing him to turn his head toward him, and said softly, "Because if you are, you should know that you have no reason to be jealous. Leo was already involved with someone."

Azirapahel replied in a sulky voice, "But you liked his company."

Crowley replied in an amused tone, "For the reasons I told you. I even told him about you."

"Don't make fun of me, Crowley!"

The demon protested, "I'm not laughing at you. Just listen. The love of his life was his assistant, Salaï, which is ironically short for the Italian word "saladino," meaning "little devil." Which he was, by the way. He really had Leo wrapped around his little finger.”

"Leonardo, I'm going to have a few drinks with my friends, don't wait up for me tonight!"

Salaï blew him a kiss before closing the door behind him to the sound of the artist's light laughter.

Crowley turned to him and asked, "Is there a... special bond between you and this brat?"

Leonardo shook his head, "He's just my assistant."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and replied, "If he were just an assistant, you wouldn't have to specify, mio amico."

Leonardo took a sip of wine before replying quietly, "My past has taught me to keep those aspects of my life, private."

Crowley replied gently, "You need say no more."

Leonardo smiled and replied in a cheeky tone, "You know my biggest secret, tell me something about yourself, Antonio."

Crowley waited a few seconds before answering, also smiling, "There's this person, he's annoying at times, we're very different and don't often agree, but he's the only person I feel close to and have absolute trust in. We're a bit like two sides of the same coin, and it's only on the edge that we can meet."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Huh?"

"Antonio, mio amico, what are you doing here with me?

Crowley didn't answer and Leonardo continued, "La vita senza amore, non è affatto vita. A life without love is no life at all. It doesn't matter what kind of love it is, maybe you don't know, but if it's the only person you feel close to, that's who you should be with."

"You see, Angel, you have no reason to be jealous, he even sent me to you. He probably saw the nature of my feelings for you long before I did."

Still holding the angel's chin between his fingers, he leaned over him and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. Then, pulling back a little, he continued, "You know, even when we haven't seen each other in centuries, you've always been in my thoughts. Especially since Job, there has been this other someone who went with his side as far as he could. Like me. Alone together, but aware of each other, so not quite so alone."

Aziraphale smiled and, placing his hand on the demon's cheek, said softly, "I'm sorry for my irrational jealousy.

Crowley shook his head and, leaning into the angel's hand, replied gently, "There is nothing to forgive. If anything, it's rather flattering. But more seriously, it shows us that there is so much we don't know about each other."

"You're right, and after hearing what you just told me about him, I'm glad you had a friend like that."

This time it was Aziraphale who leaned in to give Crowley a gentle kiss, and when he pulled away, he had a cheeky grin on his face as he said, "And thanks to that, I can boast that I'm the owner of the only bookshop to have an authentic Da Vinci hanging on one of its walls."

They both laughed, then the angel picked up his spoon and resumed enjoying his slice of apple pie while the demon took a long sip of coffee.

Their unoccupied hands sought each other across the table, intertwining their fingers.

They looked at each other, smiling knowingly, aware that they had cleared another small hurdle.

Just talking and listening.

Learning together.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : here (After season 2)

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #GOS2Spoilers #leonardo da vinci #mona lisa

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quillomens · 1 year ago

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Book Omens Day Five: Human Connections

Manipulating Leo da Vinci to give you a wedding portrait - Go!

Here on Ao3

@book-omens-week

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BOOK OMENS DAY FIVE: HUMAN CONNECTION

Da Vinci

Crowley was sent to Italy in the 1450’s to whisper in the ear of Cosimo de Medici but, finding the de Medecis more than capable of being terrible without his assistance, spent the next century puttering around and enjoying the rise in naughty art and literature. It was in Florence that he first met Leonardo, whose supposedly heretical interests and homoerotic relationships first drew Hell’s attention, but it was his artistic genius and thirst for knowledge that held Crowley’s. Over the millennia, Crowley had formed perhaps a dozen relationships with humans which could be described as “close.” He liked humans as a group, but getting individually involved led to a mess of heartbreak (he still remembered the strange sound as Abel fell to the earth, never heard before, and the keening, panicked wail as Cain realized his brother was well and truly gone-).

But Leo was different. So hungry for knowledge, so foolish about love. His notebooks were a treasure trove of ideas – some of them absolute nonsense, but the imagination was there – and he minded neither yellow eyes nor dark glasses as long as you were an intriguing conversationist.

They became something very like friends.

(Leonardo’s survival of the plague in 1485 might have included some demonic interference – the sort only possible because Crowley and Aziraphale had figured out they could easily do each other’s jobs. If Aziraphale could protect folk from illness, so could Crowley – and with the controversy surrounding Leo at the time, Crowley wasn’t even tortured for keeping him alive. Besides, Leo was left-handed, and the humans were big on “left handed people are of the deeevilllll” at the time.)

The one problem, as far as Crowley was concerned, was that Leo was a man who held on to his stuff. All that gorgeous art and scientific ideas and backward handwriting kept in his notebooks, and so much of his art stuck on walls! How was a demon to get his own commemorative piece?

As a gift, he decided.

And, because of the tried-and-true nature of similar plans, why not involve the angel (he knew Aziraphale desperately wanted a look at those notebooks – Crowley had been cheerfully playing them on in letters for the last decade) and get himself a wedding gift?

“Again?” Aziraphale asked, but they’d only been arguing for about ten minutes and Crowley could already tell it was a done deal. It had been a done deal as soon as Crowley pointed out that Aziraphale could be in Leonardo’s studio, where the notebooks and sketches and ideas were stored, if he agreed to this latest marriage scheme. He’d shown up in a conveniently female corporation, complete with a pale blue gamurra accented with lace and pearly feathers. He looked quite fetching, and Crowley told him so.

“Thank you, my dear,” he’d demurred with a bit of a blush. “I’m meant to be inspiring chivalry. Not my usual line, but it seems to be going well enough.”

Crowley pulled a face. “You mean you have to . . .” He moved his fingers in an extremely suggestive gesture.

“Heavens no!” Aziraphale lifted his hand to his chest, literally over a string of pearls. “It’s all very chaste, you know. Courtly.”

Crowley thought back to the handful of Evil Castles he’d served. Turning corners could be an absolute crapshoot. “Not from what I’ve seen.” Wasn’t courtly love passe these days anyway? Probably not to Aziraphale or heaven. They always were behind the times.

Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air. “Well, I am not a common kitchen wench. I am a lady.”

“True enough. Maybe too much a lady.” Crowley looked him over. “Could you tone down the accessories a bit? You’re meant to be someone who’d marry me.”

“As you love to point out, I am married to you,” Aziraphale said slyly.

Crowley hissed under his breath. “You know what I mean. Leo’s not going to think a woman dressed like that is going to marry a merchant.”

(Being a merchant was terribly entertaining. He got to ride on ships and cause trouble, break hearts, screw up the economy, destroy family fortunes, and perhaps secretly kill off a lot of infected fleas before they came on land. He was a wealthy merchant of course – Crowley did enjoy appearing affluent – but Aziraphale’s pearls and lace were still a bit much.)

The angel waved a hand. The pearls and most of the lace disappeared, leaving a simpler dress with only a few well-placed feathers. Farbeit for Aziraphale to drop the feather motif.

(Crowley had a jaunty white-blue feather in his hat, but that was different.)

“Much better. You have the certificate?”

“Naturally.” Aziraphale half-pulled a rolled document from his skirt. “We had a simple wedding.”

Crowley laughed. “Don’t we always?” He offered his arm with a gallant bow. Aziraphale’s satin flats and Crowley’s wooden soles made them of a height. The angel took his arm primly and Crowley swept them into the ever-moving sea of humanity.

“You know,” he murmured in Aziraphale’s ear, nose tickled by a pale curl, “since we’re married now-”

“On paper.”

“-On paper, absolutely everything you own belongs to me by law? Guess it’s time to raid all your little hidden spots.”

The eyes that cut to him were very blue. “I would like,” Aziraphale said in a voice more suited for Russian steppes than a warm day in Venice, “to see you try, my dear.”

Crowley decided he’d rather not, really.

Leo was charmed to meet Aziraphale, of course, if somewhat nonplussed to learn Crowley had not only legally married, but legally married a woman. “Not really,” Crowley corrected him, but Leo, like all those mortals who dealt regularly with the immortal, had learned to move past Crowley’s more enigmatic statements.

Aziraphale could charm when he wanted – humans were drawn to him whether he liked it or not, naturally comfortable in his angelic presence. And he was smart and witty, two traits Leonardo admired and shared. When he showed the same polite grace and interest to Leo’s Salai, Crowley knew the wedding portrait was a cinch. Leo was a pushover if you treated his mercurial young lover with respect.

It was a beautiful piece, if not the sort of high-brow, religious perfection that Leonardo was known for. Sketched and lightly colored, it showed a sharp-edged man in dark, perfectly tailored clothing and a broad-featured woman in soft blues. They stood facing each other, two wooden panels that could be hung together or separately (would have to be separate, too dangerous any other way, at least for another five centuries, when they were be brought from hiding to hang in a small upper room in a Soho bookshop). His smile was a little too broad, her smile a touch too mischievous for a proper lady – which was fine, she was a merchant’s wife, after all, hardly a member of the upright noblesse. Against custom, she looked boldy into his eyes (strange eyes, serpent like – a birth defect, Crowley explained when he took off the smoked glasses), and he into hers, like equals.

On the edges, the fall of soft feathers, silvery-blue.

(The Mona Lisa cartoon he scampered off with a few years later was worth a great deal more money in the long run, but Crowley was terribly fond of the picture of himself in the great artist’s hand. When it was hanging properly with its twin in a cottage after the end of the world, hidden away in a safe room with other portraits and works of art through the years, he quietly declared it his favorite. An angel took his hand and agreed.)

#book omens #good omens #book omens week #aziracrow #ALL CAUGHT UUUUP #quill writes

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willowmaidsworld · 1 year ago

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Meanwhile Aziraphale has been observing humans for the 6000 years. He has been admiring the different ways they communicate, not just with words but with art also.

Aziraphale loves to go to the museums with Crowley. Yes, he teases him about the fact they never paint them right and points out all the inconsistencies, but he admires the paintings.

They may have painted his hair in a bit of unfashionable way (honestly, he never liked the classical angelical long curls, it was just not for him) and may have have added horns to Crowley, but just the thought, that someone spent countless hours working on a painting, which depicted them, filled Aziraphale with excitement and joy.

He tried to remember every one of them because if he and Crowley get called to their positions in Heaven and Hell and never see each other again, or get discorporated and won't be able to return, or are just punished for all the "fraternising" they did, he'd have an image to remember.

Aziraphale would have something to hold on, a certainty that somewhere, in some museum, they are together.

Always and forever together. (And God damn that stupid hairstyle or the horns, that doesn't matter!)

And yet Aziraphale sometimes feels sad that it's never them. Well yes, it's them but just not them.

It's only a painting (doesn't matter how good). It's never something really theirs. It's like seing thousands copies of yourself in the museums, but on each copy something is of and it just isn't you.

Aziraphale desperately wants to have something truly theirs in a museum, where someone will take care of it and protect it.

But he knows that's impossible. And this fills him with inexplicable sadness and melancholy.

Of course, he tried to make something. And he got really good at drawing.

He could paint and draw the most realistic portraits and scenes but yet there was something missing.

He never knew what. Was it the twinkle in Crowley's eyes? Or the way he smiled?

The way Crowley laughed or spoke about new inventions.

Crowley once mentioned this Leonardo. Crowley seemed to be a big fan of his (and he implied that some of Leonardo's ideas may have not been entirely Leonardo's... that he may have done some diabolical inspirating)

Was it the way Crowley's eyes would look at him when they drank wine? Or when they were just walking around London?

What was he missing?

He tried over and over again, but it seemed like he couldn't expres his feelings the way humans did.

But everytime he went for a dinner with Crowley, he felt that inexplicable feeling. Was that what humans described as love?

He didn't know.

Aziraphale's heart ached becuase he couldn't say "I love you" just like humans.

He tried to say it. To paint it. But he was never successful.

The closes he felt to saying "I love you" was whenever he had a good dinner and wine with Crowley.

That seemed to be enough for him.

And then he remembered that this all might crumble down. And nowhere will there be any trace of them.

He was afraid during the Apocalypse. Not because of himself but because something might happen to Crowley.

When Crowley called one morning after the supposed end of the world and proposed an idea to go to a museum, Aziraphale gladly agreed.

They walked through the halls and eventually came to the last one.

"In this exhibition you can see love lettres from the past. We don't know who wrote them and if they were ever delivered, but the love in these is so strong you can feel it even today. These love letters are surely a document of pure and true love," read the sign.

Aziraphale walked to the first letter.

"I don't even know what to write, A. I'm writing whatever comes to my mind in a hope it'll relieve me of the burden I feel. I shoudn't feel this way. I mustn't feel this way."

He blushed, his thoughts racing at maximum speed.

It couldn't be... Could it?

And as he read on, he was sure.

This was them in a museum. This was their trace. Something to say: We were here. And we were here together.

This was the greatest thing someone has ever done to him.

He read the letters countless times, memorizing every word, every tiny inkblot.

He wanted to seal them in his heart, somewhere deep where anyone but him could reach them.

"Angel, I- you really- ngk- humans are so rid- are you hungry? I could eat, I've heard they've got a killer bar around here, and we cou-I can get us there in 10 minutes, ngk actu- scratch that, we could be there in 5, I bet. Museums aren-angel?" Crowley was fighting with his words.

Aziraphale smiled and started walking over to him.

"Angel, I-" Crowley turned bright red.

Aziraphale knew everything. And he wanted Crowley to know how grateful he was for all of this. He wanted to show him he felt the same way.

Aziraphale leaned in. He knew what he was doing. And he was closer and closer to Crowley until their lips touched.

This was it. This was them.

Aziraphale started laughing. Everything he has ever wanted was there.

"You said something about a bar? I'd love to go." This was his way of saying "I love you."

Crowley knew that.

Aziraphale remembered all the paintings he saw and did. What are they in comaprison to this?

Not one bit of it is at all comparable to the real thing.

@thethingswedotomorrow , thank you, it was a joy to read and then to write.♥️

Crowley has been with humanity since the beginning. The original serpent of eden, he is the first "monster" in humanity's bedtime stories. He is the figurative and literal demon on human's shoulders, always there to guide them one way or another. He's weaved through history itself, and prides himself on an impeccable track record of demonic activity throughout the last 6000 years.

But, naturally, after 6000 years, Crowley finds that he's spent more time pining after a certain Angel than doing any sort of work. Like, an extreme amount of pining.

And it isn't until after the notpocalypse that Crowley realizes that, entirely accidentally and very embarrassingly, he may have accidentally made his pining very, very public.

One of Crowley's favorite ways to waste a day is to take Aziraphale to different museums around the world and watch as the angel wanders around and points out all of the inaccuracies

"Good Lord Crowley, have you seen this painting? Portraying you as a dragon is a tad dramatic, I think. All we were doing were having a picnic. And I have never had my hair looking like that, thank you."

"I don't know Angel, they've got your wings spot on. Wa-Hang on, have they added horns to my head?"

"Oh, I see, suddenly it's only inaccurate when they've got you wrong."

The museums always seem to be miraculously empty, and whenever Crowley mentions this, Aziraphale suddenly finds a new, very interesting piece of art to admire

Crowley admires the lengths Aziraphale goes to to hide the small miracles he's done for Crowley's sake

As if Crowley wouldn't move literal mountains for the angel

*He did, actually, do that once.

In the 12th century, they were having a lovely evening together with multiple caskets of wine, up until Aziraphale complained about the amount of light in his eyes

"Honestly Crowley, all this sun and no shade, it must truly be awful for the humans around here with no shelter. It's a tad much, even for me."

Crowley, even then, immediately recognized this off-hand comment as an underhanded complaint, and knew that would not stand

When the small earthquake passed, Crowley claimed that the nearby church was on a fault line and he was simply doing his demonic duty by damaging holy goods in the area

If Aziraphale realized that the mountain range in the distance suddenly provided much more sun coverage, he never mentioned it.

Currently, however, Crowley follows Aziraphale around, wandering behind him and never truly looking at the things in the museum

In every single place they've ever gone together, there was only ever one thing that deserved Crowley's attention

And it certainly was not an inaccurate model of a 18th century tea set

But when Aziraphale wanders into a hall titled 'Love of the Past', he starts to panic. Just a very tiny amount, basically none at all. A small enough amount of panic that he could deny it, even to himself.

He thinks about the past, towards the beginning, back when Humanity was still getting it's footing and figuring out how to have governments and societies and (the most important part) figuring out the whole alcohol situation

Throughout the years, especially towards the beginning, Crowley began to resent any time not spent with Aziraphale

Everything seemed small and dull when compared to the way the Angel smiled when he saw new type of human dessert, or the way he laughed when Crowley managed to work out a clever comment

And once Crowley experienced those things, he never wanted anything else

He had seen the poetry the humans had written, how much emotion they could pour into a simple piece of parchment or a clay tablet

He never cared for written word, but he was shocked at just how much feeling the humans could manage to pour into words

So after Aziraphale left Rome (after the oysters and the wine and the smiles, for somebody's sake the smiles), he went due east for a new miracle on another continent

Crowley stayed and got well and truly drunk. As he did best.

He had spent a few weeks around the other drunks around the area, most poverty stricken and saddened with some sort of grief of one type or another

It wasn't until a group of poets wandered into his dark corner of the pub that he started to considered writing

Obviously nothing anyone would ever read, he'd ensure that. Every scroll or parchment that he'd touch with a quill would be burnt with hellfire before it left his sight

But, as many of his worst ideas started, he had nothing better to do and too much time to think

So he wrote. He wrote letters, first addressed to nobody, about random thoughts that would pop into his very intoxicated brain. Whether humans would ever find traces of the unicorns they lost on the ark, whether he would ever find a way to count just how many scales he had, whether he would ever reach a point where he didn't have to cover his eyes every day

Slowly, the letters started becoming addressed to 'A'. Whether he was conscious of this or not, he'd never admit.

But he wrote. He wrote to A about Hell, the jobs they required of him, the things they'd have him do. He wrote of the way humans had beaten him to the punch 90% of the time. How they would do things worse than Satan himself could imagine, and they'd never blink an eye while doing it.

