#and I had the displeasure of watching them all

[mimisempai]

The angel you are

Summary

Aziraphale takes a reluctant Crowley for a walk in the snow, and Crowley is even more reluctant when he sees Aziraphale throwing himself into the snow to... make an angel. Worst of all, Aziraphale wants Crowley to do the same.

No way.

Unless there's more to this childish gesture.

Notes

Just... you know... them.

On Ao3

Rating G -  653 words

"Angel, remind me why we have to go out in this cold?"

It had snowed heavily into the night and the cottage and everything around it was covered in a thick white blanket.

Crowley pulled the red scarf tighter around his neck and shivered as the angel replied, "After spending the last few days feasting, we could both use a breath of fresh air. So stop grumbling and come walk with me. I promise you won't regret it."

Aziraphale held out his gloved hand to Crowley, who took it, but again made his displeasure kno

After only a few yards, they were in the middle of the orchard when Aziraphale suddenly stopped and exclaimed, letting go of Crowley's hand, "There! This is perfect."

"Perfect for... Angel! What's wrong with you?!"

Aziraphale had just let himself fall onto his back in the snow, flailing his arms and legs. 

Then the angel carefully got to his feet and, after brushing the snow from his clothes under the demon's stunned gaze, pointed to the ground and finally replied, "I made an angel."

Watching the shape of the angel in the snow, Crowley shook his head.

"What was going through your head?"

Instead of answering, Aziraphale nudged the demon lightly and said, "Now it's your turn."

Crowley shook his head vehemently.

"Out of the question. Nope. I will not lie down in the snow."

"For me?"

Crowley swallowed, because when Aziraphale took that tone and looked at him like that, with his eyes shining and his cheeks rosy with cold, he knew he couldn't resist. After thousands of years, he still couldn't.

Aziraphale stepped forward and planted a light kiss on his lips before continuing in the same tone, "Please, indulge me, my dear."

That was the coup de grâce, and with a sigh, Crowley dropped to the snow and, at the angel's urging, made the same movements he had just made.

Aziraphale then helped him to his feet, having dusted the snow off Crowley's clothes himself, took his hands in his own and kissed him before saying, with shining eyes, "Thank you."

"Can you tell me now why we had to do this?"

Aziraphale turned to the two angel shapes side by side on the snow and said quietly, "To show you."

"Show me what?"

Aziraphale released Crowley's hand and, removing his glove, raised his hand and placed it gently on the demon's cheek, caressing it tenderly with his thumb.

He said softly, "To show you that you're still an angel."

Crowley swallowed, his throat suddenly tightening, unable to respond as Aziraphale continued, "There is no need for white wings, for gold, for heaven."

The angel's hand slid from the demon's cheek to his chest.

"There you are, still the angel, the star maker who captured my heart in the middle of a starless sky."

Crowley placed his hand on Aziraphale's and asked, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion, "Why today?"

"Let's just say it was spontaneous and because I wanted you to be aware. That I know the angel that you are."

Crowley suddenly remembered.

The courtyard of Job's house.

"I know you."

"You do not know me."

"I know the angel you were." 

"The angel you knew is not me."

As if following his train of thought, Aziraphale continued.

"I don't like the idea of an angel I would have had in a memory of naive infatuation. I like the demon Crowley, who is still an angel at heart. I love the angel you are now."

Crowley, unable to find the words, let his body speak and, cupping the Angel's flushed face between his hands, kissed him passionately.

The kiss lasted until they had to pull away to catch their breath.  Aziraphale then wrapped his arms around the demon's waist, holding him close, and the two remained entwined for a few more moments, gazing into the snow at the reflection of their angelic silhouettes.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

South Downs cottage series : here

Ineffable fan fictions Masterpost : here

[sammylkcho]

Hello

Heard you were doing epic requests...Telemachus x reader, if you already had ideas for this x reader go for it, if not, maybe the reader is a servant at the palace or it takes place after I can't help but wonder. No pressure to actually do this btw, I'm sure you getting too many requests to keep up with.

