#I should draw zira sometime too

[semisolidmind]

Just a question. What if one of the demons that are currently fighting the two monkey brothers and ran away to hide as a close pet or servant to peaches? Would peaches protect them even knowing they are a demon? Will the two brothers kill their enemy despite peaches connection?

so this ask got me thinking about that “tiger on the mountain” fic that @hcdragonwrites wrote, and about a potential survivor of the battle against the tiger lord’s army. while all the soldiers would definitely be killed, perhaps an attendant or luggage carrier would be spared and added to the servant force on ffm.

Ksudra (“small” or “petty” in Hindi)— a lower servant of the tiger lord, Zira. she was originally going to be killed along with the rest of the invading tiger army, but reader stepped in on her behalf. reader felt pity for the small cat demon, and to protect her until she could escape, she asked that ksudra be assigned as one of her attendants. the warlords begrudgingly agreed, but not without very clear warning about what would happen if the cat deigned to hurt reader in any way. reader's ladies in waiting really, reeeeally don't like the new addition to their ranks.

[itsclydebitches]

Discredit Part Three! (Click on each pic for something resembling quality!) 

Part One---contains translations, podfic, and related works---Part Two

Tagging, credit, and transcript all below the cut 💜

First off, people who specifically asked to see more of this nonsense may God in all Her glory bless you accordingly: 

@internet-or-sleep, @just-some-girl-on-the-internet, @readytoocomply, @vocallsama, @fellowshipofthegay, @lucky-leafeon, @alph4centauri, @sumoranges, @diaphanedreams 

Aziraphale’s profile pic is courtesy of good old Neil, found here. All others are from Creative Commons. 

Sorry it took so long to produce more stupidity. YOU ALL ROCK  🎊🎊🎊 Here, have a messy transcript. 

Abdou G. 

Have you ever walked in on a conversation and, despite clearly missing the majority of it, feel like you could reconstruct it, word for word if necessary? That happened at Fell’s today. The ‘talk’ had obviously been going on for a while, but I can give you a perfect summary here: rude fuckboy thinks he gets to say who God is, Fell was having none of it.

Best response? Turn around, walk back to your apartment (pro-tip: this only works if you’re just a few blocks away), and change your shirt. I walked back in with my I MET GOD, SHE’S BLACK tee and had the pleasure of seeing Fell do a double-take.

“Yes, thank you, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!”

***

Doug E. 

Scout’s honor: I once saw that Crowley dude unhinge his jaw and eat a large pizza in one goddamn bite.

Update: you heathens read about this gay abomination with his dislocated jaw and what you decide to question is whether I was acTUALLY A SCOUT? 

***

Mary L. 

I came in with my four-year-old last week fully intending to keep him within sight at all times. Yes, I bought one of those kiddie leashes and no, I don’t regret a thing. You try holding down two jobs as a single mom to the bonefide antichrist. I love my boy, but the devil got to him, telling him things like, “Yes, Freddie, permanent marker would look just great on Mum’s only work jacket!”

I said as much to the owner because this mom needs to vent sometimes.  

I wish I could give this place a higher rating, but the ownership is frankly terrible. Inconsistent hours, no help when you’re trying to find a book, just basically all around bad customer service, BUT it still gets five stars because when I told the guy I was raising the antichrist?

“Oh yes. I did that myself not too long ago!”

We parents need to support one another. Otherwise the world is going to burn. So here’s a good review for you, Mr. Bookshop Guy. A part of me hopes you’re a better dad than you are a bookseller. The other part? The bigger part? It’s very aware that Ms. Pot here just met Mr. Kettle.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Freddie just got into the flour.

***

Alfred B.

I hereby nominate Mr. Fell as the British Steve Irwin. I’ve never seen anyone handle a red bellied black snake like that. I mean yeah, they’re a chill species overall, but there’s a difference between casually handling a snake and fucking chucking one onto the chair because it’s in your way. (Okay. Maybe Irwin was a little nicer.) 

Renee K. 

whos steve irwin?

Alfred B. 

...How old are you?

Renee K. 

15

Alfred B. 

You existed on this planet for two years with him and you dare to ask me this? Go boil your head and then use google. Good god.

***

Mark F. 

overheard the owner telling his boyfriend that last they met his brother tried to set him on fire? and succeeded?? actually now that I think about it, not sure which brother they were talking about---his brother or boyfriend’s brother--but WHOEVER has the brother needs to... i don’t even know. do something about that? ring the police or go to therapy or SOMETHING. i mean maybe they already have, i’m just an eavesdropping tourist, but the idea of someone setting that bow-tie cutie on fire—DID I MENTION THAT? PERSON ARSON. MURDER—makes my blood boil

***

Shiefa N. 

People aren’t joking about overhearing weird conversations here. I walked in on two men (owner and husband? owner and escort?) debating Seven Minutes in Heaven. You know, that stupid kissing game the better looking kids got to play in middle school. It got pretty heated at one point (pun not intended), arguing about whether seven minutes of making out was divine or damning behavior. I hung out long enough to catch the segue into a lust vs. love debate and then had to skedaddle. Nice couple. I support their weird flirting habits.

***

Chang Z. 

Is it legal to visit a store for things other then what it sells? I realize that makes me sound druggie or something but I swear I’m dealing with a much healthier addiction. (Ha. Maybe.) I cosplay (yeah, yeah, move along, trolls) and Mr. Fell has an absolute wealth of historical clothing. It’s astounding! I thought they were particularly detailed costumes at first, but no. I’m majoring in Textile and Apparel Studies. I know a naturally worn piece of fabric when I see it. Mr. Fell is always cracking jokes about how he wore this frock in the 19th century, this shirt in the 17th, oh don’t you just love my old vest? (He has... so many vests...) I indulge him because anyone who lets me borrow this stuff for free deserves all my attention and fake laughter.

Yeah. You read right. Artifacts borrowed for free. He’s even let me alter some of the stuff because I’m not exactly his size. Should this stuff be in a museum somewhere? Probably. Am I calling anyone to take my personal cosplay supply away? Noooope.

***

Leah M. 

Helping to spread the word here because I’m not sure how much foot traffic this place actually gets.

I pass Fell’s every morning on my way to work and yesterday there was a new sign in the window. This might not seem very interesting to most people on here, but you’ve got to understand that Fell’s never changes. None of it. I’ve lived in Soho since I was a boy and this place has always had the same placard with his insane times listed, same stripped paint on the door he’s never gotten around to fixing, same spiderweb in the corner I absolutely swear. My dad used to pop in there when he was in college and I swear he’s taken me through the stacks, points out books that haven’t moved in 30+ years. It’s nuts and more than a little bit impressive.

So you can imagine my shock when I passed by and saw not one, but four new papers in the front window. They’re drawings and I recommend going and taking a look for yourself. I don’t think I can accurately describe the utter chaos of crayons and glitter that’s displayed there, let alone what it’s trying to depict. A dystopia? The end of the world? If so the apocalypse features a surprising number of dogs.

There’s a fifth paper off to the side, written in Fell’s messy penmanship. It just says, “My god-children drew these!” and if that’s not the cutest things you’ve ever heard get out of my face.

***

Gabriel A. 

azirfell

alzaphral

azzzzzirafal

i’m a litttle drunk but azifjkaafha’s place is good he just needs a name easier to spell

***

Aziraphale 

Dear Gabriel A,

My partner Crowley told me about this site and the many lovely well-wishes you all have left us here. I have come to express my thanks and to offer a bit of advice. You are hardly the first person to struggle with my name, dear girl! I recommend the following three step process:

A - simple, yes? + zira - a nickname I’ve adopted over the years, easy enough to recall + phale - this is admittedly more difficult as our ending, “phale,” is neither spelled in a way nor presumed to be pronounced like the “fell” sound we end up with. In truth my name is more along the lines of Azz-ear-raf-AE-el, but change is inevitable and you needn’t hear about that transformation, nor the etymology involved in getting “fell” out of “phale.” I say this not because I don’t wish to teach you, but because my partner has reminded me--in a rather rude tone I should add--that this site has a word limit. Suffice to say you should simply memorize the “phale” portion and you shall be, as the expression goes, in tip top shape!

Best regards,

Aziraphale

P.S. Nothing personal, dear boy, but I fear I’m not terribly fond of your name either. I would highly recommend changing it if you’re ever of a mind to do so. Cheerio!

[as-everything-should-be]

Prophecy #5307

Part 2 of “Meaning: one who heals”

Part 1 can be found here

Pair: Gabriel x female OC

Fandom: Good Omens

Warnings: none? I think?

Words: 1264

Also: the beginning’s a bit rushed, I’m sorry, hope you’ll like it anyway

‘Of one thing he was sure, though, she had to be his.’

To say Altea was confused was an understatement. There she was, standing in the doorway of Aziraphale's backroom, staring down at none other than the archangel Gabriel. A million questions were running through her mind right now; she didn't have time to address any of them as said archangel stepped in front of her friend and introduced himself. "Goodmorning, I'm the archangel Gabriel. I do not recall your name, though. It's strange I don't usually forget such an aura..." he trailed off, and she started shifting her weight from one foot to the other. When she was born, they tried to hunt her down, and her parents had to fake her death to ensure her safety; she surely didn't want to be found now. Fortunately, Zira came to her rescue, intruding in the conversation, "If I may, we should really go right now; why don't you come back tomorrow? Or next week maybe..." the angel anxiously suggested. Strangely, Gabriel agreed, exiting the back, but not before turning around to look at the raven-haired woman, "See you soon," and it sounded more like a fact than a greeting.

"Seriously, what a creep" Crowley was fiddling with his wine glass, plate empty; he didn't care much for food, at least not as much as Aziraphale or Altea, that's for sure. He had been listening to the pair complaining about this guy for the past hour. He was growing more and more annoyed by the minute, so he proposed a change of scenery.

The ducks in St. James’ Park are so used to being fed bread by secret agents meeting clandestinely that they developed their own Pavlovian reaction. Luckily, this was no longer WW2, but meeting in the open, with Altea's growing paranoia, felt just as illegal. "What if he finds out and he reports me to the HQ?!" she was freaking out, and this tuned out both Zira's confusion and Crowley's exhaustion. "Sweetheart, I doubt he'll find out, honestly he's not the brightest at times," the angel got red as his friend bit back a laugh, "I'm sure everything's gonna be fine, plus I could use a hand." Altea frowned at the subtle proposal "With what? Teaching him how to be human? No way" the angel only smiled.

And smiling he kept, although the action was more painful than sincere now. He reluctantly left his dear friend to tend the cash register as she was trying to explain to the archangel how emojis worked. They had been meeting up for months now, sometimes even over lunch or at the park, one could almost say they were friends, given that the archangel knew what the word implied.

They were sitting unbelievably close, attraction undeniable between the pair, as Gabriel kept trying to remove what little space was left, scooting closer every second, and the poor woman couldn't help but feel a bit flustered. She couldn't help but notice how bright his aura was, beautiful golden wings right in the middle of the pulsating light. The vessel he chose was just as beautiful, light purple eyes observing her every move, stopping to stare at her lips now and then. The grey suit fitted him perfectly and hugged him in all the right places, highlighting his fit figure.