He wrote of the way the sun darkened each day that passed without his Angel, the way his wine never seemed to have enough flavor when he was alone.

He wrote of the ways he imagined he could orchestrate an elaborate reunion, a convoluted mess of too much demonic activity in a small area that just happened to have a wonderful new tea, or so he's heard, and wouldn't it be a shame to leave the town without tempting the angel to try it?

He wrote to A about how he was sure he had no heart, no emotions. He was a Demon, for somebody's sake, he certainly had no need for stupid things like that, and so the ache in his corporation's chest when he sees the Angel had to be some sort of malfunction.

Anatural function, surely, that could be fixed with the right amount of aloofness and strong liquor

He wrote of the way the sun always seemed to hit the Angel's hair just right, and Crowley had no faith, he had no God.

But in those moments, with a halo around the angel and that smile aimed towards him, he might consider praying now to a different source altogether, a closer source. One full of life and light and actual proper goodness, not that fake advertised bullshit they plaster on church walls in pretty paintings and sad songs

Crowley wrote for a long while, and found that the writing helped the pain.

Even if only because it brought on memories of Aziraphale, and that was enough to hold him until they met again. It had to be, he had no choice in the matter.

And he wrote so often throughout the ages, and often while he was drunk. And he was so sure, so positive that he had burned every trace of his heart and emotion out of existence.

He had to be. The danger those words could put Aziraphale in was far too great. He couldn't be bothered to care of the danger to himself, but the fact that the very hint of any emotion could come close to hurting his Angel was enough to ensure that they would never come across another being's eyes.

He destroyed every letter and word that described his desire, his pain, his greed. He ripped the words he created out of reality as easily as he had written them. Every time, he burnt the parchment, and every time, it burnt a part of him with it.

And then the Apocalypse had happened. Or, well, didn't happen, he supposed. Really, he wasn't entirely sure if there was a difference.

Because everything had changed, even if the rest of the world hadn't noticed. And he was suddenly allowed to see Aziraphale with no excuse, no half-hearted reasoning behind it. He was allowed to want, and to crave, and he relished it.

And he was allowed to take the angel to museums to watch him fuss over small mistakes humanity had collected throughout the ages

Until he realized that they had, in fact, also collected HIS mistakes.

In a hall. A whole bloody hall. A hall, dedicated to and full of stupid parchment and sappy letters and wine stains over words written so long ago

And honestly who gave them the right? Leave it to the humans to collect other people's belongings and put it on display as their own

And he knew, from the moment Aziraphale read the first page on display, he just knew. This was it. All of it was ruined.

All because Crowley had gotten so drunk and passed out in his room above the pub, and when they'd thrown him out in a drunken stupor, they'd collected his belongings to sell afterwards. And he'd never even realized, so concerned about the next meeting, the arrangement, concerned about anything and everything except the one thing he forgot about and could end them both.

Any moment now, Aziraphale would look up at him, with disgust and confusion and all those emotions that he'd really rather not see on his face, preferably ever, but especially not towards him.

But Aziraphale never looks up. He reads the first page 5, 6, 7 times, being sure to capture every single word. Every wrinkle in the paper, every crease.

Then he moves to the next, and then the next. He repeats this process. Every page, he scours each and every page. Searching and scanning, analyzing every word.

Crowley is frozen at the entrance of the hall, too terrifed to say a word, but too hopeful to leave. He stands there, suddenly feeling the same feeling in his chest that he felt so many years ago, in the corner of the pub, sitting in the dark, wishing for the light that he knew would never come.

He's so panicked, that he doesn't notice Aziraphale finishing the last page, and wiping the tears from his eyes. He startles when he accidentally meets his eyes, and prepares a number of excuses and deflections, all to preserve this shred of peace and safety they had carved out for themselves.

Crowley finds himself stopping the random stream of words coming out of his mouth, when he notices tears in Aziraphale's eyes

"Angel, I-"

That's all Crowley can get out before Aziraphale is walking towards him with a purpose

And suddenly Aziraphale is very close to him

Very very close

And suddenly Aziraphale's lips are on his, and Aziraphale is holding onto Crowley's jacket, and Crowley's hands are just waving in the air back and forth while he processes the last .5 seconds.

By the time he realizes what is actually happening, Aziraphale pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Crowley's, and laughs.

He laughs. Laughs. Aziraphale is laughing and it's a wonderful, beautiful noise and Crowley doesn't quite understand why, but then he's laughing too and then they are both standing there, arms around each other, laughing and Crowley realizes now that all the words he's written, all the praises he sang of his Aziraphale, the way he wished and prayed for his heart and laugh and love

Not one bit of it is at all comparable to the real thing.

#good omens #inaffable husbands #inaffable spouses #good omens 2 #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow

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solest · 5 years ago

Text

I don’t know what happened but I wrote something again. Just thought about Crowley and Aziraphale remembering the influence they had on some artists in the renaissance (well, actually it’s most about Aziraphale’s influence on a certain work of Michelangelo). Thanks to folks in the /r GO discord server for helping me out at some point and a big thanks to @seraph5 for letting me using the bit about Crowley and the statue at the end (it was her idea while I babbled on about this) and for always reading the shit I write XD.

It is 4 am right now and I’m not a native englishspeaker, so I bet there are some mistakes along the way

Here you go:

It was a lovely afternoon for a visit of the museum. The weather was not so much for a walk in the park, so this was a nice way to get out on a little date and reminisce about things one or both of them had a hand in.

Today there was an exhibition about the art of the Renaissance and both, Aziraphale and Crowley remembered one or two things about a lot of it.

Aziraphale came to a halt in front of a prototype of a pietá that was accompanied by a photoset of Michelangelo’s work. The smallish statue showed the depiction of Mary, holding the dead Jesus in her arms. On the right side of Mary’s feet you could see the rest of something that looked suspiciously like a little cherub looking creature but the head was missing and only one wing was still intact.

Crowley stopped when Aziraphale did and eyed him from the side, seeing the fond expression forming on the angel’s face.

“You were involved in this too?”

Aziraphale didn’t look at him when he answered, his gaze still on the statuette. “Ah, I guess you could say that. I just encouraged him to do what he wanted to anyways.”

“That’s a cupid there, isn’t it? And I always thought that Mary looked quite young and not very - you know- motherly.”

Aziraphale chuckled and turned to Crowley, still a smile on his face. “You’re right. But like I said, I only encouraged him. I remember visiting him on a particular evening when he was in one of his foul moods. He wasn’t very happy about me laying eyes on this draft, given that I was just presenting myself as someone from the clerical staff and all…”

He was interrupted by a snort from the demon and Aziraphale frowned at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“One of his foul moods. As far as I remember, he was a walking mood swing. No fun at all.”

“Not everyone could be as flashy as Leonardo. And you know,” Aziraphale raised one eyebrow at the demon, “I guess I have a thing for moody people, my dear.”

Crowley opened his mouth to tell him that he wasn’t moody at all, but Aziraphale turned back to the exhibit and just offered, a smidge smugly “you want to hear the story or not?”

Well, Crowley was curious by nature, so he just let that pass (for now) and Aziraphale remembered.

Michelangelo’s Workshop 1497, Rome

“Oh, what’s that? Is this a draft for Cardinal Jean Bilhères de Lagraulas’s commission? You were quite fast with that my friend”

Aziraphale wanted to take a closer look at the statue on the work bench, but the young artist took a step to block out the view.

“It’s only draft, as you say. It’s not ready to be inspected yet”. Michelangelo’s voice was strained, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if this came from his already not so good mood or the fact that he had seen the unfinished statue. In most cases, it wasn’t much of a problem for Michelangelo to show his progress to the friendly priest, he actually shared them quite readily with him. So it must have been something about the statue itself that made him so nervous.

“You know that you don’t have to hide anything from me, dear boy. I won’t say anything about it if you don’t want to hear my opinion, I swear.” Aziraphale tried to give this a bit more weight with a reassuring smile.

Michelangelo scrunched up his face at that but more in a thinking manner than distaste, the marble dust on his face giving him deeper lines than a young man in his mid-twenties should have.

Aziraphale waited, knowing the process behind the artists thinking now for a while and was rewarded with a deep sigh, followed by a “All right, but no word to anybody Aziraphale! Swear it!”

Well, it must have been something really important if he was asked to do that, but he did it to ease his companions mind. “I swear by everything that’s holy to me. Enough for you?”

Michelangelo nodded and stepped aside, giving Aziraphale the opportunity to watch his work closely. It was a depiction of Mary, holding the dying Jesus in her arms tenderly, quite more so than he had seen on other depictions of that particular scene. The details were breathtaking as always, even though this was only a mere draft for the project; Michelangelo was a perfectionist after all. Mary’s face was fair and young, showing a delicate sadness.

It wasn’t uncommon to interpret the holy mother as young and fair, but something about this one seemed to be a different. The way she was holding the body, draped over her lap had an intimacy to it that was not meant for a mother and her son. Aziraphale’s noticed something on the right side of Mary’s feet and his eyes widened as he realized it was a little cupid, a sign for lovers.

Michelangelo watched Aziraphale closely, wringing his hands nervously and waiting for the priest to say something. “That’s gorgeous, as always, but…I assume that this is not the mother of Christ you’re showing here. It’s Mary Magdalene, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale was saying this just matter of fact way, no judgment or anything suspicious in his voice. Why should he be, he had known that woman, quite a nice young lady. Michelangelo seemed to be in a mix of relived and confused, still tense and brows furrowed.

��Y…yes… I know it’s blasphemous to do such a thing, I won’t do it for the actual statue but…I heard things, Aziraphale, back in Florence, and I just can’t make them unheard!” he nearly whispered this, like he was concerned to get caught at something forbidden. Well, it actually was, for the humans at the Vatican anyways.

Aziraphale had heard about that too, the thesis that Jesus had actually loved and married Mary Magdalene, which would have made him more of a human and less of the holy son of God, untouchable and above the human desires. The angel sighed at the thought of that and smiled fondly at his young friend, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to fear anything Michelangelo; I’m not going to tell anyone about this. I’ve heard that too and who said that there’s no truth in that? Well, beside the pope and all, but as a scholar I have to say that rumors always hold a spark of truth within”.

He knew that terrible things had happened to people with that mindset, so he tried to sooth the young man as good as possible.

Michelangelo’s eyes grew wide as moons, hearing that from an actual priest of the Vatican and he grabbed Aziraphale’s other hand in both of his. “You did? Oh tell me, tell me what you’ve read!”

Aziraphale was a bit startled by that outburst but he was relieved that the young man was just showing unbound curiosity now instead of that dreadful anxiety and bad mood.

He suggested to sit down and have drink, while Aziraphale told him about the son of god and Magdalene as if he had read about it somewhere.

He remembered them talking intensely, sitting close to each other and growing closer and closer over the time they spend together. Never once Magdalene forgot who that young man from Nazareth was, but Aziraphale could tell that there was something more. He remembered one conversation with her on a brief meeting, talking about love. She simply said that Jesus loved everybody equally, but Aziraphale could tell from those stolen glances between the two and the waves of a more personal love that he felt that time. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but in the far back of his mind a small voice was telling him, that he sported some similar glances whenever meeting a certain demon.

Michelangelo hung on his lips while he spun that tail, not saying anything to interrupt the priest, which was very unlikely for him. Eventually Aziraphale came to an end.

“And you know, in the end there was something greater than them, I think they both knew. You can’t be selfish when you’re the messiah and all; he had a destiny to fulfill, and she knew that too.” He looked up from his cup, still having all of Michelangelo’s focus on him who had absorbed every word.

Silence fell over them for a moment before the young man spoke again. “That…that sounds very romantic _actually. Where have you read that again?” _

Aziraphale looked back into his cup, trying to come up with something. “Oh a very old scroll. I don’t think that it’s still in the library, something scandalous like this and all. But I hope that this ensures you that your secret is well kept. I wouldn’t recommend the cupid on the actual commission though”

He grinned and Michelangelo answered it with one of his own. After that evening they became actual friends; the young man was always eager to see Aziraphale and complain about that damn bastard da Vinci or he showed him his sketches and drafts. Sometimes he seemed to blush and at one occasion he even asked if he could sketch Aziraphale. But as it always were with the fleeting live of humans and Aziraphale’s duty as an Angel he couldn’t keep that friendship up for too long and they paths separated eventually.

Back to London, present day.

Crowley actually listened to all of this without interrupting. It was quite a nice little story and he remembered his days with Leonardo vividly, also his complaints about this youngsters who behaved like he was walking around with a stick in his arse.

They kept on walking after Aziraphale had finished, when another presumably work of Michelangelo let Crowley stop this time. It was an unfinished statue, not too big but out of the white carrara marble as all the other serious works. Crowley knew why he was drawn to it when he took a better look, growing a grin on his face that showed more teeth than necessary. “I think you left quite the expression, Angel.”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks and looked at Crowley, quite confused. “What do you mean? We were good friends I…oh…oh no”

He looked at not quite finished statue of a man that could be some depiction of a saint or an antique figure from roman mythology for how he was shown, but Aziraphale was staring back at his own face, adorned with a soft smile, a scroll in hand and draped in a tunic.

“Well…that is a bit embarrassing. He sketched me once, but I thought that was just for a study and he never told me that he was actually doing, well, this.”

Crowley just laughed at this, thinking of Michelangelo looking longingly at Aziraphale while the angel was oblivious. Well, Crowley got the Mona Lisa so why not an unnamed statue for his angel.

Aziraphale looked at the statue of himself a last time, smiling fondly and moved on then. Crowley just stayed a moment longer, taking in all the details and the love that must have been involved in the process of making this. The artist must have had quite the crush back then. Crowley laughed to himself, muttering a “Me too Michelangelo, me too…” before catching up to Aziraphale.

They stayed in the museum for a little longer, even holding hands at some point and on their way to the Bentley.

Shortly before they reached the car Crowley stopped.

“Ah…I know it was much later, but do you remember Bernini, angel?”

“I do. What are you up to Crowley…?”

“You do know the Statue ‘ecstasy of Saint Teresa’? I may have drunken a bit too much with the guy responsible and I may have told him a little story about you and the good old Teresa…”

He grinned again, all teeth, while Aziraphale was going through pictures of statues in his mind. He watched in delight as the angel found what he mentioned and looked up at him in a mix of shock and embarrassment.

“Crowley! I told you about that in private and it was a very awkward situation. I never looked like…like that while doing it!”

Crowley opened the door on the passenger side for Aziraphale while laughing and they kept on arguing about this all the way back to the bookshop. He had not forgotten that commentary about the mood swings.

#good omens #good omens ficlet #good omens drabble #aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #go #renaissance nonsense #I knew that crowley was close to Leonardo #so why not make aziraphale close to his rival?#I just like his statues very much

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years ago

Text

Within the Circles

Good Omens Spooky/Whump fic.

This fic was written for the @tricketyboo2020 “Trick-or-Treat” prompts; @peppervl requested a scary angel/demon summoning, with the summoners wanting to hurt their captive, a rescue, and Hurt/Comfort (non-graphic and SFW). Well, I have Part 1 ready to go, but rescue and comfort are still being written! I’ll try to get out more later today!

This fic is massive (part 1 is just under 5k), so please consider reading on AO3!

Part 1: Circles of Protection

Crowley snapped awake, fighting off the dream, just as the sun rose. He could still taste the salt and smoke, still see the black candles, the silver sigils laid into the floor, still hear the careful chanting – the words changed over the centuries, but the intent always remained the same.

Someone had started the process of summoning a demon last night, and Crowley was the unlucky target.

“Bad dream?” He shook himself out of the reverie to see Aziraphale smiling down at him, reaching over to gently brush strands of bright red hair from his eyes. “You always get clingy when you have one.”

“Nh.” Crowley was pressed as close to his angel’s side as he could get, arms twined around soft stomach, one leg hooked over Aziraphale’s knees. There was a warmth emanating from him, surrounding them both, a warmth that had nothing at all to do with Hell or Earth, a warmth that could heal everything in Crowley within seconds. “Better already.” He pressed his face into the soft tartan flannel, soaking it all in.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” A little too quickly, perhaps, but Aziraphale didn’t try to pry, simply pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing deeply, as if he enjoyed the burnt-match smell that still clung to Crowley even after all this time out of Hell.

“Alright. Get some more sleep then, darling, it’s only just after seven.”

But Crowley didn’t have time to sleep. He needed to prepare.

Was the New Moon tonight? Most likely. And it was halfway between the Harvest and Hunter moons. The night the humans would have the most power. More than Crowley could resist on his own. Hard to judge how strong they were – felt like at least three, could be more. Already he could feel their hook in his mind, tugging at him. It was just lucky his mental defenses were still intact, or else they’d have him now, bound to a circle, and the questions…

Aziraphale noticed how tense he was, rubbed a hand down his back. “Crowley, dear, it’s alright. Just a dream. It’s over now.”

No, it wasn’t over. It had barely even begun.

“Angel…” he started slowly, not wanting to pull away. “I’ve got…some things to take care of today. Why don’t you head back to the shop?”

“Oh, no, I’d much rather stay with you.” There was no denying the growing concern in his voice.

“Really has to be done alone.”

“Can you tell me about it?” Now Aziraphale’s fingers clutched at the back of Crowley’s shirt.

“Ngh.”

He could. Aziraphale could probably help him. Even with his defenses, Crowley would be in for a fight tonight, and there was no one else he’d rather have at his side.

Except.

Except Crowley would have to tell him. Would have to say the words out loud. Would have to admit to all that fear and pain, and see the horror he could just barely keep buried reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes and then what was he supposed to do?

No. Much better to face this alone, as he always had. He could fight this off, and after the New Moon the humans wouldn’t be able to do more than irritate him, no matter how large their group. They’d lose the trace on him in a day or two, and that would be the end of it.

Besides, Aziraphale would only worry. And fuss. And get anxious and lose his appetite, and a thousand other things Crowley had sworn to keep him safe from.

No, this was the way it had to be.

“S’nothing to worry about.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand, kissed the back of it. Covering up his nerves as best he could. “Just demon stuff. I’ll call you first thing in the morning when I’m done. We can...mmm…go for a picnic?”

“It’s a bit cold for a picnic,” Aziraphale admonished, wearing his most put-upon frown. “And you know I would much rather spend the day with my husband.”

