#anyway crowley can smell trouble better than others because he’s used to being in trouble RIP

[sengawolf]

Some other post (can’t remember whose) was making a case for Crowley having been a powerful archangel due to the ways he seems weirdly in tune with/aware of reality compared to other celestial figures, and they used his ability to sense demons approaching him/entering Earth as an example. And listen it was a GREAT post and I WILL be reblogging it once I find it again

But like…I’m also thinking that Crowley is a demon who doesn’t always act like a demon and canonically used to get, like, spontaneously nabbed by Hell to be punished whenever he did something too kind. And that’s not even getting into how constantly vigilant he is over Aziraphale. This guy has been looking over both shoulders for the last several thousand years and with very good reason

Idk. Anyone think that his demon-sensing abilities (contrasted with other angels’ and demons’ apparent lack of ability to track each other down) might have less to do with his original power level as an angel and more to do with the worst case of hypervigilance humankind has seen to date? I mean damn if I and my only loved one were at constant risk of being dragged off for torture I’d get real good at recognizing the warning signs too lmao

[lovee-infected]

I know this so soon, especially after posting it. But may ask for part two for Ciel in Twisted wonderland?

Of course you can ! Thank you all guys for your great support on last part ! Hope you enjoy this ♥

Part one : Ciel In Twisted Wonderland

Sebastian in twisted wonderland

This demon...his not existing heart stops when he goes to wake the young master up but finds the bed empty . There is no way of him getting kidnapped , not a single soul could do it so silently and carefully to hide from his sight . It surely isn't with Ciel running away himself either because 1) He was nothing more than a weak child when it came to serious actions on his his own and 2) He knew that Sebastian would find him anyway and eat his soul in terms of acting against their contract

But if no human was here last night to kidnap or help him run away , then who could it be ?

Sebastian doesn't't care to receive any direct answers , after all his demonic powers are far greater than this and he can sense Ciel's soul somewhere out there , he's still alive

Takes him an afternoon to search each and every spot of London , two days for the whole country and 5 days until Sebastian searches every place on earth that he could've found Ciel on , to find nothing . This only had one meaning :

Not on earth yet still alive . Ciel is on another dimension and Sebastian is coming for him . Takes Sebastian some time searching possible options between different dimensions , but once he finds twisted wonderland , he is fascinated by how easy he could enter ; perhaps something about this place has the same energy to a demon

Night Raven College ; what a great spot to begin with . He now can smell Ciel's soul through the air and knows that he's Nothing more than a few meters away : Problem solved !

He can go pick Ciel up and right away and by the next morning , he'll be simple the butler he always is , serving some earl gray tea together with almond and chocolate cake . But doesn't it sound a bit too unfair...? Even demons need entertainment sometimes ; also this new world seems to be pretty interesting to him and he doesn't mind playing around for just a while

Crowley still hasn't get over why or where Ciel came from and now , a second one arrives out of nowhere ?? He looks too old to be a student but then what is he doing here ? Oh man...Birdy man would surely need a loooong vacation after this issue is solved...

Since Crowley is the first to arrive at him , Sebastian doesn't bother asking him where his little , tiny master is . Dark gray-blue hair and a blindfold on his right eye - enough to address

Crowley can't be any happier than someone finally came to take that disaster away , but then worries for a second : Does this butler know how to make a return to another world...?

Sebastian decides to leave answering this question to Crowley's imagination , and goes after Ciel as his first priority is

Ciel and Grim are having another late night argument when Sebastian arrives . In a blink of an eye , Sebastian grabs both of them and brings them up to stop them from making all these noise

"A cat...?" Oh ? Young master really can't take cats , right ? How pathetic for real , even a demon like him can't resist hugging such a cute and fluffy creature . And it talks ? Whoa this world is really something

Sebastian let's go of both of them and it's time for Ciel to freeze again : He finally came

Ciel asks if it's really him and Sebastian is low-key entertained to see Ciel actually missing him . He offers him a hug saying that's what humans do when meeting each other after a long time , but all Ciel gives him is a slap . Where the hell was he all this time ??! It's been weeks since Ciel had disappeared and he was giving up on him ever coming

MC is terrified by Ciel's ear scratching shouts thinking that it's just Grim and him arguing again . They quickly come out to separate them before it gets worse but instead , faces a very tall , handsome man holding Grim with his arms with half of his face as red a tomato , exactly like when Eliza slapped all guys . And Ciel is shouting at him yet he's this calm smiling and doing nothing ? Nonsense...

Just as MC is watching , Sebastian recognizes someone nearby and is stunned to see MC : Another human ? What a strange coincidence... . MC on the other hand has more things to worry about : Who is this man and what does he have to do with Ciel ? They hadn't ever seen him before and his clothing is more similar to a servant than a part of school's staff or something... To be honest , there's one more thing that seems odd about him : He seems too familiar

Sebastian notices MC's confusion and thinks that maybe he's heard enough of Ciel's naggings ; in a few minutes , the whole bunch is chilling and having tea inside the Ramshackle dorm , Sebastian made the tea of course

MC doesn't know how to feel , but since he is supposedly Ciel's servant , they decide to trust him . Grim on the other hand is really interested in this dude showing up : Not only did he shut the half blind brat's mouth but he also seems to be pretty strong and chill . He says that he likes cats as well...man of culture

Ciel doesn't get why Sebastian is slowing down again , why don't they return immediately ? It's already taken him too long and staying here much longer would be nothing but a waste . Although Sebastian can make a return to London it withing a second , he tells his master that he needs to take care of an business for sometime here , and he doesn't lie ( He needs to have some time to chill even as a demon and also , extra information never does any harm ) He insures Ciel that no threat would come close to him now that he's here , so then Ciel finally agrees , but he also clarifies that he's already being chased by a considerable majority of this school ( in other words : He is in a great trouble) and Sebastian promises to protect him by all means ; just as always

Ciel is still forced to attend classes because : 1) Sebastian told him it's good to learn possibly useful lessons belonging to a world of magic 2) Sebastian is lurking around all day and taking care of Ciel's current issues so he would be on his own if he stays at Ramshackle dorm

Sebastian has learned enough through Ciel's stories to know what he must do first , so here he is : The mostrolounge

The infamous tweels are a bit fascinated , yet interested to greet this unexpected guest of them , and when Sebastian asks for where he can find their manager , they gladly lead him to Azul's office and then , Sebastian asks them to leave the two of them alone . No one knows what happened in those 26 minutes but Azul came out putting a hand on Sebastian's shoulder , snickering and saying it's good to see this misunderstanding solved . Sebastian agrees with a bright smile , wishes them all a nice business day and leaves. Floyd and Jade don't ask what they talked about and Azul probably wouldn't answer if they did ; but let's just say that Azul doesn't say a word for the rest of the day and his sweaty face and shakey hands , kinda explain why

Well then , another problem solved , now Sebastian wants to get to know these creatures better . Must of them look like humans but with more advantages , interesting

He likes : Grim ( A talking cat ? How can Sebastian resist ? ) Riddle ( Low-key having Ciel's spirits , but in a mature way ) , Ace and Deuce ( Children these days... still fun to tease though ) , Trey Clover ( Perhaps the picture of a high-key good servant ) , Jade and Floyd ( Beside looking a lot alike , they get along pretty well . The calm yet mysterious Jade opposing the cheerful but frightening Floyd , these two would be what Sebastian can call his perfect mutuals , Ruggie Bucchi ( The forced servant of an unworthy master , he couldn't relate anymore ) , Jamil Viper ( The underestimated yet , intelligent and talented servant . Taking advantage of someone who took away all his changes to shine seems pretty fair to Sebastian , he can see the day Jamil would be an almighty ruler of his own ) , Rook Hunt ( Born to be a hunter , his spirits are appreciative ) , Malleus Draconia ( Dark and Mysteriously powerful , don't these sound similar to what Sebastian is...? He can say it for sure that Malleus as well has noticed Sebastian's unusual aura ) , Lilia Vanrouge ( Ah ~ old souls , golden thoughts , right ? It's been a. while since Sebastian could see someone understanding these benefits of living for centuries )

He dislikes : Cater ( Acts sassy , sneaks quietly . What a smart and annoying guy ) , Azul Ashengrotto ( Big words coming from an emotional child , he acts tough but he has no idea how much more he has to learn to become a real contracter... ) , Leona Kingscholar ( Pittyful and helpless , bullying others may make him feel powerful , but eill never change the fact that he'll never ever be a king ) , Kalim al Asim ( He stole Jamil all he should've had , just because of money. One day this foolish child will pay for it ) , Vil Schoenheit ( Why wasting your all on beauty ? He could be anything , way greater than the pathetic man he now is . Yet he wastes his all for something this shortlasting and worthless...You will get old one day , and all your beauty would be left behind before you step into your own grave) , Idia Shroud ( A loser keeping his pain inside ; just like Gregory Violet . He may be smart , but is still a trash if he's going to continue to be this weak) , Sebek Zigvolt ( Poor bastard , he doesn't even know that the master he worships doesn't even need him . One day he'll break down realizing the fact that he did him no good else than wasting his time by worthless praises of a fanboy )

His stay may be short , but he's taking the best advantage of it . Aside all these new creatures he met , some experiences are pure gold and will never be repeated in his long lasting life

Who knew that one day Sebastian would get to play card games with a cat and lose ? Well, this one's an experienced cat he can say . Grim even suggests them going to Staff's department and steal one of Crewel's expensive bottles of Vodka ( Ace had told that his cousin and his batch once did it and that was just- Ah . A newer level of being drunk had been approached ) Sebastian doesn't drink and doesn't get why a cat might want to drink either , but does it anyway . Grim happily goes on and takes a larg sip then , almost sets the whole dorm in fire just by one belch ( Alcohol + Fire = 💥) When MC understands that he was drunk , they want to kill Sebastian and Grim together . What if the fire exploded inside his body and made him explode !!!????? He would've been an exploded over-cooked cat . He gets sick afterwards and Sebastian goes to learn some vet tips , he nurses Grim although MC is still mad

Grim isn't his only new mutual , not while tweels are around . Sebastian is fascinated to see that they are interested in getting to know him just as he is ; these three seem to greatly get along . While poor Azul gets overly pale and quiet whenever Sebastian is around , tweels don't mind bringing him along almost anywhere . He learns them some beneficial tips and recipes for enormous drinks and desserts , they are truly amazed . They could've offered him to work in mostrolounge but it's clear that Sebastian has way higher classes than a normal school cafe , so it's better to let him lead them with his skills instead . Other than that , they really enjoy talking ; Floyd agrees that he looks pretty similar to a dragonfish , but still goes on calling him Sebastian .( He only calls Azul and Jade by their name else than that) . Floyd looks high-key similar to Grell when he laughs , but in contrast to him , Sebastian doesn't find this one annoying . They all look pretty similar and when others see them hanging around , rumors of Sebastian being a brother or relative of them starts getting spread . Honestly many even though that he was just Jade with dyed her and contact lenses when they saw him . Sebastian is really enjoying himself in this three person gang but sadly he doesn't have much time for it, there are other stuff he has to take care off...

The reason he doesn't go after Leona and Vil although they as well are known fir having problems with Ciel is obvious : They can do nothing . Once Leona and Sebastian get in a fight and Sebastian doesn't mind kicking his ass to the ground , children these days really do need to learn to behave . May seem funny , but to be honest , Sebastian has seen this amount of anger just once before and that would be with lady Elizabeth , she would've been a better leader than this guy though - Same goes for Vil , when he sees Rook getting s bit annoying as their stalker he writes a letter to the Pomefiore dorm , blaming him for being a thoughtless leader who wastes all his time and effort on his mortal beauty . No need to say how Vil reacts reading his letter or why he sets up a big fire to burn something afterwards...

Sebastian is almost done here now , he's seen enough and gained enough of enemies as well ; not that they are a bother but they are kinda annoying ... The only unsolved question is with the headmaster ; what is he hiding ? He made the same mistake with Undertaker and underestimated him ; he isn't going to make the same mistake twice . He knows that whatever he's hiding is related to MC , who comes from the same world as Ciel , just a different time . Sebastian could be the one saving them from this world but he knows that this won't be the right thing to do . MC's problems have nothing to do with him and also , leaving the whole school alone without their hero would be a mistake . No need to mention that Grim as well will need a friend when he wakes up and finds Sebastian gone...

This night is terrifying : Savanaclaw and Pomefiore dorms have taken serious action toward Ciel and Sebastian . Sebastian doesn't get to say goodbye to neither tweels nor MC and Grim , he just quickly picks Ciel up and runs toward the School building , no need to take this mess to where MC lives for now

Angry shouts and shooting magic balls all around , Sebastian chases them all just just as he always does . The terrified Ciel who is laying between his arms asks him what they're going to do . Sebastian gives him a comforting smile

" Just close your eyes , young master..."

♦♥♠♣

Ciel calls for Sebastian several times , heart still beating heavily . He screams his name and wakes up : at his bed . Wait...was it all a dream...?

He hears a knock at his door and then Sebastian comes in , asking if he's alright . Ciel tells him that he doesn't remember anything from last night after closing his eyes and how they ran off - Sebastian just gazes at him with a confused look . He apologizes for not knowing what Ciel is talking about , but says thst from what he knows , Ciel was really tired last night after spending all day listening to lady Elizabeth's thoughts on mixing fairytales with Alice in wonderland's classic . Now that makes sense... Sebastian offers him to go to a doctor if he's feeling any sick , but Ciel says that it's no need for that . It was all a dream but...a strange one for sure

A few minutes later , Ciel is having black forest cake and green tea , something he missed eating on his dream . When Ciel asks him if they're having tuna fish for lunch Sebastian smirks under lips . Then excuses himself and leaves . Poor Grim , he would've loved this food . While he is waiting for the fish to get boiled at the kitchen , he looks at the Vodka bottle with 1/4 of it empty , he wants to try drinking a bit someday . Little Ciel doesn't need to know whether it all was a dream or not , after all even with knowing it a human can do nothing but to think of it over and over ; which is useless . This experience would be a reality to him and a dream to Ciel but they have something in common : They'll never ever forget it

♦♥♠♣

Taglist : @7nocturne7 @someonestolemyuser @arc-2003 @spasmodicterror @anaxaver @cat-at-heart @illidan-stormrage @nyx-daughterofchaos98 @miss-sausage @ezroar @catvicddlm @lilyholo @justkazuki @masamune88 @stormweaver13 @snowy-slytherin

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Within the Circles

Good Omens Spooky/Whump fic.

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

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

Part 1: Circles of Protection

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to talk about it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really has to be done alone.”

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

“Ngh.”

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

Except.

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

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

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

No, this was the way it had to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes! Whatever you want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d need it to get through the night.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crowley flipped back the lid.

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They burned when he picked them up.

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

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

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

Nearly sunset. No time now.

He reached for the box of matches, then hesitated.

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

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

“It’s me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“S’fine.” Why was his voice so high?

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

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

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

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

But he wouldn’t lie, either.

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

“Crowley…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly everything was still again.

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

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

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

7:24 PM.

It was going to be a long night.

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

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

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

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

He braced himself, eyes on the door.

“Alright, you assholes. Do your worst.”

--

Crowley was not winning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, that might work.

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

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

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

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

The glass cracked under his feet.

Now or never.

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

And just like that, the power released him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t even near dawn.

And still, nothing tugged at him, nothing beckoned.

Which could only mean…

Crowley ran from the room, all pain forgotten.

--

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

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

The door was blown wide open.

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

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

Aziraphale was gone.

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

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

--

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

[yamisnuffles]

Dig Down

Part 9 of Too Much of a Good Thing

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

Read on Ao3

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind if I take this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - - -

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

“There you are.”

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

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

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

There was a long sigh. “Crowley.”

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

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

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

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

“Well then, why don’t you sober up?”

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

“Then allow me—”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“You smell nice.”

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

“Dunno.”

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

“Dunno. Has it been a long time?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence returned with two words. “Wake up.”

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

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

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

“Yes. I’m here. You’re safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dunno.”

“You do have a talent for finding trouble.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Even so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can try.”

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

“Why the blazes not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lady-divine-writes]

Missing (Rated PG13)

Aziraphale is late for a meeting.

Late because he can’t find his coat.

And Crowley is being of no help whatsoever.

But he has his reasons. (1460 words)

“What are you … weren’t you just … where the Devil are you?” Aziraphale mutters, tossing the couch cushions one by one with a fervor that suggests he believes they’ve done him a great disloyalty.

Crowley, dressed in a t-shirt and lounge pants which would be wrinkled from sleep if not for demon, watches curiously from the doorway as Aziraphale turns his hostility towards another innocent piece of living room furnishing.

“It was here yesterday!” Aziraphale continues, storming over to the coat tree in the corner by the door and giving it a stern eye. “What have you done with it? Hmm? Have you eaten it?”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley calls from a safe distance, debating whether or not he wants to risk life and limb by getting in the angel’s way.

“What is it, Crowley?” Aziraphale snaps as he marches back to the sofa and violates the cushions one more time.

“Nothing. I was just wondering if there’s a reason why you’re ransacking the place.”

“I can’t find my coat! And if I don’t leave soon, I’m most definitely going to be late,” Aziraphale explains, barreling out of the living room, down the hall, and into the master bathroom.