She forced herself out of her staring to tend to the matter at hand, Gabriel was struggling to understand, either that or he was playing dumb because Altea couldn't believe that the archangel could be so daft. He wasn't, but in his opinion, if playing dumb meant he could spend more time with her, then so be it. 

She turned around as she tried to explain to him once more that animals don't live inside the keyboard, they're just drawings, when he leaned in, lips almost touching hers. Their breaths mixed with each other's as both waited for the other to make the first move, she tried to play it off "What, you want to practice?" he moved his gaze from her lips to her eyes, expecting to see jest, instead, he found insecurity "No, I like you" his tone hurt by the assumption that he somehow didn't care about her, couldn't she see? Couldn't she feel the love that was in the room? "How can you like me, you don't even know me" she got up, worry attacking her nerves. She didn't want to act this way, Altea had to admit the attraction was undeniable, he didn't know how to hide it and she didn't want to, too many years spent alone, watching lovers die to the disease of mortality, she was tired of it. Being with Gabriel would have implied an eternity of opportunity, an eternity together, no more feeling alone, desperate for touch, for love, for care. Admitting it, though, could have great consequences, would he be as merciful as he is now if he found out she was a Nephilim? Would he still like her? She couldn't say, and that was her greatest fear.

She had grown used to the little moments they shared during her lessons, like his kiss on the cheek when he wished her goodbye or when he held the door open for her, or again when he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, accidentally caressing her face with his fingertips. All these moments she had grown to cherish and look forward to every week, but now fear was biting at her and she couldn't say if it was worth it or not. Was love worth risking her whole immortal life? 

She paused. Love? she cursed under her breath, too engrossed in her own mind to remind herself that Gabriel was still there. "What are you afraid of?" she turned around, slightly startled, and stared at him like a deer in headlights, "From the moment I saw you, I knew I wanted to be part of your life, heaven knows how badly I wanted you to be mine. I was starstruck by how bright your aura was, too bright to be human, too little bright to be angelic." he places his hands on the sides of her crossed arms and he felt her tense under his touch "I know you're a Nephilim and I don't care. I love you, Altea, and no stupid rule is ever going to change that". She looked up at him, eyes glazed over, barely able to focus her gaze on him, "You love me?" she breathed out. Altea could swear that time had slowed itself down just to let her taste this moment, just so that she could relive how his harm moved to her back to gently bring her closer to him, how he leaned in with a small smile on his lips, cheeks tinted pink, lifting her chin and closing the gap between them. The full-blown force of that display of affection travelled all the way to both heaven and hell, not that demons felt love, but a certain angel named Aziraphale, that was right in the next room, was hit by the wave like a bomb, soliciting a smile from the knowing angel.

Altea and Gabriel were whispering sweet nothings to each other between soft kisses that were long overdue as Zira went to add a note to his copy of "The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch", right next to the prophecy number 5307 which recites as such "An angel will be sent for he has forgotten humanity. He will be loved by the one citizen of both realms, and so he'll love, and their love will be felt by all."

[celticat21]

3, 5, 16, 33, 51 and 53 for any or all of your apprentices! (Sorry I love them all so much I can’t choose)

@leechobsessed Thank you! I will try to answer for all of them. :) I love when you guys ask questions because I have just so much lore to share!

3. Any familiar?

Alessa: A baby dragon named Bernie! He’s small and blue but struggled to breathe fire since being abandoned by his thunder. 

Tabitha: An old sea turtle yet to be named! (Maybe you guys can offer suggestions?)

Freya: A seal named Ingrid. It’s hard for Ingrid to live in a warmer climate like Vesuvia, since in her climate she’s used to a very cold climate.

Winona: A snake named Dante, looks similar to Faust but with a thinner head and green and yellow pattern. 

Zira: A little octopus-like creature native to her home dimension. Her name is Vivian.

Katarina: An Eagle named Pietro. You would be surprised, as heavy as he can be she can still lift him no problem.

5. Best strength in magic? (My favorite!)

Alessa: Anything having to do with heat and light, but mostly fire.

Tabitha: Plant magic! She loves to make plants grow, and can communicate with them. Though, it does earn her some strange stares.

Freya: Anything to do with air and transformation. Think, sort of air bender, but also able to transform not only herself, but other things as well. She also has a semi-magical ability to know if someone is lying/being sincere or not.

Winona: Lights! Anything to do with light and color; its their favorite thing ever! When they get really excited, splotches of color appear on their skin, or bursts of color just appear around them, similar to a picture I posted once.

Zira: Ice magic; she’s a regular old Elsa over here! Though, Masha likes to learn shadow magic if only because it sounds creepy. 

Katarina: Telekinesis, communicating with ghosts, and recently learned to put people in a suggestive state and sort of “mind control” them. Though, she only did that once and doesn’t like to do it unless necessary.

16. What are their fears? (For most of these, its answered in their character bio, but not all of them have it yet so I’ll repeat it!)  

Alessa: The ocean, whales, having people destroy something she worked hard on, financial dependence, losing control of her life, being alone.

Tabitha: Being in a storm on a boat, big cats like tigers, complete darkness.

Freya: Being completely alone, being taken advantage of, walking on ice, having no control of her life. 

Winona: Dogs, fire, complete darkness. 

Zira: Losing Masha. She really doesn’t fear much else.

Katarina: Being unfulfilled in life, spiders, needles, doctors, pure darkness, being alone at night.

(I just realized a lot of my apprentices are afraid of the dark and I feel like that should say something about me, but I’m not?)

33. Favorite time of the day?

Alessa: Afternoon. Something about the afternoon time, where its been enough time for her to fully wake up, but not yet night time where she feels like she’s running out of time. It’s nice.

Tabitha: Night time. She loves to watch the sunset then lays down and stares up at the stars.

Freya: Evening once she shop closes. She likes having the time to herself to do things.

Winona: Any time of day honestly, but they really are a morning person! They’re just so excited to start another day, since its a blessing they made it through the night!

Zira: They don’t favor any time of day really. Her circadian rhythm is different from a humans, so all the times of the day blur together. She takes frequent naps to try and be on the same schedule as humans.

Katarina: Late morning, probably. Its quiet enough at the shop to day dream, and on days off it gives her time to get breakfast before getting to work in her studio.

51. What is their worst negative quality? (Ooh, deep.)

Alessa: She can be very stubborn and short tempered. She doesn’t WANT to forgive people because she’s too busy being upset. 

Tabitha: She can be a too cocky at times. She often thinks she knows best, or is better at something than the other person, when thats not really the case.

Freya: She often can assume she has more knowledge of things than other people, and often assumes people don’t have good intentions rather than giving them the benefit of the doubt. This is where her power of telling sincerity comes in handy.

Winona: They can be too trusting, and too excitable to the point they’re not self aware. They could cause a big scene and not even know it. 

Zira: She is very protective over Masha and can flip on a dime from polite to wanting to kill you. She attacks first and asks questions later. 

Katarina: While she has been working on this, she often finds herself being too hard on herself, and sometimes stuck in a “woe as me” rut. Lately, though, she’s trying to see things from other peoples perspectives. Especially since she doesn’t like when Asra leaves her alone. She used to get really upset until she started thinking about it from Asra’s perspective.

53. What is their position to fall asleep? (I should try to draw these!)

Alessa: Oh, she is so restless and constantly changes positions. She can take up the whole bed if given the chance!

Tabitha: If with Volta, she will hold onto her, but if alone she’s a stomach sleeper. 

Freya: A side sleeper, like the “yearner” position.

Winona: Always hugging something. Whether its Asra, a pillow, or stuffed animal, they must be hugging something to be comfortable.

Zira: On her back, but with her legs facing sideways, if that makes sense? Like I said, I will try to draw these lol.

Katarina: Corpse position with her hands under her legs.

Edit: I literally just realized I wrote “Celtica” instead of “Alessa”. Oof, I fixed it but wtf lol.

[eliotlime]

Um I’m sorry to bother you but I seriously am in love with your lover boy animatic and was wondering your animation process? Like legit how do you go through with creating something so beautiful lol

haha thank you v much! it’s kinda straight forward tbh and most of the time i’m winging it honestly.

STEP 1: Find a song/audio you like

make sure it’s song youre okay with listening to on repeat forever because boy i cant listen to lover boy any more ive heard it toooooo many times

STEP 2: Look up lyrics/text to see if it actually fits

you may like the song purely because it has a tune you like, but sometimes the lyrics clash with what you want to portray. This is the part where you decide if you actually want to go through with it

STEP 3: Planning

this step can involve a lot or just the bare minimum, for lover boy i didnt do any model sheets just a rough sketch of the characters

god they look so bad, that’s why before actually doing the animatic it’s good to know how to draw the characters. (this applies to anything you wanna do for a long time too, like webcomics for example) 

next i plan out the lyrics and parts, the way i did it was sectioning off every verse into its own story. nothing’s really set in stone at this point it’s just a rough guideline to know what i should do.

STEP 4: Rough Layout

i plan incredibly roughly how each scene will go you can see my roughs here (bad audio warning) i rarely change anything from this point onwards.

STEP 5: Clean Up

finally i line everything to look neat and readable to the viewer, its good to have a friend look over at your work and point out mistakes! i also fine tune any choppy animations and timing issues at this point.

STEP 6: i’m finally done

upload it to youtube and hope people will like it

this is where i stopped for Lover Boy, but if you were to do a genuine animation, after clean up is usually more refining and colours as well as added audio effects. it depends on the mood youre going for and how much time youre willing to spend on one project.

All in all, i think animation is really fun and (sometimes) rewarding. I can say for sure now that i definitely can draw Zira and Crow decently now haha. if you want to get really good at drawing something just make an animation/comic out of it i guarantee you will at least be slightly better after it. 

[din-skywalker]

Untouched Snow and Darkest Night

uuuhhh... i watched good omens and i ordered the book. so have this

It was a warm, summer morning as Crowley moved about his apartment, windows open as the breeze moved in. It was never nearly hot enough for him, being a demon and all. Hell was always a sauna of sorts, where demons could soak and heat up their inner cores. They had way hotter inner cores than humans or angels did, so being hot was nice.

He is currently watering his plants and making sure none of them have any leaf holes. So far, none of them have any.

“Oh, Crowley.” Came a discomforted voice from

behind him.  

Oh. His angel was here. He wasn't expecting that. He was expecting to have a home alone day.

He sets his watering can down on a nearby table top and turns to meet Aziraphale, a smirk on his face. “What's up, Zira?” he said in greeting, not missing the scrunched look on the angel’s face which normally foretold he was mildly displeased with something. Okay.. more of, really displeased with something. Could be anything from a book not placed in alphabetical order to a hair out of place on his head. He was staring slightly behind Crowley, though, so it had to have something to do with the demon. “Is there something on my face?”

Aziraphale seems to catch himself and a small smile appears on his lips. “Oh, no, not your face, my dear,” he replied, and the place in Crowley’s chest where a heart would be located if he were human does a small little flip. He always did enjoy it when his angel called him that, even if he'd never admit that. “Your wings.”