“Nh, I’m in trouble.” Crowley tried to smile, pushing himself to sit up. He felt a wave of cold the moment he moved away from Aziraphale, his mind filling with that echo of chanting, but he quickly slid beside his angel, head on his shoulder, arm around his middle. Back into the warmth. “I know you only call me husband when you’re angry at me.”

“Or when I’m angry at someone else. Do you remember that rude man in the park?”

“How could I forget?” This time his smile was almost genuine. “You made that old bigot cry. It was beautiful.”

“Well. I obviously didn’t want to use such harsh language, but there were children around. I couldn’t have them thinking his behaviour was socially acceptable.”

“My hero,” Crowley said mockingly, lifting Aziraphale’s hand to kiss it again.

“Stop trying to distract me. Why don’t I stay here and, I don’t know, make you tea? I know how to stay out of the way.”

“I just...it’s easier this way.” Another kiss. “And we do whatever you want tomorrow. Dinner? Trip to Paris? What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale pulled away a little, trying to see his face more clearly. “And...you promise it’s safe?”

There was no hiding the way Crowley hesitated, but he pushed through it quickly. “If everything goes right, worst thing that’ll happen is a sleepless night for me. No one else gets hurt, promise.” Not unless something went very, very wrong.

“I still don’t like it,” Aziraphale sighed. “But…I suppose…a nice walk in the woods? See the leaves?”

“Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Scarecrow competition?” Crowley nodded eagerly. “And...a maize maze? Oh, a vegetable grower’s contest! There’s one at that farmer’s market over in Oxfordshire – we can stop by Tadfield and see how everyone is. And then we can fly kits and carve pumpkins and – and have a bonfire with marshmallows—”

“We can’t do all that in a day!” The demon slumped back down with a dramatic groan, head hitting the pillows with a thud.

“You said whatever I like. And if I’m to be deprived of your company for a day, I expect you to make it up to me.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, rubbing his jaw. “S’Friday tomorrow anyway. We can make a weekend of it.” He’d need to recover, and a weekend out of London sounded more appealing than ever. “Just promise you’ll let me take a nap first. Then we can head over, take the kids wherever you like. I’ll even do jack-o-lanterns. Show them how to make a proper one out of a turnip.”

“Alright. It’s a deal.” Aziraphale leaned across and kissed his lips. “And if you insist on being mysterious and secretive, that just gives me an entire day to think of wonderful autumn activities for you. There will be fuzzy jumpers. Maybe a crown of leaves.”

“Bastard.” Crowley kissed him back, trying to pull in every ounce of that warmth.

He’d need it to get through the night.

The back room of Crowley’s flat contained his most important possessions – an eagle lectern rescued from a bombed out church, several artworks by Leonardo da Vinci, a photograph of Aziraphale, the first he’d taken when they no longer needed to keep themselves a secret.

He hadn’t meant for the room to have a theme, but all the important things in his life tended to have something in common.

He tugged open the safe that had once held his flask of Holy Water. The flask itself was long gone - Aziraphale had whisked even that away, a gruesome reminder of his greatest fear. Crowley had never considered asking for a replacement; the first had nearly cost Crowley the most precious thing in his life, and that was too high a price to pay.

Still, he wondered how Aziraphale would react if he knew about the box.

Tucked in a corner of the safe sat the simple chest of dark wood, sigils traced across the lid with little more than a hint of the silver that had once inlaid them. Still, they remained strong enough to keep the box safe, and to keep Crowley safe from it. Even picking it up made the hair prickle down his arms, his fingers tingle. It was almost too heavy to lift.

He carried it to a table in his solarium, settling it between trembling plants. They, at least, would have a relaxing day. No time to shout at them now. The lid rattled when he set it down - it had once locked securely, with a key that he carried everywhere, until an emergency caught him unprepared and Crowley had shattered the latch to get inside. He should get it replaced, probably, but in truth the only one he needed to keep out was himself.

Crowley flipped back the lid.

The inside was lined with deep red velvet, worn and torn in many places, and packed tight with rows of glass vials. Some held salt, others spices, herbs, small stones, one even had a jumble of tiny iron nails; the largest held pure black ink. A side compartment held larger stones – amethyst, agate, selenite, quartz. In another, a bundle of candles, black and white and deep violet. An Evil Eye pendant, the back carved with symbols of protection even more obscure.

Every good luck charm, every token of protection that humanity had ever devised. Everything that had ever been waved at him in fear, in an attempt to ward off the evil spirit - everything except holy symbols. Not because he feared them more (though he did), but because they wouldn’t be any help to him now.

Even without the Holy Water, Crowley could still be a danger to himself. Every object in this chest, if used properly, could harm a demon – some of them almost fatally.

He’d learned long ago that sometimes he needed to take risks to protect himself.

Crowley decided to make his stand in the bedroom. No windows, only one door, practically a cave, though a literal cave would have been better. He miracled out all the furniture, leaving a glass-fronted concrete cube, facing west across the solarium to the windows, then set to work scrubbing walls, floor, even ceiling until it was almost astringently clean.

Grabbing a bowl from the kitchen, he mixed salt, black pepper, cayenne and a few other ingredients, muttering words of power few humans would still remember. His fingers began to sting as he stirred them through the mixture, but that just meant it was working. Crowley carefully poured a thin line of black and white powder, moving in a clockwise circle in the center of the bedroom, being careful to leave a gap to move in and out through.

Four black candles, set at the cardinal points; four white halfway between them. Three violet, inside the circle. He wasn’t sure if those last ones did anything, but he’d never been summoned while burning them, and he wasn’t going to risk it now.

Another clockwise pass through the room, putting down incense burners – cedar, cloves, dragon’s blood, sandalwood. Even unlit, the scent of them made his lungs ache. He could feel the power building in the room, like a charge of static electricity, like lightning looking for a place to ground itself.

The vial that should have held garlic was empty. He’d used it all back in the 70s and never replaced it. Stupid. Careless. He could miracle some up, but he’d learned the hard way that anything he manifested would be useless for protection until cleansed by a witch. Book Girl would probably help if he asked, but not without asking questions and making it a whole thing. She wouldn’t be as bad as Aziraphale, but it still wouldn’t be good.

Besides, he didn’t even have time for a trip to the grocery store, never mind Tadfield.

The jar of ink, thankfully, was filled to the top. He snapped his fingers to create a paintbrush – that, at least, he could manifest safely – and set to work dabbing sigils of protection on the floor and across the walls. They were hasty, badly formed – but each one hurt, a burning flash of pain up his arm as he finished it, some of them jabbing at his heart. He couldn’t imagine what a proper sigil would do to him, so he went for quantity over quality.

Sixteen around the outside of the salt-and spices circle, eight more around the inside, and one on each wall. In between he set the stones, piles of herbs, and glass jars filled with dried flowers and less savoury items.

The protection in the air was almost palpable now, dragging across his skin, clinging to him like the heat in a sauna. It made his head spin, and he wasn’t even done.

The box was nearly empty now, just a pile of assorted good luck charms – a horseshoe, a rabbit’s foot, a stone with a hole worn through the center – and the Evil Eye amulet.

They burned when he picked them up.

Fumbling, Crowley set the last items around the innermost circle, barely leaving himself space to sit.

Every time he stepped into the solarium, it was like the shock of a cool breeze on a hot day, or the flare of a campfire on a frozen winter night. Both at the same time. A relief. The bedroom repelled him.

He leaned against the table, eyeing the empty chest, trying to think of anything he’d missed.

Nearly sunset. No time now.

He reached for the box of matches, then hesitated.

Heading to the back room one more time, Crowley made a quick call on his mobile phone.

“Hello,” a cheerful voice called across the line, and a little worry unknotted almost immediately. “I’m sorry, you just missed us. We’ve been closed since August—”

“It’s me.”

“Oh! Crowley! How are you? Did you, er, take care of what you needed to do?”

“Nh. Finishing up now.” He grabbed what he needed and turned back, feet dragging as if he could delay the inevitable. “Few more hours. So. Um. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Well, of course I’m worried, you silly thing.”

“Really you don’t—” The sky burned red as the sun sank behind the buildings of Mayfair. The hook in Crowley’s mind stirred to life.

“It’s my job to worry about you, dear,” Aziraphale went on. “Why don’t you let me come down and help. I’m sure whatever it is—”

“Nuh. No chance.” He snatched up the box of matches, hand shaking so badly half of them immediately spilled onto the floor. Get it together, Crowley! “Stay wh – where you are.”

“Crowley!” Now there was no mistaking the deep concern. “Something is wrong, I can hear it in your voice.”

“S’fine.” Why was his voice so high?

“I don’t believe that for a second.” A pause, while Aziraphale probably paced around the room, lips pressed together. “I...I know you have your secrets, and I’ve never pried. I won’t start tonight. But, please, just tell me...are you sure everything is alright?”

Crowley took a deep breath, pulling off his glasses to rub at his eyes. No, he wasn’t sure. There was nothing sure about summonings. He’d be in for a fight tonight, and the smallest thing to distract him or throw off his wards could bring disaster.

He knew what he was doing, he was good at this, really. Hadn’t lost the fight in centuries. Not since 1386, when a group of seven summoners had overwhelmed all his defenses. Of course, Crowley had barely escaped them, and when he had…

No. He would not – could not – tell Aziraphale that.

But he wouldn’t lie, either.

“Honestly…no. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

“Crowley…”

“S’fine. M’gonna feel…” His throat closed up, and it had very little to do with the lingering scents of incense. “Feel so much better when I see you tomorrow.”

A short pause, and then a voice so soft it nearly broke Crowley on the spot: “I love you, dearest.”

“Yeah.” Crowley wiped at his eyes again. “I, uh…” Swallowed, tried to clear his throat. “I…”

A tug of power at the back of his mind, almost too subtle to feel. So strong already. The sun hadn’t even fully set.

“I gotta go.” Crowley’s voice was rough, even to his own ears. “Call you in the morning.”

He shoved the mobile into his pocket and hurried back into the bedroom, striking a match as he went, trying to keep his fingers from trembling and putting it out.

Moving clockwise around the room one last time, he carefully lit candles and incense, filling the room with thick, cloying scents. The tug on his mind weakened, but the protective charms were almost as bad, flaring across his skin like red-hot razor blades.

When everything was complete, he settled in the center of the room and poured out the last of the salt-and-spices mixture, closing the circle. At least seven layers of protection surrounded him, candles and charms and sigils and everything else humanity’s fantastic imagination could devise.

Crowley tied the amulet around his neck, where it hung like a millstone, and placed the object he’d retrieved from the back room in front of him: the photograph of Aziraphale, smiling at St James’s Park, three days after the world had ended and a better one had taken its place.

The picture wouldn’t provide any protection, but it made Crowley feel stronger anyway.

“Right, Angel,” he managed, crossing his legs and hunching his shoulders. “Here we go.”

Through the windows of the solarium, he watched the sun vanish.

The first attack came an hour after sunset, at 7:18 PM, just as the tension was beginning to make Crowley’s back ache.

Candles flickered around the room, and the flames turned violet-black, one by one, growing, towering almost up to the ceiling. Whenever a candle shifted, it tugged at Crowley, absorbing his own power as much as the power invading his space.

A wind stirred around the circle of salt, sending stray grains rattling and tumbling away. Glass vials rattled and clicked, but so far everything held. Crowley tried to recite the mantra he used - Latin, very dignified and appropriate - but he kept messing up the words.

The air of the room sucked at him, like the sea going out before a wave, and Crowley barely had time to brace himself before the wind solidified, slamming against his circle like a physical force, swirling around him, coiling, boiling, trying to find a way in.

Each impact rattled him, and the hook in his mind pulled, trying to drag him towards the door.

“No, no, no, fuck off!” He braced his feet against the floorboards and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave up on the Latin and tried something more his style: Get the fuck out of my home, repeated, over and over, until it was no longer words, just a wave of sound.

The power slammed against his circle again, nearly knocking him over. One foot lashed out, and his toe caught one of the glass vials of protective herbs. It teetered - spun - and fell over, rolling towards the circle of salt. “Oh, shit, no--”

Before he could put the blessed thing back, the power sensed the hole in his defenses and struck. It hit him in the chest, like an arrow, like a harpoon, and the force of it threw him to the ground. Gasping and twisting, Crowley sprawled on the bedroom floor, scrambling for something to hold on to as the line of power started to pull, dragging him towards the door. He scratched at the concrete floor, the ink-drawn sigils, but there was nothing to hold. His toe tapped another vial.

Fuck, why did I put so many of these things in here? He used the pull on his chest to force himself to sit up, despite the pain, and caught the vial before it fell. The first one had come to rest just shy of the circle of powders, leaving them unbroken. Where did this one come from? All the blessed trinkets made circles within circles, and if he didn’t plug the gap—

Something not-quite-solid shot around Crowley’s neck, constricting, squeezing, pulling him to his feet, up, off the ground. It was a hand, he could feel it, fingers digging into his flesh, becoming more real as it tried to pull him to his destination. Crowley twisted in the air, helpless, feet kicking futilely at a captor who stood miles away, scratching at his own neck in his desperation to get free.

One finger shifted, brushed across the amulet he wore, and suddenly it released him, dropping Crowley in a heap in the middle of the circle. He coughed and tugged at the charm, which sliced his finger like broken glass even though it was still intact, and crawled across the sigils to the gap in the circle of stones and jars. Another bolt of pain struck his shoulder, insubstantial fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, but with a scream of “Leave me the fuck alone,” Crowley slammed the little glass jar back into place—

A flash of black light and a shock of pain through every nerve—

And suddenly everything was still again.

The candles burned, blue flames steady, the circles unbroken.

Crowley curled into a ball at the center of the circle, shielding his wounds. Everything hurt, his ribs, his shoulder, his back, his neck. He felt like he should be a bloody, bruised mess, but apart from the tiny cut on his finger there was no sign of injury. And beyond that, the cold, every part of him down to his core, a bone-deep cold beyond shivering.

With a great effort, he managed to push his sleeve up enough to see his watch.

7:24 PM.

It was going to be a long night.

Already, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the chanting again, calling to him. The candles started shifting from blue to black. Already.

His eyes fell on the picture of Aziraphale, smiling like a bastard by the duck pond after stealing Crowley’s ice cream. Crowley hadn’t been angry. He’d ordered Aziraphale’s favorite for a reason.

“S’gonna be alright, Angel,” Crowley muttered, forcing himself to sit up even though his arms and chest and head felt like lead. “I’ll see you soon.”

No wind this time; the summoners tried a different approach. The quartz crystals began to glow and hum, a high-pitched noise that ground against Crowley’s eardrums.

He braced himself, eyes on the door.

“Alright, you assholes. Do your worst.”

Crowley was not winning.

Candles lay scattered across the floor, most with flames snuffed out, and he had long since lost the power to miracle them back into place. The charms, the herbs, the incense - everything had failed, one by one. Even the sigils were smudged beyond recognition.

Every part of his body was bruised, broken, sore.

Now Crowley clung to the ceiling as a powerful wind shifted the circle of salt, grain by grain breaking down his last barrier. His fingers dug into the light fixture, even as more lines of power than he could count buried themselves into his bones, hauling him towards the door. Metal twisted under his fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned as the circle below grew thinner – thinner – and vanished altogether, breaking the protection with a snap he felt in his soul.

The forces pulling on him – harpoons and snares and hands and everything else the bastards had thrown – suddenly became irresistibly strong, ripping him free, dragging Crowley back along the ceiling.

His feet slammed into the glass above the door, bracing him, but only for the moment.

It was the last line of defense, the last thing keeping him safe – once he passed through the door they would have him. He pawed at his jacket looking for any other tricks – the amulet had burst shortly after midnight, all the powders burned to nothing, even his mobile phone was gone, lost in some struggle he barely remembered.

Nothing remained but his legs bracing against the wall and ceiling, his mind bracing against the pain and the call, and his glasses…

Shit, that might work.

He pulled them off and glared at the lenses. More black holes than mirrors, but they might be reflective enough.

It was dangerous, trying to reflect power back on the attacker. It worked best if you knew who was attacking you and where they were. A desperate stab in the dark could go wrong in too many ways.

Worse, leaning forward to attempt this might tip his balance enough to drop him through the door, ending this fight entirely.

But what else could he do? Try to hide in this corner until dawn released him?

The glass cracked under his feet.

Now or never.

Planting his feet on the ceiling, Crowley swung his head down, glasses in hand and pointed west, through the door, in the direction the power pulled him. Shoved them right where the pull was strongest and snarled, “Get out of here! Find some other bastard to play your games. I’m not fucking going!”

And just like that, the power released him.

Crowley hit the floor – hard – hard enough to crack his ribs, if they weren’t already damaged, hard enough to slam his teeth against each other. He spat out a mouthful of blood – had he bit his tongue? Or some other injury in the night, ignored until now? – and wriggled across the floor, grabbing four candles as quick as he could. North, east, south, west, all around him. One still flickered and he used it to light the rest before the attack could come again.

But…nothing came. Not even the chanting in the back of his mind.

He looked at his watch, cracked but still running. 5:08 AM.

Had it worked? Had he made it through the night?

Crowley shook his head and let his gaze drift around the room, trying to focus on anything.

What a mess. Broken glass, plant matter and powders scattered everywhere, formless smears of ink, burnt-out wax stubs. Even his glasses were destroyed, frames twisted, glass melted.

Would he have to do this again tonight? Most summoners could only manage an attack like this on certain nights when the forces of the universe aligned, but these had been strong and persistent. There was a chance…

At the center of the room, Aziraphale’s picture suddenly burst into flames, turning to ashes in a heartbeat. Too quickly for a stray spark, for a mundane fire.

“Shit, no, no,” Crowley’s eyes darted around the wreckage for his mobile. Had he dropped it in the corner? Blown out of the room in a stray wind? He snapped his fingers, trying to summon it, but he couldn’t find a whiff of power.

It could be a mistake. It could be a trap. One step out from his makeshift candle circle, and they’d have him, and Crowley didn’t have the strength left to endure what came next.

But if something had happened to Aziraphale, that didn’t fucking matter, did it?

One cautious step past the candles, half in and half out. Nothing.

Three steps to the door, leaning through into the incongruously still-clean flat. Nothing. The plants didn’t even stir.