Have a nice day! <3

Howdy! I liked the idea of the request, and to make it less challenging for me to write, I decided to make Reader a personal (or close) servant to Telemachus

Warnings/Notes: none!

"Prince Telemachus, would you like me to bring up your dinner tonight? The suitors are still eating and helping themselves to numerous trays of food," you informed him in a formal tone, awaiting his response to see what orders he would give you.

Lately, Telemachus had opted to dine in the comfort of his room to avoid discomfort or any comments from his mother’s suitors. It wasn’t exactly proper, especially for him as the prince, since he was expected to accompany their "guests."

You had tried to gently persuade him, following his mother’s orders, not to be discourteous by leaving the suitors to dine alone. In the end, all those efforts were in vain. You understood that the prince had his reasons for avoiding the same table as them.

With your hands clasped behind your back, occasionally fidgeting nervously, you waited for the prince’s reply—even though you already had a good idea of what it would be.

"I'm not hungry, but thank you," the prince informed you, his tone clearly disheartened and subdued.

You made a visible grimace of displeasure and concern at his words. His demeanor didn’t sit well with you—not that you hated it, but his spirits hadn’t been the same since his argument with Antinous. Each passing day seemed to weigh on him more heavily, especially as the suitors grew increasingly impatient over the lack of a king being chosen.

You bit your lower lip, a tinge of doubt crossing your mind about what to do next. You didn’t want to simply fulfill your role as a servant this time.

Deciding to break that boundary, even if only for a moment, you chose to be Telemachus’s close friend—the one who had stood by his side all these years.

Without needing to say a word, you sat down beside him on the bed. That alone was enough to draw his attention.

The dim light of the two torches flickering in the room seemed to conspire in your favor, casting its glow over the prince’s face. You could see the bruises on his skin, now less swollen—a marked improvement from how they had looked just days ago—and the shadows forming under his eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights spent training or lost in thought.

You remembered those nights. The times you stayed up with him, watching him practice with his wooden sword when you were both still children, or when the two of you would sneak out of the castle. You thought of the moment he had cried in front of you, overcome by the helplessness of not knowing how to rid his home of the men who were taking everything from him—from his family’s food to their dignity.

Maybe it was instinct, or perhaps just muscle memory. As if your body already knew what to do, your hands rose gently to cradle his face.

Your thumb moved softly across his cheek, avoiding the areas where the wounds from his fight with Antinous were still tender.

“We’ll get those men out of here, and they’ll leave your mother alone, I promise.” You whispered, almost afraid that anyone other than him might hear.

Why were you the one making that promise? A simple servant of the castle, tasked with daily mundane duties, with no power except to stand by your prince. You prayed silently to the gods that your words would not be empty, that someday those men would be gone, and Odysseus would return to the home he’d left behind so long ago.

“That.. I swear by the gods, especially by the goddess Athena herself, they couldn’t have given me anyone better than you.” Telemachus murmured.

His voice was just a whisper, so soft that you almost doubted if you had heard him, but the weight of his words filled the space between you with a profound meaning.

Time seemed to pause as you felt his hand, warm and firm, resting over yours. It wasn’t scorching hot or uncomfortably cold; it was just the right warmth, as though it belonged there.

“That punch you gave Antinous must still be giving him a headache. Next time, land an even stronger one for me, but make sure you come out unscathed, okay?” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes before a quiet, sheepish laugh escaped him. You couldn’t help but laugh along.

“With Athena’s strength on my side, I’ll make it happen,” he replied with a newfound confidence, his spirits slowly lifting.

Heat rushed to your face, crawling torturously to your cheeks, and you cursed inwardly, hoping the blush wasn’t too obvious to him.

“It better be. I’d rather not see your face battered again or listen to you complaining while I try to patch you up.” You joked, letting out a soft laugh as he groaned in mock protest.

You treasured moments like these. There were no suitors to humiliate him, no interruptions to break the fragile bubble of peace around you. It was just you and him.

And in your heart, you kept praying to the gods. For Odysseus to return soon. For a way to rid the castle of those men. For these fleeting moments of calm to last just a little longer.