Crowley’s wings unconsciously press tighter to his back, and he has to suppress the urge to look over his shoulder at them. He hadn't made them visible to any creature’s eyes aside from those of angel’s and fallen angel’s for the longest time now. He sometimes forgets they're there until someone bumps into them or they knock a remote from a coffee table. And now that he's thinking about them, he really would like to stretch them out. Maybe go for a fly. Man, he hasn't flown in centuries.

“What about them?” Crowley inquires, trying not to sound offended by the fact his angel was speaking illy of his wings. He glances at Aziraphale’s wings, and takes notice that they are just as shiny and well taken care of as usual. He loves his angel’s wings. And he's told Aziraphale this fact in the past. Because while his own wings are dark and appear to be that of a crow’s, dark as night, Aziraphale’s are gorgeous. They look just like freshly fallen snow tinted with golden laces. They were amazing. And he still remembers the time one sheltered him from an oncoming storm.

Aziraphale steps closer to Crowley, eyes still trained on the ashen wings. His own wings are held comfortably behind him, visible in the only sense just as Crowley’s are. Meaning only angel's of sorts could see them. Though, of course, they are just as tangible. And Crowley wants to do nothing more than to reach out and brush his fingers through the feathers he knows to be softer than clouds.

His angel situated himself to be standing behind Crowley, and he's reaching forward, running his hand over his feathers, just as Crowley wants to do. The touch is lighter than a single feather, and if Crowley wasn't aware, he wouldn't have even known his angel was touching them. He doesn't stop Aziraphale. Anyone else, he would have already burnt. But not his angel. Never his angel.

“They're nothing but a mess, Crowley,” Aziraphale informs him in his light and singsong voice. “You really should take better care of them.”

“That's kind of hard sometimes, angel,” Crowley said, the term of endearment sliding from his tongue smoothly. Why call him an angel? That's what he literally is. But, even if he were not a true angel, Crowley is sure he'd be just as kind and soft as one. So, he sticks with the term. It suits him well. “I can't always see them.”

“Yet I can always keep my even,” Aziraphale points out, and Crowley can hear his soft amusement. He smirks.

“I'm sure you miracle them even,” Crowley replied, not missing the fact his angel is now preening away at his wings. Again, he doesn't stop him. He was right, after all. He was pretty sure he hadn't preened or cleaned his wings at least a single century. He's honestly surprised Aziraphale hadn't already taken notice of his mangy wings.

Aziraphale chuckles, a warm note that fills Crowley’s chest. “I am definitely going to need a miracle to clean these wings of yours,” he said matter of factly.

“Oh yes, I'm sure,” Crowley said. And then they both fall silent as Aziraphale continues to preen and gently pluck the demon’s feathers. It felt nice, really, and Crowley enjoyed the feeling.

Crowley is actually beginning to doze lightly when Aziraphale speaks again, “Would you possibly have a brush I could use? Your wings are quite a mess still.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. In uh, in the bathroom,” Crowley responded quickly, shaking off the sudden tiredness. Aziraphale nods with a smile and heads off for said room, leaving the demon to try and get a look at his wings. Which, he hadn't tried doing for sometime now, but they were already starting to feel way cleaner and he was curious.

He focuses and causes his wings to appear to any eye now, bringing them up and around his front. They stretch out almost happily, if wings could be happy, and he looks over them, humming with delight to see his angel’s work could already be seen. Though, Aziraphale doesn't seem to be quite content with them yet, because he is reapproaching with a brush in hand, his own wings held out behind him and still mostly invisible.

“I found it,” Azriaphale informs, quite proudly. He notices how Crowley is currently standing and frowns. “Oh? Do you not like how I've done them?”

Crowley quickly sends his wings back. He stammers, “Oh no, not at all. They are looking wonderful, angel.”

“I hope so,” Aziraphale says, returning to his previous position. Crowley raises his wings in the slightest to try and help his angel have an easier time at reaching the feathers he was so intent on brushing. “Because I would hate to make them appear worse to you.”

“Oh you shouldn't,” Crowley said. “Anything you'll do will make them look better, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles that warm smile and Crowley can't hold back his own smile. “Well, that is good,” he pauses in his words, but continues to pull the brush gently and carefully through the many, black feathers. “I was wondering. Would you be so kind as to possibly brush my wings too?”

There's a moment of silence where Crowley does look over his shoulder now at Aziraphale’s face, and his angel quickly sputters along as though embarrassed, “I- I mean, you don't- you really don't have to if you'd rather not and-”

“Sure,” Crowley said, cutting off his angel’s stammering. Aziraphale draws a deep breath in and smiles once more, as though the demon agreeing to brush his wings as well was the best thing in the world he'd ever heard. Which was ridiculous, right? He was just a demon, after all.

Another few minutes pass in silence, the only sound being the brush dragging through feathers and the angel in the room beginning to hum a soft tune. The melody is somehow familiar to the demon; it was as if it was buried deep in his mind from a previous life, from when he was among the clouds with a pair of clean white wings of his own. It must be some sort of angelic melody or lullaby, because it seemed to make the air hum along with the angel’s voice in a warm, ethereal way.

It was beautiful, to say the least.

Crowley loved Aziraphel’s voice. Singing or otherwise. It was always so dashing and comforting at the same time, being a wonderful tune even when he wasn't singing. He always did love when his angel sang; it was always much better than any of the other angels in Heaven could ever manage.

Then again, it was Crowley’s angel they were speaking of. Aziraphale was the best to be made from Heaven.

Aziraphale finishes a minute or so later, and Crowley already misses his gentle touch. He lets his wings rest for a moment, relishing in the brushed, smooth feeling they now held. Then, he holds his hand out for the brush- his angel plucks a few of the feathers that had tangled in its bristles, letting them fall delicately to the ground- and switches spots with him.

His angel’s wings become fully visible once more, and all over again Crowley is taken by their beauty. They were so gorgeous; there really were no words to describe their beauty. The best Crowley could think of was that of the sun reflecting off of the clearest, most iridescent water on the planet as it rose(never set. Aziraphale would never set) slowly into a sky dotted with perfectly white and fluffy clouds.

Aziraphale holds his wings up a tad higher, the feathers brushing together and apart again as they angle themselves higher for Crowley. He reaches forward, seeing only a few feathers that needed to be preened and does his best to gently pluck them. Demons were not known for being gentle, nor careful, but he did his best, never wanting to cause any pain for his angel. He only notices his angel flinch the first few times he plucks a feather free before he learns how to do it tenderly, not causing any pain any longer.

The feathers are beyond soft, just as Crowley remembered them to be. Softer than the softest cloud, and cooler than the freshest snow to fall to the ground. He relishes the softness, maybe dragging his fingers through the feathers a bit longer than needed. But, Aziraphale doesn't say anything about it, and so neither does he.

He then sets to work, brushing the perfect wings before him with the most care a demon could muster. He angles his head around a tad bit, noticing how his angel has lightly closed his eyes as though he was enjoying having a demon brush his wings. It makes Crowley’s chest warm all over again.

And okay, he may take a bit longer than is needed to groom his angel’s feathers- because really, they didn't need much grooming. Crowley still can't see why Aziraphale wanted him to brush them- but he finishes a few minutes later. He pulls the feathers remaining in the brush and holds one between his thumb and forefinger, brushing it with both and holding it behind his back as he does. Keeping one feather couldn't hurt, now could it?

Aziraphale turns to look at the demon with that same warm smile. “Ah yes, thank you very much, my dear,” he said, and there goes his chest doing a small flip all over again.

“Of course, no problem, really, angel,” Crowley responded, and scratches at the side of his ear because suddenly it was itchy. Then he decides to question why his angel was here in the first place. Not that he minded, really. “So, uh. Why are you here, really?”

His angel’s eyes light up in something akin to remembrance and he claps his hands together. “Oh yes, of course!” his wings do a little flutter as he walks past Crowley, the demon following behind him. Their wings brush together, black mixing with white. They basically tangle together, similar when hands and fingers are held together. “Well, you see, I was needing to discuss…”

Behind them, a few black and white feathers are left behind, silver when placed together.

[myidlethinkings]

I Guess We’re Falling Out

My own girlfriend angel and I started writing a Crowley ran off with Antichrist, now him and Aziraphale are raising Adam as their own child story. It goes with my Gabriel headcanon that he’s not the best of sorts, but he’s not the complete villain some have made him out to be (and Raphael is his Other, headcanoned in our minds as a Tom Hardy sort. We call them the Ineffable Flowers.)

Chapter One: Well Then.

Aziraphale swung the door shut on the young, crying, woman.

Eugh, a wasted mid-morning. Every so often, every few years or so there was always one. Well. Not just women. Men too. All manners of people on the spectrum of gender. Once there had even been a couple. He supposed that was the occupational hazard of having a demon as a friend. Crowley didn’t even mean for it to happen most of the time. A conversation, a nod, brushed shoulders in an elevator, heavens, even just the sight of his face still and enigmatic behind those shades would set people to follow, would crave his attention.

And sometimes, due to their acquaintanceship, these lost souls would spill onto the doorstep of his bookshop where Aziraphale would have to tend to their bruised hearts.

Yes, I know, dear.

Oh, I quite understand.

Please, have a biscuit.

He is truly not worth it, oh, indeed.

This one, however, had actually seemed Crowley’s type, and the thought of that had unsettled him. An amateur astronomer, they had apparently met at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich one solstice. They had shared many a night underneath a blanket of stars as she had shared with him the subject of the thesis she desperately wanted to pursue one day. He had never seemed to need a telescope, the woman – Aria – had said as if using hers was just for show and he had pointed to the sky in the correct direction at every turn without even properly looking, “As if he had flung them into being himself”.

A pot of tea, three Custard Creams, and a sympathetic best to forget about him, dear and he had managed to be rid of her.

He was sorting through The Romantics (with a subconscious heavy thud to the collection of that awful cretin Byron) when the ring of the bell over the door sounded and Crowley came moseying in, saying nothing as his long-limbed figure flopped on the couch.

“Afternoon, dear,” Aziraphale greeted him.

“Izzit?”

“Mm, a little past four.”

“Ghastly hour,” the demon yawned with a jaw that seemed to unhinge in a most inhuman way, “Neither here nor there. Five at least is interesting. Three at least is respectable. Four is…A Geography teacher in a bad suit.”

“Were you napping? You could continue it here if you’d like.”

Crowley rolled on to his back after shouldering out of his blazer, discarding it to the carpet and stretched, “Wouldn’t be in your way?”

“Never,” Aziraphale moved over to the door and hung up the closed sign, then casually, as if he’d just remembered, “Oh. An Aria paid a visit earlier.”

He was hoping for a pause and a confused “Who?” – like he’d said about Beth, about James, about Caroline, Jessica, Trish, about Caitlin, about Benjamin, about Fiona and Kenneth…

But instead, there was a soft, “..Oh.” which very definitely resounded with recognition and even a note of sadness.

“I told her to forget about you of course…Was I wrong to do so?”