He crossed the solarium, gazing out through the windows at the night sky. The miracle that allowed him to see the stars despite the lights of the city was rapidly fading, as he hadn’t even the strength to sustain it, but he could still see Venus, clear as lamplight, and Regulus, and Leo…

It wasn’t even near dawn.

And still, nothing tugged at him, nothing beckoned.

Which could only mean…

Crowley ran from the room, all pain forgotten.

“No, no, no, shit, shit, shit, no, no, shit, fuck, no,” he muttered the entire drive to Aziraphale’s shop, an excruciating three and a half minutes at speeds the Bentley had never previously reached.

The east window lights were on, the rest of the shop dimmed, the way Aziraphale liked it when he was reading all night in his favorite chair.

The door was blown wide open.

Crowley slammed the Bentley into park right in the middle of the road and staggered out. “No, no, no, Azira—”

There, lying in the doorway: a suit, a waistcoat, a tartan bow tie.

Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley had told the summoners to find some other bastard, and they had. They’d found his bastard.

He collapsed in the street, and for the first time that night, screamed in pain.

Thank you for reading, and I’m so sorry! More coming soon!! Special thanks to @angel-and-serpent who gave me so many ideas for protection magic, I’m probably going to have to write MORE fics with witchcraft in them! In particular, thanks for the idea that the protections would hurt Crowley as much as help him, which really allowed me to go off.

#good omens fanfiction #tricketyboo2020 #spookylvl2 #angst #whump #aziraphale and crowley #hurt crowley #scared crowley #witchcraft #demon summoning #after the apocalypse #established couple #My writing #good omens #ineffable husbands #ao3 link

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once-upon-the-earth · 4 months ago

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genuinely this is something I think about every day. Because I don’t think they ever really „learned“ to not get attached. They don’t form very close, intimate friendships with humans anymore (at least none we know of) but the mentioned ones - Leonardo DaVinci, Jane Austen, Prof. Hoffmann, all those - seem fairly recent in the great span of time they spent on Earth. It's all scattered over that past millennia from 1000 to 2000 AD, so it's not like we can see a specific point where they just stopped. Not a lot from before that time are mentioned (I remember Aziraphale was a knight at King Arthurs court and can't imagine him NOT making friends there, and I know Crowley kind of knew Jesus, but I can't recall any other mentions of friends, please tell me if I'm forgetting anything), but we can assume they didn't only start making lots of memorable human friends after 1000 AD.

And even in the present day they aren't exactly closed off. They still become friends with Nina and Maggie. They still get attached to Warlock (somewhat at least). Crowley’s car still only plays Queen and even though him and Freddie Mercury being best friends for a while, while Freddie was alive, is just a headcanon - it’s a pretty plausible one to me. And if we think about their little Jane Austen talk in S2, or about the multiple mentions of Aziraphale's author friends, they never speak about people they knew with any hardness or sadness to them, just with fondness and fascination. Like "yeah it was cool as fuck to have known that person because they were cool as fuck and look here, I still have that cool thing (book, music, a sketch) from them!"

I think they cling to each other now more than ever because they hung around each other more during those eleven years before the first apocalypse and also because during the four years after Armageddon they felt finally allowed to openly be friends.

They definitely aren’t in any very deep friendships with humans right now, though, which could be because maybe, during the years leading up to Armageddon, they thought, "hey if humans as a species won't be around much longer, maybe we shouldn't get attached to lots of them right before the end" or simply had too much to do to make lots of human friends. Maybe it's also just kind of a pause - the people we know they were friends with are scattered over the centuries and since their perception of time is probably different from ours, there might just be times where they don't really want to be around lots of friends or simply don't find anybody they think is interesting enough to risk getting into a deep friendship with. Especially because getting into such a relationship would likely require "comign out" as an immortal, so to speak.

On a side note, they seem to be friends mostly with fairly memorable, talented people (writers, inventor, composers, singers) and if they're just chilling in Aziraphale's bookshop drinking wine together, and if Aziraphale especially isn't willing to listen to modern music or read modern books, they aren't exactly meeting lots of those people (which I think is a shame. They should make Nina the most memorable, world-best barista ever. They should make Maggie a star. They should go out and meet up with Beyoncé. But that's just my opinion).

I also think that Aziraphale definitely makes a lot more friends than Crowley. There's lots more friends of Aziraphale's mentioned throughout canon, mostly authors and people like King Arthur, and Crowley, as far as I know, only really mentiones two people: Jane Austen (who he stole things with) and DaVinci, who gave him the sketch. Aziraphale, in comparison, has a bunch of copies of books from his friends, one (or perhaps more, we don't know) of them literally dedicated to him. We also see him in a definitely friendly, maybe even friend-ish relationship with Maggie at the start of s2 and he also seems to know Nina enough that she feels comfortable to joke around with him - „you’re a dark horse, Mr Fell“. Crowley is little more closed off and gets approached more than he talks to people himself. He also hides himself from humanity, see sunglasses, etc.

I think they love humanity too much to distance themselves entirely. They will never stop making human friends simply because it hurts to lose them. They simply talk to each other the most because they’re each other’s best friends and if you’re one of two immortals around on Earth, you wont really be understood on the same level by any human. There's definitely still a wall between them and humanity. They can't understand humans entirely themselves (Crowley's "I will never get the hang of you lot" from S2 comes to mind), they can't broadcast what or who they really are the way some humans are capable of, which makes it hard to form friendships and makes them quick to retreat to each other instead. But they never make an obvious effort to shut humans out, who want to make friends with them. They love humanity too much for that and thats kind of what Good Omens is about in the end, right?

Crowley: pfft humans. You can't let yourself get too attached

Aziraphale: No, I suppose not.

How many humans did it take for them to feel this way? How many humans did they love and lose before they didn't allow themselves that attachment anymore?

Aziraphale keeps himself surrounded by books written by people he had met in person. Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, S.W. Erdnase, and Prof Hoffman are all authors I know he keeps off the top of my head. His copies are signed personally

"To Mr. Fell, a wonderful student" Says his copy of Modern Magic.

And Crowley has a sketch from DaVinci. Imagine how personal their relationship had to have been for DaVinci to gift that to him.

What was their breaking point? Who did they lose that they said 'never again will I get attached to a human.' And instead, cling to one another.

#this got very very long it was supposed to be like two paragraphs #but I realized that Im very invested in the kind of dynamic they have with humans and death #and what it means for them to constantly have to brush with humanity #definitely correct me if theres anyting in here thats wrong i dont have the book with me right now and i dont entirely trust myself to #find the right scnes in the show lmao so filtering info from my intensely obsessed headcanon-mushed brain it is #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley over the centuries #aziracrow #ineffable idiots #anthony j crowley

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yamisnuffles · 4 years ago

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Dig Down

Part 9 of Too Much of a Good Thing

Hell comes to congratulate Crowley on the Spanish Inquisition. When Crowley's curiosity gets the better of him, he ends of shaken to the core.

Read on Ao3

“You, my friend, are a terrible model.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at Leonardo. “What? How can anyone be a terrible model? All I have to do is sit about. Maybe you’re just a terrible artist.”

“Maybe so.” Leonardo laughed and set his sketch aside. “But I would hardly call what you do sitting.”

Crowley had one foot tucked underneath him and the other thrown over the arm of the chair. He was reasonably certain he hadn’t started in this position. He’d done his best to channel Aziraphale, back straight and hands folded neatly on his lap, when first Leonardo had started his drawing. He flung both of his legs out and used the momentum to stand. His floor length braid swung pendulously behind him.

“Can’t help it,” he said with an easy shrug. “Sitting around that long is unnatural.”

Leonardo gave him an appraising look. “What’s unnatural is the way you walk.”

Crowley stilled instantly. “What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

“I didn’t say it was wrong. Really, it’s quite pleasant to watch but it does make me long to see the muscle and bone beneath. There is certainly something intriguing going on there.”

Aziraphale had commented a few times on the way he walked. Then again, Aziraphale had also commented on his hands, his nose, his hair, his eye, his freckles, his knees, his teeth, and everything else about him. To hear it from another, he worried he didn’t look as convincingly human as he hoped. It made him conscious of every step to a degree that very nearly caused him to trip. He saved himself by leaning against the table where Leonardo’s sketch had been cast aside.

He plucked the red chalk drawing up between long, spindly, ostensibly human fingers and examined it with eyes he knew were not a color found amongst mortal men. The face was cleverly rendered but everything from the shoulders down was decidedly more gestural.

“Mind if I take this?”

Leonardo dismissed the image with a wave. “Go right ahead. I can hardly use it for anything, though perhaps you can repay me by sitting for a portrait. Your face makes for a good study, even if the rest of you refuses to behave. You’d make an interesting angel, I think.” When Crowley sputtered incoherently in response, Leonardo laughed again. “A piece I was commissioned for,” he explained. “Or, part of one, anyway. For now, I have other work to do and I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your angel.”

Crowley felt his cheeks burn. Rather than try for a reply he knew would only come out as a garbled mess, he carefully rolled up the drawing and bobbed his head in thanks. “Well, whenever you want to get that portrait done, you know where to find me,” he said as he hastily made his exit from the studio. He could only take so much embarrassment in one day and he was sure Aziraphale had stored some up for him back at their villa.

Once he was out of the busy streets of Milan, he snapped his fingers. A note appeared, tucked into the drawing. A gift from our mutual friend, it read, to help you anticipate my return home. A grin and another snap sent it ahead. He could have gone with it but he enjoyed walking the Italian countryside. It put him in mind of breathless, startled confessions of love and kisses under the stars that added a spring to his step. He couldn’t bring himself to worry if that walk was passably human or not. He was all but skipping down the sun baked road when the smell of something putrid wafted through the summer air. He skidded to a halt just in time to avoid tripping over Hastur as he rose up through the hard packed dirt.

Crowley scowled. He should have miracled himself home and saved himself the trouble. He could very well still leave but if Hastur was bothering him, it was for a reason. It always was. It was also always something miserable that he didn’t want Aziraphale dragged into. He’d had a few hundred year’s peace after their initial meeting and, while Hastur hadn’t come around with any more job offers, he usually bore information. Wretched, gut wriggling stuff that Crowley was probably better off not knowing but could never seem to resist.

He had enough time to collect himself, to cross his arms and pretend at calm. Annoyance. He knew he could fight if he needed but he really preferred not to. Luckily it had been some time since a demon had forced him to it. Chances were today would be no different. All the same, he’d keep himself wound and ready, should it come to it.

Hastur emerged fully with a sneer already on his face. Crowley resisted the urge to push him right back down into the earth and instead asked, “What do you want? You’re sort of ruining my attempt to enjoy the fresh air.”

The corners of Hastur’s mouth widened slow and sloppily as the filth he reeked of until it formed a too wide smile. “Just came to congratulate you, Crowley. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

Crowley merely blinked. He couldn’t think of anything of note that he’d done in the past couple of centuries. Really, he’d been remarkably good, even by his own sometimes nebulous standards. He’d helped inspire a saint or two, been a patron of the arts, and had handed out the occasional blessing. Mostly he whiled away the time with Aziraphale, wherever they found themselves living as Aziraphale did jobs for Heaven. He’d even taken on a few of Aziraphale’s jobs, first as a way to let Aziraphale chase his own pursuits and then simply because he’d wanted to. Aside from helping a fellow angel skip work, he’d practically been a model angel.

“Hit your head on the way up from Hell, did you? I haven’t done anything.”

“Don’t be so modest. Weaponizing questions, really. Everyone Downstairs is impressed with this one. I’m almost jealous.”

Crowley felt a prickling down his spine. Something about this put his teeth on edge. Other than the obvious, that it was Hastur speaking to him, he didn’t know what it was about this that made him so uneasy. He wanted urgently to be home with Aziraphale. It wasn’t just the usual desire to be with his husband but something deeper than his bones. Deep as his very essence. This was the sort of warning urge that had sent him deep into the stars, once upon a time, a warning that things would shift irreparably if he did not act.

He shook the stiffness from his limbs. No need to be tense. No need to run. It was just Hastur and whatever he was babbling about. He hadn’t done anything- he really hadn’t- and nothing the demon said would change that. He took a step to walk around the demon. “If you’re done…”

Hastur angled himself to stop Crowley. He would have grabbed him if Crowley hadn’t already been on the defensive and ready to slip away. “Tell me how you did it? How’d you talk the humans into this Inquisition in Spain?”

- - - -

Crowley wasn’t sure what day it was. He wasn’t sure where he was but the near empty bottle in his hand implied a tavern or something of the sort. Usually drinks were poured into cups, though, so there was a chance he’d grabbed a bottle and taken it somewhere. That, or someone had let him simply drink from the bottle. Either way, probably not any sort of fine establishment. He wasn’t sure if he felt good or bad, either, but that was by design— don’t feel anything, don’t think. Seemed to be working fantastically judging by the fact that he could neither see, sit, nor think straight.

“There you are.”

That voice was familiar. Made something warm settle into the sloshing sea of alcohol in his system. “Here I am,” he agreed.

“Perhaps you should stop drinking a moment and look at me.”

Crowley sank down to embrace the bottle. The glass was cool against the side of his face. It felt nice. “Nah. Think I’ll just stay like this,” he said. Or, tried to say, judging by the slurred garble that slipped out of his mouth.

There was a long sigh. “Crowley.”

The bottle was carefully pried from his grip. He tried to resist, muttered a few choice curses, but was easily left slumped against his own folded arms. A gentle hand landed on his right elbow and when he turned to look at it, a face came into view. It took a moment for him to focus well enough to bring any of the features clarity but it could have stayed a bright, blessed blur and he would have known that face anywhere.

He picked up his head and beamed. “Ziraphale, s’good to see you.”

“I’m surprised you can see anything, judging by the state of you. Why don’t we get you home?”

Crowley shook his head. He abruptly stopped when the whole world seemed to shake with it. “Nope. Too drunk. Would probably discorpra- discapor- die if I tried a miracle.”

“Well then, why don’t you sober up?”

Aziraphale’s voice was low, sharp, and even. It was the sort of voice that in any other situation would have had Crowley worried but he’d done too good a job of getting rid of silly things like worries at least half a dozen bottles ago. Maybe more. He’d lost track after the first five or fifteen.

“Told you,” he said, resting his chin in the palm of one hand, “no miracles. B’sides, I don’t wanna.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “You don’t want to?”

“Nope.”

Crowley popped the ‘p’ and then repeated the sound until he fell into a fit of giggles.

“Then allow me—”

Everything was too murky for Crowley to remember why exactly the idea of sobering up sent his heart pounding and his stomach plummeting but he instantly snatched Aziraphale’s wrist to stop it from happening.

“No.”

“If you really feel so strongly about it, I won’t. Can you at least tell me why?”

Crowley opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head. Every time he reached toward the source of that feeling, something fractured and threatened to fall away completely.

He heard another long sigh. An arm wrapped around his back and another under his legs. Suddenly he was being carried. The lift into the air made him dizzy. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest. His shirt smelled nice. Like… flowers or something. Something pretty and nice. Like Aziraphale.

“You smell nice.”

“I’m glad,” Aziraphale replied flatly. “Do you have a room?”

“Dunno.”

“You don’t— where have you been staying all this time?”

“Dunno. Has it been a long time?”

Yet another sigh. Crowley felt like he should start taking count.

“It’s been over a week since I expected you back.” They started moving and Crowley had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop feeling dizzy. “Well then, if you don’t have a room and you won’t let me sober you up, what do you say to me bringing us both back home?”

Home. For much of his existence that had been a moving target with Aziraphale as a constant center. It didn’t need to be a physical place, the heart of it would always exist someplace beyond, but at the moment it was. More importantly, it was somewhere away from here. Whether he could articulate why he didn’t want to be here any longer, he knew how happy he was at the thought of leaving, particularly in Aziraphale’s arms.

Crowley hummed appreciatively and pressed in as close as he was able. There would always be a part of him that worried he would forget this form if he shifted back into his serpentine one but he missed the simplicity of it. He could never feel quite so much as a snake and he could instead rest easier, coiled around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Maybe he still would, when he sobered. He knew that Aziraphale would love him no matter his shape. It might not be better but it would be easier and, at the moment, that sounded very tempting.

There was a feeling of compression and then expansion as a miracle sent them both home. Instantly Crowley was inundated by the rich smell of oak from Aziraphale’s heavy wooden desk with a whiff on top of ink and parchment. He remembered the sound of wind rustling through the olive trees and the scratch of a quill as Aziraphale passed the nights writing while Crowley slept. Or tried to, anyhow. Oftentimes he would lay with one eye open and watch Aziraphale work by candlelight.

He thought of those nights as Aziraphale laid him on a bed that was far more comfortable than it had any right to be. Aziraphale took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Apparently neither of them was willing to break the silence that had fallen between them. Instead, Aziraphale quietly ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Or tried, as he got caught in hair that had managed to tangle despite being braided.

“When was the last time you brushed your hair?” Aziraphale asked as he drew his hand back to himself. “Or bathed? Or did anything to care for yourself?”

“You said I’ve been gone over a week? Then, uh, yeah. Probably something like that. S’not like we need to bathe or anything. Not like humans do.”

“You do if you’re going to soak yourself in alcohol and drunken humans.”

Crowley groaned and buried his face in a pillow. As it happened, an angel’s metabolism didn’t allow for passing out drunk, or that had been his experience over the last however many days of attempting to reach blissful oblivion. Maybe he could sleep, though. That might be alright.

He forgot why he’d been avoiding sleep until it overcame him. He’d gotten complacent since his marriage to Aziraphale. Even in the worst of times, life with his Principality had been a waking dream and the sleeping world had shaped itself accordingly. But the world wasn’t painted in only soft shades of cream and powdery blue, sometimes it was the harsh, steely grey of cruel human ingenuity or the slick scarlet shine of blood. The blood wouldn’t wash from his hands no matter how ferociously he scrubbed. It gathered under his nails, stained his skin, and blemished the band of gold around his finger.

Then there were the screams. They were never ending. If he pressed his palms tight as he could over his ears, they still rattled through his bones. He suspected he would continue hearing them even if he banished his ears altogether with a miracle. He just wanted them to stop. He screamed for them to stop. He begged and pleaded like he had for little else in his long existence.

Silence returned with two words. “Wake up.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. He breathed in gulps through a raw and ragged throat. He looked impulsively at his hands but they were clean. The screams had been his own, the blood imagined, and yet he couldn’t seem to free himself of the sensation of either. He rubbed senselessly at his forearms until a pair of arms encircled him like a vice and forced him to stop.