Crowley snickers when he hears the commode flush. “I don’t think your coat has gone down the toilet, angel.”

“I don’t see why it couldn’t! I’ve looked everywhere else and it’s nowhere to be found!”

“Maybe you didn’t wear it when you came over last night.”

Aziraphale’s incredulous face pops out through the bathroom door. “Crowley, I’ve worn that coat every day for over one-hundred-and-eighty years! Why would last night be the exception?”

“Dunno. Just trynna help.”

“Then put your eyes to good use and look around, please! I’ve only got …” Aziraphale pops open his pocket watch and gasps “… fifteen minutes!”

Crowley shakes his head, overly amused by his poor angel who has gone so native he seems to honestly forget that a snap of his fingers can instantly transport him anywhere he needs to go. But what Aziraphale seems to like about living on Earth among the humans is the ritual of things – keeping to a schedule, making appointments, getting ready at a certain hour and being on time. He likes feeling a part of the flow instead of bouncing around along the outskirts the way angels and demons usually do.

“I can miracle you up an overcoat if you’d like.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Aziraphale says, rummaging through the drawers of Crowley’s vanity as if he expects to find his coat hiding betwixt a dozen bottles of expensive cologne, “but I’d like my coat, if it’s all the same to you.”

Crowley pushes off the wall he’s been leaning against and saunters over to his frazzled angel. “Yes, well, seeing as you can’t find your coat, and you’re obviously running behind, how about we stop being stubborn about things and you let me dress you just this once.”

Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders to pause him but Aziraphale starts examining him, looking him over left and right as if he might have his coat tucked into the waistband of his thin, black pants. But when even he has to admit he’s being ridiculous, he abandons his search with a sigh.

“Yes, all right,” he says. “If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

“Not at all. In fact …” Crowley leans in and gives his nose a peck “… it would be an honor.” He takes a step back, looks Aziraphale over from head to toe through thumbs and forefingers as if gauging his size, then snaps his fingers, pulling up from the floor with a dramatic flourish. He turns Aziraphale toward the mirror so the angel can see for himself, straightening his shoulders and pulling at the seams, tailoring the coat with each tug for a better fit. “Well … whaddya think?”

Aziraphale shifts side to side, giving the garment the scrutinous once over of someone with an eagle eye for fashion … which he has not. Not by modern standards anyhow. But all in all, he has no complaints. It’s not his coat but it’s similar, an updated rendition, a stylish enough replacement. And he likes it. He really does.

“It’s … it’s a fine coat,” Aziraphale marvels, holding his arms out straight to check the length of the sleeves. “But …”

“But what?”

Aziraphale grins at Crowley’s reflection in the mirror, wondering how he could have overlooked such a detail. “Black isn’t really my color.”

“Oh. Right. Habit.” Crowley snaps his fingers again, coloring the fabric a creamy eggshell. “How’s that?”

“It’s lovely, dear.” Aziraphale turns and kisses his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re … you’re welcome,” Crowley grumbles bashfully. Kisses he can handle. Thank yous he still has trouble with. “Anytime. Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? I can have you there in thirty seconds.”

“That’s all right, my dear. You’ll be bored to tears.”

“Yes, I will. But I’ll be quiet about it.”

“Really? Is today not a day ending in y?”

“Ha … ha …”

“I won’t be but an hour or two.” Aziraphale gives himself one last look in the mirror, then hurries for the door. “Three tops. Now, if you see my coat around, please …”

“I’ll hang it up all nice and neat like. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me pick you up after, hmm?” Crowley says, catching Aziraphale by the wrist, delaying him a few seconds more. But Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind this time. “We’ll go to the museum, have lunch in the square, go for a walk around the pond - make an afternoon of it.”

Aziraphale’s glowing smile is all the answer Crowley needs. “That sounds perfect.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale bustle out the door and speed-walk down the hall to the lift. He waits till it arrives and the doors slide open, then watches his angel step on. When the lift doors slide shut behind him, Crowley closes the door to his flat and becomes immediately aware that he’s alone.

Crowley has never felt lonely in his flat before. Of course, he hasn’t spent much in the way of quality time there. But it’s exceptionally lonely without Aziraphale. Quiet, too. Aziraphale may not be chatty all the time, but there’s a hum that fills the place when he’s around, constant but understated. It doesn’t needle at Crowley’s ears and annoy him. It’s comforting, like a handmade quilt, each stitch filled from end to end with love.

It’s happiness, Crowley realized not too long ago - a softly whispered hymn that follows Aziraphale everywhere, which makes Crowley’s flat seem deathly silent in comparison when the angel leaves.

Crowley decides to return to his other happy place – bed. For a few more hours anyway while he waits for Aziraphale. His angel always claims these Optimist Club meetings will take only a few hours, but the last one went over by three. Meh. Crowley doesn’t mind. Aziraphale enjoys them. He has friends there. Friends that appreciate brandy, books, cheesecake, and gossip almost as much as Aziraphale does. Besides, if he takes too long, Crowley will simply snap himself into something skin tight and crash the proceedings. That’ll get things moving along.

But for now – bed.

And before he does …

He takes a minor detour through his office. He strolls over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer – the largest one. He reaches in and, ever so carefully, pulls out Aziraphale’s coat. He holds it up by the shoulders and gives it a good long look. Aziraphale is going to be cross when he finds out Crowley swiped it, but Crowley had his reasons.

Good reasons.

He can’t think of them at the moment, but they’re good reasons, he remembers that much.

Crowley slips his arms into the sleeves as he walks to the bedroom and wraps himself up tight. The lapels overlap and he hugs them closed, burying his nose in the fabric and breathing in deep. It’s still warm. Somehow, even without Aziraphale wearing it for more than six hours, it’s toasty. And it smells like him – not just his cologne, but Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, with a hint of himself thrown in. That’s probably the most thrilling part. After all the hugs they’ve shared, all the kisses, he’s managed to weave himself into the fibers of his angel’s favorite coat.

Crowley leaps onto his side of the bed and stretches out, rolling left and right with his arms wrapped around him until he’s trapped inside a snug hug of fabric.

‘Yup. This is nice,’ Crowley thinks as he snuggles in. ‘Not as nice as having Aziraphale here, but definitely the next best thing.’

Then he falls fast asleep.

[dragon-temeraire]

Put away all I know for tonight

Summary: “I imagine it’s hard to get in the mood when someone might discorporate you at any moment,” Aziraphale muses. “Which means Hell must be absolutely full of sexual frustration.”

“One of the main elements of Hell’s atmosphere,” Crowley agrees.

(Or: Aziraphale discovers that Crowley has never had an orgasm, and decides to help out)

Notes: I just really felt like writing some smut, but with neither of them having any real experience. The sex still manages to be (miraculously) good. On AO3. 

_______________________________________________________

 Crowley isn’t nearly drunk enough to be having this conversation, but he’s doing it anyway, because he needs to know. He glances over at his sunglasses, sitting innocuously on a side table, and decides it would be too telling to put them back on now. “Angel, is it just food? Is that the only human thing you indulge in?”

Aziraphale, probably also not drunk enough, looks at him oddly. “Well, there’s alcohol, of course. And I’m quite fond of the clothing. So many varieties and colors!” he says cheerfully.

“Obviously they’re delightful,” Crowley says dryly, taking a pointed look at his all-black ensemble. “But I was more wondering if you engage in…self-pleasure.”

Aziraphale makes a thoughtful humming sound. “I do love a good bubble bath, or taking in the smell of newly-blossomed flowers. And it should be apparent that I take great pleasure in both collecting and reading books,” he says. “But if you meant masturbation, then yes, I do that too,” he adds casually.

Crowley chokes on nothing, but manages to recover enough to take a fortifying gulp of wine. “You do?”

“I think you’ve surely realized by now that I’m a bit of a hedonist,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “I’ve tried nearly every sort of pleasure this world has to offer.”

“I see,” Crowley says, distractedly setting his glass down before he drops it.

“Do you?” Aziraphale asks curiously. “Engage in self-pleasure, that is.”

“No,” Crowley says, without hesitation. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“It’s not possible for demons,” he says, shrugging. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“What…happens?” Aziraphale asks, then looks horrified at himself for doing so.

“Nothing,” Crowley says dourly. “Nothing at all.”

“So, you can’t—not by yourself—but what about with someone else?”

“Yes,” Crowley says.

“Then you have?” Aziraphale says, cautiously. “With another demon?”

“No,” Crowley says, though he doesn’t particularly want to admit it. “What you’ve got to remember, angel, is that demons don’t trust each other. At all.”

“I imagine it’s hard to get in the mood when someone might discorporate you at any moment,” Aziraphale muses. “Which means Hell must be absolutely full of sexual frustration.”

“One of the main elements of Hell’s atmosphere,” Crowley agrees.

“And you’ve never,” here Aziraphale hesitates, “had an orgasm? Ever?”

“No,” Crowley says again, rubbing at his face and feeling rather more than frustrated. “I haven’t.”

“Well. Would you like to?”

And even though he absolutely knows it is, he still has to ask. “Is that an invitation?”

Aziraphale smiles at him encouragingly, with a little hint of pink in his cheeks. “If you want it to be,” he says.

And oh, how Crowley does want.

 *

 Aziraphale feels himself fairly trembling with anticipation as they make their way up the stairs to his flat. He’s very much looking forward to introducing Crowley to a new form of pleasure, and to expressing what he feels for Crowley in a different way, whether Crowley realizes it or not.

Aziraphale’s bed gets only occasional use from his forays into self-pleasure—and much of that has, admittedly, been spent thinking about Crowley—so it’s a wonderful treat to actually see Crowley sprawled across it, looking delectable.

He admires the view for a moment, then joins Crowley, covering him with his body. Aziraphale kisses him first, because he believes this sort of thing should have a lead-up. He himself has spent many hours lightly touching his own neck, and chest, and stomach, places he feels Crowley would kiss him if they were in bed together.

Crowley looks surprised by the kiss, but settles softly into it, mouth opening for Azriaphale. Neither of them are particularly skilled, but that doesn’t matter. Aziraphale fumbles at the buttons of Crowley’s shirt as the kiss deepens, and with a snap of Crowley’s fingers, it’s gone completely.

Aziraphale pulls back far enough to frown at him, but Crowley looks so amused—and aroused—that he can’t hold onto it for long. “Let me handle the rest,” he says sternly, then huffs when he sees Crowley’s boots and socks have joined his shirt on the floor.

In retribution, he presses light, tickling kisses to Crowley’s chest and stomach, making him squirm and grin. “All right, all right, the rest is yours,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Angel, are you planning to take any of your clothes off?”

Aziraphale, who is barefooted but otherwise fully clothed, smiles sweetly at Crowley. “Not at the moment, no.”

Then his hands are at the waist of Crowley’s rather tight trousers, unbuttoning them and pulling them down those long, long legs. He’s met with a pleasant, musky smell as he does, and he looks at Crowley in surprise.

“Oh, making an effort, I see,” he says admiringly.

Crowley looks embarrassed. “This is actually what happens when I’m not making an effort. I can change it, if you want?”

“No, my dear, you’re perfect as you are.” He brushes his fingers across Crowley, where he’s hotter than anywhere else, and already damp. Settling himself eagerly down between Crowley’s thighs, he pauses long enough to ask, “May I?”

Crowley, who’d covered his eyes with his arm, moves it enough to look at him. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?” he says, and it’s an obvious attempt at bluster, but Aziraphale can hear the nervousness underneath.

“I do hope you’ll like it,” he says, then takes a tentative lick.

The texture of wiry hair against his tongue is strange, and on second attempt he does better, pushing between Crowley’s soft lips and finally, finally getting a taste. It’s good, mild and a little sweet, and Aziraphale finds himself breathing in deep as he maps Crowley with his tongue, keenly exploring.

He loses himself a bit, like he always does when trying something new, but he realizes quickly that the noises Crowley’s making are too good to miss. They’re wonderful, desperate and yearning, and Aziraphale wants more. He moves down just a little, just far enough that he can push his tongue inside, and oh, the sound Crowley makes at that.

He thrusts his tongue inside Crowley, slow and deep, loving the way he shoves up into Aziraphale’s mouth, gasping and needy. Crowley tastes even better here, and Aziraphale would be happy to stay right where he is and taste him forever, but knows it wouldn’t be fair to leave him in suspense that long.

He moves away, replacing his tongue with two fingers, curling them up as he rocks his hand forward. He’s touched himself this way and enjoyed it, so he hopes Crowley will too. Then he returns to licking Crowley, running his tongue across him in short, firm strokes as he speeds the pace of his hand.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, sounding overwhelmed, his whole body moving and shifting restlessly against him. “Aziraphale, something is happening.”

Aziraphale makes an affirmative noise, working his tongue across Crowley just a little bit faster.

Crowley’s noises suddenly turn ragged, breathless, and he bucks up under Aziraphale as he finds his release, clenching around Aziraphale’s fingers in waves.

He keeps moving, though more slowly and gently, to work Crowley through the aftershocks. Then he carefully pulls his fingers free, and begins to kiss and nuzzle Crowley’s thighs, giving him a moment to recover.

“That’s,” Crowley tries, still sounding breathless. And maybe stunned. “I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on that all this time.”

“I think it’s a bit more intense for us than it is for regular humans,” Aziraphale says. He hopes he doesn’t sound too smug. “But it is rather nice, isn’t it?”

“More than nice,” Crowley mutters, rubbing his hands across his face.

He doesn’t say anything after that, seeming content to stay right where he is and catch his breath.

But left unsupervised Aziraphale has never been great at resisting temptation, and since he’s still optimally positioned to taste Crowley again…he tilts his head and does just that.

Crowley makes a surprised grunt, but rolls his hips encouragingly.

Aziraphale is just getting into the rhythm, Crowley wonderfully slick against his tongue, when Crowley’s hand slides into his hair and tugs him up.

“Angel,” he says a little breathlessly. “Now I need you to make an effort.”

Aziraphale is momentarily affronted—he is most certainly putting forth a great deal of effort—when Crowley’s actual meaning strikes him. And it’s no trouble at all, because he’s been making an Effort this whole time, and had in actuality been rather helpless to prevent it. The pleasure flooding through his body at being able to touch Crowley, to taste him, had needed to be expressed somehow.

It’s also made his trousers uncomfortably tight, and as Aziraphale is rather low on patience right now, with a snap all his clothes are neatly folded somewhere in Crowley’s apartment. Hopefully.

“Is this the sort of Effort you wanted, my dear?” he asks, sitting back on his heels so Crowley can see him.

Crowley’s eyes take a long and languorous path down his body, pupils widening as he clearly likes what he sees.

“You’re perfect, Angel,” he says, and while Aziraphale’s not certain he actually answered the question, he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

Crowley opens his arms, beckoning, so Aziraphale settles down on him, gently at first, then relaxing when he realizes Crowley isn’t bothered by his weight. He tips his head down to kiss Crowley, but finds himself distracted by the way he’s now nearly perfectly aligned, pressed up against Crowley’s slick heat.

Crowley looks at him a moment and then folds his legs up, thighs bracketing Aziraphale’s hips, and it changes the angle enough that Aziraphale actually begins to slip inside.

“Oh,” he gasps, startled by both the sensation and by Crowley’s almost immediate come on angel, please.

So he keeps going. There’s a moment of resistance, at first, and Crowley makes a displeased noise, but after a deep breath and a bit of patience, he’s able to slide all the way in, slow and easy. Crowley makes another noise at that, and Aziraphale lifts up enough to take in his expression.

“All right?” he asks, doing his best to keep completely still.

Crowley makes a face, mouth pulling down thoughtfully. “Feels strange,” he says, wiggling his hips a little. Aziraphale fights not to gasp. “More unyielding than I expected,” he says, “but maybe kind of good, too.”

Then he squirms again.

This time Aziraphale can’t help the sound that escapes him, nor can he keep his hips from jerking forward.

“Hmm, that’s it,” Crowley says encouragingly, tugging at his shoulders. “Just need some motion.”

Aziraphale has, of course, observed sex, but observing and participating are two very different things. He never anticipated the way pleasure seems cyclical, how hearing and seeing Crowley’s enjoyment only increases his own. How his body seems almost out of his control—but in a good way—moving and driving toward the sensation it seeks, toward fulfillment.

Fortunately, it seems Crowley is also gaining something from Aziraphale’s admittedly quick, desperate thrusts, body drawing tight in anticipation. His hand steals down between them to touch himself, and it only takes a few rough motions before he’s coming, clenching around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale manages to shudder to a near-halt, letting Crowley chase the dregs of his orgasm, but he can’t manage it for long. He’s aching with need, with pent-up desire, and his hips jolt forward of their own volition. It’s an urgent pace, one that has him burying his face in Crowley’s neck, trying to muffle the moans he’s making. It all just feels too good, like nothing he’s ever experienced before, and the fact that he’s experiencing it with Crowley only heightens the pleasure.

Crowley’s hands slide down to rest at his lower back, an encouraging pressure that helps Aziraphale let go completely. He’s not sure if he’s extended Crowley’s orgasm, or if he’s having another, but he’s suddenly tightening around Aziraphale again, back arching. And all at once Aziraphale’s release is there, and he thrusts deeply into Crowley as he comes. He trembles with it, every muscle tensing, then relaxes into Crowley, breathing hard.

They lay there for a while, sated and still entwined, before Crowley curls a hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and gets him to lift up enough to look at him.