He turned and Crowley’s expression was hidden behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale moved to sit in the seat opposite him, his voice a little tight, “Oh Crowley, I am sorry if I did wrong.”

“Hmm?” Crowley then gestured dismissively, “No, of course, you didn’t, Aziraphale. You can’t, remember?”

Aziraphale tutted at the gentle teasing.

“Thought I recognised her is all.”

A simple statement, but Aziraphale’s face softened. Ah. This again. The elusive Nannerl. Crowley convinced that every so often souls would be weaved back into the history of humanity. A child prodigy who had been taken from royal court to court alongside her brother, and while he had grown to fill the century with musical notes long remembered, she had been relegated to a mere footnote in history. Crowley had been searching for her ever since.

“Not her then?”

Crowley made a negating sound, “Thought for certain… with the name this time that the universe was trying to be funny… But it’s still just a big cockup of a lark… Anyway, she’ll make her own mark, Aziraphale. She’ll be one of the primary colours of this century.”

Aziraphale smiled slightly. He made the mistake of Crowley noticing, as he rolled his eyes and moved to his side, his back to the angel, “Oh don’t start.”

The smile deepened.

“I said stop it. Can’t nap when you’re smiling.”

Aziraphale went back to his books, but the smile remained. As the hours wiled away and the light began to dim, the angel’s eyes began to become bleary. He had never taken to Crowley’s habit of sleeping, but time began to drift as he began to pass in a meditative state.

The angel dreamed.

Or the closest to what dreams were in this half awake, half trance state.

The flitter flutter of memories. Senses. Flashes of colour. Half murmured conversations.

The feel of rain. It had been a nice day.

He came back with a hand on his shoulder.

A soft, “Aziraphale.”

For a moment he was caught between two worlds and his voice was half slurred as he asked, “Do you still have it?”

“Have it?”

Vague thoughts of rats scurrying off, of dancing feet, ebb away to nothing.

He was still sitting at his desk with Keats open before him, the question hanging in the air and fading to irrelevance now he’d been pulled back to reality.

“Oh, Crowley, nothing. I fear I drifted.”

Bright Star laid open to the world that existed for an angel and a demon in a bookshop. Aziraphale’s thoughts were back on the woman and Crowley had moved him to draw upon an old conversation with an old acquaintance that had inspired the poem… Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley’s eyes scanned the words.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

With a flourished and speckled ink accompanying the poem “For you and Yours, Mr Fell. Thank you again for your patronage.”

He slammed the book shut and for some reason blushed.

“I didn’t know you met Keats,” there was a dismissive sniff in Crowley’s words at the pretentious prose that rankled the angel.

Aziraphale was up, and slotted the book back in an almost defensive motion, “Was probably when you were having one of your sulks.”

Crowley balked, “I– wh– My sulks- I do not- I-”

The confusion from the demon at the barb stung Aziraphale’s conscience and he rubbed his temple, “I’m sorry, Crowley. My mind is just rather… I’ve been at it too long,” he gestured at the books, “Cataloguing them with a new system, and…” he offered an apologetic smile.

“New system, I’m impressed,” Crowley pulled a face but then gave his own smile, “No need to apologise. The ire was earned. After all,” He raised his hands in a dramatic shrug, “What would your plebeian demon know of literary matters?”

The self-deprecating jest only managed to make Aziraphale sad in a way he couldn’t express. He knew things abundantly. He had a wealth of knowledge, the very universe within him. He had always sought out the thinkers of history. He'd…He’d gifted humanity knowledge! Aziraphale shied away from that thought, aware that it dangerously bordered on some sort of sacrilege. But still. It had been hard not to think of such things when Aziraphale had looked upon a new discovery, a new philosophy, had walked through the great museums of the world, ever-evolving.

Aziraphale’s voice was prim in response as he stood from his desk, “Plenty. Now. Am I to assume you were going to suggest we should partake in some food?” The rest of the books could wait, and he desperately wanted to steer their conversation towards lighter subjects. Towards things that didn’t involve souls Crowley would most likely never see again, or at least for a very, very long time. Towards things that they could discuss more easily. Topics that Aziraphale didn’t feel so rotten because they made him behave most unangelic.

Crowley grinned, “And some alcohol to water it down. You know me so well.”

Aziraphale moved over and picked up Crowley’s blazer he had left on the carpet and helped him back into it, his fingers lingering a second longer than they should to straighten the shoulders, “Any ideas?”

“Ohhh…” Crowley lazily drawled, the sort of sound Aziraphale knew as the demon having a lot on his mind but little to say, “Was thinking we could just go for a wander and see what’s out there to tempt us?”

Aziraphale gave him a look, but stayed his thoughts on the matter of Crowley obviously goading him to say something, and the two left the bookshop without another word.

They wandered down the street. It was getting late and under the cover of night, Aziraphale felt both safe and a little emboldened. He told himself he missed the easy affection of olden days, where men in suits and top hats could wrap their arm around a comrade as they enjoyed a stroll and nothing was thought of it, and it took a swallow and three heartbeats before he nudged closer and linked his arm through Crowley’s.

The demon said nothing. No motion or change in his step or even a look acknowledging Zira’s sudden need for contact. And that made it all the worse. He should be saying something. Turning to Aziraphale, raising a brow, a “well, that’s new”, but instead they just continued walking.

Well, he couldn’t take his arm back now… Couldn’t ignore the hammering of his heart either. The darn human thing was thumping faster than a hummingbird’s wings and Aziraphale was trying his hardest to keep his steps even. He didn’t want to pull away at this point even if it meant he could breathe easily again, and Crowley really didn’t seem to mind. Or Aziraphale hoped. Physical contact between the two had never been their thing. They’d always walked and sat by one another, a safe distance between them to any onlookers. Close enough that it could be seen that they were at the least companions, but far enough that no one would think more on the matter of the two.

The thought that perhaps Crowley wasn’t so unused to this crossed his mind. Did the humans he’d been around lock arms in such a way? Had they done more? Had they held his hand as they looked up at the night sky with him?

“You’ve never taken me stargazing.”

It spilled out without him realising it and he was mortified at the accompanying hint of petulance in the words too.

…But it was true.

The most he had ever gotten out of him was in some of their run-ins happening at night. He would notice how Crowley would usually be looking up at the sky, slitted eyes staring at the marvel of it.

And just once… once Crowley had noted, “Jupiter is especially bright tonight.”

“Jupiter?”

“There.” He pointed to the distant planet, Aziraphale followed his line of sight…

“Oh. Oh, it is… That’s beautiful.” He murmured in awe. Her wonders truly did have no bounds to the glorious things they were able to see in their shared time on earth.

“Mmm.” Crowley hummed, eyes still focused above, “Lot of beautiful things up there.”

There was a pause as they continued to gaze heavenward. Aziraphale licked his lips, “I’m afraid I don’t know as much of galaxies and planets as I could. Or should, rather.” So many tasks needed him to guide humans by stars, he really ought to know them better.

“That’s because your head is stuffed with what they can do with flour and honey,” Crowley had dryly replied, head tilting down finally to look at the angel, his face blank save the curl of his lip as he hissed, “Sssso, what’s the target for the blessing next week?”

And that was all he said of the matter. He’d been a bit in one of his moods, and Aziraphale never pushed further to hear more from the demon.

He should have pushed…

“Ah,” Crowley brought him back to Soho, “That’s what’s gotten you in a mood.”

“Me, in a mood? I’m never in moods!”

Crowley let out a soft snort, “Aziraphale, you’ve never asked.”

As if it should be so simple, Aziraphale thought with his own annoyed retort building in his mind. He took a breath to respond when a flash of gold and the embers of a held cigarette snared his gaze, catching him off guard, and he turned suddenly fearful, but the figure was gone and… he must have mistaken the sight. Nerves high given the dangerous subject he was dancing on. He was really only good at the Gavotte and this was on the edge of a flaming sword he no longer possessed. He turned back to Crowley who was giving him a puzzled look at his sudden jerking. Aziraphale shook his head and cleared his throat. He gave up on the biting remark he had lost too in his worry, instead settling for gentle.

“Do I need to?“ Should I have ever had to?

The demon was quiet as he regarded him. Sometimes he was so damned unreadable to the angel, which was a stark contrast to his usual melodramatic flair. It made Aziraphale nervous. And he wondered if Crowley was doing it intentionally.

He desperately needed to fill in the silence and he spilled out, "Do you love her?”

Stop it.

“…Who?”

“The Mozart woman.”

He knew it was a ridiculous question before he’d even asked it. And he knew it unfair to ask. He knew the question was immaterial. But his hands were trembling and something was building up inside of him and he couldn’t explain what so he focused on anything.

Crowley tilted his head and the words came out bitterly, “Demons can’t love, remember? That was pulled from us in our Unnaming. Isn’t that what your holy brethren and sistren think?”

The angel’s breath hitched, “That’s not true. I mean. They do– but they’re wrong… Oh, my dear, forgive me. I’m all out of sorts.” He brought his other hand to his face. Why was he so caught in tormenting them both with this line of questioning? Why was he ruining what should be another nice evening of new food and wine and dialogue on the newest inventions by humans, or… or ending at his bookshop as many a night did, a good bottle and his record player going as they talked about various philosophies and what did 42 have to do with anything, anyway?

Crowley dislodged his arm and stepped away from Aziraphale to look vaguely at a display menu outside of a restaurant. Aziraphale hoped the conversation was done, though he mourned the loss of the arm twined with his own. He stepped forward himself sheepishly and looked in the window, absently remarking, “Oh, this place does those crème br��lée cupcakes. Shall we try here tonight?”

Crowley said nothing.

“…My dear?” Aziraphale prodded.

“What is it that you want, angel?” Crowley’s voice wasn’t angry, but it held an overwhelming distance. Something so far and away from the angel that he didn’t like it. Something the angel couldn’t place but it was so detached from him that he felt he might even understand the loss of Her. “What do you want of me?”

Aziraphale went still. He opened his mouth at first to try to answer that gnocchi might be nice but his voice fell silent. He had a feeling of a not so distant ringing in his ears that he was being cruel.

Crowley continued, circling around him, “This is your speed. What you wanted. No faster.” He stopped when he’d completed his round around the angel, looking back to the window, “I can’t do anything more than this. I’ve hit the bloody parking brake.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He knew. Heavens he knew this was the limit he’d set. He’d even allowed himself to forget there ever was a set tempo. That nothing had shifted since the flask of holy water… Since the saved books… Since a hurled “fraternising.”

He slowly lifted his hand and placed it on the back of Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley turned to him, his darkly embered hair glowing under the halo of a streetlight.

Aziraphale stammered, “I… I never… said a full stop, my dear.”

In one breath Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale and he stepped back involuntarily, bumping into the brick behind him. Crowley was leaning in, his arm resting above’s Aziraphale’s head, and seeing what was about to happen the angel panicked. He placed a firm, flat palm to Crowley’s chest, halting him. His eyes flickered from his friend’s lips to the confused eyes, and with all of the regret of his existence in his words, he whispered, “I… But I am sorry. We can’t.”

They couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never. If they were caught. If their sides were…

If he ever let himself openly love Crowley…

Crowley blinked a moment at the hand that had stopped him, his expression playing out from one of dumbfounded shock, to realization, to a disgusted sneer, and he moved back, the dark glow of his eyes visible behind his shades. His sclera was missing entirely as he looked with some emotion that made Zira feel sick. The moment was gone, brushed away in a single moment of fear. But Aziraphale had left a new wound.

Betrayal rang out in Aziraphale’s mind. Judas wasn’t so cruel.

Crowley slouched back away from Aziraphale’s touch, as cool and casual as he could, despite the burning he felt at the cloth of his shirt. The angel’s touch was always so warm. He propped a leg against the brick of the restaurant, arms crossed, his face now neutral, giving away none of the intent that had just been there. Then, as if discussing the weather he clicked his tongue, looked away towards the crowds passing by, gaze lingering on one innocent couple wrapped up in each other, “…I’m actually not hungry. I think I’m gonna leave, angel.”

There was an undertone of a certain truth in those words but Aziraphale didn’t want to fathom what they meant.

He kept his voice light, “…Alright, dear. Monet exhibit on Sunday?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Crowley raked his fingers through his hair, “-z'it Monet or Manet again?”

“Most definitely Monet.”

“Right,” the lazy tone again, “You like the pastels,” he then made a bit of a sound indicating a farewell and sauntered off down the street, out of the light and into the shadows.

Aziraphale knew he was a bastard.

Three years. It wasn’t for three years until the demon appeared again. Standing there one late evening in his bookshop, clinging to a basket, with a sob in his throat and a shiver in his words.

“Angel,” he said, “I’ve done something really stupid.”

The story so far can be found on our AO3 (WHICH TOOK DAYS FOR US TO GET AN INVITATION, THE HECK, BACK IN OUR DAY IT WAS FF AND YOU SIGNED UP, THAT WAS IT).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399233/chapters/48385201

[doctortreklock]

Full of History and Secrets - August 13, 2019

Part of my Resolution19. Read it on AO3.

Prompt: Mutually oblivious ineffable husbands AU (x)

Fandom: Good Omens

Title: "Night Vale is an ancient place. Full of history and secrets, as we were reminded today." Welcome to Night Vale, Ep. 4

Words: 8239

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They'd met at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Soho Square, London in 1967. Crowley had been very carefully wrapping up a long-planned heist to acquire a bottle of holy water. It sounded like Hell was making big plans, and a demon on his own couldn't be too careful.

He'd just turned away from the font, the nearly-full bottle carefully sealed and held gingerly in two gloved hands, when the divine heat radiating from the floor became too much and he'd winced, pulling one foot up slightly and off-balancing himself enough that the bottle had slipped against the leather of his gloves and fallen out of his reach.

Crowley had watched in horror as the glass jar fell, absently calculating the trajectory of the splashing liquid when the bottle broke. How much of his trousers would get wet? Was enough of his ankle showing for him to be instantly dissolved, or would it take time for the water to soak through the fabric of his trousers?

Just before the jar hit the marble floor, however, a hand caught it and Crowley looked up to meet the eyes of a slightly shorter man wearing tartan, a bow tie, and a jacket cut in a style popular when Victoria had been queen.

"Here you go," the man said, handing the bottle back to Crowley. "Careful that you don't drop it again; that glass would be quite a bother to clean up."

He had the warmest blue eyes Crowley had ever seen. He was suddenly struck by the insane desire to see those eyes for the rest of his unnatural life.

He blankly nodded his thanks, reeling from the realization, and the man turned to go. Before he could stop himself, Crowley had blurted out "Would you like to grab a drink? As thanks," he clarified when the man looked surprised.

"I would be delighted," the man said slowly, as if he was surprised to find himself delighted at all, but not at all unhappy about the realization.

"I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley." He cradled the sealed glass bottle carefully against his body to prevent any unforeseen breakage and held out his other hand.

"Ezra Fell," the man said. "I sometimes go by Zira."

He shook the offered hand and smiled. It was a warm smile, full of good humor, and for an instant, Crowley didn't even notice the temperature of the floor.

--

One drink had turned into several drinks which had turned into dinner and then an invitation back to Zira's bookshop. Three drinks in, Crowley had accidentally let his sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, but Zira's only reaction to his unnatural eyes had been a murmured "beautiful." Crowley had blushed to his toes. The evening hadn't gone further than two bottles of wine and a conversation about misprinted Bibles, but Zira hadn't seemed interested in anything more.

Crowley wasn't sure if he was relieved (because no matter how much he liked the man, "making an effort" always seemed like too much effort to bother) or disappointed (because he did very much enjoy spending time with the man and platonic relationships rarely had the intimacy or longevity that he was daydreaming about).

He needn't have worried. Crowley had given him the telephone number for his Mayfair flat, and Zira had called the next day, asking if he'd be interested in a turn about St. James Park and perhaps a spot of tea at the Ritz.

A walk and tea had turned into another evening spent at the bookshop. Crowley ordered take-out, and the pair spent the evening comparing all the places they had been. Zira seemed remarkably well-traveled for a man of his age, and Crowley was hard-pressed to name locations neither of them had ever been to.

Wine made another appearance, but Crowley was careful not to over-imbibe this time. Miraculous sobriety would be difficult to attain with a witness and he needed to stay on his toes. Zira was deceptively easy to talk to, and Crowley was finding it hard to keep censoring himself. He had to, though; it would be impossible to explain to a mortal how he'd watched the Romans paint their statues and then convinced the amateur archaeologists that really, scrubbing the paint off wasn't so bad fourteen hundred years later.

"I was at the Hanging Gardens once," Crowley reminisced. Then he remembered himself. "Er, where they think the Hanging Gardens were," he corrected. "They had seventeen different kinds of dates," he said wistfully. "According to this archaeology article I read in a magazine once," he added.

Zira didn't seem to find this at all odd.

"I was in Normandy around 10--er, 10 years ago. Took a good look at the Bayeux Tapestry," Zira told him. "It's aged pretty well. Shame about the missing bit at the end, though." He frowned. "I'm certain the last section was very lovely."

"Can I hold your hand?" Crowley blurted out. Then, appalled at himself, he flushed both hot and cold at once.

Zira looked startled, but not upset, which was much better than the alternative. Crowley had only just met the man the day before, but he was a kindred spirit of a sort he'd never found before, and Crowley was captivated despite himself. The last six thousand years had been much, much too lonely without anyone like Zira to spend time with. He would happily spend the rest of Zira's life with him, if that was what it took to memorize the way the bookseller's nose crinkled when he laughed.

"I'm sorry," Crowley said miserably, already berating himself for his impulsiveness. Just because England had just decriminalized homosexuality and Zira wore a bow tie and smiled at him didn't mean this was going to end in anything but tears. "Please don't be mad. Forget I asked."

"Not at all, my dear," Zira said, and rested his hand on top of Crowley's where it was curled loosely around the stem of his wineglass. "I'm not sure why you think I would be angry at you. It may be the 1960s, but I spent a lot of time with Oscar Wilde, er, Oscar Wilde novels when I was younger." He smiled then, and it crinkled his nose and the skin around his eyes, and Crowley was suddenly very, very glad that his corporation didn't need oxygen to survive, because he was finding it very difficult to breathe.

"Er," and Zira hesitated then, starting to draw back his hand. "You should know, though, that I've never...with anyone. I've just never felt the need to, and it's not that I don't like you, my dear, but it would be disingenuous to--"

He broke off. Crowley had reached his hand out and grabbed Zira's before it could fully withdraw, lacing their fingers together. "Me, too," he said simply. "Me, too, angel." And he wasn't sure where the nickname came from, but it made Zira smile again, wide and happy, so Crowley resolved then and there to use it as much as possible for the rest of all the eternity they could have.

"I'm glad," Zira said quietly. He lifted their joined hands and gently kissed the back of Crowley's fingers. Then he cleared his throat and told Crowley about his trip to Indonesia about "oh, fifteen years back, I believe." The whole time, he rubbed his thumb absently across the side of Crowley's palm.

They didn't let go all evening. It was the best night of Crowley's very, very long life.

He moved into Zira's bookshop a month later.

--

The pair had been living together quite happily for just over forty years when Crowley came home one late night, white as a sheet.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Zira asked, obviously concerned, closing his book and setting it quickly aside. He hadn't even glanced at the page number, and that more than anything told Crowley how awfully he must look right now.

"I..." Crowley didn't know where to start. How did he explain to his partner that the Antichrist had just been delivered into his hands and the Apocalypse was at the door? Not for the first time, Crowley found himself tracing wrinkles and grey hair, marveling at the man who had spent half his mortal lifespan in Crowley's company and found it not at all lacking. Zira was still spry at eighty, but how could Crowley articulate the way that two, three, or even four decades had just been compressed into a mere eleven years?

Zira took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Cup of tea, I should think," he decided. "With a splash of brandy." Crowley trailed after him into the kitchen, not wanting to lose the comfort of the man's company.

Zira settled Crowley in his usual chair, set the water to boiling, and pulled out some digestives that had been sitting in the cupboard. "There you go, my dear," he comforted, running his hands soothingly along Crowley's shoulders. "Have something to eat." He dropped a kiss on the top of Crowley's head before the kettle whistled and he pulled away.

By the time the pair were comfortably settled at the table, each with a cup of tea (though Crowley's was more than half brandy) and a couple digestives, Crowley had decided on the best way to tell the man he loved about what was going on.

"You know how I said I had a work thing?" Zira nodded encouragingly. Crowley sighed and rubbed his forehead, breathing in the fumes from his spiked tea before taking a sip. "Well it got a little complicated."

Zira might have stumbled into Crowley's existence and changed the fabric of his eternity forever, but Crowley was still a demon. Traditional temptations had never appealed to him, but even the most inventive nuisances had lost their charm after he'd met Zira. Unfortunately, he was still a demon, and Hell had quotas to fill.

He'd told Zira that he was independently wealthy, but still consulted on the side for tech companies. (Zira could barely turn a computer on, much less anything else - Crowley even kept the books for the bookstore - so he didn't worry about Zira asking too many questions about his profession.) That allowed him to travel around England, and sometimes even farther afield, getting up to the sort of mischief that Hell would find acceptable. Zira traveled quite a bit as well, meeting up with various rare book collectors across the world, so it wasn't a big deal. They tried to line up their schedules so as to be gone at the same time, though. Neither one of them liked staying in the bookshop by themselves.

He'd been summoned to a late meeting, he'd told Zira. Just a quick pop over to the west side of London, he'd be back before bedtime, he'd promised. It was now considerably later than their customary bedtime and a "quick pop" to Slough had turned into a hair-raising trip past Amersham with Lucifer's child in the backseat.

"One of my...colleagues just had a child," he improvised. "I'm...concerned about his parenting techniques."

Zira frowned and covered one of Crowley's hands with his own, mimicking their second night together. As always, Crowley threaded his fingers through his partner's. He had to be more careful about it these days: Zira's hands were fragile with age and Crowley had let arthritis creep into his own. But the feel of Zira's fingers warm around his never failed to make Crowley's breath catch in his chest.