“It’s alright, dearest. You’re alright.”

“It’s alright? I’m alright?” he repeated, each statement transforming into a question in the mouth of a non-believer.

“Yes. I’m here. You’re safe.”

This time there was no doubt. There never would be, not in Aziraphale. He relaxed into Aziraphale’s arms. “Yes.”

“How about a bath?” A snap and the scent of lavender filled the suddenly humid air. “I’ll take care of it. All you’ll have to do is relax.”

Crowley let out a hollow puff of laughter. “Is that all?”

Aziraphale gripped him by the shoulders and sat him up so that they were face to face. There were tears obscuring his storm grey eyes. “Then you don’t need to do even that. Simply let me take care of you as best I can, alright?”

Crowley nodded when his throat tightened too much to make a reply. He loathed seeing Aziraphale cry.

Aziraphale helped him to his feet and out of his clothes. Each article of clothing was removed with more care than it deserved, stiff and smelling as it all did of a week’s worth of drinking in whatever establishment would have him. If he thought too closely on that he was liable to consider once more what had driven him to drink in the first place and, for Aziraphale’s sake, he was determined to at least try to relax.

He set his eyes on their bath. It was a lovely thing made of delicate white marble. Carved on the outside were scenes of angels dancing and drinking and generally having a lot more fun than real ones did. Bathing came and went in vogue with humans, but Aziraphale had developed a special fondness for it in Rome and so they’d kept a private bath wherever they settled since. Such, he supposed, was the luxury of not worrying whether the locals had plumbing anymore or not. One quick miracle and they had a full tub with steam that rolled in easy clouds off the surface.

“Come now,” Azirphale said as he took one of Crowley’s hands, “let’s see if this helps you any.”

Crowley let Aziraphale lead him to the bathtub and then climbed in without letting go of Aziraphale’s hand until he’d lowered himself most of the way down. Aziraphale carefully undid the braided hair that trailed after Crowley like a train. Once done, he gathered it up into a careful coil and deposited it in the water with Crowley. The water rose to the edge but didn’t spill over. It was just enough for Crowley and not a drop more.

Crowley let out a long, trembling breath as the hot water worked its wonders on him. He wasn’t quite as fond of bathing as Aziraphale but he did very much enjoy the act of being bathed. It was a bit like sleeping, without the danger of nightmares. Instead it was the very best sort of dream, shaped by the one he loved the most. Strong, calloused hands worked at the tense muscles in his shoulders and scented water poured over his head from a glittering copper vessel. The ritual of it was a comfort bordering on the sacred.

Aziraphale rubbed a small dab of scented oil on Crowley’s temples. “I got Leonardo’s sketch,” he said.

“I should hope so,” Crowley replied, “or I would have to worry my miracles are starting to go awry.”

Aziraphale nudged Crowley into a seated position so that he could better comb out water loosened tangles. “It was quite lovely. I do hope that you told him that and that you thanked him for his patience. I could tell you were as restless as ever at your sitting.”

“Er—” Had he thanked Leonardo? He couldn’t remember. “Oh! He asked me to come back for a proper portrait. Said I’d make a good angel.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “At least someone thinks so.” The comb hit a snag and was replaced for a moment by careful fingers. “I don’t know how you managed this.”

“Dunno.”

“You do have a talent for finding trouble.”

When one segment was finished, Aziraphale moved to the next and the next in meticulous fashion. Crowley’s eyes fell closed as he sank into the comfortable rhythm of it. He felt like a bit of flotsam tossing gently in the waves without a care in the world.

“I suppose this hair is what put Leonardo in mind of angels,” Aziraphale continued. “I don’t think you’ve had it this long since Eden.”

Crowley opened his eyes again as he pulled himself from his quiet reverie. “I mean, I was a snake for quite a while after that, so hair was sort of off the metaphorical table.”

“Indeed. But… it’s nice. I like it quite a bit when it’s this long. Of course you know how I love it no matter the length—” Crowley ignored the burn in his cheeks and Aziraphale continued to comb. “—but it’s nice to remember simpler times.”

“For the, what, handful of minutes we had them?”

“Even so.”

Simpler times. Crowley hardly remembered them. Yes, he’d forever recall his first sight of the delightfully soft Principality, high on the eastern wall of Eden, when he’d been nothing more than an out of place Seraph with perhaps a few too many questions on his lips. But any memory of that time was overshadowed by what came after. And then what came after that. And after that. And on and on and on despite all the good mixed in.

Crowley pulled his knees up and hugged them close. “Hey, so, uh, with my rude awakening earlier, I think I’ve sobered up enough to, er…” He ran his tongue over his teeth and pressed extra hard on his left incisor, which had always run a bit sharper. He didn’t want to talk about it but it was a dark and hungry secret that he worried would devour him from the inside out if he didn’t. “I remember everything, if you wanna hear about it.”

Aziraphale stilled for a moment and then continued combing Crowley’s hair. “Only if you want. You can take whatever time you need.”

“No, I should— I want to now. Maybe then I can start to forget without an ocean of alcohol to help me along.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut but when he did, he could see that faces of humans contorted beyond recognition by unfathomable pain. It was no wonder Hell was impressed. The humans were up here serving up the sort of punishments even demons might not have dreamed of. He looked instead at his hands beneath the surface of the water and reminded himself that they were not stained in blood. He tried to remind himself also that they were clean of any guilt in this, but he was less successful on that count.

“So,” he continued when Aziraphale didn’t make any response, “ran into Hastur on the way home.”

“What did that wretched demon do this time? If he’s the one that caused all this, I’ll… I’ll… well, let me think on it but it will be suitably ghastly, I assure you.”

“No, it’s not— he didn’t do anything. Well, guess he did but not like that. Not that I’m against the idea of you laying down some holy wrath on him, if you’re so inclined. But I’m—” Water splashed as he gestured broadly at himself. “Because, well, how much have you heard about the Spanish Inquisition?” He only waited half a heartbeat before charging on. “Hell thinks I cooked it up, since it’s all being done in Her name and with the whole, you know, inquisitive nature of it. Aziraphale, it’s awful.” He emptied his lungs into that word and still it didn’t seem to be enough. “Monstrous. Wretched. Abominable. Really, really… bad. I’d say hellish but apparently they hadn’t even thought up half the things these humans have. Got the impression they’re taking notes.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded so small behind him. “Oh, Crowley. Why did you go look?”

“Had to, didn’t I? If everyone thinks I did it, I should at least know what I’m getting my name on.”

Aziraphale’s hands fell away from Crowley’s hair as he rushed around to the side of the bath. “But you didn’t have anything to do with it! You know you didn’t, my dear, so why torment yourself over what a pitiable bunch of damned creatures think?”

“Well, it’s not like they’re completely out of bounds thinking I’d gone and corrupted the humans again, are they?”

“It’s not— Crowley, how many times are we going to have to have this argument? You can’t take all of humanity’s sins on your shoulders.”

“I can try.”

“You certainly can and I know that you do, but I wish you wouldn’t. The humans will do whatever they will do, for good or ill. You know that. Not even the Almighty can stop that.”

“Why the blazes not?”

Aziraphale froze except for a sudden fluttering of his lashes. “What?”

“Why can’t She put a stop to this? They’re committing atrocities in Her name. She’s fucking well put a foot down in the past, drowning a whole load of people and—”

“Stop!” The walls of the villa shook at the command and for a moment Aziraphale seemed much larger. He shrank back down as he grabbed either side of Crowley’s face. “Stop, please. Not another word like that.”

Aziraphale crushed their lips together in a fierce kiss. He kept kissing until Crowley no longer had the mind or breath to argue further.

“Please,” Aziraphale said once more. “Not this. If there’s one thing in the entirety of existence you don’t question, let it be this. For me.”

Crowley could feel the drip of tears onto bath wet skin as their foreheads pressed together. He wanted for all the world to agree to that. Even being able to lie about it felt like it would be a weight off his shoulders. His life— their lives— would be so much easier if he could. If he could just trust in whatever damned plan there was, he might not have spent the last week drunk out of his mind.

He pulled back enough to look Aziraphale in the eyes and frowned at what he saw. “I made you cry again.” He bent forward and kissed the tear tracks off round, ruddy cheeks. “I’m sorry, angel. I won’t say anything like that again. Not to you.”

Aziraphale’s brows lowered over watery eyes. “Not to anyone.”

“Right. Not to anyone.” Crowley sank into the bath and deeper into himself with a hunch of his shoulders. “I promise I’ll try not to even think on it, not ever again. I just want to be with you and to be happy with that.”

Aziraphale laced their left hands together so that their rings pressed together. “You have me and you always will.”

#good omens #good omens au #go au: tmgt #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #angel!crowley #my writing #fic

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ineffablequeers · 5 years ago

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After the apocalypse, Aziraphale would stay in Crowley's flat occasionally, and one day he discovers Crowley's secretive collection while he is sleeping. Beautiful unknown sketches from Renaissance masters, and there is this painting hiding deep beneath everything else. An angel and a demon standing on Eden's wall.

The fact that Aziraphale loves the finest things in life is really not surprising for anyone. Food, wine, clothes, even books: everything he owns is the best, and only the best is allowed in his life. He's the most hedonistic angel you could ever bump into, that's all. He's on Earth to collect every beautiful object he can find, as long as it catches his interests obviously, and he has a knack for owning first editions of every book in his shop.

Crowley, on the other hand, doesn't collect things. Well, he doesn't collect material things. Even his plants are more of an outlet for him, rather than something to take pride in. His own personal Eden, in a way.

The only mean he has to self-flagellate himself over his Fall.

So, when Aziraphale walks into his flat, he's not surprised to find it so bare and unfurnished. Hell, he wasn't even sure Crowley had a table in there (or a chair)

It takes him around five seconds to spot the Leonardo sketch on the wall, but when he does, his heart starts flipping in his chest.

"Good Lord, Crowley- that's authentic? I never managed to meet Leonardo, but this- how did you get your hands on it?" he whispers in awe, walking closer to the painting and raising slightly his hand as if to touch it, before withdrawing shyly.

"He gave it to me," Crowley replies, not even glancing at the sketch, his eyes still hidden by the sunglasses, focused on the amazed angel. "When I was in Florence. Lovely city."

Aziraphale stares at him with his mouth agape. "You. You were friends with Leonardo?"

Crowley shrugs. "I don't think friends is the right term. He asked me to be his... paramour, of sorts." he smiles fondly at the memory. "He was a genius, and he had lots of lovers. We became confidants, and he understood when I told him I was not interested in pursuing a more physical relationship."

If angels had a heart, Aziraphale would be dead already. God, he can't believe his own ears. Surely Crowley is just messing with him.

"If you don't believe me, look at the inscription."

There, in Leonardo's unmistakable handwriting, a dedication recites: Al mio amico Antonio.

To my friend Anthony.

Maybe he is dead, and this was some weird, post mortem dream he was currently in. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing.

But no, he's quite sure he's not dead, and Crowley knew Leonardo personally-

"Wait," he exclaims out of the blue. "Why didn't you accept his offer? I mean, I thought you of all people would-"

"I couldn't possibly give him what he wanted- devotion. He was a great man, and a good friend, but my heart was never going to be his. He knew that, and respected it." Now his voice is less soft and blunter. Even harsh, maybe?

Crowley turns around, letting out a small sigh.

"It's been a long day, Angel. We should rest for a while, " he mutters. "Are you coming?"

Aziraphale nods, still dumbfounded. What did Crowley mean?

There's no time for these questions: Aziraphale feels the exhaustion of six-thousand years downing on him, and although he's never been one to sleep, he's quite sure he could do so for a good few centuries. He follows Crowley down the hall, every closed door lighting a spark of curiosity in him, until they reach a bedroom.

Unlike the rest of the flat, this room exudes comfort and coziness, with a heavy woolen blanket resting on the bed and a few plants on one of the bedside tables. The bed itself is covered in a tartan bedding, not much different from the kind Aziraphale likes so much, and the angel shrugs it off by blaming a last-minute miracle from Crowley to make him feel more comfortable.

He smiles fondly at the Casino Royale copy next to the lamp, and his smile grows bigger as he notices the demon's blush.

"Oh Crowley, there's no need to be embarrassed about your Ian Fleming obsession. It's endearing, really-"

Crowley groans and hides the book in the first drawer.

"Shut up."

Aziraphale laughs affectionately at Crowley's crimson cheeks.

"There's just- I only have one bedroom, but you can stay here," Crowley mumbles, lowering his eyes. He's glad he hasn't taken the glasses off.

Aziraphale glances at him confused. "Why don't you miracle one up?"

"I'm afraid I'm not really strong enough to do any kind of magic anytime soon. The Big One before drained me."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry! I should've realized. Well, it's no bind- we can just share a bed."

Crowley snickers. "Won't that be a tad too fast for your liking?"

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and takes off his jacket before lying down on the left side of the bed. He thinks he sees Crowley gulp, before the demon joins him.

They lay there for a few minutes, not close enough to touch, but still enough to feel each other's presence.

Aziraphale stops breathing.

"This is new," he whispers at some point.

"It's been six thousand years. I think sharing a bed is fine at this point." Crowley replies, his voice heavy with sleep. He sounds so cute that Aziraphale could die from it. He just chuckles, then closes his eyes.

Five minutes after, they're both deep in the arms of Morpheus. It doesn't last long - not for the angel at least - and he only manages to rest for a couple hours.

He gets up quietly, wandering down the hall, snooping in different rooms. They all look the same: bare, cold and unwelcoming. He thinks that Crowley must really have a problem with this whole punishing himself thing. Forcing himself into an environment he hates just to make himself suffer.

He thinks for a second that the flat seems quite a lot like Heaven - spare and unpleasant - but it makes his heart ache. Does Crowley miss being an angel? Does he really regret Falling?

Does he miss his Heavenly home?

He walks into a room, turning the light on. As soon as he glances around, he feels the ground disappear from under his feet.

Sketches. Sketches and paintings are all over the place, ranging from Impressionist paintings to Baroque ones, a collection to rival the Louvre's.

A whole wall is covered in older pictures, not unlike Leonardo's one, and many of them have some kind of inscription.

He almost falls to his knees.

"Good Lord-" he whispers in awe. There's a Michelangelo on his left, half-covered by what looks like a Raphael, and they're originals. Not actual paintings, but sketches, the first attempts of some of the most famous works of art in the world. Some of these are new to him, and he realizes that they're the ones that didn't make it.

There's one, quite hidden behind another stack, that catches his eye. He carefully takes it out, and his mouth falls wide open.

It's them.

Two figures on a high wall, in front of a luxurious garden. One of them has white wings, and is using one to cover the other person from the rain. The second one has dark, crow-like wings, and he's gazing lovingly at the angel. In a corner, a quick scribble.

Che l'angelo possa accorgersi del tuo devoto sguardo.

May the angel notice your loving gaze.

●

Posted on Ao3

#crowley #david tennant #good omens #ineffable husbands #michael sheen #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale #gomens #my fic

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freyjawriter24 · 5 years ago

Text

Advent Omens: Ghosts

My response to the Day 23 prompt from @drawlight‘s advent list. A bit of a sad one this time, featuring metaphorical ghosts and overwhelming memories.

-----

Not everything about living forever is easy. Sometimes, it’s especially hard.

Occasionally, it’s memories brought on by a certain time of year, by a certain event or location or activity. Often, it’s just that you’ve ignored the feelings for so long that they’ve built up and up and up and finally burst out.

Everyone has ghosts. Some people more than most. Certain immortal beings have several thousand years’ worth of them.

The angel found the demon curled in on himself, hunched over on the floor beside the fire, staring into the flames.

“Are you okay, my dear?” he asked softly, a gentle hand rested on a shoulder.

There was no reply for a moment. Aziraphale left his hand where it was, willing to wait as long as necessary. Time flows differently when you have an indefinite supply of it.

“There’s so many of them, angel,” Crowley said softly, barely enough to be heard over the quietly crackling fire. Aziraphale didn’t ask what he meant. He thought he knew anyway, but he knew Crowley would explain when he was ready.

It took another moment or two, but then the demon sighed, and leaned into the touch, head leaning back to rest on Aziraphale’s arm, face turned towards the soft fabric of the angel’s jumper. “The humans, I mean. Gone. So many of them, all over.”

Aziraphale sank down towards the floor and sat just behind the demon, hand still on his shoulder. He gave it a squeeze, and Crowley reached up to put his hand over his partner’s fingers.

“Do you remember when we knew all of their names?” the angel said softly. “When there were so few of them we knew them all like our own family?”

“I never imagined there would be so many, then. That I would never not know their names, their lineage, their entire histories. The world’s so damned huge.”

The demon leaned back into the soft, strong body of the angel, and Aziraphale shifted to let him, wrapping his arms all the way around the demon instead so that Crowley was held safe against his chest.

The uncovered yellow eyes still gazed into the flickering fire before them. Aziraphale studied the side of Crowley’s face, watching as fleeting hints of emotions flashed across it, a million memories haunting him, a million ghosts greeting him and fleeing into the flame.

“It’s still worth it for them, though, isn’t it?”

It was a question Crowley had asked before, more than once, usually while drunk. Now, in the cold reality of sobriety, it felt different. More intimate.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed. “Of course it is. Think of all they do, all they achieve in their short time here. Think of the impact they’ve each had on us, on each other, on the Earth. Even that we remember them proves it’s worth it.”

Crowley nodded in a small, slow way that only made Aziraphale want to hug him nearer.

“Who are you thinking of?” the angel asked.

“Leonardo,” Crowley replied. “And Bill. And Jane. And Mary, both of them.”

They were names worn by so, so many different people across the ages. And yet Aziraphale knew exactly who was being referred to. Certain people stick close in the memory, are spoken of fondly on nostalgic nights, are remembered as ghosts on the darkest days.

“Leah. Oscar. Emmelia. Bai.”

“Priya. Helen. Charles. Freddie.”

They sat together, and named people – humans who had touched their lives, in whatever way. Fond memories accompanied each name, just as much as the pain of no longer having them there. But the ghosts Crowley was watching, hidden in the smoke and the flame in the fireplace, slowly faded over time, until it was just them, holding each other in the comfort and safety of their own home, knowing that, despite it all, they would always be together.