“Angel,” he says very seriously. “Angel, we have got to do that again.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale says, stroking a thumb across Crowley’s cheek and feeling his love burning brightly in his chest. “Any time you like.”

He can see the trust and contentedness in those unguarded eyes, and tries to convince himself that, even if he never has Crowley’s love, this will be enough.

[amuseoffyre]

Crossing Paths - 1825 - Edo

Notes: I’ve been trying to figure out a way to do this one for a yonk! I couldn’t resist, especially given the first time we see Aziraphale in almost-present-day in the show :)

1825 – Edo

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

Crowley strode onwards without looking back, a shadow lost in the mantle of the rain. “You know I make trouble wherever I go.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, hurrying after him, his geta clattering on the cobblestones, his waxed umbrella held high, raindrops drumming noisily on it. He had heard the news in the marketplace and when he had spotted the demon in the streets of the city, two and two had added up far too clearly. “But there’s trouble and there’s driving off foreigners completely! I hardly think that’s fair to the people here or out there. Isolationism is hardly beneficial to any society!”

Crowley stopped where he was and turned. Aziraphale could see the muscles in his jaw twitching and his hands clenching. The demon must’ve noticed his attention, because he shoved his hands inside the damp sleeves of his kimono.

“Tell me this,” he said through gritted teeth, “If Heaven told you to do the same, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale sighed unhappily. “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose so.” He moved a little closer, tilting the umbrella so it sheltered the demon too. “But it really doesn’t seem fair at all.”

Crowley’s taut expression softened. “Does it ever?”

Aziraphale gazed at him. Lately, Crowley had been growing more and more gloomy and pessimistic. A sign of the times, Aziraphale supposed. Ever since that damned volcano had thrown the whole world into disarray, the poor fellow had never fully regained his good humour. He looked leaner too, whittled away, the sharp lines of his black kimono doing little to hide it.

Crowley shifted under his scrutiny. “What are you doing here anyway, angel? You never said anything about a job in these parts.”

Aziraphale pinked a little. “It’s more… follow-up than an actual task, I suppose,” he admitted. “I was in these parts last year. Divine inspiration. That sort of thing.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I was rather hoping to see how it all turned out.”

Crowley cocked his head, his tightly-bound-up hair gleaming by the light from a nearby lantern. “Art, music or food?”

“Pardon?”

One side of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “I know you, angel. You wouldn’t follow up unless it was one of those three things.”

Aziraphale knew he ought to puff up with indignation and reproach, but it had been so long since Crowley had even tried to tease him that he simply put out his chin and folded his arms over the cream folds of his kimono, the ripple of the printed feathers on the sleeve overlapping his discreet blue and brown patterned obi. “If you must know, it’s food.”

“Ha!” The triumphant smile was barely a shadow of its former self. The demon glanced up the narrow street between the wooden houses, then back at the angel. “Should be off.”

Aziraphale reached out before he could stop himself, touching Crowley’s trailing sleeve. “Would you like to see?” he asked. It felt like an echo of a time, nearly two millennia ago. Wine and oysters to cheer a disheartened demon. Crowley’s lips narrowed to a line and to stave off the coming rejection, Aziraphale added, “They also have the most marvellous wine. They make it from rice!”

“Wine, eh?”

Aziraphale tugged lightly on his sleeve. “To celebrate your mischief?”

For a brief, aching moment, he could read the indecision and some other darker emotion in Crowley’s face, then the demon dipped his head.

“Go on, then. Let’s see what nonsense you’ve been putting in peoples’ heads now.”

Relief bubbled up with laughter and Aziraphale flapped a hand. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit,” he said, turning and motioning for Crowley to walk alongside him back in the direction of the river. Crowley’s zori-clad feet barely made a sound compared to his own clattering shoes on the wet road. “They’ve been using all the component parts for quite some time, the fellow I inspired was simply working on a new twist.”

Crowley chuckled quietly. “I’m appalled, angel,” he said, though it pained Aziraphale how flat and tired Crowley’s voice was. “Changing a classic? Are you sick?”

“Oh, hush,” he said, gently chiding.

Around them, the narrow street widened into one of the thoroughfares that led towards the water, the scent of the evening tide washing through the city. Lanterns glowed and bobbed outside the teahouses and eateries, the indigo banners flapping and snapping in the heavy autumn breeze.

From behind closed doors, the scents of hot pots and fragrant food drifted along with muted conversations and music and, occasionally, raucous laughter from the drinking houses. Though night was rapidly falling, the city was far from quiet.

“In here,” Aziraphale said, when he finally spotted the familiar doorway. The sliding door was open onto the street and inside, there was warmth and light. People were coming and going and he couldn’t help the little thrill of pleasure at the satisfied faces.

Fortunately, they were easily accommodated. He pretended not to notice the small and rather deliberate gesture Crowley made, especially not when it led to a small booth spontaneously emptying out, the guests hooting and laughing as they wove off into the evening.

The booth itself could easily have seated half a dozen people around the square table, flanked with wooden pillars and screens to separate them from the next table. A paper lantern on the wall gave everything a pleasantly soft glow.

Aziraphale slipped off his geta and knelt down at the low table, beaming up at Crowley. “Isn’t it charming?”

The demon folded down opposite him, slouching against the wall rather than kneeling. “Not exactly fancy, is it? Sitting on the floor?” The angel glanced at the very obvious wooden platform that all the booths were elevated on. “Fine, almost on the floor. Would’ve thought you’d demand a chair.”

Aziraphale gave him a stern look. “You know I never object to following local custom. Anyway, I rather like the mats they put down. They’re surprisingly comfortable.” He beamed at the server when she approached and wasted no time in requesting the chef’s latest creation as well as two bottles of sake.

“Two bottles?” Crowley said as the server trotted away. “You think we need that much?”

“They’ll be more than enough to make a start,” Aziraphale said primly. He folded his hands on the table and gazed around. “I do rather like it here. It’s such a shame that so many people won’t have the chance to experience it.”

Crowley groaned, slouching even lower against the wall. “Don’t go on about it,” he grumbled. “Probably won’t even last anyway. You know what Europe’s like. They’ll probably blow the doors off some time in the next few decades. Can’t have Johnny Foreigner refusing to do business, can you?” He made a face. “It’s amazing how persuasive you can be when you’ve got a bloody great cannon.”

Aziraphale winced at the bitterness in Crowley’s voice. The accuracy of his statement was neither here nor there. “I suppose,” he allowed, then bowed his head respectfully when the server return, setting down the bottles and cups.

One of Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “What are those supposed to be?”

“Sake cups,” Aziraphale said, setting one in front of each of them.

“Cups?” Crowley pushed up from the wall. “They look like anorexic sugar bowls.” He wrinkled his nose. “See why you asked for two bottles. We could knock one back in one go.”

Aziraphale ignored him to pour a measure of sake into each of their cups. “Moderation is considered a virtue.”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley snorted. “You mean the appearance of moderation?” He pulled his cup closer, the base scraping across the polished table top. “Just because it’s a small cup doesn’t mean you have to stop filling it.”

Aziraphale smiled, picking up his own cup. “Precisely,” he said, raising it in a toast. “Kampai!”

That got a crooked grin out of the demon. “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“I like seeing a job well done,” Aziraphale said and took a generous sip of sake. It really was quite lovely stuff. “Where are you off to once you finish here?”

Crowley took a considerably more generous gulp from his cup and hissed through his teeth. “Oof!”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “Yes. That’s why I only got two small bottles. It has a bit of a kick.”

Crowley smacked his lips and eyed the cup, then knocked back the rest of the contents. “Good call,” he said.

Aziraphale leaned over the table to refill his cup. “So, where next?” he prompted.

Crowley shrugged. “No idea yet. You?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Much the same. I was considering exploring a little while I’m here. Take advantage of the warm weather.”

“And the wet,” Crowley grumbled. “Pisses down all the time.”

“It generally does in the rainy season,” Aziraphale observed, trying not to smile.

Crowley snorted, though it almost looked like he might smile. “Oh, shut up, angel.” He settled back against the side of the booth, knees jutting up between him and the table, his hands wrapped around the small sake cup.

They’d both worked their way through another cup each when the server returned with lacquered platters, which she set down on the table in front of them. Aziraphale made a sound of delight at the beautifully-presented little stacks of seafood and rice, decorated with sliced vegetables.

“Oh, it’s even better than I hoped!”

Crowley leaned forward, peering at it. “What’s in it?” He sniffed. “Doesn’t smell cooked.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “It’s served cold, my dear.” He picked up a pair of chopsticks and studied the neat, identical little domes of rice. “It’s entirely made of rice and seafood.”

“Handy, being near the sea, then?”

Aziraphale nodded happily and deftly picked up the rice-ball and its tuna crown and delicate band of seaweed holding it all together. “They’ve been eating all the parts for ages, but Hanaya had been playing with ways to improve it. I just gave him a gentle nudge.” He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Hm.”

“Not as good as it looks?” Crowley inquired, still eyeing it with suspicion.

Aziraphale scanned the array of platters and spotted the small dish among them. “Merely missing something,” he said. With a spot of soy sauce, the morsel was positively heavenly and he flapped his hand at Crowley as he chewed and swallowed. “Oh, you must try some!”

“Yeah,” Crowley said warily, picking up his own chopsticks. “But what is it?”

“They call it Edomae zushi.”

“Sushi?” Crowley picked some up and took a mouthful. He chewed thoughtfully. “Y’know, I don’t see this taking off.”

Aziraphale plucked another piece and smiled knowingly. “On this occasion,” he said, admiring the colour of the tuna by the lamp light. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

“Story of my life,” Crowley said with an exaggerated shudder and twisted up his face. He took another drink from his cup, then considered it and held it out.

“To zushi?” Aziraphale suggested impishly.

For a moment, Crowley cracked a smile. “To your eternal, misplaced optimism,” he said. “Kampai!”

[marmaladedtoast]

Cross posted from AO3

"And of course it was completely ridiculous. So I said-" Crowley cut himself off as he watched Aziraphale try to surreptitiously scratch his back against the doorjamb again. Normally, he would just move and help scratch the itch, but this wasn't the first time he had done that today.

He had knocked over a pile of books earlier without even touching them when he had turned around today too.

"Go on, my dear," Aziraphale called as he went back to puttering around the bookshop. "I'm listening."

"What? Oh, that." He waved his hand dismissively. "Not important, forgot all about it. Are you alright?"

Aziraphale started, taken surprise by either the question or how quickly he had shifted to it. "Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?"

Crowley pursed his lips before he decided he really didn't have the patience for this game today. "What's wrong with your wings, angel?"

See, the thing was, Crowley knew wings. He was nearly an expert on them. Most of the demons got rid of their wings when they fell, a sort of last fuck you to the Almighty. But not all of them. Crowley certainly hadn't, and he took pride in caring for them, black feathers and all.

The other demons who kept their wings... didn't take such good care of them. Most took a strange kind of pride in keeping their wings nasty and disheveled, but there was only so far that could go before it stopped being aesthetic and started being supremely painful.

And most demons had let it laps so long that they had forgotten how to care for them at all.

All of this is to say that even after the botched end of the world and his general banishment from hell, Beelzebub still showed up at his flat at least once a year for him to do up her feathers.

So he knew the signs of someone who had gone too long between preenings.

Aziraphale, for his part, didn't know about Crowley's expertise, but he wasn't arguing the point. He was just shifting self-consciously from foot to foot.

"They're just a little itchy, my dear. It's a bit hard to reach the back ones."

"You want me to help?" The question was innocent enough, but Aziraphale looked at him like he had been electrocuted. Crowley instantly realized the problem.

Just because he was used to platonic grooming, didn't mean Aziraphale was. And allopreening was, and always would be, one of the most intimate things two angels could do together.

That didn't mean they didn't share a certain intimacy. They had been together for decades, faced the end of the world together, but they were still an angel and a demon.

Wings were a part of an angel or demon's true form. They were fairly sensitive limbs- made to sense the changing winds. Exposing them to anyone, letting another person grab handfuls of feathers, it was the most vulnerable they could be.

After the apocalypse, their relationship had become more defined, but Crowley had always preened his feathers himself. His snake form gave him more joints that just happened to help him take care of his remaining angelic limbs. He had always just assumed Aziraphale had his own routine, and he didn't need any help.

Now he was thinking Aziraphale hadn't been ready for this... step in their relationship.

"I'm not trying to pressure you, angel, just... just wanna help."

Aziraphale had been avoiding his gaze, and it was actually starting to hurt Crowley's feelings a bit, but then he finally broke the silence. "I don't want you to see."

Crowley cocked his head in confusion. "What?"

"It's... it's just been a long time. I didn't... I've never been good at taking care of them myself. We used to, well, I suppose they still do, but, anyway, I used to go to the department heaven had specifically for this sort of thing. They used a sort of... comb thing. Took care of it all rather quickly, actually, but now..."

He trailed off and Crowley stared at him in shock. "Angel, are you telling me you have not had your wings properly groomed since the apocalypse?"

"Well, a few months before, technically."

"That was five years ago!"

"I am well aware," Aziraphale snapped, his voice threatening towards a whine.

"Why haven't you just asked them-"

"Don't you think I have?!"

Crowley stepped back like he had been slapped. Aziraphale crossed his arms and glared at the floor.

"You... Aziraphale, are you telling me heaven has... denied you help grooming your wings?"

Aziraphale just shrugged.

That was amazingly cruel. Not even hell would do that to a person. It was... abhorrent. He knew better than most how uncared for wings could fester, but he had no doubts that those bastards in heaven knew exactly what would happen.  

"...let me help. Please."

Aziraphale wrung his hands together.

Five years. Crowley couldn't even imagine. Couldn't believe he hadn't noticed until now.

"It's... it's rather bad, my dear. I really.... I'll figure out how to take care of it."

"Angel, I've helped demons take care of their wings. I'm sure I've seen worse."

Aziraphale looked up at that, but he still seemed wary. "Did you really?"

"Well, my kind didn't exactly have a whole department for this sort of thing. Somebody had to do it."

"I suppose... if you're really sure?"

Crowley moved closer and pulled Aziraphale close, cradling his face between his hands. "I would wade through holy water for you. I think I can manage a little grooming."

Aziraphale chuckled just a little and pressed his forehead against Crowley's. "Alright," he whispered.

The trouble with grooming angel wings was that they couldn't just be miracled clean. The wings were themselves made of a kind of miracle, so they resisted any miracle-ing. You needed to care for them the old fashioned way or not at all.

And, as with all things, the old fashioned way took a lot of time.

So they closed the shop and moved upstairs. Crowley brought a chair from the kitchen and set it up in the middle of the room.

It wouldn't be the most comfortable situation, but it was the most practical. If Aziraphale laid down on the bed, he wouldn't be able to easily reach the underside of his feathers, and an actual armchair wouldn't be work at all.

Aziraphale didn't fuss about the seating arrangement, just sat backwards on the chair and leaned his head against the back of the chair. He took a deep breath and then he unfurled his wings.

"O-oh," Crowley gasped before he could stop himself.

Aziraphale sat straight up and drew his wings in close to his body. "Oh, I told you this was a bad idea!"

"No, no!" Crowley nearly tripped over himself to place a comforting hand on his angel. "I just realized I forgot some stuff we'll need. I've seen way worse."

He hadn't.

Aziraphale's once pristine, white wings were now a dingy gray. Crowley might have been worried about the state of his lover's soul, but he was pretty sure it was dirt, and not an indication that he was falling from grace. Nearly every feather was split and kinked out of place, or just plain broken, and there was... there was a smell. He had seen all of these things at one point or another, but never all on the same set of wings.

He had worked in hell for six thousand years, and he had never seen torture like this.

But he could hardly say that. Aziraphale was clearly embarrassed, but Crowley could not stand by now that he knew about this. So he miracled himself a chair, a warm bowl of water, a towel, and sat down to work.

"Is that a bowl of water?" Aziraphale asked, craning his neck to try and see behind him properly.

"Yes of course it's a bowl of water, what else would it be?"

Aziraphale pouted, his wings drawing up close to his back. "Crowley, I hate getting my wings wet!"

"....Clearly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Crowley sighed and ran a hand experimentally through Aziraphale's feathers. "Angel, a lot of this could be fixed with a bath."

"... I tried a dust bath."

Well that would explain the grayness. He dislodged a few broken feathers absentmindedly as he tried to figure out the best way to fix this mess. He didn't want to make the angel more uncomfortable than he already was, but there was really no way around it. "I need to use at least a little water, angel. Can't clean 'em properly if I don't."

"It just feels so... icky."

The demon fought to think of a solution that would let him fix Aziraphale's wings without making him upset. "Well, maybe I can waterproof them first and then-"

"No!" Aziraphale jumped from the chair as Crowley's hands got close to his oil glands. Crowley snatched his hands away like he had been burned and looked up at the skittish angel.

He wouldn't say anything, but this constant rejection hurt more than a little bit. He didn't understand why he was having to work so hard just to take care of Aziraphale. He didn't understand why Aziraphale wouldn't let Crowley touch him.

Clearly the angel didn't trust him as much as he thought.

The hurt must have shown, because Aziraphale's face crumpled.

"I didn't mean... Oh, Crowley, I'm sorry, I... it just hurts so much! Please don't try to use any oil. I can't..."