"Can you call the NSPCC?" Zira asked, drawing Crowley's focus back to the problem child in the metaphorical room. "Aren't there people for this sort of thing?"

"I don't have anything concrete," Crowley admitted. The idea of setting the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children on the American ambassador and his family was amusing, but Crowley shuddered to think of the punishment that would await him Below for the idea. "Just a feeling that they're going to raise him...wrong."

Zira sipped his own tea, his forehead furrowed in concentration. This was why Crowley loved him. Because he would stay up too late on a Wednesday night and give his full attention to any odd problem, just because Crowley need him to. Again, Crowley traced his eyes over wrinkled features that were more dear to him than he'd ever thought possible. He'd shied away from imagining what his life would be like after Zira was-- The one time he'd attempted it, he'd had a terrible panic attack and Zira had had to coax him out of bed with tea and sugar cookies.

Now, with the horror of the looming Apocalypse still quickening the blood in his veins, he let himself think of a world that would end in eleven years. That would cut short Zira's life, yes, but might also end his. The Apocalypse didn't look nearly as bad with the promise that he wouldn't have to keep living for centuries after Zira's-- But Zira would never forgive him for that kind of thinking. Not his beloved Zira, who adored such human mundanities as dusty first editions, tea at the Ritz, and sushi restaurants.

Zira put his teacup down softly. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said gently. "I'm not sure what we can do. It's not as if we could raise the child ourselves. I'm sure the parents would object if nothing else, and-- My dear?"

Crowley loosened his grip from where he had suddenly clenched tightly around Zira's fingers in realization. "Angel," he breathed, excitement and hope blossoming in his chest.

"What is it, Crowley?" Zira asked.

"We--" Crowley stopped. He looked back down at where their fingers were intertwined. At the age spots on the back of Zira's hand and the way the skin was loose around his partner's delicate bones. He looked at Zira's face and saw the wrinkles that each year had painted on his features. His heart sank. He couldn't ask such a thing of Zira. Not after so many years of putting up with Crowley. He had earned every evening sitting with his books by the fire. He carefully lifted their hands and settled a gentle kiss on Zira's thin skin. "Nothing, angel," he murmured.

Zira hrumhphed and sharply pulled his hand out of Crowley’s grip, using the hand to lift Crowley’s chin until he met Zira’s eyes.

"Anthony James Crowley," Zira began, scolding Crowley. "I may be old, but I am not infirm. Whatever you have in mind, I promise it's not going to put me in the ground." Crowley’s wince must have been obvious because Zira's voice softened and his grip turned into more of a caress. "I promise you, my dear," he said gently. "It would take much more than whatever scheme you've concocted to get rid of me. Now tell me," he demanded. "Or I’m going to eat all the raisins out of your cereal."

And he would do it, too. That was another reason Crowley loved Zira. He might be the best of humanity and the best person Crowley had ever met, but he was also just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.

Crowley relented. He folded both his hands around Zira's. "We could--and I know this sounds crazy, angel, I do--but we could help raise the kid. The family's wealthy and I've never actually met either of the parents. We could be, I don't know, surrogate grandparents, nanny and gardener, tutors, I don't know."

Zira didn't respond right away, and Crowley's shoulders drooped a little. "It sounds crazy. I know. There's no real reason to, and..."

"It does sound a little...extreme," Zira said carefully, not moving his hands from Crowley's hold. His blue eyes were searching. "It means this much to you?"

Crowley didn't know how to explain how much, so he just nodded.

Zira pulled one of his hands loose so he could place it on top of Crowley's and pat them gently. "Then that's what we shall do, my dear."

--

Raising Warlock Dowling with Zira was like nothing Crowley could have predicted. He hadn't anticipated how animated Zira would become when working with such a small child.

Crowley had taken the role of gardener, keeping an eye on the family from a distance and making sure his effect on the boy would be lessened. It wouldn't do to have unbalanced infernal influence on the Antichrist, after all. He'd made sure Zira got the nanny job, ensuring him plenty of shade and rest. Zira had given him a knowing look when Crowley had returned from the Dowlings' estate and announced that he'd found them both employ, but hadn't protested, which Crowley had taken as grudging acceptance.

Crowley had never had the inclination to imagine other lives with Zira. Why would he, when he had everything he'd never known he needed right in front of him? He'd never imagined meeting Zira during the Roman Empire or the French Revolution, because that would mean he would already be living in a post-Zira world, and that was unacceptable, no matter how much he thought Zira might have enjoyed meeting Virgil. He never allowed himself to imagine a universe where Zira was as immortal as he was. Another demon, or maybe an angel. Even a horseman or some other entity. He never let himself imagine, because that was far too painful.

He'd never imagined raising children with Zira. For one, he was a demon. For another, when they met, Zira had been a bachelor in his forties and Crowley had been a bachelor who appeared to be in his forties. There had been no space in their relationship to consider marriage and no chance of anything approaching adoption. Don't get him wrong, Crowley didn't need anything other than what he had. He had Zira, despite all odds, and that was more than enough for him.

Watching Zira with Warlock, though...Crowley began to realize the sort of shape that daydream might have taken.

Warlock's eleventh birthday eventually came, bringing with it two dozen of the most spoiled children in London, Zira's grand reveal that he'd practiced stage magic in his early twenties, and an overall increase in Crowley's stress to a severely unhealthy level.

Crowley's attention had been fractured by so many different things that he didn't realize until his partner had taken the stage that he'd yet to actually see Zira do any sleight of hand. It was so disheartening to see the man he loved being ridiculed by a gaggle of pre-teens, that Crowley turned all the agents' guns into water pistols and let the kids at it. He'd waded through the mess to find Zira and subtly corralled him back to the Bentley. It wasn't until they were both seated in the front seat and Crowley was cleaning cream cake off of Zira's lapel that he realized it was ten after eleven. The hellhound had never shown.

He must have frozen, because the next thing he knew was Zira gently prying his hands free and squeezing them gently, calling his name. "Crowley?"

Crowley blinked and shook his head. "What is it, angel?" he asked, slipping a hand free and wiping off the last smudge of cream on the light fabric.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Zira said in amusement. "Where's your head at, my dear?"

Crowley kept his eyes fixed on the lapel under his fingers, brushing away nonexistent crumbs. "I--" he broke off. "I think our work here is done, angel."

"What makes you say that, Crowley? Just last month you were insisting we stay through his birthday and maybe longer." Zira rubbed his thumb across the hand still in his possession.

How was he supposed to respond to that? Oh, angel, sorry that I didn't tell you, but we were supposed to be looking after the Antichrist for the last decade, but, whoops, I think it was the wrong kid? He could never say that. Even if Zira did believe him, it would take admitting that he was a demon, and that wasn't ever something Crowley wanted Zira to know about him.

"We couldn't leave before his birthday," Crowley settled on. "Birthdays mean something to boys of that age. But I think it's time we move on, Zira." He met his partner's eyes and tried for a warm smile. "I've missed spending time just with you."

His smile must have worked, because Zira relaxed and smiled back, tucking one hand around the side of Crowley's face and gently stroking his cheek with a thumb. "I've missed you as well, my dear. It's just not the same now, is it? Why don't we go home, and we can spend as much time together as we like."

At that, Crowley had to lean forward to rest his head against Zira's shoulder to hide his expression. As much time together as they'd like. What a cosmic joke. They had maybe, what, four, five days before Armageddon kicked off in earnest?

"I'd like that, angel," he said, his voice muffled by Zira's jacket and his grip tight on Zira's lapel.

Zira just wrapped his arms around Crowley, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his back soothingly with the other. "Then let's go home, my dear."

--

Crowley could feel the final countdown of the universe ticking away in the back of his head. Tick, tick, tick. It was driving him mad. He stole every second he could get to rememorize Zira's features over and over again, knowing that those last memories might be the only things he would have to comfort himself during the Great War and whatever came after.

He wasn't sure what he was going to do. Most of him desperately wanted to wrap himself up in Zira and just wait for the world to end, cherishing every last moment he could get. That bit included the quiet voice that told him that Zira was over ninety now, and wouldn't make it too long even if the world didn't end. Another part of him knew how important the Earth and humanity were to Zira and wanted to keep trying to avert the Apocalypse for as long as possible, if for no other reason than to have something to remember him by. A more pragmatic portion of Crowley's consciousness reminded him that Hell would not be pleased by the realization that Warlock Dowling was not the Antichrist after all. That they would come for their vengeance and blow through whatever stood in their way, Zira included.

It was this last bit that Crowley listened to. "Angel, I'm going to pop out for an errand quick," he told Zira after they'd returned to the bookshop that Wednesday. "I should hopefully be home by dinnertime."

Zira, who had been listening to their telephone messages with a steadily deepening crease in his forehead, nodded absently. Then he looked up and gave Crowley a quick but warm smile. "That sounds fine, my dear. I need to go 'round the corner as well. I've got a message from a rare bookseller I know and he wants to meet with me."

By the time Crowley returned to the bookshop, sometime after dinner, he was working hard to dampen his temper. It wasn't Zira's fault that his journey to the Satanic convent in Tadfield had taken longer than expected and had been ultimately fruitless, after all. Despite the best of intentions, he hadn't been able to find anything he could use to placate Below. Instead, he'd gotten lost a few times, accidentally hit a cyclist, and finally found the convent only to discover it was now some kind of extreme team building center and all the records had burnt a decade previous.

He parked the Bentley in her customary spot in front of the bookshop. Just before he got out, he glanced in the rear-view mirror and spotted a book in the backseat that Zira must have left there during one of their previous trips. He grabbed the book without looking at it and let himself into the bookshop.

"Angel?" he called softly. "I'm home."

There was a warm glow coming from the back room, but the tranquil scene he had expected was the opposite of what he found. Zira was sitting in his chair in front of the fire, but he wasn't looking at any of his books. Instead, he was staring at the fire unseeing, and it didn't seem as if he'd even heard Crowley come in.

"Angel? Zira?" Crowley asked more urgently, setting the book in his hand down on the nearest flat surface and moving to kneel in front of his partner, blocking Zira's view of the fireplace.

Zira blinked and his eyes focused on Crowley. "My dear," he said hopelessly. There were tear tracks on his cheeks.

Crowley's heart sank. "What's wrong, angel?" he whispered, pulling the cuff of his shirt up over his palm as much as possible and using it to carefully dry Zira's face.

Zira tried to give him a smile, but it ended up rather crooked. "I must seem a hopeless mess. The person I was meeting with gave me some news I wasn't expecting and...well, it just feels a bit like the end of the world."

Crowley gave a huff that might have been a laugh in another life. "I know the feeling," he said, giving in to the urge to wrap the fingers of one hand around Zira's where they were shaking slightly in his lap and pressing a gentle kiss to the tips of his fingers. "It'll be all right, angel," he lied.

Zira didn't look comforted. Instead, he stared at Crowley with a wondrous desperation that he recognized from his own face - the look of a man memorizing something precious he thinks he's going to lose.