“Sorry,” said Crowley when he finally surfaced from the haze of sadness.

“Don’t be,” Aziraphale said gently. “It hurts sometimes. That’s okay. I’m just glad I can be with you, to help when I can.” He leaned in a little further, and pressed a soft kiss to Crowley’s temple. “I love you, my darling.”

The demon turned and buried his face in the angel’s neck, and let Aziraphale’s fingers bury themselves in turn in his long hair. And if he cried a little, neither of them were going to mention it.

Not everything about living forever is easy. Sometimes, it’s especially hard.

Though it does help to have someone there with you to share the pain.

#advent omens #31 days of ineffables #ghosts #good omens #My writing #a short sad one this time #drawlight #Aziraphale #crowley #who do you reckon the names are referring to?#to be fair i don't have someone specific in mind for all of them #but some of them are obvious

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snowkatze · 5 years ago

Text

These Violent Delights

Link to ao3: These Violent Delights Genre: angst and fluff Word Count: 4357 Summary: Simon is watching 'Romeo and Juliet' in Magic History and he watches Baz write something on a paper. Later, Simon finds the paper and sees that Baz wrote a romantic sonnet. Who is he in love with? Includes one quote from Wayward Son but no spoilers. There’s also quotes from 'How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, '[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]' by e.e. cummings, 'Love Sonnet XI' by Pablo Neruda and 'Annabel Lee' by Edgar Allen Poe, and 'Romeo and Juliet' by William Shakespeare.

___

Leonardo DiCaprio is one gorgeous bastard. I've always thought so, when I was watching Titanic with Agatha during the Christmas holidays. (I think she wanted me to hold her hand. Maybe she wanted me to see what an epic romance looks like. I missed the cue. On both accounts.) He also makes one hell of a Romeo. Like, I get why Juliet would lay down her life for him. He's wearing a medieval knight costume to a party on screen. He's got a cheap fake sword, too, but unfortunately, he's not using it. It's not really that interesting, right now. Nobody's getting stabbed. Juliet is so enamored with Romeo. She's such a fool, really. Baz' hair is blocking the corner of the screen. It's fluffed up and soft on top of his head.

I've stabbed goblins, trolls, merwolves, a dragon, once... I've never been to a party. Baz would look good in a knight costume. Or with angels wings. Demons wings, maybe. Is that a thing?

Baz is taking notes, because of course he is. Even when we're watching a movie in class. Penny's right next to me, she's not taking notes. I'm not taking notes. I mean, we all know the story, right? Romeo and Juliet fall in love, their families have a feud that any Family Feud host would keel over because of, in the end they kill each other or something... Baz turns his head, and I can see that his hair falls in a swoop over his forehead. How tragic... Maybe I'll end up stabbing Baz. I just hope he'll - ...

I really should have held Agatha's hand when I had the chance.

I try to drag my gaze back to the screen, but the top of Baz' head is pretty distracting. Maybe he sat in front of me on purpose, so I couldn't see. He knows damn well how tall he is.

Baz is well fit – I mean – Romeo is – I mean – Juliet. No, Agatha. I like Agatha. Merlin, what is wrong with me?

Romeo's not that fit, obviously. I mean, in a way, yeah. In a, I'd like to have arms that strong, way. In a, I'd like to have eyes that bloody gorgeous, what the hell? The director's called Baz, apparently. I didn't know there were people called Baz. Not so unique now, are you, Baz? I guess he's not actually called Baz. I don't suppose there's anyone else called Tyrannus Basilton bloody Grimm-Pitch. Bummer. Baz would make a great director, for sure. He's great at yelling people and ordering them around, for starters. He's also great at everything. Wow, they're talking for so long. Someone stab me. Crowley, his hair is so nice. I want - I want his shampoo. What the fuck is he writing? Is he already doing the homework? Sneaky bastard. Maybe I should call him out. Maybe I should start on the homework.

I start poking Penny with a pencil.

“Sod off,” she says.

I turn back to the screen. There's some argument. Two of the guys start punching each other, Romeo tries to go between them...

“Who's that?” I whisper to Penny. “Tybalt and Mercucio,” she whispers back. “Merlin, have you been watching at all?” A scratch? What is happening? Is this guy dying? My eyes are drawn to the screen. Suddenly, I feel unusually cold.

'A plague on both your houses...' he says... I grip the sleeve of my sweater. I watch as Mercucio dies, I watch as Romeo gets revenge on Tybalt... I watch Romeo and Juliet in the chapel... Baz sits up straight. He has stopped writing. I watch as Romeo drinks posion, thinking Juliet is dead... As Juliet reaches out for him... I thought Romeo's eyes were blue before, but in the close-up of his face when he's dying, they look kind of grey, almost like Baz'... I grip my sleeve tighter. I watch as Juliet shoots herself. But I can't watch the back of Baz' head anymore. I focus on the other corner of the screen and don't look away until the bell rings. What's wrong with dancing and parties? The screen goes black and my gaze snaps back to Baz.

Why does someone always has to get stabbed?

He's shoving his stuff in his backpack, all except for the paper he'd been writing on. He crumples it and throws it in the trashcan by the door. I keep looking at the door, even after he's gone. “Simon?” It's not an inevitability, is it? Romeo and Juliet, dying...

“Simon?” I mean, I knew, of course. Everyone knows. Romeo and Juliet die in the end.

“Simon.” It couldn't go any other way. “Simon!”

I snap my head around. Penny is looking at me. Why is she looking at me? “Simon, are you – crying?” Her eyes turn soft now. I try to unclench my jaw.

“No, I -”

I unclench my hand and touch my cheek. My fingers come back wet. Oh.

“It was just...” I start. “Just such a sad story.”

“It's Romeo and Juliet,” she says. “It's the sad story.” “I know,” I say. “I was expecting it, ob– obviously. But it still – still hit me like a ton of bricks.”

A truckload of bricks. A mountain of them. Even though I was expecting it.

I'm overwhelmed with the urge to count the days left until the end of the school year. How many days before...

I shoot up out of my seat. “How many hours til lunch?” I say and smile at Penny. She smiles back, but I can tell she's still cautious.

“You can't go a minute without thinking about food, can you?” she says and we start walking out of the class room. She tells me about what sentences from Shakespeare she thinks you can still make spells out of. She doesn't notice when I stop at the door. No one's left in the class room. No one sees when I duck down and pick up the crumpled paper Baz put in the bin and shove it in my pocket.

I catch up with Penny.

So, that was that for Magic History. I grab the strap of my backpack a little tighter than I usually would.

I think I'll have sour cherry scones for lunch.

___

After last period, I go to the restroom and perch myself up on the toilet seat. With jittery hands, I pull the crumpled paper from my pocket. I unfold it carefully, then close my eyes. Why did Baz throw this away? It can't just be notes, then. Baz wouldn't throw away his notes, unless he'd copied them carefully into his notebook before. Whatever is on this paper, Baz didn't want anyone to see. It's probably nothing. Just scribbles or maybe a sketch. I shouldn't do this, right? But – it's Baz.

I open my eyes and read. I am your Petrarchan sonnet, you are my Shakespearean tragedy

We are no star-crossed lovers but (You were the sun and I was crashing into you)

Ne'er dare there escape me no greater sigh and ne'er there be a lost soul more forlorn than me, gazing into thy pale blue eye, thou art my most cherished oxy-moron I call you tedious fool though the only fool is me you are my downfall (it's not the only way I fall) How unfair for thy image to be fair

Sanguine, for thy hope, for I am out for blood I will bear this burden, for I am bare

to the snow that burns me, the words that cut I wish we could run, my love runs deep, Fearing how soon we will run out of time Thy face when thou say'st 'wow' makes me say 'woe' I, your antithesis, thou art my rhyme There's no reason Stake my heart, deliver thy killing blow Upend me with bronze curls, torturous lips When thou bitest thy thumb but never thy lips Upend me with smiles, the beauty thou art, fuck you and curse what thou doth to my heart I read it twice. Except for the words he's crossed out, I don't really know what it means. But I do recognize the form and rhyme scheme. We talked about it in Magic History just last week. It's a sonnet. We're watching Shakespeare, and what does Baz do? Write a fucking sonnet. The pretentious arsehole. The complete wanker. Maybe it's a coded message and this is the key to uncovering one of Baz' plots. That would make sense of the fucking gibberish it is. Maybe someone else was meant to pick it up out of the bin. But there'd be easier ways if he wanted to pass something on to Dev or Niall. Maybe he meant for me to find it. No.

I don't fully understand, but my throat runs dry when I read it again. I feel cold again and I bite my lip because I feel like I'll make some noise otherwise. Love. He crossed it out, but it's still there. Baz is talking about love. Aleister Crowley.

Baz doesn't love anyone, or anything. He's a vampire. They can't. Maybe he was making fun of sonnets. Or of Romeo and Juliet. It could be like – creative writing. Fictional. Unreal. But it just feels a little too – honest.

Baz loves his mother. He talks about her like she hung the moon. He loves playing football. He's so fucking good at it, too. He loves school, he puts his entire soul into it. (He has a soul.) He eats Salt and Vinegar Crisps at night.

Crowley. He's in love with someone. No. He's tragically in love with someone. I don't know what to think.

Who? Who would Baz Pitch write tragic sonnets about? Who does he love so much? Is it Agatha? It has to be Agatha. Maybe he thinks he can't be with her. Crowley, why does he make it sound like such a tragedy? He's in love. He should be soaring. He should be happy. He could have anyone. (Well. Not anyone. But it's not like he wants me.) I realize I've hidden here for quite some time; Penny will be worried. I fold the paper carefully in put it back in my pocket. I make my way into the dining hall. Penny is frowning at me, but she's saved me some sour cherry scones.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“What's a Petrarchan sonnet?” I reply.

She pushes the plate with the scones to me.

“They're usually about unrequited love,” her frown deepens. “And they often include oxymorons.” Unrequited love... Baz is in unrequited love? Impossible.

I know what a Shakespearen tragedy is, obviously. It's the plays that don't have a happy ending. The ones that are... tragic. “Oxymoron,” I say. “What's that?”

“It's a self-contradiction. Loving hate, and that kind of stuff. Why? You need help studying? We can meet up later.” “No, it's fine,” I say and start picking one of the scones apart. “Was just wondering.” I am your antithesis... your opposite... Agatha isn't Baz' opposite anything. They're both posh and fancy. Only that Agatha's nice, and Baz is not. (Too much, anyway.)

Stake my heart... That's so dark. Why would Baz write stuff like that? He can have the dances, and the parties, and the fool-headed love. He can have everything.

I wonder why he's underlined the 'moron' in 'oxymoron'. Is he calling them a moron? Maybe they're thick... Baz probably thinks anyone not as smart as him is a moron. That could be anyone, except for Penny.

I've pulled the scone into tiny pieces. I'm not hungry right now, which never happens. But I don't need to eat. I need to know who Baz is in love with. I need to.

“Simon?” Penny says. She's frowning again. “Are you alright? You're not eating?” No.

“Of course. I just, uhm... Need to get some homework done.” “Are you keeping something from me? Remember, no secrets.” “It's... It's not my secret, okay? Just trust me.” If I showed Penny, she could figure out for sure who it's about. But for some reason, I don't want to. Baz is not in the dining room.

___

Baz is sitting on the bed, and all I can think is that he's in love with someone, and he writes sonnets about them, and he calls them moron and the sun and beautiful.

And he thinks he's going to run out of time.

Baz is a hopeless romantic. I didn't think he was before, but now I can see him on candlelight dinners, with roses on Valentine's day, Baz going to the movies, Baz holding hands... Baz has long, slim fingers and his hands are rough and beautiful. Beautiful. I wonder if I could write a sonnet. Not a fancy one, but...

“Baz,” I say and clear my throat.

He looks up from his book and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Get lost,” he says.

“I just – I -” I pull the paper from my pocket. He drops his book and his eyes widen. He must know what it is, even before I've shown him what it is.

“Where'd you get that?” he demands, but his voice is shaking. He sits up and walks towards me. Not confidently, like usually. His gaze flickers around. His hand reaches out, but he doesn't grab it. (Juliet's hand reaches out...) “I just – I found it -”

“Crowley, Snow, you ever hear of privacy?” Usually, he would snarl at me. Usually, he would just grab the paper from me. I've never seen him lose composure like this.

“Who is it?” I say. My voice is shaking, too. Suddenly, his face snaps shut and his hand shoots forward. I let him take it. It's his. (I know it half by heart.)

“None of your business. None of this is.” “Who is it about?” “Nobody.” He stalks back to his bed, conversation over. Not for me.

“Tell me.” “No.” “Please.”

He stops talking and picks up his book. I know he's trying to ignore me, but I'm not going to let up. I can't. “Why do you even care?” He's not giving me an inch.

The arch of his brow is perfectly formed.

Romeo kills Juliet's cousin. Doesn't that make him a villain, of sorts? It was self-defense, in a way, but still. Shouldn't she hate him? But she loves him anyway... She's such a fool.

“I think you should tell them.” “Have you read the poem at all?” “It's not...” I say. Swallow. “I think you're wrong.” “I'm never wrong.” “Agatha and I aren't together anymore, if you're worried about that.” He's staring at me. His mouth is hanging open. It's Agatha. It has to be.

“Simon...”

“It's Agatha, isn't it?” I feel like crying. His jaw snaps shut.

“Merlin, no,” he says. Is he denying it? No. I think he's serious. (He's giving me an inch.)

“I just... I just think you have a chance.” Agatha doesn't have blue eyes, or bronze curls. I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier. Who has blue eyes and bronze curls? “I don't,” he says. “Did you tell them?” “Ha.”

“Then how do you know?” “I just do. Leave me alone.” He turns away. I won't let him.

“I just want to help. Let me help.”

“Snow.” He sounds so exhausted. Of course he is. He's yearning for someone.

“You don't understand anything.” I want him to call me Simon again. I want to go over to his bed and – do – something. I sit on my own bed and growl at him.

“Maybe I could ask them,” I say. “What they think about you.”

“Merlin, Snow, you want to be my wingman?” “I guess.” “You're ridiculous.” “I'm right.”

Call me Simon.

“We're not even friends.” Right. But not even my worst enemy should be so – so desperately in love. It must hurt so much. (It hurts so much.)

“We could be.” “Don't be insane.” I wonder why he's not picking a fight with me. He's dismissive, but not vicious. I think I've made him vulnerable.

“I'm not going to fight you,” I say then. I'm not going to cry again. I won't. I draw my knees to my chest.

“Of course you're going to fight me,” Baz says. His voice is almost soft.

“You're not going to run out of time,” I whisper. “Is that why it's a tragedy? Because you think you're going to die? You won't. I won't let you.” “Simon,” he says.

Stop calling me Simon. I'm going to cry.

“Are you having me on? Do you really not know who it is?” “No.”

“Are you trying to spare me...” “What?” “Nevermind. Not even Bunce could figure it out?” “I didn't show her.” “Then stop thinking about it.”

“I cant,” I say. Baz' whole face is tense.

“Just pretend this never happened. Treat me the same as before. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.”

It does, though.

“It's not just your poem,” I say. “I just... I don't want us to be Romeo and Juliet.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” “You know what I mean. I don't – I don't want to hurt you.”

“These violent delights...”

I flinch. These violent delights have violent ends is a forbidden spell. When someone is fighting, it kills or heavily wounds both parties. Baz curls in on himself on his bed, but he keeps his gaze fixed on me. “I don't want to fight you. Are you going to fight me?” I ask.

He pauses and keeps looking at me.

“You really haven't figured it out, have you? Crowley, you're such a moron.” A moron? My breath hitches. No. What am I thinking? What the hell am I thinking?

“Who is it?” I say again. “Who's your downfall? Your rhyme? The bloody sun?” He closes his eyes, lips drawn together.

“Stop mocking me,” he rasps out.

“I'm not. Please. I just want to know.”

He opens his eyes a crack and sighs and I know that he's giving in. I'm holding my breath.

“It's you, you fucking numpty.”

I freeze. Everything freezes. I must have misheard. I must have a brain disease. It's impossible. (But I have blue eyes. And I guess my hair could be described as bronze. And if anyone's going to end Baz, it's me. Nobody's going to end Baz.)

“The snow that burns me...” he whispers. “It's your fucking name.”

Baz is not in love with someone else. Thank fuck. Thank Merlin. Thank Aleister fucking Crowley. I can't do anything but stare at him. Baz shakes his head.

“I never should have written that stupid sonnet. But... I couldn't help myself. It was Romeo and Juliet.”

I'm his Shakespearen tragedy. Nicks and slicks.

I sit up and am over on his bed in an instant. He looks alarmed.

“Snow – don't,” he says quietly. He's laid his heart in my palm. He's written a sonnet about me.

“Lets do this, then,” I whisper. I want to lean in and kiss him.

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

He looks like he wants to scoot away from me, but he doesn't move. I want to grab him by the shoulders and never let go.

“Today in class, all I could think about was you,” I say.

I want to let go of his shoulders to bury my hands in his hair.

“About how much you want to kill me?” he says, a self-deprecating tone in his voice.

“No. About how I don't want to kill you. Mostly about your hair.” “What about my hair?” He touches it self-consciously. I want to take every bad thought out of his brain and throw them to the merwolves.

“About how I want to touch your hair.” I lean closer.

“About how you're more beautiful than Romeo.” I carefully raise my hand. He doesn't move away. His hair is so soft.

“About how Juliet is a fool for being in love with a villain.” His eyes are so beautiful. He lets me take his hand.

“But he's not a villain,” I whisper. “Not really.” “Snow,” he says stiffly. “You do know – that Romeo and Juliet is a cautionary tale.”

“If it's really – if you're really – then I don't care. Is it really about me?” I lean in even closer until my nose nearly touches his. Does he want this? Do I want this? I do. So much. For how long have I wanted this?

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Of course it's you. Who else would it be?” “How? How can you -”

I want him to lean forward. I'm so short of grabbing him by his shirt. And then he gives me another one of these sighs, and I know that I have him. Just give me the word. Just give me the word, and you can have it all.

“How do I love thee?” he says and his hand comes up. My nose brushes against his. “Let me count the ways.” He runs his fingers through my hair. It's so good.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,” he says.

He's reciting poetry at me. Merlin.

“And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart,” he mutters. “I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.” His lips are cool against mine. I press into him. I want him to have it all. I want to put my heart on a platter and let him take it.