Crowley frowned so hard he was a bit worried he might get wrinkles. "Your oil glands hurt?"

"Horrendously. But only if they're touched."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. He needed to stay calm. "Alright. Angel, I need you to go lie down on the bed so I can look at them."

"Do you really have to?"

"Now, Assssiraphale," Crowley snapped. Aziraphale startled, but shuffled over to the bed, his damaged wings twitching nervously.

Crowley didn't want to be mean, but that wasn't something he could just ignore.

There were few things in the universe that could actually cause an angel or demon to become sick. Really, properly sick. Wasting away, rotting from the inside out, sick.

An infected oil gland was one of those things.

Crowley knelt next to Aziraphale on the bed and gingerly pushed away the feathers to look. He wanted to comfort the angel, but he couldn't find the words. All he could do was hold his breath.

He knew how to groom wings but that didn't make him a doctor. There was only so much he could do if it had gone past a certain point.

He didn't know what they would do if it was bad.

The feathers parted and Crowley let out the breath he had been holding. It was bad. It was still really bad. But it didn't look infected.

Crowley gently pressed a finger against the swollen gland to gauge the reaction. Aziraphale yelped and arched off the bed. The sound felt like a punch to the gut, but Crowley had to ignore the feeling. He was going to have to cause Aziraphale pain to help him, no matter how much the very thought of hurting the angel hurt Crowley.

Making soothing noises, Crowley brought his fingers up to eye level and rubbed them together. There wasn't a drop of oil on them.

"They're impacted," he said softly, rubbing at the space between Aziraphale's wings. "But I don't think they're infected."

"Can you fix it?"

"Yeah, I should be able to..." Crowley's eyes snapped towards movement, and he parted some errant feathers to confirm his suspicions. "Sssson of a bitch."

"What? What's wrong?"

"You have mitessss." He should have suspected at least that part. For whatever reason, the space where wings were kept when not in use was also home to itty bitty bugs. And as annoying as it was, interdimensional mites were a common affliction.

He had thought it was the out of place feathers that had been causing the itching, but it had probably been these bastards.

"Oh good lord!" Aziraphale slammed his face into the mattress and covered his head with his hands.

"It'sss fine, angel. Juss-" he stopped and took a deep breath, trying to reign in his hiss. "Just another thing. I can fix it. It'll just... take a while."

He made the water he had miracled much, much hotter and dipped the cloth into the water. The first thing he had to deal with was the impacted glands. Those were causing Aziraphale actual pain. Everything else was just discomfort.

He placed the damp cloth over the left wing gland and ran his fingers through Aziraphale's hair.

"Ah, hot," Aziraphale muttered, but he didn't arch away in pain again, so Crowley counted that a win. He looked over his shoulder and glared at the damp cloth. "My sweater's going to get wet."

Crowley rolled his eyes and miracled the garment away, ignoring Aziraphale's resulting squeak.

They sat that way in silence for a while as Crowley waited for the impacted oil in the gland to soften from the heat.

Aziraphale peeked at him over his shoulder again. "I'm sorry, my dear," he murmured "I should have asked for help sooner, and now everything's... well, I've made quite the mess of my wings."

"You didn't know I groomed wings," he replied, just as softly.

"It's not about that. We... we've been together for a long time. I should have asked you for help. As my partner."

Crowley pursed his lips. He couldn't really argue about that. He couldn't pretend that he hadn't been hurt that Aziraphale hadn't even considered him with things this bad. But he still understood. A bit.

"Well, I could have brought it up. Asked you for help, too, instead of just taking care of it myself." He took Aziraphale's hand and squeezed. "We could make this a regular thing. If you wanted."

Aziraphale chuckled and squeezed Crowley's hand back. "That sounds nice." He shifted his wing and winced. "Fixing this is going to hurt, isn't it?"

"Probably." Crowley lifted the cloth and prodded at the gland. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, but he didn't jump, so it seemed like it had softened up as much as it was going to. "Ok, angel, I'm gonna try and clear this one out. I need you to not move, ok?"

The angel nodded and took two fistfuls of the bedding under him. Crowley took a deep breath, and then squeezed.

Aziraphale screamed, but the blockage was coming out.

The glands were up near the joint where the wing met the back, and they were hard to reach. Since Aziraphale hadn't been grooming his wings, the oil the gland had produced hadn't had anywhere to go. Trapped in the gland, the oil had solidified and gone bad.

A nasty, yellow sludge crept out of the gland and smelled like the depths of hell, but it was coming out. Crowley grit his teeth and kept pressing until his fingers were coated in clear, clean oil.

He pulled away and miracled the soiled cloth to the farthest point away from them as he could think of. That point being a particularly nasty pit of hell. They probably wouldn't even notice, really.

Aziraphale had done his best not to move, but at some point he had half curled into a fetal position. Crowley murmured comforting nonsense as he rubbed the tight muscles of Aziraphale's back, trying to ease the pain he had caused.

"I can't do it again, Crowley, I can't. Please don't do that again. Please don't."

Crowley was surprised he didn't break right in half at the sound of the angel's broken pleas. "It's almost done, love. Just one more."

"I can't, I can't, I can't."

"We can take a little break," he soothed. "We don't need to go again right away. But we have to take care of it. You know that. We're lucky they're not infected already."

Aziraphale didn't respond, he was shaking and Crowley wasn't sure he even could respond at this point.

It wasn't the best angle, but Crowley started to do some standard grooming, pulling out the broken feathers and straightening the crooked ones.

It didn't really count, since he still needed to deal with the mites before he could actually put the feathers in place, but it would feel good, and he needed something to draw Aziraphale out of the memory of pain.

He was a demon, pain was kind of their thing, and for all that Crowley had worked to avoid that part of the job, he still knew how to cause it. And to cause pain properly, you needed to know what things made pain a distant memory.

Crowley ran his fingers down individual feathers, occasionally reuniting barbules to smooth down a feather and fix a split, but mostly he was just... petting. He watched Aziraphale's body language carefully, waiting for him to uncurl and for his muscles to relax.

It felt like an eternity, but eventually the angel did uncurl, turning boneless under Crowley's ministrations.

"Does that feel better, angel?"

"Hmm," he blinked up at him, dazed. "Oh, yes, it feels... quite nice, really. I might fall asleep."

He chuckled and stopped going through the feathers. "Not just yet, angel." He had put another hot cloth over his other wing when Aziraphale had started to relax, and he removed that now so he could look at the impacted gland.

Aziraphale stiffened up again, and Crowley waited for him to relax against the bed again.

"I won't start until you say," he said softly.

The angel took a shuddering breath, but he didn't give Crowley the go ahead, so he still waited. He could have been worried that Aziraphale would never be ready; that he would try and avoid fixing his other oil gland because he knew how much it would hurt, but Crowley knew he wasn't stupid. It was a problem that needed to be taken care of, and they would take care of it.

Just as soon as Aziraphale was ready.

"Alright," he said, with only a slight tremor to his voice. "I'm ready."

Crowley squeezed.

The second time went better than the first, if only because Aziraphale passed out. It took a lot to make an angel or demon pass out, but extreme pain in a sensitive part of their true body would do it pretty good.

Crowley was just glad Aziraphale wouldn't have to feel the pain anymore.

He cleaned out the gland, thinking murderous thoughts about heaven. He didn't want another apocalypse; humans didn't deserve to die over a fight between heaven and hell, but if he got the chance to storm heaven's gates, he wouldn't exactly say no.

This was cruel. This was a death sentence that was so much worse than hellfire or holy water. A slow and rotting death that no one ever deserved.

But it was over now. They had dealt with it in time and Crowley would never let Aziraphale get to this point again. He would never hurt like this again.

With both glands cleaned out, Crowley arranged Aziraphale's wings and covered him with his favorite blanket. They still had a lot of work to do, but they both needed a break.

Crowley didn't care how long it took, he was going to make sure his angel was happy and healthy.

Crowley had miracled Aziraphale a more comfortable chair. Something that was more like a massage chair, but with a place for him to set a book. Crowley was currently bug hunting, and he couldn't tell you how long he had been doing it. It was monotonous work, but he was determined to win the war.

Aziraphale had one of his favorite books, but he would stop reading every once in a while to talk to Crowley.

"So how often do you... do this? For other demons?"

"Hmm?" Crowley looked away from the mite he was chasing and swore under his breath as it escaped. "Usually at least once a year. Most demons like the disheveled look, so they don't ask too often."

"No, I can understand. It certainly takes a long time."

Crowley snorted. "It doesn't normally take this long, angel. I just can't get rid of the mites the way I normally do."

"How do you normally do it?"

"Burn 'em off with hellfire."

"Ah. Well, yes, that wouldn't work here, I suppose." He turned back to his book, but Crowley could tell he was still feeling tense. It was all through his wings.

"I actually haven't ever fully groomed wings that aren't mine. They just ask me to fix, like, you know, a few broken feathers or something and then leave."

"Oh," Aziraphale said brightly. He twisted his head to look at Crowley. "It would be okay if it was more, of course. I know it's purely a professional courtesy."

Crowley pressed a kiss to the nape of Aziraphale's neck as a response and they lapsed back into a more comfortable silence.

Once he was sure he had crushed every last damned bug that had the misfortune to think it could make Aziraphale's wings its home, he moved to the actual preening.

He trailed his hands through the feathers, seeking anything out of place. He ran his fingers along every barb on every feather, from the primaries to the coverts, going back and coating them in oil once they were in their proper place.

Aziraphale sighed and melted into the chair. Crowley was sure the pain and itching was taken care of, and for the first time in who knows how long, the angel could finally, truly relax.

Crowley wanted to catalog every spot that made Aziraphale sigh, every ticklish and sensitive spot, but he knew that his wings must be getting oversensitive. He couldn't give an exact number, but he knew this process had taken at least a couple of days. Having anyone's hands in your wings for days, no matter how gentle, would get to be too much. So he did his best not to linger.

"There," he said, finally. "Good as new." He sat back to admire his handiwork. Aziraphale's wings had been restored to their white, shining glory, not a pinion out of place. It was his best work yet, if he did say so himself.

Aziraphale pulled them close to his back and they winked out of existence. He rolled his shoulders experimentally, a grin spreading across his face.

"Thank you, my dear. That feels so much better."

"Let's not wait five years to to it again."

Aziraphale pulled him close and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "No, I don't think we will.... I could do up yours tomorrow, if you wanted."

Crowley smiled and wrapped his arms around his angel, a coy smile playing on his lips. "I think I could clear a place in my schedule."

[handlebarstiedtothestars]

Good Omens - The night after Tadfield (missing scene)

I preface all of this with the fact that I have probably legitimately not written fan fiction in 10 or more years, but I’ve been flexing my writing muscles again lately and Good Omens has captured my damned soul <3 This is just something little, mostly fluffy snuggly cuteness including how they came up with the idea in the last episode *obvious show spoilers*. As much as my heart wants them to pounce on each other here, I started thinking about how much affection I could really imagine the TV show’s Zira and Crowley being able to show one another straight away after 6000 years of slow burn “I don’t even like you” “You doooooo” attitudes and only being a few hours into not having to obey/worry about their sides anymore. Also very much inspired by this (x) fan art because goddamn if people didn’t look at my phone so much this would be my wallpaper.

“Oh,” Aziraphale frowned at the bus coming down the village street, “It says ‘Oxford’ on the front?”

“Yeah. He’ll drive to London anyway,” Crowley replied, taking another swig from the bottle of wine in his right hand, “He just won’t know why.”

What Aziraphale knew he should have felt was pity for the bus driver who Crowley was inconveniencing for their own personal need. What Aziraphale actually felt sitting there with Crowley drinking from a shared bottle made him shuffle awkwardly on the bench and blush. He looked away from Crowley and muttered, “I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.” Crowley turned sharply and pressed his lips together, his voice soft as he sadly reminded his friend, “It burned down, remember?” Aziraphale did remember. He had being hoping perhaps Crowley might not mind his company tonight, after everything they had been through, and what with the trouble they were likely to be in tomorrow. Then again, it was probably a stupid idea on his part. He would have to find a hotel to stay in. “You can stay at my place, if you like” Crowley offered, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts and causing the angel to stare at him.

Love spiralled through Aziraphale’s body and the hint of a smile began to show on his lips before it faded, the usual worry crossing his face. Actually, thinking it through, it probably was a stupid idea. “I don’t think my side would like that,” he replied, glancing at his friend. The expression on the angel’s face made Crowley’s brow furrow together. Had he not been holding the bottle of wine, Crowley might have taken his friend’s hand. Instead he offered the truth, “You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do.” He saw the angel’s alarmed expression and shrugged, smiling a little, “We’re on our own side.” The angel watched him carefully as he spoke, hardly daring to believe the words. It was both a wonderful truth and a horrific truth. They were free together, and free to be together without worry of anyone finding out because, well, they all knew now. But they were quite possibly also in an awful lot of trouble, and that was a concerning thought indeed. The demon continued, hailing the approaching bus, “Like Agnes said, we are going to have to choose our faces wisely.” Crowley seemed resigned and accepting of all of this, but Aziraphale’s eyes betrayed the thousands of anxious thoughts flying through his head.

They alighted the bus and sat down together. All the other passengers found that, if they had not had reason before to get off the bus prior to its arrival in Oxford, they did now. Sure enough, the bus began heading down the M40 towards London before it ever reached Oxford. Aziraphale watched the driver’s reflection in the mirror every now and then, anxious to see that he was alright. Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale’s knee and squeezed, “Hey. He’ll be home safe far earlier than he should be, and in the morning he’ll wake up feeling like he’s had a full night’s sleep. I promise.” Aziraphale made a small nod and hummed a slight approval, glancing down at the hand on his knee before settling back in his seat. His eyes fell across Crowley’s relaxed form one more time, and for the rest of the journey he gazed forward with a great degree of control. Crowley didn’t move his hand for a long time. It burned slightly through the fabric on Aziraphale’s leg, but there was something nice about the familiar warmth.

Crowley’s flat was as Spartan as it ever had been, so Aziraphale wandered into the room filled with plants as he waited for Crowley to return with the wine. He did promptly, having summoned up a vintage Chateauneuf-du-Pape, handing the angel a large glass. “Thank you,” Aziraphale smiled, “You know you’ve done very well with these plants, Crowley. They are extraordinarily beautiful.”

“Don’t flatter them,” Crowley growled, gulping his wine, “They’ll get complacent.” A small plant in the corner shivered. Crowley snarled at it and it stilled. The pair walked together into the central room where there was a pair of chairs and a table.

“Well,” Aziraphale stood a little straighter, mustering a smile, “what shall we drink to? To Adam?”

“Nah,” Crowley drawled.

“Well then, to that young couple who stopped nuclear Armageddon?”

“Noooo. Avoided worldwide disaster, big deal. Turned off a few computers. Barely did a thing.”

“Well neither did we really.”

“Oh, shut up,” the demon hissed.

“To the ineffable plan!” Aziraphale offered with a cheeky smirk.

Crowley nearly spat out his wine, “No! No, no. I have a better idea.”

“Go on.”

Crowley seemed to hesitate for a moment, before he raised his glass and his amber eyes fixed on Aziraphale, his mouth wobbly in its signature smirk. Aziraphale frowned at this emotional look from his friend. “Crowley, dear, is everything alright?” In answer, Crowley reached out and looped his arm through Aziraphale’s so they were locked together at the elbow, their wine glasses in front of them. He twisted his hand back to clink his glass against the angel’s, and his voice cracked a little as he said, “To my best friend.”

The demon drank a large gulp, but the angel was too much in shock to move. “To…b-best… friend?” the angel asked quietly.

“What do you mean best friend like that? Drink your drink before you spill it!”

Aziraphale quickly leaned forward, struggling to angle his arm with his elbow attached to Crowley’s. Managing a small mouthful, he unhooked himself, holding his glass protectively in front of his chest. He looked everywhere but Crowley as he spoke, “But you said you lost your… your best friend yesterday?” Crowley’s mouth wobbled again as Aziraphale burned under the unflinching gaze through his sunglasses. “I did,” the demon said, his voice filled with sadness at the memory. But his face rapidly fell into an open-mouthed scowl when he realised what Aziraphale meant, “Waaaaaait! You didn’t know I meant you?!”

“Well you never said it was me!”

“Never said it was y- YOU WERE DEAD!”

“Discorporated.”

“WHATEVER! How could you not know?!”

“YOU NEVER SAID!” Aziraphale shouted back, almost spilling his wine. He placed it carefully on the table before he ruined his jacket. Crowley was still staring at him in disbelief, his sunglasses now removed, those amber snake eyes a little dilated in the darkness of his flat. He crossed the space between them, stopping inches from Aziraphale, his mouth open trying to form words. Eventually a bunch tumbled out all at once. “How could you not know? Angel, it’s been six thousand years. I’ve been following you around for six thousand years. Why else would I have… found you over and over again and - and rescued you and helped you through all those millenia. Why do you think we made the arrangement?! Why do you think I kept turning up? Why would you be helping me, angel unless we were - ” Crowley’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead and knitted together as a concerning thought crossed his mind. “Am I not your…” he ventured. The angel quickly interrupted him, “Oh, you ridiculous man, of course you’re my best friend. I love you dearly. I wouldn’t have had anyone else by my side throughout this whole…this...” Aziraphale was distracted as he noticed Crowley’s body seemed to have stopped breathing. Aziraphale frowned, examining the demon’s face, “My dear boy, are you alright?”