The look broke Crowley's heart, but he didn't know anything he could say to comfort his partner. He just held his hand as - tick, tick, tick - the End drew nearer.

--

The next two days were some of the longest Crowley could recall. It seemed almost as if the clock was pausing for breath between each - tick - and every - tick - beat - tick - just to - tick - make sure - tick - that Crowley - tick - was paying - tick - attention. Tick, tick, tick.

Zira's melancholy hadn't dissipated, but it had lifted slightly when he'd found the book Crowley had brought in for him. He almost seemed surprised to see it. Thursday morning found Zira at his desk hunched over the book with a pad of paper, though the paper was usually buried under a few pages when Crowley stopped by with tea or a reminder to eat, so he wasn't sure what was so fascinating about the book.

For himself, Crowley placed a discreet call to the Witchfinder Sergeant, requesting assistance in locating the real Antichrist. After that, he'd focused on realphabetizing the pair's collections of CDs and vinyl records, as well as Zira's personal (well, more personal) collection of rare books. Once that was done, he set to reorganizing the entire bookshop, all the while waiting for any sign that Hell had wised up.

By the time Saturday hit, Crowley was so wound up he could have passed for a grandfather clock himself. Tick, tick, tick.

"My dear," Zira said with exasperation mid-morning when he surfaced for tea and biscuits. "You're wearing a hole in the rug. Why don't you go for a drive or something? Get out of the shop for a bit."

Crowley didn't want to leave Zira, but by this point he was sure the strain and stress of the last eleven years - much less the last three days - would have given him a heart attack for sure if it hadn't been for his occult conditioning. He begrudgingly agreed with Zira's assessment.

"I won't be gone long," he said, pressing a kiss to Zira's forehead. "Just a few hours. I have my mobile if you need to call me for anything. And I mean anything at all."

"Yes, Crowley," Zira said, obviously humoring him.

With a second and third glance back, Crowley left the bookshop.

He was trundling aimlessly down the streets of Soho (watching for pedestrians and stopping at crosswalks and everything), when the radio kicked on in a way it hadn't done for a decade, interrupting Bach's "Under Pressure."

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, CROWLEY? WHAT EXACTLY HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?

It continued on as expected from there. Crowley had been waiting for this particular moment, after all. Warlock had gotten to take a trip to the Middle East, but all that had come of it was Hell's discovery that the Antichrist Crowley had planted hadn't been the actual Antichrist at all.

STAY WHERE YOU ARE, CROWLEY, the voice trailed off ominously. YOU WILL BE...COLLECTED...

And wasn't he twelve shades of overjoyed that he wasn't at the bookshop right now, literally bringing Hell home with him? His fingers tightened on the wheel to the point where the leather creaked and he had to consciously relax before his arthritis flared up.

They were coming after him. Where could he go that Zira wouldn't be put in jeopardy? That Crowley had a snowball's chance of defending? Where--oh.

It came to him, and Crowley swung a left turn through a yellow light, giving only a cursory glance for pedestrians. He turned the nose of the Bentley towards Mayfair.

--

Crowley had never bothered to pay rent on his Mayfair flat, because rent was a thing that happened to other people and he hadn't given the flat a second thought since he'd met Zira. Fortunately, the glass jar of holy water was still tucked safely behind the Mona Lisa. Unfortunately for Hastur and Ligur, Crowley was ruthless when it came to protecting Zira.

Now, deed done, he got back in the Bentley and turned her back towards the bookshop. It had been too long since he'd left Zira and with the Apocalypse imminent, he couldn't be too careful.

He was nearing the bookshop and starting to contemplate which sort of take-out would best lure Zira away from his book, when the sky - which was already full of dark, rain-heavy clouds - became even darker with plumes of thick, black smoke. Crowley got a very bad feeling. He dropped his foot heavier on the accelerator and urged the Bentley onward. Surely...no. It couldn't be--

It was.

The bookshop was on fire.

Crowley threw the Bentley in park and scrambled out of her. One of the firemen was trying to ascertain if he owned the building, and Crowley just shouted an affirmation over his shoulder as he burst through the door of Ezra Fell's Rare Books.

"Zira!" he screamed. "Zira! Where are you, angel?" There was no sign of his partner. Crowley rushed through the fire-lit bookshop, taking care to squint at the floor through flickering flames for any spot Zira might have fallen. There was no sign of Zira in the bookshop or in the back rooms. The kitchen was empty, as was the sitting room. The flames were almost too dense to see through and a human who needed to breathe - a human like Zira - would be unconscious from the smoke by now.

He hurried toward the stairs to the upper floor, but a sharp crack signaled the building's imminent collapse. "Zira!" A jet of water flew through one of the open windows, hitting Crowley and knocking him to the floor. One hand landed on something flat and hard and he reflexively grabbed it before hurrying out from under the collapsing building. The bookshop settled into place with a loud crash.

The firemen still surrounded the building, trying to keep the fire from spreading to the nearby buildings. One of them tried to grab Crowley to pull him to safety, but Crowley wrestled free and staggered back towards the shop, trying to see if Zira had been on the top floor. "Zira!" he yelled as loud as he could. "Zira!" He picked his way through the brick and wood, but all he could see was the remains of the life they had built.

"No, no, no, no," he chanted. "No, no. Zira!" His trousers kept catching fire, but Crowley just impatiently put them out. He had to be here somewhere. He had to be here and Crowley had to find him and pull him out and Zira had to be okay, because if he wasn't-- If something happened to Zira because Crowley was a demon-- Zira had to be okay.

"Zira," he called hoarsely, choking on smoke. "Zira!"

There was another ominous crack and the last brick wall that had remained more or less vertical began to topple, the rest of the structure following. Crowley had to backpedal, tripping over loose bricks, to keep from being inconveniently discorporated by falling masonry. With a great final crash the bookshop crumbled, until all that was left of the last five decades of Crowley's life was a pile of smoking rubble.

It started to rain.

The firemen were still rushing about him, but it seemed as if they'd gotten the worst of the fire under control. None of the neighboring buildings had been badly damaged and Crowley felt a rush of anger at the adult bookstore next door, where even the neon OPEN sign was still cheerily lit. But just as quickly as it had appeared, his fury drained away.

His knees gave out and he fell, catching himself on one palm. Crowley stared unseeing at his hands for a moment. They were old, wrinkled, bent with age and disease. They had grown this way steadily, year after year, as a way to keep pace with--

His eyes wandered over each finger, tracing its imperfections and recalling the years of miracles he had needed to layer over his appearance. When his gaze reached his second hand, he stopped.

He'd almost forgotten the object he had picked up from the floor of the bookshop. Crowley turned over and sat gingerly on the wet pavement. The rain dripped off his hair and trickled down his ears, but it didn't touch the book he held in his hands.

He held it carefully in his hands and recognized it as the book that-- The book he had grabbed out of the back of the Bentley. The cover was blank, but it was an old book and the title page gave it all away: The Nife and Accurate Prophefies of Agnes Nutter, Being a Certaine and Prefice Hiftory from the Prefent Day Unto the Endinge of this World, Containing therein Many Diuerse Wonders and precepts for the Wife.

Crowley's chest hurt and his eyes lingered over "Endinge." How had-- Crowley closed his eyes against the lump in his throat and took a shaky breath. How had Zira managed to find this book in the first place? He couldn't have possibly known what it was. The bookshop's collection had held many books of prophecy, but this book, this one, the one that Crowley held in his hands, was the only one that was completely accurate.

Crowley had spent the first six thousands years of his life on Earth completely and utterly alone, isolated from the rest of Hell and separated from mankind by his very nature. Yet somehow, sitting in the cold rain at the end of the world watching as the last curls of smoke issued from the bookshop, he had never felt more alone.

He held the book up to his nose and took a deep breath, hoping for any traces of...there it was. Beneath the smoke and ash was the scent of old paper and long-dry ink. A smell Crowley was more familiar with than his own name. It smelled like home and it smelled like Zira.

Something brushed against his wrist and Crowley looked down to find a note had slipped free of the book's pages. How it hadn't gotten lost in Crowley's frantic searching he didn't know. The handwriting on it looked familiar, but then again all copperplate looked vaguely alike and this script lacked the rough edges that had begun to characterize Zira's writing in recent years. It laid out the events of the last days, including the name of the Antichrist (Adam Young) and the location of Armageddon (the Lower Tadfield Air Base).

Until he'd returned to find the bookshop engulfed in flame, Crowley had still been stuck between warring impulses to hold Zira and watch the world burn or to do his best to halt the Apocalypse, futile as the effort might have been. Now, though...now he just wanted the world to end as quickly as possible. Absently, Crowley noted that the notes on this slip of paper would have been very important information to him a scant hour before, when he was trying to find any scrap of information that might keep Zira out of Hell's reach--

He froze, then, unbidden, his eyes slid back up to trace the rubble. He hadn't found Zira. He hadn't even found Zira's body. In a rush, he scrambled to his feet and ran towards the Bentley. Her door flew open before he'd even reached her and he swung nimbly into the cab. The book was dropped in the seat next to him and the slip was held in his hand as Crowley slammed his foot on the accelerator and headed for Tadfield.

If Zira hadn't been there...if Zira hadn't been in the ruins at all, then there were a finite number of reasons. One, he had gone out on an errand. Crowley knew this one was merely wishful thinking. Zira had been happy as a clam in the shop when he'd left and there was no reason to think he would have gone out. Two, Zira had-- Crowley swallowed roughly. Zira had died in the shop and either Crowley hadn't found him or he'd been incinerated beyond recognition before Crowley had gotten there. Three - and this was the one Crowley hoped for and feared in equal measure - Crowley's patient and caring partner had been found by the forces of Hell and snatched as part of Crowley's promised torment.

If it was the second, Crowley would make sure the Apocalypse ran as expected. There was no point to an Earth if it didn't have Zira in it. If it was the first, the world was expected to survive much longer anyway. If it was the third...well then, Crowley would just have to get his Zira back from Hell, no matter what it took. Luckily, he knew exactly where they were going to be.

The clouds rumbled ominously as Crowley pressed the accelerator flat to the floorboards, headed toward the M25. Tick, tick, tick.

--

When Crowley was younger, he hadn't cared much for traffic laws. Those were meant for mortals, after all, and he was anything but. After he'd met Zira, he'd become more circumspect. Zira was mortal, with all the soft, easily squished bits that came with the condition.

Now, with Zira's life and the world's fate in the balance, Crowley did one hundred and twenty miles an hour down Oxford Street.

--

The Lower Tadfield Air Base was quiet when Crowley got there. No one ran out when the Bentley died in front of the gate and when Crowley stumbled out he realized that the reason for it was that the guardhouse wasn't manned. The gate opened easily at his touch.

Crowley kept an eye out, but didn't see any people as he walked into the base. He rounded a building and stopped in his tracks. It looked like he'd missed the main event. Only one of the Horsepersons was still there and as Crowley watched Death vanished in a flash of dark wings. That left a quartet of pre-teens, Sergeant Shadwell himself, and a woman that Crowley vaguely recognized as one of Shadwell's friends.