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair,” he says. It's like he's singing. “I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body. I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.” Is that a vampire thing? I don't care, he can have it all. “Our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we, of many far wiser than we,” he says. He's singing into my mouth. “And neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea,” his breath goes heavy, “can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Simon Snow.”

His voice is enchanting. I grab him and pull. I want to tie our hearts together. Chamber by chamber.

“What's in a name?” he says. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

It's Romeo and Juliet.

“With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.”

“Do you mean that?” “Yes. I mean it all. The Mage, his men, my family, no one can stop me. No spell can stop me. No sword.”

“You need to stop,” I say, but I'm smiling. “You're going to make me cry.”

That only spurs him on, of course. Baz has always loved making me cry.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

I'm addicted to his lips, and to the smell of cedar and bergamot.

“Dost thou love me?” he says then and pulls back a little to look at me. There's a question in his eyes. And I don't know any poetry by heart. (But I want to give him everything.) I make a noise in the back of my throat and try to think of something stupidly romantic to say. He's reciting love poetry at me. He wrote me a sonnet. He's given me every love confession there is. How am I supposed to top that?

Baz' lips turn down at the corners.

“Sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I got carried away. You don't need to answer.”

He goes in for another kiss, but I put my hands to his chest and push him away.

“Sorry,” he says again. “It's just part of the play. I forgot myself.” He swallows and looks down. If I took every single dark thought of his, the merwolves could have a feast. I grab his face and he looks back up at me. His heart is in my hands. He's so eloquent, he knows a thousand ways to say that he loves me. He loves me. He loves me. I can't believe I've never thought of this before. (Maybe I have.) It's the best idea ever.

I only have one word.

“Yes.” “What?

“Yes, I dost love thou.” He smiles.

“That is so not how it works,” he says.

“Then how?” “I can't remember,” he says and giggles. Aleister Crowley. He's my Romeo.

“Do we have to be a tragedy?” I say and pull him in again. “You think?” “No,” he says and laughs. It's the most beautiful sound. “We can be anything you want us to be. I could cast a sonnet right now.”

“You wrote one. You wrote me a sonnet. That's embarrassing.”

I laugh, too.

“Shut up,” he says. I'd cross every line for him. And I embrace him and his hair tickles my neck and I tell him to talk poetry to me and deep into the night he whispers sweet everythings into my ear. I'm a fool for him. I'll take him to the school dance. I'll put him in a costume. I'll keep him safe and sound. I'll hold his hand. I'll run my fingers through his hair.

I refuse to believe we're star-crossed lovers.

This time, I believe, the stars are aligning just right.

#are people still reading fanfiction on tumblr?#carry on fanfiction #snowbaz fanfiction #carry on #snowbaz

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luckyspike · 5 years ago

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Spooky Halloween - A Good Omens Fanfiction

in which the line between the real world and the supernatural gets a little thinner

and the ineffables deal with it as well as they can

Everyone who knew Crowley’s true nature - these days, this included the Them, and a select few adults - assumed that Halloween would be prime time for the demon. It was, after all, the eve of the spirits, when the physical world pulled in closest with the supernatural, and the borders between the two broke down. It was the day when spooky was loved and celebrated, and surely Crowley would be all about that, wouldn’t he?

It was why Anathema was struggling particularly hard with Crowley’s outright refusal to show up at Adam’s Halloween party. “Come on, Crowley, you have to be kidding, what do you mean you don’t go out on Halloween?”

“I don’t,” he replied firmly. In the background, she could hear something that sounded suspiciously like plants being ripped out of the ground. “Stay in all day. 24 hours.”

“But it’s spooky. You love spooky.”

“Yes, but you know there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

“Oh?” She thought it over. “Like, too reminiscent of Hell, because I could convince him to tone down the decorations.”

“No, not that.” She heard him huff, and there came the sound of a body flopping into the grass. She had trouble not smiling, imaging the demon sprawled out on the lawn of the cottage, because she knew him and knew that was precisely what he was doing. “Me.”

“What about you?”

He groaned. “You can be really thick sometimes, you know it, Book-Girl?” She bristled, almost snapped a reply, but he had plowed on. “The boundaries between the human world and the supernatural are blurred. My corporation can only keep it together so well when that border breaks down.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, Aziraphale’s too,” he added, as an afterthought. “But he just gets sort of gimpy on that leg and has some extra eyeballs. He could - and he has - pass it off as a costume if he really needed to. Whereas me, well …” He sighed. “If I don’t just go serpent altogether I can hold a vaguely-human shape but it sort of stretches the limits of credibility to say it’s a costume or makeup or what have you.”

“Ah. Sorry I, uh, didn’t think of it that way. I think I understand now.” And she did. Crowley made some kind of non-specific noise on the other end of the line, and she went on, “Seriously, sorry.”

“Eh, don’t be. Natural assumption, really. And I have gone out on Halloween,” he added, “but because I needed to do some proper demon things. The scales and the horns really do help.”

She tried to imagine Crowley looking anything like a proper demon, and failed miserably. “I can imagine,” she said anyway. “Well, alright. I’ll tell the Them … something. Say you’re not feeling well or something.”

“Just tell them the truth. Adam’s the Antichrist, I hardly think demons doing demon things is going to be a shocking revelation.”

“Well, no, but I think if I tell them you’re spending the day cooped up because you look properly scary for once they’ll be even more disappointed you didn’t put in an appearance. You know how they are.”

“True.” He sighed. “That’s fine then, tell them whatever. And, ah, enjoy the party.”

“You’ll be alright by the weekend? I was thinking that new movie about the possessed priest -”

“Oh, yeah. Like I said, twenty-four hours, back to normal. Mostly. Might be a bit of ash around the fingertips but I’ll definitely be fine by Saturday.”

“Good,” she said, like they were discussing a brewing cold or sore throat, and not Crowley becoming an eldritch horror for a short period of time. “Alright, well, uh, good luck I guess. Hope it’s not too bad.”

“It’ll be awful, but thanks all the same.”

It always started at the stroke of midnight. Crowley and Aziraphale waited for it, knew it was coming, and took up stations where they would both be most comfortable. Aziraphale settled in n the library, books stacked high and at the ready, and an old but serviceable cane leaned up against the side table. Crowley carefully spread a few cheap old blankets over the couch and placed the iPad and his phone in easy reach. Preemptively, they both let their wings out, and Aziraphale took the time to rub some of the ache out of Crowley’s bad wing while his hands were still unfettered by eyeballs.

“We really have to look into fixing this,” he murmured, working the stiff joint of the wrist a little looser and ignoring the way it cracked, bones grinding arthritically. Crowley made a little noise of appreciation. “Even just the joint - I don’t know how we could get the feathers to grow back, but if we could get this wrist less contracted -”

“Can’t be done.” Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale let the wing go, the better to allow the demon to slump sideways into his chest. “Would’ve done it if I could.”

“I know that, dear boy.” He ran his hands down the leading edge of the wing, following the warped bone into Crowley’s shoulder and rubbing the muscle where the limb attached. Crowley sighed again, happily this time. “But I’ve never helped you look for a solution before.”

“S’pose not. Still don’t think there’s much to do about it, though. I mean, short of getting God or Raphael to fix it.” He snorted. “And fat chance of that.”

“I’ll have a look anyway. Perhaps - oh.”

The clock on the buffet chimed. One, two, three, all the way to midnight. Crowley groaned. “Here we go.”

It wasn’t a painful transformation, but both had scars from the Great War, and the aftereffects weren’t enjoyable. When all was said and done, Aziraphale was leaned back into the couch, massaging his right thigh, and Crowley was carefully extricating himself from the angel’s lap, mindful of the ash raining from his form and Aziraphale’s newly-visible multitude of eyes. Cautious of the eye now in his palm, Aziraphale grabbed the tip of Crowley’s broken halo - horns, now - and guided it away from his wing. “Careful.”

“Sorry.” They exchanged a look. Exasperated, frustrated, but most of all, tired. It wasn’t a terrible trade-off, one day each year, but neither particularly enjoyed the in-between form that Halloween forced, and it had grown old over the years. “I hate this.”

“Me too.” Aziraphale sighed, and closed most of his eyes, although a few along his wings stayed open. “Twenty-four hours.”

“Ugh.” Crowley made a vague gesture, head leaned back over the sofa, eyes closed. “Don’t even feel like doing anything.”

“Take a nap?” Aziraphale suggested. He stood, hobbling from the couch to the chair, and picked a book from the top of the pile. “I’ll be reading.”

“Mm. What book?”

“Oh? Ah.” He didn’t bother to close it again, and instead blinked open the eye on his palm to read the cover. “It’s contemporary.” This was said with the same tone as he might have informed Crowley of a particularly insistent customer in the shop. “But I suppose it was well-reviewed. It’s a signed first edition.” Crowley made an interested little noise. “‘The Da Vinci Code’ by a Dan Brown. Supposedly has a good deal of Bible lore.”

“Haven’t you read that?” The demon looked up, grinning, and Aziraphale didn’t mind the fangs. “C’mon, you can’t have missed that.”

“I didn’t. I’m just getting to it now. Have you read it?”

“Nah. Downloaded it ages ago but then everything happened with the kids and I forgot about it. Meant to, though.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I could read aloud, if you’d like. Good a way to spend the next 24 hours as any.”

Crowley hummed. “Can’t say I disagree. If you’re going to read, though, ah, and I don’t need hands -”

“Of course, dear.” There was a relieved hiss, and after a few seconds an enormous black winged snake was draped over the couch, coils heaped on coils to fit on the now-sagging piece of furniture. Leisurely, Crowley slithered forward, off the arm of the couch and across the empty space between there and Aziraphale’s chair. “Come around,” he encouraged, while Crowley draped the front length of himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders, until the tip of his snout was tucked under the angel’s chin, and the length of himself with his wings was resting on the floor, wings splayed out lazily. “Comfortable?”

“Yesss. You?”

“Budge off my right shoulder a bit, there’s a love. Right.” He turned from the title page, and started to read: “Fact: The Priory of Scion - a European secret society founded in 1099 - is a real organization.” He stopped. Frowned.

“Wasss it? Don’t remember that one,” asked the Serpent of Eden.

“I’m fairly certain it was not,” replied the angel of the Eastern Gate. He read on, expression growing more disapproving by the word. “In 1975 Paris's Bibliotheque Nationale discovered parchments known as Les Dossiers Secrets, identifying numerous members of the Priory of Sion, including Sir Isaac Newton, Botticelli, Victor Hugo, and Leonardo da Vinci.’ Well, that’s utter tosh. Who published this pulp?”

Crowley’s forked tongue flicked the tip of his nose, and Aziraphale heard a hissing sort of laugh. “Who caressss? Go on, I want to hear thisss.”

All in all, it was not a bad way to spend 24 hours. By the midway point of chapter one, Aziraphale was so bent out of shape about the inaccuracies that he all but forgot about the ache in his leg, or that Crowley dribbled a little ash onto the rug every time he laughed. At some point, cocoa appeared, and Aziraphale pretended not to notice as Crowley sipped at it, even though the sheer size of his snout made stealth a bit difficult, considering the gentle thunk he made every time he shoved his nose into the cup. The reading went a bit slow, too, considering they had to stop roughly every five paragraphs to criticise something, or point out some inaccuracy, but the interludes were mutually enjoyable, and neither found they minded.

Ordinarily, Aziraphale would have been able to read a book of that length within 24 hours. It was the reason for the other books settled within easy reach, after all. But when the clock again chimed midnight, and the eyes faded back into the ether, Aziraphale just paused, marked his place with a finger between the pages, and took a sip of fresh, warm tea. “Well, there we are. Another Halloween.”

“Yeah.” Crowley stretched his newly-returned limbs - wings included, he was loath to put them away yet if he didn’t need to, it felt so good to let them breathe now and then - and flopped back onto the couch. “Not the worst I’ve had. Possibly top ten best, actually.”

“This book is dreadful.”

The demon patted the sofa next to him. “Well, yeah, but in a good way. C’mere, I gotta know what happens.” Aziraphale grumbled a little but he obliged, moving over to the couch once again with his usual gait, although he too left his wings out, albeit without the eyes. He settled, and Crowley slouched up against him, a tumbler of scotch suddenly in his hand. “You think they find the Grail?”

“I rather hope not, honestly.” Aziraphale scowled. “It’d be a real shame if he butchered that as well.”

“You know there’s a prequel?”

“No.”

“Honest truth. Called Angels and Demons.” Crowley waved his free hand. “Whole series, actually. Never read any of them.” He raised an eyebrow. “Might be fun?”

“You have a strange definition of fun, Crowley.” Absently, he kissed the top of Crowley’s head, ignoring the way the demon’s hair tickled his face. “Comes with being a demon, I suppose.”

“Comes with having a sense of humor. We should read them.”

“No.”

“Well not right now. Later.” He gestured vaguely. “After I get the garden cleaned up for the winter, maybe.”

“Hm. I’ll have time to read a few palate-cleansers.”

“There’s the spirit.” He snuggled in closer, right wing wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders and the left covering himself like some kind of massive feathery blanket. “Go on, let’s see if they get the Grail.”

Aziraphale sighed, defeated and resigned, although Crowley could see the tiny movement well enough to note the little twitch at the corner of the angel’s mouth, almost a smile. “Very well.”

He turned the page, and kept on reading.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #crowley #aziraphale #the da vinci code #spooky eldritch angels and demons #dont let the text fool you #i unabashedly love the da vinci code #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much

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everysongineverykey · 5 years ago

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Ok, so.

In the book, the repeated instances of queen playing in the Bentley are explained as a running gag: the joke is that if you leave a tape in the car for too long, it morphs into a best of queen album. But hear me out:

What if that’s not the case in the show?

We’ve already seen that the book and the show have a few small deviations (different time periods, genders, characters, etc) so there’s no reason why there can’t be a different reason for this too. It’s only a minor gag, after all.

I propose to you that the reason Crowley always plays queen is because he knew the in-universe Freddie mercury while he was alive (possible romantic relationship maybe?) and maybe even inspired him to write some of his songs. And mercury has said that he’d prefer to go to hell rather than heaven (”think of all the interesting people you’d meet down there!”), so what if the reason the show’s mercury said that was because he was very close to a certain demon? Does Crowley still see him sometimes when he visits downstairs? Are they friends? If we can have Crowley get a sketch of the Mona Lisa from his “friend” Leonardo da Vinci, we can have him be friends with Freddie mercury.

#good omens #crowley

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huntertales · 6 years ago

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Part Three: When In Doubt, Choose “C.” (What’s Up, Tiger Mommy? S08E02)

Episode Summary: Kevin Tran talks the Winchesters and the reader in checking on his mother. When they arrive and discover Crowley has surrounded her with demons, they rescue her and take her along their quest to find the demon tablet. However, they soon discover Mrs. Tran is a mother not to be tested after she tries to go up against the king of hell herself. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 3,833.

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

Dean found himself doing it again. He was drifting off into space and falling into the memories of the time he spent in purgatory, the haunting and bloody place he still couldn’t shake off. Most of his memories about the place were remembering the battle he had to fight with all those nasty monsters for a chance to see another day at finding the escape Benny promised him. But it was talking to an angel named Samandriel and the topic about their common friend that triggered him into the memory of Cas. The one who he left behind in purgatory, who decided it was too much of a risk for Dean to have to face because of what he was.

Cas was a lot of things. And much as he did some wrong the year before, he made up for his behavior, tackling his little brother's devil on his shoulder and patching you up, sending you off to be safe for awhile. Cas did so much for all of you. And no matter what, the angel got the short end of the stick, dealing with the consequences of a Winchester’s actions.

"Dean. Hey," The older Winchester was pulled out of his thoughts when he felt someone place their hand lightly on his shoulder, as if they were trying not to scare him. He looked away from the spot on the wall he'd been staring at and to your smiling face. He noticed that your expression was slightly concerned from how he was acting again. But you didn't speak a word about it to him. "The auction's about to start. Come on."

Beau tapped his walking cane against the small stage he was standing on top of, gathering the attention of everyone in the room as the remaining bystanders went to take their seats. Plutus didn’t seem to care much for the events of today, choosing to recline in a leather love seat and catch up on some light reading in the newspaper he pulled out of thin air. “Ladies, gentlemen, and...other,” Beau greeted his guests today’s auction, monitoring an arm to a thing in the near front of the stage he hadn’t seen in quite a while. “Welcome to this once-in-a-lifetime event.”

You and Dean headed to the row of seats his brother and the Tran family had claimed for their own. Sam sat in the middle of the seats he saved for the two of you, but in true brotherly fashion of things, Dean ushered a hand for the younger man to slide down one, but Sam ushered for his brother to take the spot next to Mrs. Tran. You rolled your eyes, pushing the older man slightly as you took your seat on the end of the row. As you got comfortable much as you possibly could in the metal fold out chairs, you heard hushed conversation going on from behind you, making you turn around to see who was talking.

When you noticed it was Crowley and the angel that Dean had been speaking to, you brought your index finger to your lips, shushing for the both of them to be quiet. The demon responded with eye roll. You faced forward in your seat and listened to the first item up for auction. “The first name in magical and alchemist esoterica. Our prices may be high, but our quality is unmatched, and we stand by our products.” You shoved your hand into your pocket and pulled out every ounce of money you could help bid along with credit cards that might help swoon over the god of greed.

“Don’t know why you’re so keen on that hunk of dirt. So it tells you how to blast back a few demons? I’ll just make more.” Crowley spoke up in a hushed voice in attempt not to raise any sort of unwanted attention. The demon took a seat behind you and watched as all of you scurried to cough up the right amount for a price of an object he knew all of you could never afford. His focus might have been straight forward on the auction, but you could hear from the tone of his voice alone the smirk on his lips you'd do anything to smack off. "Can't get rid of all of my black-eyed boys, Samantha."

"Yeah, we'll see." Sam mumbled, not falling for the demon’s weak attempt at trying to scare him. The younger Winchester faced forward again after looking over his shoulder to give the king of hell a brief acknowledge the demon. He turned his attention over to his brother after he handed over all of the money you and him had for the man to count up. “All right. So, how much we got for plan ‘b’?”

“Uh, well, we got our hacked credit cards, two thousand dollars, and a,” Dean handed back over the small pile of cash to his little brother along with the credit cards that were nearly maxed out. Along with the special ticket item Mrs. Tran reassured would be a real deal breaker. “Uh, Costco membership.”