“You said you love me,” Crowley smirked.

Aziraphale stuttered as he attempted to reply. Crowley’s grin spread wide across his thin face.  Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable demonic teasing.  “You’ve never said you loved me before,” Crowley cooed mockingly, “You’ve said you forgive me. You’ve blessed me. I think you’ve damned me to hell before.”

“Hmm too late for that,” Aziraphale jibed, reclaiming his wine for another much-needed mouthful. Crowley was practically dancing on the spot, almost laughing, crowding Aziraphale. “Yes, alright!” Aziraphale said with exasperation, “So what? Angels are beings of love, I’m an angel, I love everything. You are my best friend, ergo I love you. It’s natural.” He drained his wine, setting the empty glass down and adjusted his bowtie. “What mockery must I endure for the next thousand years?” he sighed, “Go on then, do your worst.”

But Crowley didn’t want to say anything more. Instead he picked up the small man into a warm embrace and squeezed him hard against his chest. Aziraphale squeaked as he was grabbed and never quite figured out where to put his arms. Crowley rocked him gently from side to side before he stilled, keeping the angel’s soft body flush against his lean, angular one. He placed a hand on the angel’s head, letting his fingers twist through the pale curls, pushing Aziraphale’s face into his neck. The angel breathed in that familiar smell of Crowley, leather and embers and soot and burnt sugar, and felt himself relax a little. He slipped his arms halfway around Crowley’s waist. “I love you too, in case you didn’t already know,” the demon grumbled against his hair. Aziraphale stiffened a little. He had always known Crowley had a soft spot for him; he was an angel after all, which meant he could sense love in all its forms. But he had never expected the sentiment to be reciprocated so strongly and especially not confirmed out loud. He nuzzled absentmindedly against Crowley, who hummed a little, cuddling him close as they both let their thoughts drift. Rather more gently than most demons would, Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s head through his curls, causing a warm fuzzy sensation to spread through all the angel’s nerves. Aziraphale wondered how this felt for Crowley right now. Were his nerves on fire too? What did it feel like to be Crowley…

“Heavens!” the angel exclaimed, pushing backwards from their embrace. Crowley kept tight hold of him around the waist, and Aziraphale placed his hands with a light thud on Crowley’s chest, grinning that sweet, twinkly eyed smile of his. Crowley’s heart softened a little every time the angel made that face. “I have the most wonderful idea about Agnes Nutter’s prophecy!” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley. The demon let the angel go as he explained the whole idea, his interpretation of the prophecy, how they might guard themselves from harm, and Crowley’s jaw hung slack in awe of his friend’s plan. He stared at Aziraphale, “I…you…” He cackled, “That just might work! That’s brilliant, that’s… that’s…” He threw his hands into the air, grinning, only to grab the angel’s face and plant a strong kiss on his lips. “You beautiful, smart angel, you’re a GENIUS!” Crowley growled, still holding Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks. “Oh,” the angel squeaked, realising he was holding Crowley’s wrists in his hands, “Um… thank you.” Crowley grinned manically, oblivious, squeezing Aziraphale’s face before flying across the room. He paced up and down talking through the plan, the ins and outs, giving Aziraphale a detailed breakdown of Hell should he get summoned or likely dragged down, and asking questions about Heaven’s hierarchy and layout, ensuring they could pass off as each other. Aziraphale paid attention as best he could, answering questions when asked, but kept running his fingers over his lips, still burning with warmth from Crowley’s kiss, trying to hide the small smile growing on his face.

[bastionkeeper]

Idk if you’d be interested but I absolutely die for 10 meeting Crowley somewhere in history and having a fun lil mix up with the trouble they’re both in

Anonymous said: Can I get some fuckin uhhhh Donna content? If you want!

I’m so sorry this took a million years and came out totally different, shorter, and probably less good than expected asdflkja it’s been a long bit of getting back to school, working in preparation for the festival that’s gonna kill me this weekend, and the big sad writer’s block, I decided to just post it now while I have SOMETHING at least

"I promise this is going to make up for that whole mess with the novasquid."

"It better, my hair still smells like calamari and I've showered four times now."

The sound of fond bickering often filled the TARDIS, though the incident with the novasquid had, indeed, increased the usual amount of bickering quite a bit. 

"Look, 3308, Mars, the nightlife is incredible," The Doctor assured Donna. "I once spent a night there, don't remember a thing, might have gotten married or… divorced, anyway…"

"I can't believe it, we're going clubbing," Donna laughed.

"Well, yeah, but on Mars," the Doctor emphasized, hoping for the usual human wonder at travel in time and space.

"You gonna go dressed like that? All suit and teacher glasses?" 

"You're one to talk, showing up to a 3308 club dressed like it's 2007," the Doctor said, grinning and raising a critical eyebrow.

He threw a lever and flipped a switch, and the TARDIS stopped groaning and shaking as they landed.

"Alright, Mars," Donna said, dramatically tossing her hair. "Lock up your husbands."

"Right…" the Doctor raised an eyebrow and headed for the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

The door opened and Donna and the Doctor stepped out…

...onto a London street.

"Mars, right?" Donna huffed. "You need to fix that GPS. Are we at least in the future?"

"Uh…" the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and took readings only he could read from a device with neither screen nor speaker. "Depends… we're either somewhere in the nineties or 2019…"

"How can it be either the nineties or 2019?" Donna asked. 

"This is really strange…"

"No stranger than usual, you promising a vacation and us ending up in the wrong part of the universe."

"No, I mean…" the Doctor looked at the sonic with a frown. "These readings for Earth are all… well… it's saying it's only about six thousand years old."

"So it's busted then," Donna said. 

"Maybe…" the Doctor pocketed the sonic and looked around. "Well, so long as we're here."

"Oh no," Donna sighed. "No, don't get distracted. Let's get back in the TARDIS and go to Mars."

"Look! An old bookshop!" The Doctor beamed, pointing out the building. "Love an old bookshop, let's take a peek."

"Oh no," Donna groaned, as the Doctor grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the shop labeled: A.Z. FELL.

"Your orchid is getting lazy."

Aziraphale looked up from his book to where Crowley was examining a flower, one he'd brought to the bookshop as a gift a month ago.

"Maybe it's just enjoying a quiet moment away from all the yelling," Aziraphale said coyly, returning to his book. 

The bell at the door rang as a pair of customers entered, and neither demon nor angel took notice. 

"Sure, let it go soft," Crowley scoffed. 

"As if you don't like soft," Aziraphale shot back, not looking up from his book.

Crowley made a big show of snarling like he was offended as he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Don't you have things to do today? Besides harass the orchid?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, but I'll be back for it," Crowley said with a wink. "You enjoy chasing people off all day."

Aziraphale waved him off, and for a split second two non-humans with remarkably similar faces passed by each other without noticing.

Then Crowley left the shop.

"Are you done yet?" Donna sighed, leaning heavily on a bookshelf. The Doctor was nose deep in a book, and had been for about an hour. Not the same book, no, he kept poking around in books and peeking around the bookshop much to the owner's dismay. Donna suspected if it weren't for the other customers that he'd have personally chased them off long ago.

"Something's very strange about all this," the Doctor said, not looking up. 

"Yeah, strange how you promised me adventure and now we're standing around looking at antique books," Donna said. "I think you do this on purpose."

"I wish I could claim that," the Doctor chuckled. "Nope, all accident."

"Well so long as you're reading, I'm going to go find something to do," Donna said. "You know, while you gather dust."

The Doctor waved her off and she stuck her tongue out at him, before heading for the door. 

The Doctor was reading Hamlet or rather he was sort of reading it, because it was just a little different from what he remembered. 

For starters it was completely dull, not at all the play remembered by the ages. Second of all the publishing date was definitely not the correct one, and yet he was certain this was an original copy. An original copy somehow lovingly maintained without a temperature controlled room or protective case, just placed on a bookshelf surrounded by several other well loved books.

"Oh, you don't want that one."

The Doctor looked up at the voice, the owner had left his post and come over to him. Aziraphale hadn't seen the customer's face yet, only seen his back as he pursued for far too long with too much interest. Another collector, probably, hard to shake.

"Oh?" The Doctor asked, turning to face Aziraphale. "Why not?"

For a moment surprise spread over Aziraphale's face, and then confusion.

"Wait… but…" he squinted. "Crowley, are you playing some kind of trick?"

"Uh, no, no tricks here," the Doctor said with an equally confused look and a friendly shrug. "Sorry, what did you call me?"

"Oh stop it," Aziraphale huffed. "You've barely even shapeshifted, are you trying to be funny?"

"Well now that's just rude," the Doctor said. "I'm very different now, got all long and grew my hair out, and the ears are totally different."

"Ears?" Aziraphale asked, bewildered.

"Do you know me?" The Doctor asked curiously.

"I should say so I…" Aziraphale paused. "... or maybe I don't. You don't feel… demonic. Are you not Crowley?"

"I'm the Doctor," he replied. "And I'm not a demon, sorry."

"That's bizarre." Aziraphale gaped. "You look just like him…"

"You did say demon, right?" The Doctor asked, and Aziraphale blanched.

"Did I?" He asked casually.

"Oh, don't get secretive now," the Doctor chuckled. "Would it help if I said I was an alien? I show you mine you show me… well, you get it." He pulled a face at his own choice of words.

"That's impossible," Aziraphale laughed. "She hasn't started work on the other worlds yet."

"She?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Aziraphale said finally.

"Why didn't you want me to buy this book?" The Doctor asked. "And why's it all wrong? It's Hamlet but it's garbage, Hamlet's not garbage."

"That's the pre-edited copy," Aziraphale said smugly. 

"What edits are those?"

"The important ones." Aziraphale looked impatient now. "Who are you, really?"

"I told you, I'm the Doctor, I'm a time lord, I'm not from around here."

"Time lord? Sounds a bit pompous…"

"So does claiming intimate knowledge of the writing of Hamlet, but I think maybe we've both got the right," the Doctor said, eyes burning with interest. "Were you there? When it was written?"

"Were you?" Aziraphale countered.

"I was."

"Well I certainly don't remember you."

The Doctor looked triumphant at having gotten a confession that might help him puzzle out the situation, and Aziraphale sighed.

"Alright, which office sent you?"

"What offices?" The Doctor asked.

"Heaven! Hell! What "department" are you?" Aziraphale pushed. 

"Neither, and what exactly are you?"

"I am an angel," Aziraphale said defensively. "And I am very confused."

"Confused isn't so bad, confused means you get to figure something out," the Doctor said. "Tell you what, you tell me about Heaven, Hell, and Hamlet and maybe we can figure this out."

Aziraphale sighed and gestured to the back room, miracling on some tea. "Might as well. This way."

Donna was just starting to get bored when she saw him, crossing the street just a bit away. She chased after him, shouting when he didn't stop for her.

"Hey! Spaceman! You gone deaf and blind?" She huffed, grabbing Crowley by the arm and surprising him considerably. "You finally done with that bookshop then?"

"I… what?" Crowley asked.

"What have you done to your hair?" Donna asked. "And your…" she gestured broadly to all of him. "... all that."

"Well, nothing recently, bout time for a change," Crowley said. "Do I know you?"

"Haha, very funny." Donna rolled her eyes. "Can we go now?"

"Seriously, who are you?" Crowley asked.

"Oh God, I know what this is," Donna sighed in exasperation. "Martha told me about this, you got a pocket watch on you then?"

"Why would I have a pocket watch? What year do you think it is?" Crowley scoffed. 

"C'mon, it's not funny," Donna said. "Just hurry up and-"

Crowley snapped, trying to put the woman in a trance so he could get some answers out of her.

But Donna Noble was not so easily tranced.

"Are you snapping at me?" She shouted, putting her hands on her hips.

"Nngk!" Crowley choked, startled into backing up, arms pinwheeling comically.

"Something happened to you at that bookstore, is that it?" She said. "Right, we're going back, I'll not have you walking around looking like Mr. Goth Fashion and snapping at me."

"I'm… sorry?" Crowley spluttered, finding himself being dragged along. Oh well, she was headed towards Aziraphale's anyway, at least he'd have backup.

Crowley and Donna entered the bookshop just as Aziraphale and the Doctor had decided to go looking for them. There was a minute of Donna, Aziraphale, and the Doctor gaping in confusion at the demonic and alien doppelganger situation, before Crowley broke the silence.

"YOU!" he accused. "Of course it's you!"

"So you know me?" The Doctor asked.

"And you don't know me yet? Great," Crowley huffed. "You made a real mess of the thirties, you know that?"

"Not yet I haven't," the Doctor said, sounding offended.

"So you know him, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, he's the idiot with my face who always got me blamed for everything," Crowley said. "Trying to get back to his own universe, is this day one then?"

"What. The hell. Is going on?" Donna asked.

"Funny you should mention hell," the Doctor chuckled. "You know I met Satan once."

"Twice," Crowley corrected him. "Look forward to it. That one actually did me a favor, I was employee of the month."

"No one's answered me," Donna pointed out.

"You and your alien boyfriend are about to time travel through our world till you find a way back to yours, that's what's going on," Crowley said.

"Not my boyfriend," Donna said just as the Doctor said "I'm not her boyfriend."

"And Mr. Fell and his friend here are an angel and a demon," the Doctor added.

"We're not friends," Aziraphale said, just as Crowley corrected him to "partner."

"No way," Donna said.

"I assure you, miss," Aziraphale said. "Very much 'way.'"

"Satan, you're so embarrassing," Crowley chuckled.

"You know, normally I've seen a face before I steal it," the Doctor said.

"Likewise," Crowley said. "But I've got a few thousand years on you so I can say for sure She didn't copy paste me."

“Copy paste?” the Doctor asked, offended.

“Regardless, it seems we’ve sorted things out,” Aziraphale said. “Though I must admit , knowing you really are a time traveling alien from another dimension opens up so many questions…” his eyes glittered with that familiar look he got when discovering a new and fascinating book. “I have questions,” he said, taking the Doctor by the arm and leading him to the back room where he’d ply him for stories with refreshments and stories of his own.

“I’ll just be a minute, Donna,” the Doctor called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s what he said last time,” Donna sighed.

“We’ll be lucky to see them sometime this century,” Crowley sighed along with her. “I’m going to have to dust him off again.”

“Whatchu say we leave them and go get some drinks?” Donna suggested.

“Told you, he’s my partner… thing,” Crowley said awkwardly, as Donna rolled her eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself, hellboy, you’re all bones and sunglasses,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “C’mon, I want to know which of my friends are going to hell.”

[gayglitterqueen]

the effects of holy water on angels

Rating: Teen and Up Warning: angst!! then fluff but first angst Words: 6525 Pairings: Ineffable Husbands Notes: aziraphale doesn’t get sent to heaven and finds the holy water in crowley’s apartment Summary: As all Angels should, Aziraphale loves all of God’s creations, and She had many ones that are easy to love. So, as an immortal, it is impossible to go through existence without feeling the loss of them. The emptiness. There have been a handful of people, animals, even places, that have been lost to time that he has mourned.

But this?

This is a grief that Aziraphale is sure that not even Hell could imagine. A grief that Aziraphale would have believed only came with the feeling of losing one’s Angelic wings in a fall. A grief that he would never experience.

AO3

Humans somehow are both quite gullible yet very hard to convince, which is a frustrating duality that brings Aziraphale to his current predicament.

In another, very similar but slightly different universe, Lance Corporal Shadwell believes he exorcises the not-known-to-be-an-Angel Aziraphale by backing him up into a portal to heaven. After this, a series of events would follow that would lead to a burnt down bookshop and a Demon drinking heavily as he waits for the end of the world. 

But this universe is just slightly different enough that those events do not happen.

Aziraphale, instead of letting himself be pushed back into the circle by Shadwell, manages (with a slight miracle) to duck under his arm as Shadwell grabs the supplies and instead leads the Corporal in the opposite direction.

So, when Shadwell points his finger at Aziraphale, instead of bursting into bright blue flames as he ascends to Heaven, silence fills the air as nothing happens. The two men are left staring at each other, not quite sure where to go from this due to very different reasons. Once and then twice more Shadwell points his finger at Aziraphale as if it will make some sort of difference. Aziraphale blinks.

Well, at least no one stepped into the circle.

“I- I don’t understand.” Shadwell’s face screws up in confusion and he brings his finger close to his face, almost crossing his eyes in the process. “Yer a demon, this should work! Bell, book, candle!”

Aziraphale glances at the clock perched on his wall. “Well, I, hm. I do wish I had time to explain this to you, but unfortunately, the Apocalypse waits for no Angel.” And with this Aziraphale snaps his fingers, miracling Lance Corporal Shadwell asleep and into his bed at home. A rather big miracle, much more than he usually likes to do, but wholly necessary at the moment.

After a brief search for Agnes Nutter’s book, which Shadwell had tossed to the side after using for his attempted exorcism, Aziraphale starts to rush out the door. When he suddenly remembers, yes, he has wings and, yes, they probably would be faster than going through London traffic.