One of the children was a boy with golden curls who looked to be in charge of things, if Crowley was any judge of body language. He was surveying the adults imperiously and said something Crowley couldn't quite make out. Then, suddenly, instead of there being two adults standing there, there were three, and the third was--

"Zira," Crowley breathed, his feet moving before he could give them conscious direction, propelling him towards his partner. "Zira!" he called louder.

Zira turned at his name and yes it was Zira. Still wrinkled, still with grey-streaked hair, wearing the jacket, vest, and tartan bow tie he'd worn that morning without a spot of soot on him. He was the most gorgeous thing Crowley had ever seen.

"Crowley?" he asked in surprise.

Before he could move, Crowley had reached him and wrapped his arms tightly around Zira in the same motion. "Goodness gracious, angel," Crowley said faintly, holding Zira tightly and breathing in the familiar scent of his hair. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Oh, my dear," Zira said, returning Crowley's hug. "I was so worried about you, too." Then he paused and tried to pull back. After a moment Crowley relented and loosened his grip just enough for them to make eye contact.

Zira was frowning in bewilderment. "But, my dear," he protested. "How on earth did you get here?"

Before Crowley could begin to attempt to explain the mess with the book and the Bentley and the M25, the boy - Adam Young, if Crowley's guess was correct - broke in. "'Ang on," he said. "What are the two of you on about?"

"This is Zira," Crowley explained. He didn't step away far, but he did drop his arms and fold his hands ever-so-carefully around Zira's. Go--Sat--Somebody, he'd never thought he'd have this again. "He own--er, has a bookshop in central London." That bookshop is now a loosely piled stack of bricks, Crowley added silently, but there was no telling whether or not Zira knew that, so he kept mum. "We've been living together for just over fifty years."

Zira leaned into Crowley. "This is--"

But Adam interrupted. "He's also an angel," the boy told Crowley bluntly.

Crowley would have just dismissed his words, but Zira froze next to him, his fingers spasming slightly in Crowley's hold. "Angel?" he asked the man next to him. Well, he meant it as a term of endearment, but as an interrogation it worked just as well.

Zira didn't meet his eyes. "It's nothing."

Crowley didn't let it go. His heart was starting to beat faster and his mouth went dry. "Are you really an angel?"

"Yes," Zira admitted quietly to Crowley's shoulder.

"Angel," Crowley breathed in awe.

Zira raised his chin to look Crowley in the eye. He looked miserable. "It's not as entertaining as it sounds, my dear," he said. "It means that I'm immortal and I'm just going to have to watch you--"

"Me, too," Crowley blurted out.

"What?" Zira looked puzzled.

"I'm immortal too," Crowley told him, stunned by the realization. "Neither of us is going to die."

"What?" Zira asked breathlessly, eyes wide.

Crowley understood exactly how he felt. "I get to keep you," he said with wonder in his voice.

A bolt of lightning struck the pavement, cutting short their conversation and drawing everyone's attention. A moment later, a dark figure rose up from churning earth. That one Crowley recognized. It was Beelzebub.

He quickly pulled his hands free of Zira's and hoped the Prince of Hell hadn't noticed.

What followed was a conversation that Crowley had a slow start wrapping his mind around. It sounded like Heaven was also rooting for the Apocalypse? He shot a sideways glance at Zira. He at least seemed to think they did. It was starting to sink in just how much he and Zira had missed about each other's lives and how much more they could have helped each other. Wednesday, Crowley realized. When they'd gotten back from Warlock's. That must have been when Zira found out about Armageddon. He remembered the way Zira had trembled. I could have helped, he thought.

Adam seemed to be holding his own against the two entities, but just as Crowley was beginning to think it would all be wrapped up soon and he could get back to his angel - angel in truth - the boy hesitated, and the pair began to circle like sharks smelling blood in the water.

And that was when Zira, his beautiful angel, spoke up. After a moment, Crowley realized where he was going with his line of questioning and added comments where he could. It felt good, like one of their late-night debates on dolphins or an obscure point of ancient history that both of them somehow happened to know about. Archaeology Monthly, my foot, Crowley thought giddily. Every so often, Zira would glance at Crowley, excitement and love brimming in his gaze.

At last Crowley and Zira seemed to have introduced enough doubt into the equation for Adam to reassert his position. Beelzebub and the Heavenly representative disappeared in a cloud of mumbled excuses, and the Air Base began to breathe again. Another pair of humans had shown up and a conversation kicked off, but Crowley ignored it all in favor of focusing on his partner.

"That was brilliant," Crowley told him.

Zira blushed. "It really wasn't much of anything."

"That's a lie," Crowley said firmly. "It was amazing. I only wish I'd gotten to see you in action more, angel."

There was so much unbridled affection in Zira's eyes that Crowley was worried for a moment that he'd spontaneously catch fire. One of Zira's hands came up to rest briefly on his cheek before he straightened and cleared his throat.

"Let me introduce myself again, properly this time," Zira said and held out his hand primly in the small space between them. "My name is Aziraphale, a Principality of Heaven, formerly Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I have been stationed on Earth since Eden and I am desperately in love with you." As he spoke, the years fell off of him, leaving him the same man Crowley had run into in a Soho church in 1967.

Crowley shook his hand, then held on, reveling in the last moments he might have to hold it. Once he revealed who he was... He let the last five decades melt away as well. "Crowley, Serpent of Eden and the First Tempter. I was assigned to the temptation of Earth six thousand years ago." He cleared his throat. "I have been in love with you since you saved me from accidentally destroying myself with a jar of holy water."

Zira's - Aziraphale's - eyes grew wide, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he held Crowley's hand more tightly. "Was that-- What were you doing with holy water, Crowley?"

Crowley blinked at the line of questioning - hadn't he just told Aziraphale that he was a demon? - but then realized that Aziraphale wasn't angry at him for existing, Aziraphale was scared for him, scared of the one thing that could have taken Crowley away forever.

A warm, sunshine-y feeling took up residence in Crowley's chest. "It was for protection," he explained. "Below was getting loud and that usually comes with consequences." Aziraphale didn't looked reassured. "If it makes you feel better," Crowley tried, "I don't have it anymore. I used it on Ligur this afternoon."

Aziraphale definitely didn't look reassured now. If anything, he looked alarmed, running his eyes and hands over Crowley, checking for any damage he'd somehow missed.

"I'm fine, angel," Crowley said, trying to sound exasperated through his smile. He caught Aziraphale's hands and brought them to his lips, kissing first one hand, then the other. He marveled at the differences between the hands he held now and the ones he'd been holding just a few minutes before. He rubbed a thumb across the supple skin on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "I'm perfectly fine."

A deep rumbling interrupted Aziraphale's reply. The angel shot Crowley a worried look and he sent one back. That wasn't a good sign.

A burning smell wafted past and Crowley's eyes widened in realization. Aziraphale wound one hand more tightly around Crowley's and let go with the other so he could get a better view of the entire scene.

"It's Him," Crowley said, fear making his voice flat. "It's Adam's Father."

Aziraphale leaned down as far as he could without letting go of Crowley and picked up a sword on the ground that must have been left behind during some of the earlier excitement. It looked a bit familiar.

"Haven't used this in a while," Aziraphale murmured, waving it through the air before whump it caught on fire. Now Crowley recognized it. The Guardian of the Western Gate had had a sword very much like this one.

There wasn't much left for Crowley to grab, but he spotted a Jeep nearby and let go of Aziraphale's hand just long enough to catch hold of the first thing he could find. Tire iron in hand, Crowley returned to his angel and threaded his fingers through Aziraphale's, holding him close.

They didn't say anything, just glanced at each other, but Crowley knew they were on the same page. Adam may have successfully averted the Apocalypse, but that didn't mean the danger had passed.

Crowley had just gotten his eternity back and he was damned if Lucifer was going to take it away from him.

[oh-heartlessman]

the only secret people keep is immortality ; [zowl]

zira-blackwell​:

Zira watched Howl closely. She allowed herself to drop her human act and became the predator that she was. Her body stayed still, hardly moving a hair. She did not breathe. She did not blink. It was something that was very subtle, but that even the most unobservant human could pick up on. The unnaturalness of it alarming in the most base instincts.

It was a relief to not have to pretend. Zira did not mind putting on the act, she was a wonderful actress, but it was also rather dreary to keep up when unnecessary. She watched from her stationary spot as the wizard prowled lazily about the cottage, talking in a lofty voice. 

She let him continue on with his explanation, even though he was right and she certainly knew what cloaking spell entailed. Zira had used them every now and again throughout the years. Sometimes, they just made everything so much easier whether it was travel or convincing someone to trust her.

“And with a tip,” Zira joked as she took a few more steps into the house, moving towards a table. She pulled her bag off her shoulder and laid out the objects: a ring for her beloved Nuka, a necklace for darling Vitani, and a diamond earring for young Kovu. For herself, a simple golden bracelet. 

She produced a vial of hair for each, placing them with the appropriate jewelry. 

“Will this suffice? I admit to taking the hair sparingly, as you must know, we do not grow more.” 

 “That will do nicely,” said Howl.

From the hearth, Calcifer watched all of this.

This woman had not been the first vampire to ask for Howl’s services, though if Calcifer had to guess, she was certainly one of the oldest, if not the oldest by far. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it was something to be cautious about.  And so, as Howl assembled the reagents and drew out runes with his wand over the hearth, Calcifer settled into the logs, pretending to be nothing more than a roaring flame.

The reagents for this particular spell were not easy to come by (if they were, more sorcerers would have them at the ready and the entire spell would be cheaper), but Howl kept them on hand for this very reason. Back when he was younger, just one or two of these spells would pay for his entire allowance of black capes for the year (if you were wondering, that was an awful lot of black capes).

Of course, the specific reagents in question varied from grimoire to grimoire but Howl found that his worked best with the following: Dust from a falling star – though it had to be collected before midnight or it wasn’t any good for this particular spell; Moonbeams from a solar eclipse (not a lunar eclipse!); several Bored glances, but a specific type of bored that happened right when one’s eyes glazed over; Dirt from a fresh grave (this had to be replaced rather frequently); and a Shadow from the darkest point of a deep cave.

There were other reagents, too, as this was quite a complicated spell, and of course, runes to draw and what not.

Now normally, a spell of this sort would take about a week to do, but Howl had a magical fire that expediated the process (hey, he didn’t get his reputation of being a fabulous spellcaster without a little demonic deal).

Still, it would need a bit to settle. As each of the trinkets flew into the air and hovered over the fire, Howl turned to Zira.

“Should just be a bit longer now,” he said. “The magic needs to fully sink in. If you wear it constantly, it will last a full calendar year, though it loses potency when you remove it.” He sat down in a nearby armchair, a mug of tea floating from the kitchen to his outstretched hand. “Is this your first visit to Swynlake or have you been here in decades prior? You just missed a very amusing vampire couple, by a few years, I think. Oh, when was it Edelweiss burned down…” He tilted his head. “Not to assume all vampires know each other, certainly, but I’d be remiss to ask if you had not crossed paths with them prior.”