“Our first item, the amulet of Hesperus. Let’s start the bidding with, um, three tons of dwarven gold?” Beau struck up a bargaining trade that caught you off guard. You blinked at what you just heard, wondering if you heard was just some joke he said to get a cheap laugh from the audience. But people were actually raising their hands, offering more gold for this necklace. "Ah. This lady. I have three. Do I have, uh, four? Four, gentlemen here.”

You leaned back in your seat as the bidding went on for quite some time, the price for the necklace went up for five tons of gold to some lady a few rows up from you. You let out a quiet sigh as you looked over at Dean, the both of you realizing this was going to a bit trickier than you thought it was going to be. You were getting that tablet, one way or another. Even if you had to steal it and smuggle it out of here. And that was where plan “C” came into the works.

“I’m gonna use the restroom.” Dean excused himself, pushing himself up to his feet and heading for the other part of the building to see if he could find where the tablet was being held and what sort of obstacles all of you would be up against.

It was moments like this, when you were sitting in the middle of an auction watching creatures of all kinds bid for things with rare objects, that made you wonder what turn in life ended you up here. You let out a sigh and rubbed your eyes with your hands. Sometimes there was no point of asking those kind of questions anymore. Because it could only get stranger from here. You put your own personal thoughts to the side and watched as Beau continued on with the bidding, going for a piece that made your brow raise in surprise at the sight of it.

“Our next item is up for bid, the hammer of Thor, mjolnir.”

An old man in the front row of the audience was quick to go for the hammer with an item that wasn’t gold, but something that was apparently precious enough to bid. “A finger bone from the frost giant Ymir.” Beau seemed intrigued at the possible trade, however Plutus shook his head, deciding he needed something more. The old man was ready to offer up a bloody paper bag with the contents that were a bit unsettling. “Uh...the bone, and the 5/8ths of the virgin.”

“What the hell?” You muttered underneath your breath. You looked over at Sam, who shared the same rather disturbed expression from what he saw unfold right in front of him. You weren't sure you wanted to know where someone got parts of a virgin. The morbid curiosity vanished from your mind when you heard the doors Dean slipped out from a few minutes ago open up and slowly close. A second later you saw him come into view, demanding you and his brother to slide down a seat, making you stuck in the middle between them. “So, how’d it go?”

“Plan ‘C’ tanked.” Dean informed you. You let out a sigh in frustration from the options you were finding yourself slowly finding yourself having. Stealing it wasn’t possible, and you sure didn’t have anything that was good enough to trade for the word of god.

“Maybe you should try plan ‘d’ for dumbass.” Crowley said. You rolled your eyes in annoyance as the brothers looked over their shoulder when the demon made an unwanted remark. Dean gave the king of hell a dirty glare before turning his attention back to the auction.

“Our next lot, the word of God, capital ‘G’—very old, very rare.” Beau placed up the tablet all of you were ready to bid against with your wad of cash and credit cards. If you couldn’t bribe them with that, you’d just have to get down and dirty, offering up a few things that might be better than a few tons of gold or some bloody parts of a virgin. However before you could offer up a price, someone beat you to it.

“Three billion dollars.” Crowley pushed himself up to his feet, putting out a cash offering none of you could ever beat if you even dare so tired. He slipped his hands into his coat pocket and grew an arrogant smirk as you and the boys found yourself gawking at the amount he threw out there like it was nothing to him.

“Whoa.” The boys muttered in sync together.

"The 'Mona Lisa.'" It seemed that someone else was in the market for the word of God. You turned around farther in your chair to see Samandriel was up on his feet, offering a piece of art by Leonardo Da Vinci himself. You had a feeling things were about to get interesting.

“The real ‘Mona Lisa,’ where she’s topless.” Crowley persuaded the god with another deal.

Samandriel wasn’t the least bit afraid to offer up something better, “Vatican city.”

“Alaska.” Crowley said, proposing an entire state to the god of greed.

“Palin and a bridge to nowhere?” Beau pretended to think about the offer before rejecting it. “No, thanks.”

“All right.” Crowley decided to get serious. “The moon.”

“You’re bidding the moon?” You had to repeat what you heard the demon just say in order to figure out if he was being serious here. Or if he was just bluffing to win over the god to get the tablet. "Nobody owns the freaking moon."

“On the contrary. I claimed it for hell.” Crowley corrected you. Your face fell as you stared at him with a look of disbelief at what you were hearing. “Think a man named Buzz gets to go into space without making a deal?”

“Ah. I’m sorry, gentlemen. It seems that our reserve price has not been met. So in order to stimulate the bidding, we’re going to add in item to this lot.” Beau decided to spice things up to get the crowd more eager to bid everything they had. And for all of you to become desperate enough to do whatever you had to stop something terrible from happening. "Kevin Tran, prophet of the Lord."

You quickly turned your head to the side when you heard the young man's name called out, but when you did so, Kevin vanished from your sight. Mrs. Tran let out a gasp of horror at where her poor son went. You noticed that he was now up on the stage, chained up, waiting like a prisoner for someone to win him. You jumped out of your seat in attempt to get up there and kick some ass, but you found yourself only making it a few steps before someone roughly grabbed ahold of you by your arm, yanking you back down to your seat. You gritted your teeth in anger.

“Mr. Tran is the only person on earth who can read this tablet, which makes them a perfect matching set.” Beau sweetened the deal for whoever was greedy enough to cough up the price Plutus would want. Crowley couldn’t himself himself when he made the remark of this deal being out of your league. You had a feeling whatever he had wasn’t good enough for the god, either. At least, you were hoping. “So, do I hear a bid of—”

“No, stop!” Mrs. Tran cried out. “I’ll give you whatever you want. I have a 401(k.), my house.”

Plutus let out a chuckle from the material possessions only a human could find value in. Shaking his head, he continued reading the paper, wondering when she was going to get serious about the bid and offer up something of use to him. “Good effort, Ms. Tran,” Beau said. “but I’m afraid this is a little out of your price range.”

Mrs Tran wasn’t about to give up just yet. She thought long and hard about what sort of objects creatures like this didn't have, and what they would do to get their hands on it. The woman knew what it was, and it was the last card she could play to get her son back. "My soul." She offered. Kevin was against what his mother was about to do, but she would do anything to protect her only child. "I bid my soul!"

“Are you sure?” Dean asked the woman. “That’s a big move.”

“Interesting.” Plutus said. You noticed the man had taken his gaze away from the paper and to Mrs. Tran, the offer was enough to grab his attention. You felt your stomach tighten from the smirk that was starting to settle on his lips. He was actually considering the trade.

“If it’s souls you’re after, I can give you a million.” Crowley said, doing anything he could to win over the god’s greedy persuasion so he could have the prophet and the tablet for his own.

“Hey, flyboy,” Dean leaned over in his seat and grabbed the angel’s attention when he remained awfully silent as the bidding carried on. “Are you gonna get in on this?”

“We guard the souls in heaven.” Samandriel said. “We don’t horse-trade them.”

"An angel with a set of morals." You grumbled. "Great."

“So we have a deal.” Crowley presumed.

“It’s not about the quantity, chief. It’s about the sacrifice. This little lady’s soul is the most valuable thing she has. It’s everything.” Plutus told the demon. He dropped the newspaper to the table in front of him and leaned forward in his seat, the man’s brow raised as he asked the king of Hell one very important question that could make or break everything Mrs. Tran was giving up for the sake of her child. “Are you willing to offer everything, Mr. Crowley?”

You and the boys looked over at the demon, waiting to hear what he had to offer that would beat Mrs. Tran’s offer. He was backed into a corner with little options left. “Fine. You win.” The demon might have admitted defeat, but he was far from giving up. “I bid...my own soul!”

Putus thought the offer was anything other than comical. He leaned back in his seat and let out a throaty chuckle at the compromise the demon tried to pull on someone like him. “Mr. Crowley, you don’t have a soul.” Plutus told the king. Crowley shrugged, thinking it was worth a shot. But it meant that he would be leaving here empty handed. “Congrats, sweetheart.”

You weren't exactly thrilled with how things turned out, this was the complete and total opposite of how you were expecting things to go. But what choice did you have here? It was impossible to steal, along with the fact that Kevin's life was on the line. It was Mrs. Tran's personal decision to make the sacrifice for what she did. It was what being a parent was about. They would do anything to protect the ones they loved. Even if it meant giving up their soul for the sake of seeing them live another day.

+ + +

The only person you had seen without a soul was Sam, and while it felt like a lifetime ago, how he acted would forever be burned in your memory as the worst you’d ever seen him. A person without their soul was the possibly the worst thing that could become of them. When Sam didn’t have a soul he wasn’t himself. He had no morals, no sense of compassion...nothing. Mrs. Tran would soon have to face that bitter reality for the rest of her life. You felt horrible for how things turned out like this. And much as you wished for things to turn out like this, it was what it was. Mrs. Tran made her decision, and she was going to have to stick with it for the sake of keeping her son safe and out of the clutches of Crowley.

“Losing my soul,” Mrs. Tran had been quietly sitting down on the chair for the past few minutes. Everyone had cleared out of the room now that the auction had ended, giving her a chance to try and come to terms with what she had agreed with. You swallowed when she asked you a question about what she was about to go through. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Probably.” Dean said, giving the woman the blunt truth.

“Will I die?” She asked in a timid voice.

“No.” Sam reassured her that it would be much worse. “You’ll just wish you were dead.”

She fell silent at the bitter future she had ahead for her. You couldn’t help yourself when you walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. When she looked up at you, you gave her a warm smile, reminding of why she was doing this in the first place. “Kevin's gonna be safe because of what you did." You whispered to her, trying to make her feel even the slightest bit better about the decision she had made. "You..." You wanted to say she did the right thing. She helped all of you stop from facing a ton of obstacles, but it felt selfish to say. "You'll be okay, too. I promise."

You placed your hand back to your side when you heard the doors open, revealing an impatient Beau, who's boss was waiting for the woman's payment. "It's time." He announced, knowing there wasn't much more stalling all of you could do anymore.

You let out a quiet sigh and looked down at the older woman, who hadn't changed her overwhelmed expression from what she was about to embark on. "Are you okay, Ms. Tran?"

“Yeah.” She barely managed to get out her answer in a meek voice. You gave her a sympathetic expression when you caught tears running down her cheeks. “Can I—Can I just have a minute?”

"Of course. Take all the time you need." You reassured her. You gave her a small smile before looking straight ahead, making eye contact with a rather annoyed Beau. You gave him a dirty look and nodded for him to head into the other room. You and the boys started to make your way out as well, giving Mrs. Tran some privacy she asked for. When the woman was out of listening distance, you leaned over to the older Winchester and whispered your displeasure with this plan. "Guys, this sucks."

“Are you kidding me, Y/N? We’re about to close the gates of hell forever.” Dean said. You rolled your eyes from his way of thinking. You wished you could be confident about it as him. But your consciousness wouldn’t let you. “If you ask me, we got off cheap.”

While you and the boys waited for Mrs. Tran to compose herself and gather the last of her nerve she would ever have. You watched as everyone picked up the items they had won in the bidding. You stood with your arms crossed over your chest as the old man who bargained for Thor's hammer for a bit of a virgin and bone happily be reunited with the object. Your face scrunched up slightly in disturbance as he walked away. As he did so, Mrs. Tran came walking with Beau at her side. However before the transaction could be completed, there was someone else here that you needed beside the tablet. The matching set that Mrs. Tran was about to give up her soul for.

“Where’s the kid?” Dean asked in precaution.

Plutus snapped his fingers, and just like that, you saw Kevin come forward with an extra goon at his side to escort him. “What are you gonna do with her soul?” Sam questioned the god.

“Whatever I want. I might sell it, or maybe I’ll just tuck it away with my other precious objects, let them keep me warm at night.” Plutus said. You could tell from his outfit choice alone that there was something creepy about him. And the words that fell out from his mouth after what he happily admitted only clarified your suspicion. He chuckled at the sight of Mrs. Tran as she shuddered for what she had signed up for. Plutus placed his hands out in front of her and gave the woman a smile. "Whenever you're ready, dear."

Mrs. Tran inhaled her last breath as a woman with a soul and stepped forward. She placed her right arm out in front of her for Plutus to take into his hand. As she did so, the sleeve of her blazer she had been wearing pulled up slightly, revealing the spot where she had gotten her anti-possession tattoo. At least, that's where it should have been. Dean spotted something out of the ordinary that made him grab the woman by the wrist, stopping her from doing anything. He pulled up the sleeve to reveal something that made you and the boys panic. Burned skin. Mrs. Tran’s anti possession tattoo was destroyed, which meant—

“Hello, boys.” You didn’t need to hear Mrs. Tran speaking in the same voice as the demon who had been trying to get exactly what you wanted. Your face dropped when you made eye contact with the same blood red ones you had seen before.

“Crowley.” You hissed out the demon’s name.

You and the boys had no chance against him, despite the fact he was possessing a small woman, it was what he could do as a demon that made him powerful. With a simple flick of a wrist, you felt yourself flying backwards into the wall, breaking the rule Beau had promised you. Being thrown against the wall was something you sure didn’t miss about hunting during your absence. Along with the king of hell and his constant shenanigans to get whatever he wanted.

[Next Part]

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southernpansy666 · 2 years ago

Text

Good Omens: Lockdown 2 (Short Story)

Part 1

"Good night Angel." Crowley said tenderly before they hung up…..

Aziraphale sighed as his gaze wandered aimlessly around the bookshop. Ever since Armagedidn't Crowley had been hanging around the shop almost every day and Aziraphale simply enjoyed the company. Even more so since neither one of them would have to worry about being abruptly pulled away on an assignment.

Aziraphale glanced at his half of his and Crowley’s painting from Leonardo Da Vinci. He smiled fondly at Crowley’s portrait. Crowley was just as lovely as when the angel had first laid eyes on him all those millenia ago…in Eden…

Although Aziraphale had to admit, the only thing that he didn't like about the portrait, or the demon for the matter was that he was always wearing those glasses.

Of course Aziraphale knew Crowley wore them to be safe yet practical so humans wouldn't notice his serpent eyes.

But Aziraphale always loved those eyes. The color of amber, the narrow slits as black as the night sky and always filled with love.

Despite how long Crowley had to wait for him….

Aziraphale rose from his chair and grabbed a brand new cookbook he stumbled upon when he stepped out for a fresh supply for ingredients.

"No more waiting my dear boy." Aziraphale said as he made his way upstairs to the small kitchenette.

"I've gone much too slow for you Crowley, but no more."

Part 2

Crowley was on the outside porch of his flat tending to his outside plants. "There you are, no more leaf spots. Some proper sun did the trick…."

Crowley strolled back inside and glanced at his portrait of Aziraphale and smiled. Getting drunk with Aziraphale and Leonardo Da Vinci was one of the demon's most treasured memories. And that was saying something because Crowley had so many wonderful memories with his angel….

Crowley grinned when he recalled that his and Aziraphale's drunken storytelling inspired Da Vinci to paint the Mona Lisa.

Although Crowley was still a little embarrassed that the particular story that inspired the artist involved Crowley when he dressed quite differently.

Crowley couldn't resist that particular dress and that bastard Archangel Gabriel and Sandalphon didn't recognize him when he stood quietly next to Aziraphale when they ran into them on their way to a dinner date and Aziraphale had to say it was a random act of kindness he was doing for a lovely lady who's husband was away on business….

He and Aziraphale still laughed about it to this day.

He had gifted them each a self portrait of themselves and two other paintings of the both of them together sitting side by side.

Aziraphale gave Crowley his portrait while Crowley gave his to Aziraphale and they each had a copy of the painting of them together.

And DaVinci remained a close friend up until he passed…

Crowley sighed, thanks to this blasted lockdown it would be awhile before he would see Aziraphale again. The thought of sleeping again for such a long time….two months felt so long all of a sudden….didn't appeal to him at all.

"You know what fuck it." Crowley said to himself. "I'm not going to let a stupid lockdown keep me from my angel…." Crowley darted to his telephone in his study and dialed Aziraphale's phone number, his thoughts already dancing with images of Aziraphale's sparkling blue eyes, smile and pale blond hair….

Crowley jumped when there was a knock on his door. Crowley froze, who the hell could that be? He didn't get visitors except when….

"Crowley? It's me, Aziraphale. I uh…decided to go pop over for a visit…unless you were busy…"

Aziraphale was startled by how fast Crowley's door swung open.

"Aziraphale! Hi! Welcome! Come in please!" The words tumbled out of Crowley's mouth before he could stop and think.

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile at the sight before him. Crowley was wearing a pair of boxers and a black tank top. And he wasn't wearing those glasses to the angel’s delight.

"Are you sure dear boy? You look as if you're about to go to bed."

Crowley's face turned beet red. "N-No. Changed my mind. Come inside while I go change." Aziraphale chuckled as he entered the flat and Crowley scampered away.

Aziraphale glanced down at the picnic basket he brought with him. "I hope you don't mind but I brought us something to eat."

The sound of something bumping into something else was heard as Crowley stumbled out of what must have been the bedroom.

"Right food. Sounds nice…" Crowley was now wear some jeans and a t shirt. He literally just grabbed the first thing he saw.

"Well…"Aziraphale began, "I was thinking we could have an indoor picnic of sorts since it's currently not safe for us to be out and about." Aziraphale was blushing now. He was enamored by Crowley’s eyes yet again.

Crowley nodded as he was lost in Aziraphale's blue eyes, already relieved that he would get to see them up close and in person.

Part 3

A tartan blanket had been spread out on the floor of Crowley’s living room. With a snap of Crowley’s fingers, the dim room was alight with candles.

"I made everything myself.." Aziraphale said proudly as he unpacked the food. "I'm especially proud of the blueberry muffins. I've always wanted to make those. And I brought wine…."

As the two ate their meal, Aziraphale said. "You know Crowley, you did have a point when we spoke earlier."

"Oh?" replied Crowley as he refilled their wine glasses.

"Yes." Aziraphale nodded. " I think there is no harm in us resuming and sticking to our new routine where you come to the shop."

Crowley smiled from ear to ear. "I think that's a grand idea angel."

The End.

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#Terry Pratchett

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#good omens season 2 #good omens #ineffable husbands

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