Faster is better when considering in a few hours it would be the End of the World, the only problem is that it doesn’t give Aziraphale much time to consider what to say to Crowley. And there is Much to Say. Lots had happened in just the past day between them, much more than he ever thought could happen. Now he isn’t exactly sure where they stand, where anything stands at all, or what to say to make any of it better. He has some things he knows he wants to say, but not all of it could be said in the short time they have. Perhaps if they drove to Tadfield at Crowley’s breakneck speeds they would have a chance.

So much to say.

I’m sorry. It isn’t over between us. We are on our side. I am on our side.

I choose you.

With thoughts of Tadfield and Agnes Nutter and Alpha Centauri scrambling through his mind, Aziraphale lands at Crowley’s front door. Not that he couldn’t land inside the flat, but things have been testy between the two of them this past week for obvious reasons and Aziraphale doesn’t really want to push it.

He reaches up to knock, which is just a formality and more a warning to Crowley that someone is here because he fully intends to just walk in anyway, when he pauses. The front door is already cracked open. As if someone had forgotten to fully close it behind them. Or hadn’t bothered to.

Alarm bells go off in Aziraphale’s head. In six thousand years of knowing Crowley, he has never ever done something like this. Even when he’s completely plastered, barely hanging onto Aziraphale as he attempts to drag them to Crowley’s flat (wherever it may be at the time) Crowley always remembers to close and miracle the door locked behind him.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale presses the tips of his fingers against the door and watches it sway open. Beyond the soft creak of the hinge, the flat is otherwise completely silent. If Aziraphale’s body wasn’t merely modeled after humanity and instead was completely human he would now break out into goosebumps. Perhaps a shiver would run up his spine. Natural instincts would alert him to leave the scene, a threatening aura hanging heavy over the flat like a thick fog. But he is not human, and while some part of him is still aware that nothing good resides beyond the threshold, he steps in.

The silence of the flat screams as he walks in. It’s not the sort of silence that comes from an absence of Crowley in this room or even Crowley asleep somewhere. Aziraphale can always sense his presence, but the flat is cold and alone and empty.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls because he’s not sure what else to do as he moves through the flat. This isn’t the first time he’s been in this particular one so it isn’t hard to look around and spot any signs of trouble.

Memories of the first late night visit to this flat come to mind. Several champagne bottles spread around a newly miracled living room as music hums softly in the background. Crowley had fallen asleep on the couch and Aziraphale had miracled a blanket for him, one that he knows is tucked away in a closet somewhere in the flat because on cold nights Crowley still brings it out. So far, nothing looks out of place. But no signs of Crowley either. “Crowley, my dear, are you here?”

He moves through the flat, past familiar furniture and towards Crowley’s plant room, the place he most often is when Aziraphale comes to visit. There is no sound of the typical shouting, but it’s a better place to start than any. The father he goes the more he starts to notice a distinct smell. His nose wrinkles and the pit of his stomach twists, unfamiliar with the strange stink that he seems to be walking towards.

Another door, also cracked open, stares Aziraphale down. That is where the odor seems to be coming from and while every fiber of Aziraphale tells him to move away, he forces himself forward. “Crowley?” He calls out again as he pushes the door open.

Immediately he’s hit with the smell tenfold. It’s powerful enough to send him staggering back, the hand that isn’t holding the book reaches up to cover his mouth and nose. It smells hideous, it smells acidic, it smells like pure death.

Aziraphale’s heart plummets into his stomach as he spots the obvious spot the smell is coming from. He takes a step back as if to get a closer look, and then falls back once again until his back is pressed up against a wall. He drops Agnes Nutter’s book to bring his other hand up to his face, pressing his palms against his mouth so hard he comes close to cutting the inside of his lips on his teeth.

Even if he couldn’t tell what the gooey, tar-like substance on the floor was, he could sense the holy water just by being near it.

“No… no, no, no, no, nononono-” Aziraphale gasps, sliding down the wall until he hits the floor. All he can see is the puddle of water and former demon, it encapsulates his vision, searing itself into his mind. He can no longer hear himself chanting no, even as his voice grows louder and more shrill in his growing panic.

Aziraphale can’t feel much right now, a cold bucket of shock having been dunked over his head just as quickly as the panic began to get in.

“Nononono – no, Crowley, no –”

A suicide pill, he had called it back in the 1800s. A painful way to go that there was no coming back from. No discoperation, no new body, no more Crowley. A suicide pill that had looked better than whatever Hell could come up and, apparently, the End of the World.

Elsewhere in London, the bell above Aziraphale’s bookshop door rings out. The bookshop is completely empty, while the sign reads closed even the owner is nowhere to be seen. The only source of light in the room is a circle lit by candles, faintly glowing. Crowley almost walks right back out when he sees it.

It’s an instinctual response. Demons aren’t supposed to want to go back to Heaven, not like they’d be welcome anyway, so any sort of portal to anywhere holy sends even the dumbest Demons running. Crowley is not dumb, especially for a Demon, but he is rather desperate, so he takes a deep breath, holy energy stinging his nose, and continues into the shop.

For a brief moment, his chest is seized by panic – the thought of being abandoned in the End of the World far worse than how it felt being the one who was going to run off. Was Heaven really that alluring? Or was Crowley and the promise of the universe just not enough to hold Aziraphale? These thoughts creep over his mind, covering it like a quickly growing moss. But then Crowley sees it’s not just the candles glowing, but the entire portal. So it’s been activated, but unused.

He lets out a heavy sigh of relief, entire posture slouching, before passing by quickly. Best not to look too hard at the holy light. He practically dives in the back room, as he does so he calls “Aziraphale!”

No answer. No answer when he calls throughout the bookstore, the back, and upstairs where the small living quarters are kept.

An empty bookshop with a portal to Heaven smack in the middle.

“For the love of – oh, forget it. Aziraphale, where the hell are you?” Crowley mutters to himself. He pulls out his phone, looking at the dozens of unanswered calls he had put through in the last hour. If the world wasn’t ending he would be heavily embarrassed for several centuries by how desperate it looked.

He could be embarrassed for as long as he wanted once they got to space, all he had to do was fucking find Aziraphale first. An Angel lost in the middle of London, might as well ask him to dig through a haystack while he’s at it.

And right at the End of the World. Just what he needed, a time limit.

“Couldn’t have just stayed put, could you?” He hurries outside to his Bentley, completely ready to drive down each street of London if it’s what it takes to find his angel.

It feels like another six thousand years have passed before Aziraphale can feel his body again, but it couldn’t have been. The entire world would have already ended, not just Aziraphale’s. But here it is, the world around him still intact. Still in Crowley’s apartment. Still facing the remains of his former best friend. Still solid and physically present in reality.

As the shock loosens it’s hold, Aziraphale gains feeling back. Such as the fact that he bruised the inside of his mouth by biting his cheek so hard it’s drawn blood. And that his hands had pressed so hard into his face that his nails had left indents on his cheeks. And even the tears that continue to pour down his face.

His throat aches, which is the only reason he had stopped chanting no to himself. His tongue feels swollen against the roof of his mouth and everything beneath his chest feels numb in a fuzzy sort of way, like his whole body has fallen asleep.

Thoughts piece themselves together slowly as if he’s trying to stitch a pattern for the first time. Only the end result still doesn’t make much sense, but the shock is wearing off just enough to let panic seep back in.

Crowley wouldn’t - Crowley wouldn’t. Only for emergencies. It was a last resort. We’re not in last resort territory yet. Alpha Centauri. Another option, another option, so many more options. Hell, even just the moon. The moon. The moon, the apple tree, Eden, the wall of Eden, a snake, black wings and golden eyes- No, no, no. It can’t be Crowley – it has to be Crowley, who else would it be? He promised it was only for the last case scenario, the end all of all emergencies-

Only. He hadn’t.

After caving and giving Crowley the holy water, Aziraphale had spent the next few days endlessly fretting, calling much more than he ever had before since the invention of phones, until Crowley had threatened to throw out his phone just for some peace and quiet. A week-long panic attack he would later come to think of it. But even in the midst of that, there was no promise made. Anything of the sort was all just implied, nothing verbal. Nothing truly binding.

But implied had always been binding enough between them. They had become adept at reading between the lines and following what they read. Spoken word was too dangerous most of the time, could never tell who was listening, so trust was formed that even if not said it was still expected. But this, this was nowhere in the realm of expected.

Had the End of Times been the breaking point? Were between the lines were no longer enough?

Aziraphale can feel himself drag his hands past his face to grip at his hair. His head falls between his knees and even though he is no longer looking at the puddle on the floor, it’s all he can see. He makes no conscious effort to do any of this. He is hardly conscious at all.

As all Angels should, Aziraphale loves all of God’s creations, and She had many ones that are easy to love. So, as an immortal, it is impossible to go through existence without feeling the loss of them. The emptiness. There have been a handful of people, animals, even places, that have been lost to time that he has mourned.

But this?

This is a grief that Aziraphale is sure that not even Hell could imagine. A grief that Aziraphale would have believed only came with the feeling of losing one’s Angelic wings in a fall. A grief that he would never experience.

Now, though, in the midst of it, it is a grief that he would trade his wings for in a moment. If only to get the pain to subside for a second. If only to have Crowley back here, in his arms, one more time. But nothing happens. He hears nothing from above, feels nothing, and knows that it would be pointless to even attempt to ask.

Yet another six thousand years could have passed in the time it takes him to get up, but no, the world around him is still here. He makes sure not to look at the open door. Aziraphale has to leave this place, as much as it hurts him that puddle of goo is no longer Crowley and the smell of his best friend’s death is filling his head. Whatever grip on reality is quickly fading the longer he stays. He hardly remembers to pick up the book, but he isn’t sure why he feels the need to. Today is the End of the World and now that Aziraphale’s world has been taken, there’s not much point in saving the rest of it, now is there?

The world is ending soon and Crowley has no idea where the fuck Aziraphale is.

“What, did he just decided to pop out on an afternoon stroll?” Crowley snarls under his breath and he jerks the steering wheel of his Bently, narrowly missing a pedestrian standing on the edge of a crosswalk. “Oh, last chance to really admire the last time London will ever see the sun, simply must take advantage of that. Course, of course!”

This doesn't make Crowley feel any better, especially since he’s not angry at Aziraphale and more the whole situation of everything in this goddamn week. But he can’t seem to stop himself. He hisses out curses and sharp barbs pointed at everyone and everything he can think of. If he doesn’t stop soon he’s sure that his tongue will revert back to how it was when he was actually a snake and the only way to tell if that’s happened is to listen for him drawing out his S’s. Another sharp turn and another shouted curse at the universe.

He’s nearly back to his flat with the route he’s taken. It’s a silly thought that Aziraphale would go there, he had made his stance on Crowley’s proposition perfectly clear, so it’s unlikely that he’d come to Crowley.

A quick driveby can’t hurt all the same. If Aziraphale isn’t in Heaven then he’s somewhere in London and Crowley will rewrite the laws of time itself to make sure he has enough of it to find Aziraphale in this city.

Luckily, no attempt at changing the cosmic writings of the universe is needed. Crowley slams on his breaks so hard the Bently shakes as if it’ll pop out of its tires, skidding to a stop about a block away from his flat. There, walking in the direction away from Crowley is Aziraphale. Back turned to him, but Crowley would recognize that blond hair and that now questionable taste in clothing anywhere.

The Bently shudders as it comes to a complete stop, but Crowley is already out of his car and jogging to catch up with Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls and frowns when there’s no obvious reaction. It’s not like there’s a lot of foot traffic near them, he should have no problem hearing Crowley. “Aziraphale!”

As Crowley gets closer it becomes more obvious that Aziraphale is tensing up with each call of his name. His arms are wound tightly around his torso and his hand is loosely hanging onto a book, one that looks like it will tumble from his grasp with just the slightest breeze. Okay, okay, this isn’t what Crowley needed from Aziraphale today, but he can work with it. Hey, at least he actually knows where he is, that saves a whole lot of time running around Earth unnecessarily.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley all but shouts as he finally catches up. He reaches out and grabs Aziraphale’s shoulder, physically stopping him since nothing else seems to be getting through. And that seems to get through. If that’s what you want to call it.

Crowley isn’t sure what is going on with Aziraphale, but not even his best guess could prepare him from the reaction he gets. A full body shudder before a violent jerk away. Aziraphale almost stumbles to the ground but catches himself just in time to spin around to finally face Crowley.

Oh. Oh, this is not good at all.

If memory serves the last time Crowley saw Aziraphale anywhere near this upset was the height of the Bubonic Plague, but even that has little on this.

Aziraphale looks as if he’s seen a ghost. His face is drained of all color, except the red splotches around his eyes from obvious sobbing. His hair is all askew and he hugs himself tighter when he sees Crowley. Whatever has upset Aziraphale this much is serious, perhaps more serious than the End of Times itself.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks again, taking great care to soften his voice. One wrong move looks like it will send Aziraphale miracle himself halfway across the globe. He doesn’t dare reach out to touch him, not sure if any more physical contact will worsen the situation. “Aziraphale, what happened?”

They stand like that for a moment. And then another. And then a third.

“You…” Aziraphale whispers and his voice croaks so bad it makes Crowley’s ache as well. “You- you-... I don’t-... I can’t…”

“Shh, shh, Zira it’s- it is, hmm, it’s going to be alright.”

Perhaps Aziraphale fell asleep against the wall, can shock do that? Can it drain someone so completely it knocks them out into a comforting dream? Or maybe this is a dream but he isn’t asleep. Is that something shock can do? Aziraphale can’t seem to remember.

Crowley – the figment that looks like Crowley – looks far too calm for the situation at hand. The world is ending and he’s already dead. Shouldn’t he look more upset? Well, he looks upset, but it isn’t an oh-I’m-dead-instead-of-discorporated kind of upset and more of a filled with concern type. His hands are slightly outstretched just close enough to not invade Aziraphale’s space but far enough away that they hover unsure in the air.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, but the name feels bitter on his tongue. Coppery and metallic.

“Yep, that’s right, angel.” Crowley nods and tries to smile, but Aziraphale knows - knew - him too well and sees right through it. Concern is seeping into a panic. “I don’t- I don’t know what’s gotten you so upset, but I need you to come with me. C’mon, we gotta go.”

It’s clear Crowley is trying to be gentle, but he can’t hide the rush in his voice. He says “we gotta go” when he means “we should’ve been the hell out of here twenty minutes ago come on”.

“Why?”

Crowley leans back in surprise, arms dropping to his sides. “Be… Because it’s Armageddon? End of days and all that? Aziraphale?”

“So?”

It’s clear that Crowley isn’t sure how to handle this and part of Aziraphale does feel bad for leaving him so wrong-footed. It must be hard enough to dead already, Aziraphale doesn’t need to be making it any worse. Crowley looks around them for a minute, as if checking to see if anyone is going to spring out and shout boo! “I don’t, pff,” Crowley blows out a puff of air between his teeth and reaches up to drag his hand through his hair,” angel, what happened?”

Aziraphale can’t help but let out a laugh at that. Well, it’s more of a strangled, chocked off version of a laugh, but it’s the best he’s got in him. After the first one happens the rest just start bubbling up until he’s leaned over slightly, clutching his stomach, body raked with shakes. “What happened? As if you don’t know Crowley. I killed you!”

Silence from Crowley’s end as Aziraphale continues to laugh.

“Okay.” Crowley huffs, and oh Aziraphale is so glad this figment can do that. It was always cute, that frustrated huff Crowley would do, especially since he only ever seemed to do it around Aziraphale. “Okay, clearly, something, something bad, very very bad has happened in the short time since you opened that Heaven portal. And we can deal with that later, I think, but Zira, c’mon I need you to get in the car.”

Aziraphale can’t mark the exact moment when his laughs, hysterical now, dissolve into sobs. Whole body-wracking sobs.

“I- I killed you, Crowley.” Aziraphale continues between his sobs, finally able to look back up at the figment. “‘S all my fault. Wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t in Soho. Should’ve been up in space, then you would’ve stayed.”

What. The fuck. Is happening.

Aziraphale clearly isn’t completely back into reality yet. If the Crowley he runs into on the street isn’t enough, then the fact that one minute he’s standing on the sidewalk crying his eyes out and the next he’s sitting in Crowley’s old Bently without knowing how he got there is quite a big hint.

This must be a dream then. The Bently isn’t something he can imagine while awake and still feel the way it rumbles as it goes, feel the bumps on the road as Crowley speeds along. He digs his fingernails into the palm of his hands and flinches in surprise when he finds it hurts.

Not a dream?

“...How did I get here?” Aziraphale whispers, staring down at his palm.

The car around them speeds up and Crowley hums, matching the purr of the car. “Well you stood on a sidewalk crying and saying complete nonsense so I… let’s go with helped, helped you into my car. Sorry, angle, as much as I understand a good cry session to let all that pent up stuff out, you picked a pretty shitty time to do it.”

The casual tone to his voice is horribly forced, causing Aziraphale to look up. It is indeed still Crowley next to him, but his body is far too tense to be from Aziraphale’s imagination. He always preferred Crowley at his most relaxed, but this one is trying to replicate that look. The tilt of his spine against the seat is much too rigid and his hands grip the steering wheel much too tight. His lips are mashed together into an attempted neutral expression that if anything makes him looked even more anxious.

“No, I mean… This isn’t possible.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I killed you.”

“Hmm, you keep saying that, but I seem to recall it’s been several hours since we’ve seen each other. If you did have time to kill me then I’m quite impressed that I hadn’t noticed.”

“No. No, not like that.” Aziraphale shakes his head because real, imaginary, dream, Crowley has to understand. Understand it as Aziraphale understands it. “The holy water. I gave you the holy water. Therefore I killed you. And- and I told you it was over. We were over. What other choice did I give you but holy water?”

Crowley slams on the breaks so hard it’s a miracle itself that they don’t go flying through the windshield. (It’s very unclear if the miracle belongs to either of them or just one from everyday life). Instead of stopping in the middle of traffic, like Aziraphale’s heart tells them they are as it jumps into his throat, Crowley quickly miracles their way into a parking space next to a bunch of shops.

“Holy water?” Crowley whispers, his grip on the wheel somehow tightening. Any more so and it’ll snap. He looks up at Aziraphale, horror plain on his face even with his sunglasses on. “Aziraphale, no, no, no-”

Ah, there it is. The understanding. The same understanding that Aziraphale had to come to. Was the problem just that Crowley didn’t realize he’s dead? Is a reminder always needed in situations like this? Ghosts aren’t exactly his department up in Heaven. Can celestial beings even have ghosts? The rules about all this sort of thing are quite unclear, which is very frustrating considering how much Heaven loves documentation.

Crowley turns his whole body in the seat and pulls off his glasses, setting them into his lap. Now Aziraphale can fully see his wide, golden eyes, but can’t stand to look at them for more than a moment. He squeezes his own eyes shut, but then he can only see the flat, what is left of his best friend.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley whispers and Aziraphale can feel hands cupping his face. His eyes blink open, wide and taken aback, to see Crowley staring at him. His touch is more gentle than it has any right to be, more than any accidental brush of the hands between them has ever been. “Angel, that wasn’t me. I, I wouldn’t-. I did use the holy water, but not on myself.”

“What?”

Crowley’s thumb brushes back and forth against Aziraphale’s cheekbone, lighter than air. “Hell figured out losing the Antichrist was my fault, so they sent two demons after me. Drag me back to hell ‘n all. Didn’t seem like a great option so I thought now's a good a time as any to break out the holy water.”

“You- But I- You-” Aziraphale sputters, mind blank with static as he tried to wrap his head around this brand new reality.

“Doused one with holy water and trapped the other in my answering machine, yeah.” Crowley shrugs in what is obviously meant to be an off-handed gesture, but the action is ruined by the look on his face. Without his regular sunglasses, there is nothing to hide the absolute burning - something - in his eyes.

“You… You’re here.” Aziraphale lets out a long breath and feels himself go boneless - not literally, he hasn’t lost that much control over his physical form - and collapses forward into Crowley.

The divider between their seats makes the new position slightly uncomfortable, but Aziraphale hardly notices it as he presses his face into Crowley’s neck. His hands grip the back of Crowley’s jacket, wrinkling it beyond anything but divine repair, and presses them together as much as physically possible. Crowley is real and solid and here and Aziraphale feels like he can never let go again. Crowley himself tenses up at this new development of closeness but quickly shakes it off to wrap his arms around Aziraphale as well, cradling against him. Aziraphale can feel Crowley shiver every time he lets out a breath against his neck.

“You’re here.” Aziraphale whispers once more, pressing his face so hard into Crowley he can see stars behind his eyelids.

“Yes, yes, I’m here, angel,” Crowley whispers back, tilting his head down so it presses into Aziraphale’s hair. “I’m so- I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think-. I thought you wouldn’t come to me, so I headed to the bookshop. If I, if I knew I wouldn’t have just…”

There they sit, wrapped in each other's arms at the end of the world ticks ever closer. Outside the world continues as normal, unaware of its own fate. Inside everything has ground to a screeching halt. Nothing exists outside of this moment. Everything building up for the past day releases in their hold.

It only lasts a minute but feels like an eternity.

“You trapped a demon in your answering machine?” Aziraphale whispers, knowing that one of them will have to shatter this moment eventually. And, well, that seemed like the best ice breaker on hand.

Crowley laughs, lighter than he has in days. “Uh, yeah, I did. Well, I mean, not after threatening him with fake holy water?”

“How can you fake holy water?” Aziraphale’s words are slightly muffled by his position, but he isn’t in any rush to move.

“Well,” Crowley drags out the word in a typical Crowley fashion and it makes Aziraphale’s heart squeeze. “You melt one with the stuff and then point a spray bottle at another they’ll come up with their own conclusions. Called my bluff, though. Still fell for the answering machine trick.”

“Oldest trick in the book.” And for the first time in many hours, Aziraphale smiles.

“Pretty sure it’s not, angel.”

“I suppose you would know.”

Crowley laughs once more and the last of the fuzziness that had encompassed Aziraphale dissipates. He clenches his hands on Crowley’s jacket once more, just one more reassurance, before slowly pulling back. Immediately he notices the missing warmth of Crowley’s body and sees where he had gotten Crowley’s shirt wet. Crowley still isn’t wearing his glasses, but he looks closer to actual relaxed instead of a falsehood put on for Aziraphale’s benefit.

As Crowley had done to him, Aziraphale brings his hands up to cup Crowley’s face. Almost immediately red creeps up Crowley’s neck at the contact and his eyes widen, gaze flittering back and forth as if they were about to be caught by someone. His mouth parts slightly, but no words come out.

Aziraphale smiles, truly smiles as a heavy weight is lifted off his chest, and briefly considers pushing himself forward into Crowley once more. A kiss would be much more effective at saying what’s needed to say than any words. But he decides against it.

If they can survive the apocalypse, he decides.

“Well. Now that that’s been cleared up, we really should be getting going.” Aziraphale pulls his hands back and rubs them together, doing his best to memorize the feeling of the touch. “Not much time to get to Tadfield.”

“Tadfield?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow. He reaches down into his lap to pick up his sunglasses and slip them back on. Aziraphale can practically see the question Alpha Centauri? on his lips.

Aziraphale nods and settles back into his seat. “Yes, Tadfield. We should have just enough time to stop the end of the world.”

And Crowley presses down on the gas.

How much time should be allocated to let someone decompress from an Almost-Apocalypse? If you were using as it an excuse to get out of work, how many days would your boss allow you before you were fired? Or how many times could you use it as a reason that you couldn’t go out with friends? Sorry, I’d love to, but I’ve just been mentally sucker-punched by the realization that everything almost Ended so I don’t think I can come out for drinks tonight, maybe next weekend?

Crowley ponders this as he pours two mugs of tea. One is in a white cup with a small pair of angel wings as a handle. The second is an exact copy only painted black. The second one is new, presented to him just a week ago. He had accepted it with a huff of indignation, but it makes his chest feel all warm whenever he pulls it out of the cupboard.

The tea is still piping hot and would most likely burn any human who tried to pick them up, but instead, it’s a soothing feeling in Crowley’s hands. Must be a side effect of Hell’s impossible temperatures. Currently, he is in Aziraphale’s bookshop. It has been a month since the world almost ended, they narrowly avoided death from Heaven and Hell, and Crowley had started spending almost every day with Aziraphale. The bookshop is where he spends most of his time now. Sometimes he sleeps over but usually, he does go back to his flat by the end of the day, mostly just to make sure his plants haven’t been slacking off in his absence.

When he does sleep over he spent the first week sleeping on the couch until one night Aziraphale had mentioned how dreadfully uncomfortable it must be and well, one thing led to another and now Crowley is quite well acquainted with Aziraphale’s bed.

Which is where he currently is heading.

It is two in the morning and ten minutes earlier he had been awoken from his sleep by a clingy Angel. This isn’t the first night he has been woken up like this and gone to make a midnight cuppa, and it most likely won’t be the last. Both of them are still decompressing in their own ways.

Crowley has been watching his back with a bit more paranoia than he ever had, even when he was lying to Hell through paperwork. Aziraphale has been getting nightmares.

“How ironic.” Aziraphale muses as Crowley walks back into the bedroom and hands him his cup of tea. He is sat up against the headboard and still buried beneath the hefty stack of blankets that are piled on the bed every night (those had been added for Crowley’s benefit as he liked to sleep much too warm for any other living being on the planet, but on nights like these they are a comfort to Aziraphale as well). “Between the two of us, I could have guessed you would be the one who would have issues like this with sleep.”

“I did always like doing it more.” Crowley agrees, crawling into his side of the bed - when did he start referring to it as his? When had it transformed from completely Aziraphale’s bed into two halves shared by them? “Good way to past the boring decades.”

“I still don’t see the appeal,” Aziraphale mutters into his teacup before taking a sip.

“I never said you have to sleep with me every night just because I prefer it.” Crowley points out, soaking up the tea’s warmth. It’s a fifty-fifty chance that he actually drinks any of it instead of just letting it heat him up. “I wouldn’t mind if you spent your nights doing whatever it is you usually do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to just leave you here to sleep alone. What kind of manners would those be?” Aziraphale huffs but looks off to the side as he says it.

Crowley sets the teacup on the bedside drawer next to him before turning onto his side to completely face Aziraphale, a big toothy grin on his face. “Oh? Manners, hm? Is that the only reason you’ve taken to sharing a bed with me? I hadn’t realized that twenty-first-century etiquette has evolved in such a way.”

Aziraphale coughs and it’s only because Crowley has known him so long that he can tell he’s attempting to stifle a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“Nah, I’m not quite sure that I do.” Crowley scoots closer under the blankets, just inches away from Aziraphale when he props himself up on his elbow and rests his chin on his palm. “Care to explain, angel, where in the world you acquired this new manner rule?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch and he takes another drink.

“Ooooor,” Crowley drags the word out, “perhaps it’s not about manners at all. Is that it? Perhapssss it’s about… this!”

And with that Crowley pushes himself forward and latches onto Aziraphale where he can reach. His legs intertwine with Aziraphale's and his arms wrap around his middle, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s stomach.

It is purely out of surprise that Aziraphale lets out a loud giggle. Crowley peeks up to watch Aziraphale try to move the teacup away from them, tea sloshing at the edge just threatening to spill Crowley knows it won’t. “Crowley!” Aziraphale’s scold is ruined by his following giggles. “Be careful- what do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, don’t act like this isn’t why you let me share a bed with you, angel.” Crowley grins up at him before pressing his face back into Aziraphale’s stomach.

“I would prefer you didn’t do it while I am holding hot tea.”

“Hm, well, that’s the risk you take. Sharing the bed with a snake, we’re known to cling.”

“Oh, are you?” Aziraphale’s voice is terribly deadpanned, but Crowley knows he’s still smiling. Good, as long as Aziraphale is smiling then tonight has been a success. Crowley would cuddle with him forever as long as it made him forget about the nightmares.

Nightmares that are very well warranted considering the week they had a month ago. Aziraphale hasn’t told Crowley everything that happens in them, just a few things that Crowley could have easily guessed on his own. The actual end of the world, the war between Heaven and Hell coming to fruition, Crowley actually dead. Normal trying to cope with the Nearly-Apocalypse nightmares.

So this is what Crowley does on nights like these. Wakes up, gets Aziraphale tea, cuddle him, and does whatever he can to make the Angel smile. It doesn’t always work. But tonight it has. Neither of them will go back to sleep, they both know that.

But right now that is okay. They are okay.

[luckyspike]

Adventures in America, Ch. 2 - Everyone Hates Airplanes

look i wrote more. also it has a plot. can i get a wahoo.

oh and @copperbadge wrote an amazing fic (titled I’ll Stand on the Ocean Until I Start Sinking) where he posited that demons can’t fly. i don’t claim to be a biblical scholar, but considering how gross Falling sounds and how God apparently sentenced the serpent to crawl on his belly for all eternity (which I can easily extend to include demons, just watch me), i figure i really like that headcanon. i’m gonna run with it. go, babey, go.

-

Adam left, as promised, on Sunday morning. Wensleydale drove to the airport, and Adam and Pepper sat in the back seat next to each other, hands not-quite touching as they rested on their knees. The four of Them talked, laughed, and, on more than one occasion, Adam and Pepper caught one another’s eye and then hastily looked out of the window, or at their phone, or their knees. 

They hugged when Adam got out of the car at Heathrow. He hugged Brian and Wensley too, though, so that was alright. And he made sure he didn’t hug Pepper any longer than those two. He counted the seconds and everything.

She smells nice, he thought, and then he immediately said, “Listen, guys, if I’m going to be in America then you have to make sure Dog doesn’t get in to trouble with my parents. My dad’ll make him sleep in the garden if he doesn’t behave, and he hates that.”

“No problem,” Brian said with a nod, as if accepting a mission from a commanding officer. Which, in a roundabout way, he was.

“And you have to tell me if anything happens at home while I’m away, alright?” he continued, looking to Wensleydale, who was living at home while he attended university*. “Keep me up to date.”

“Of course,” Wensley replied.

“And …” he trailed off, as he looked to Pepper, and then looked over the three of Them, shuffling his feet and re-adjusting his duffel bag on his shoulder. “You know. Call if you want. I got the international plan so if I’m not busy and I can talk then, uh, we can talk.”

“You better remember to call us too,” Pepper answered, arms crossed. She smiled. “Be safe, Adam. Can’t wait to hear all your stories.”

“I sort of hope you find a tornado, but also sort of don’t,” Brain mused. “Just don’t like, fly away like they did in Twister or whatever.”

Adam nodded solemnly. “Man, I will do my best.” They laughed, the tension breaking a little, and Adam re-adjusted his bag again, taking a step backwards toward the door. “Alright. I better go, find the gate and everything. Oh, and I know Anathema and Newt probably have it handled, but if Aziraphale and Crowley need anything while I’m away, you know, look after them.”

Pepper looked doubtful. “They’re 6000 years old. What are we going to do?”

“Have common sense,” Adam replied, reasonably. “They’re not good at that.” The Them considered it, and in turn they each nodded.

“We’ll handle it,” Wensley assured him. 

Adam grinned. “I can always count on you guys. Alright, see you later! Text you when I land!”

He turned, and walked away. He couldn’t see Them, but he knew they were waving as he left. In his guts, something twisted - nerves, definitely nerves - but he walked on, through the sliding doors and into the bright, modern airport, phone in hand. He paused, blue eyes flicking from sign to sign, until he spotted the sign for security. He took a few steps, boots squeaking a little on the floor, but stopped a few yards short of the escalator. He looked around.

He had heard Anathema and Newt and Aziraphale and Crowley talking during the party. He knew they were debating following him. He had almost confronted them, several times over the past week, but he had held off. They hadn’t talked about it more, and the night prior to his departure he’d stopped by Jasmine Cottage to say goodbye to Newt and Anathema, who wished him well and encouraged him to call if he needed anything. He’d even gotten a text from Aziraphale this morning, which read simply, ‘Have fun in America! - A+C’. If they were going to follow him, they certainly weren’t acting like it. And considering the involved parties, any subtlety or subterfuge was so impossible that he found himself thinking that they probably actually hadn’t done it. They were just going to, just, let him go to America.

Well. Fair enough. He was eighteen, after all. And he had some residual, well, powers, he considered. Nothing significant, not anymore, he couldn’t raise the dead or change reality, but he’d be alright. If Heaven or Hell was really going to come after him, they probably would have done it already, right? It had been seven years, after all. And storm chasing wasn’t nearly as dangerous as all that.

Still, he glanced around the lobby, looking for any familiar faces. Just in case. There were none. The nerves twisted again, but outwardly he smiled, and proceeded up the escalator.

Behind a sign about security, two human-shaped beings breathed a gratuitous sigh of relief.

- 

The night before

“I don’t want to go,” Crowley murmured, head in his hands, slouched onto the couch in the backroom of Aziraphale’s bookshop. He had, for the past week, been forcing the issue. They’d argued, an actual argument with shouting and everything, which these days was practically unheard of. And he’d lost, every time, because Aziraphale would always have a good point about infernal or celestial dangers, whether they’d shown any ongoing interest in the boy or not, and Crowley would, at length, give in.

Still, it was worth another try. One last time. “Angel, he’ll be fine, I swear, he’s eighteen, we can’t just - just babysit him for the rest of his life.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale looked to Crowley over the top of his book, the lines of his face settling into a resigned expression of ‘here-we-go-again’. “Are you expecting he will outlive you?”

“No. But …” But he needs to be normal, Crowley thought, without saying it. The more we meddle, the bigger the target on him is. We need to let him be normal. Maybe if we just leave him alone, they will too. Another thought, a few layers down, whispered, The angel is right - he isn’t normal. His powers haven’t entirely gone, even now. “I mean, he’s got to be a bit independent, doesn’t he?”

“Which is why we’ll be guarding from afar.” Aziraphale replied, prim, turning a page with care. “No interference unless he’s in danger.” He sighed. “I really am having a hard time understanding why you’re so opposed to traveling, Crowley. I don’t like it either, but it’s for Adam’s sake and if you’re right, and nothing does happen, then what’s the worst we’ve done? Had a nice holiday?” Crowley looked sour. “Don’t make that face. Are you still angry you won’t have the Bentley?” 

“No,” Crowley lied. Sort of lied, anyway. He was angry he wouldn’t have the Bentley - Aziraphale had made a point about Adam’s ability to sense miracles, and how recognizable an antique Bentley was besides - but it wasn’t all bad. They’d dropped it off at Jasmine Cottage that morning, tucking it away in the garage, and Crowley had watched as Newt walked around the old car and, hesitating, murmured something about taking good care of it. His expression when the lights flickered on and the car positively growled were almost worth it. Almost. He sighed. “Just don’t understand why you can’t fly over there if he needs you. Seems kind of excessive, following him around.”

“It’ll be better if we’re close, just to keep an eye out. Because it’s at least an 8-hour flight, and then there’s the travel time to get where he is.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what I meant.” There was silence, and he looked up, catching Aziraphale’s eye.

“Because if Adam’s in trouble,” Aziraphale said, quietly, “I’d rather you be there as well, Crowley.” You can’t fly, he doesn’t say outwardly, although he might as well have. You can’t fly and I won’t go without you. “What if it’s a demon? With hellfire?”

“Point taken, but not sure what good I’ll do,” Crowley grumbled, and moved on. No sense dwelling, he thought, on the past. Not right now, anyway. “My main weapon at the end of the world was a tire iron, remember? Least you have a flaming sword.”

“Had.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “You did stop time, dear.” Crowley shrugged in an attempt to act like it was nothing, no big deal, just simple timestream manipulation. Internally, however, he felt the warm glow of pride. “That’s not something just anybody can do, Crowley! It was very impressive.”

“Eh, yeah. Ngh.” He looked into his wine glass - empty - and debated refilling it. Instead, he set it aside. “Probably not going to get much chance to sleep over the next few months.” He stood, and stretched. “Think I might grab a few hours tonight.”

Aziraphale looked up, surprised, and then he shrugged. He didn’t sleep, not ever, not even after the Nahpocalypse**, but Crowley did, with gusto. “Reasonable. Should I wake you in the morning? The brochure said to arrive at least two hours before your flight, so that would be -” He stopped, because Crowley was walking away, waving his hands.

“Whatever works, angel. See you in the morning.” He heard Aziraphale say something like goodnight, but it was muffled by the stairwell, and the sounds of his boots on the steps to the flat above the shop. He made sure to walk around upstairs a little - let Aziraphale think he was really settling in - before he pulled the door to the bedroom shut (it squeaked quite satisfactorily across the floorboards) and stopped. And breathed in.

His wings fluttered out with a soft susurrus, and he breathed out, relieved. Ruined by the Fall or not, letting his wings out was always a nice feeling, like taking off a tight pair of shoes at the end of the day. The left one - the good one, and the sinister one - flexed and flapped a few times, glossy feathers catching the air in spite of the missing ones, and causing the lampshade to rattle a little. The right wing creaked, and Crowley winced, stretching as much as the scar tissue and limited range of the ruined joints would allow. The feathers - more sparse even, on that side, than the left but no less glossy, he (and eventually Aziraphale, too) had seen to that - fluttered weakly with the motion of it. He sighed, and idly picked at one of the coverts which was coming loose. For ages - centuries - he’d fought tooth-and-nail against removing any of the feathers left to him, out of some deep-seated fear that they would never grow back. He’d already lost flight, just like all the other demons, grounded and doomed to crawl for eternity, but he still had his wings. Still had some feathers. Other demons weren’t as lucky - Hastur had one mangled stump and the other wing was half-gone, with only a few marginal coverts that stubbornly refused to burn away. Crowley didn’t want to lose his. He’d always rather liked them, functional or no.

Of course, the feathers did grow back where they could, where there weren’t any scars. It only took him three hundred years to realize it - he’d tried flight again at that time, too, but couldn’t get the lift and didn’t have the range on the right to do much besides spin himself around and create an impressive dust-up. It took rather longer than a few centuries - much longer - to find someone he trusted enough to help him clean the bloody things up properly so they didn’t itch like Hell when he did let them out. He still couldn’t fly, but at least they looked good. 

If you have to go, go with style, he’d said, once, while the world was burning around him. He flicked the shed covert away and flapped again, enjoying the stretch of it all, the shine of the light off the black. Not that he was planning on going, at least not in the permanent sense, he considered. He was definitely going to America, though, Aziraphale had made that expressly clear, and he was dam - blessed if he wasn’t going to look better than any cut-rate demon they might meet over there. 

He miracled his clothes off with a snap and stretched one more time, wings and all, before he collapsed, face-first, onto the tartan-print comforter, and passed out. He didn’t move when he slept, didn’t stir, even hours later when Aziraphale leaned in to the room to check and smiled at him, a mess of feathers and awful tartan blanket. He looked dead, but it was easy enough to sense the energy - infernal but comforting anyway - and the angel returned to the shop, and his book and his tea. He’d have to wake the demon up in a few hours, which was its own unique challenge that Aziraphale had finally got the hang of a year or two ago, but for now, there was the comforting routine of reading and tea, while his suitcase sat by the door and looked expectant.

-

British Airways, Flight 191

He’d bought a ticket in economy, because he was eighteen and a university student, and it hadn’t seemed so bad. Three hours in, however, and he was re-thinking that decision. The upgrade would have been, what, another two or three hundred pounds***? He could have picked up a few extra shifts at the shop, maybe done some yardwork for people around the village and made that up, easy. He shifted in the seat, uncomfortable and stiff, and glanced across the other passengers to his right, out the window to the endless blue expanse. 

He’d been excited for this flight, a few hours ago. Traveling to America, chasing tornadoes, maybe spending an extra week or two to see some sights - it was the stuff he’d dreamed about as a kid^. Ninety minutes in to a fairly routine flight, though, and the novelty had worn off. Flying was boring, and you could only stare at the endless sky and the sea for so long before you started wondering what else you could do to entertain yourself. I should have kept with crochet, he thought idly, as he watched the woman across the aisle knit happily, not a sign of being bored. Or that Pep was here. Or Brian or Wensley, he added, as an afterthought.

He sat back in the seat, as much as it would allow, and pulled out a book. Aziraphale had given it to him, ages ago, and he’d read it once already, but it was a favorite. He had picked it up from time-to-time through the years, but never fully re-read it. Well, he thought, flipping open to the title page, no time like the present. It was relatively new for an Aziraphale recommendation - published in this millennium - and the angel apparently hadn’t thought much of penning a neat ‘Thought you’d like this’ in a blank space there. Adam smiled, and started to read.

Two entire airline sections away, two supernatural entities were having similar ruminations about air travel, albeit they had the good fortune of doing so together. “This isn’t too bad,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, who was laid back in the first-class seat and watching Golden Girls reruns with a glass of wine. He didn’t have headphones on. He didn’t need them - not by some miracle, but because he’d seen this episode enough times to have the dialogue fairly well-down. The angel shifted in his seat slightly and crossed his legs. “Not as comfortable as my shop but -”

“Not bad for a metal tube hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles per hour?” Crowley suggested. “This is loads better than last time I flew anywhere.” He took a sip of wine.

“When was that?”

“1914.”

“Oh. Yes, I’d imagine it is, rather.” 

“More security, though. Way more security.”

“Yes, I wasn’t expecting that. I knew things were more secure now, you know, heard it on the news, but taking shoes and belts and all that off?” He shook his head. “You’d think with the body scanners it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Well, you know. One guy hides a bomb in his shoe and there you go,” answered Crowley, who had performed a minor miracle through the security line to convince the agents that his shoes were just fine on, thank you very much. “Lucky they let you keep your pants.”

Aziraphale looked down. “What’s wrong with my pants?”

Crowley opened his mouth, and then thought better of it. “Never mind.” He took a sip of wine. “How’s he doing back there?”

Aziraphale paused in his reading, finger hovering over the page. “Bored,” he answered, at length. “Bored, but … fairly happy.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and studied his empty wineglass briefly, before motioning to the flight attendant for a refill. “Nothing spooky?” This, said with a distinct air of amusement.

“Nothing spooky. The plane is still full of perfectly ordinary people. And Adam. And us.”

“Tickety-boo,” Crowley drawled, watching the flight attendant refill the glass. “Thanks, love.” He gulped another mouthful of wine, and pulled headphones out of, apparently, his jacket but realistically, nowhere. “I’m going to get drunk.”

“Really?” Aziraphale looked surprised, blue eyes slightly widened and his mouth curved down at the corners into a frown. “They’ll be serving food in an hour.” He raised his eyebrows. “There’s ice cream.”

Crowley reclined further, and plugged the headphones in. “Enjoy it. I’ll sober up before we land, don’t worry.”

Aziraphale nodded, and glanced to the TV Crowley was watching. Golden Girls disappeared as he poked at the remote, and the movie selection came up. He flipped through the titles too fast for Aziraphale to see the offerings clearly, but when he settled on one the angel scowled, while the demon smirked. “Really, Crowley?”

He clicked ‘play’ on the title screen for Snakes on a Plane. “I always wanted to watch this. What better time?” He laughed a little, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and went back to his book.

-

* He was working toward earning his degree in accounting. He very much enjoyed his classes.

** Crowley had slept for three full weeks. Aziraphale, to his credit, had only shaken him awake once, just to make sure he hadn’t died. The hissing he’d got in response was answer enough, and since then he’d adjusted fairly well to Crowley’s little sleeping habit.

*** Adam was a bright boy, certainly, but he hadn’t flown before, and the disparities in airline seating pricing still escaped him.

^ Although, it should be noted, not at a very crucial time in his childhood, or this may not have been his first American excursion.

Now with Chapter 3!

[allons-y-to-hogwarts-713]

85 Questions Tag!

Yikes! This is very useful for procrastination from homework. 😉

Thank you @party-with-books for tagging me ❤️😊

Rules: Answer the questions and tag whoever you want (originally 20 people but like… that’s also a lot)

The last:
1. drink: Dr. Pepper
2. phone call: I think my mom
3. text message: also my mom
4. song: “Branded” (when I started) and “No More (Acoustic)” (when I finished) by NateWantsToBattle because my cousin showed me his music a few weeks ago and I am OBSESSED
5. time you cried: like an hour or less ago

Have you ever:
6. dated someone twice: lol I’ve never even dated someone once
7. kissed someone and regretted it: familial maybe, but I’ve never had a kiss on the lips
8. been cheated on: that would require dating
9. lost someone special: Yes, several, but the closest and most recent was my uncle, which is the reason for the crying within the last hour
10. been depressed: perpetually
11. gotten drunk and thrown up: never tasted alcohol, I don’t even like the smell of it

Favorite colors:
12. Blue
13. Slytherin Green
14. Black
15. Magic Mint
16. Dark Red

In the last year have you:
17. laughed until you cried: yes
18. found out someone was talking about you: ...I don’t think so? I’m not sure
19. met someone who changed you: sort of yes, and probably other(s) without even knowing it yet
20. found out who your friends are: Yes?
21. kissed someone on your facebook list: technically? (because I don’t have a FB so my lack of kisses can be applied to my lack of a list)
22. made friends: Yes
23. fallen out of love: as in lost love for certain celebrities, yes, but personally I’ve never “been in love”

General:
25. what did you do for your last birthday: went to Dave and Busters with my parents and a friend
26. how many of your facebook friends do you know in real life: All of them, because I don’t have a FB so I know all my zero FB friends
27. do you have any pets: nope, but I’d like to
28. what time did you wake up: around 9:30-10:00am
29. what were you doing at midnight last night: working on homework for my Mandarin Chinese class
30. name something you can’t wait for: seeing Miss Saigon in NYC on Saturday!
31: what are you listening to right now: NateWantsToBattle (OBSESSED)

32: have you ever talked to a person named tom: Several actually
33: something that’s getting on your nerves: lots of things
34. do you want to change your name: no
35. hair color: dark blonde
36. long or short hair: long (but I kinda wanna finally get it cut soon I think)
37. piercings: earrings
38. tattoos: none, unless you count the ones from Racing Stripes Gum that have been applied and removed over the years
39. blood type: I should know but I don’t. But I don’t want the vampires to know what flavor I am anyway so I wouldn’t post it. (Well, there’s a few exceptions...)
40. nicknames: sometimes Kay. (I was given the name 楷莉 in my Mandarin class, so we talked about nicknames today and I guess I’ll go by 楷楷 but only in that class.)
41. relationship status: 🎶everybody’s got somebody but me🎶, and I’m fine with it
42. zodiac: Taurus
43. pronouns: she/her
44. most visited website: This one, but through the app mostly
45. right or left handed: Lefty! 😃
46. surgeries: none that I can think of?
47. sports: umm, mathlete
48. favorite tv show: A LOT OF SHOWS
49. vacations: almost every year with my family to OBX, NC, but idk if we’re going to continue that now without my uncle 😔
50. sneakers: whatever is on sale that won’t fall apart in a week. My newest ones are Vans, but the ones I wore for several years prior were Sketchers and NewBalance

More general:
52. eating: nothing rn, but I recently ate a mini Hershey’s cookies ‘n’ cream bar
53. fave drink: Dr. Pepper, root beer, Mountain Dew Code Red, coffee, tea, EGGNOG, chocolate milk, apple cider
54. what you’re up to: anxiously procrastinating
55. waiting for: better days/a break from all the crap for my family and I, a sense of purpose, a dentist to actually fix my teeth instead of just making them worse, the next Thomas Sanders video, a chance to be in a Broadway musical, etc.
56. want: [see 55]
57. get married: doubtful, which is more than fine with me
58. career: augh idk. Hopefully something in graphic design I guess, since my electives are the only classes I’m actually getting anything out of with this four-year bs b.s. degree in computer science

Which is better:
60. hugs or kisses: hugs if either (at least with my lack of kissing experience)
61. lips or eyes: eyes
62. shorter or taller: no preference
63. older or younger: either? But like a very small age gap either way
64. nice arms or stomach: Both? Both. Both is good.
65. hook up or relationship: solid relationship
66. troublemaker or hesitant: in fictional characters, both, especially if both are in one precious conflicted guy. And I guess even irl, a little bit of both, but small scale trouble, like something that gets me out of my comfort zone that ends up being fun but nothing that’s gonna break a law or get us in any even small amount of actual trouble, so both in one person but weighted toward hesitant.

Have you ever:
67. kissed a stranger: Nope 
68. drank hard liquor: Nope
69. lost glasses/contacts: lost a contact once, but I haven’t lost my glasses which I wear more often
70. turned someone down: yes. Well, I tried to anyway, but it took a while for them to actually comprehend it because I guess maybe I wasn’t quite blunt enough about it somehow because I’m soft spoken and don’t want to be a jerk but also know my right to say no.
71. sex on the first date: No (marriage first (and since I don’t plan on getting married, I’ll likely pass altogether, because that’s actually one of many reasons why I don’t want to get married))
72. broken someone’s heart: No. They might say so, but then that’s their lack of respect for my right to say no as a female, because we were never together for me to have broken their hearts (contrary to the rumor at least one of them spread which was a terrible part of my hs senior year and finalized me not going to prom) [see 70]
73. had your heart broken: yes, but not in a romantic relationship way
74. been arrested: Nope, I’m a good hippogriff
75. cried when someone died: Yes, several
76. fallen for a friend: Not necessarily...

Do you believe in:

77. yourself: lol
78. miracles: yes
79. love at first sight: maybe, but it’s rare if at all, and there’s so much wrongly perceived to be love at first sight that I’d be skeptical anyway even if it actually was. I think you have to know the person to truly love them, and physical attraction by itself usually gets in the way of real feelings and connections or lack thereof.
80. santa claus: 🎶like I believe in love. I believe in Santa Claus, and everything he does. There’s no question in my mind; yes, he does exist. Just like love, I know he’s there, waiting to be missed.🎶 (oh hey look at that, now I’m crying about Mickey Rooney too)
81. kiss on the first date: mayyyyyybe? I’ll let you know if/when I get there
82. angels: yes

Other:
83. current best friend’s name(s): several on here and several in person that idk if I can post
84. eye color: blue
85. favorite movie: too many

I’ll tag: @alys07 @agentmarymargaretskitz @euphoric-melancholyy @karasimmons @swans-and-pirates @cutieodonoghue @hook-come-back-to-me @thegladelf @thesassywitchofthenortheast @techieninja18 @walkmanquill207 @themcuhasruinedme @floridianfireflyfaith @kittennharington @lenfaz @lightsandmetaphors @lieutenantguyliner @captainswansjourney @crowleys-poppet-queen-of-asgard @claravitae @revolting-phantom97 @whatamagicalworld and anyone else who wants to do it, and as always it’s no obligation. 🙂

[yamisnuffles]

The Angel and the Serpent

Part 7 of Too Much of a Good Thing

Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round must go into battle on behalf of Arthur and Heaven. What's an unemployed Seraph to do when he's left behind?

Read on Ao3

- - - - -

Wessex 537

Crowley wriggled about to try to get his armor to sit comfortably. Despite it having been miracled on, it never seemed to sit right. He wasn’t sure whether it was something about the armor itself or if the cold rendered everything uncomfortable. It all made him long for the days of togas and long evenings under the stars in more pleasant climes. He didn’t relish the idea of spending the foreseeable future out in the damp but he disliked the idea of being left behind again even less.

After one last adjustment of his cloak and a quick check to make sure his long braids weren’t in any danger of being snagged by a joint in his armor, he hurried out the door.

“Aziraphale! Good, I caught you.”

Aziraphale was just finishing armoring his horse and didn’t look away as he tugged at the saddle to ensure it was sitting where it was meant. “I hope you’ll excuse me for slipping out. You were just sleeping so peacefully. But here you are anyway. I do apologize if I disturbed you, my dear.” With the steed all ready to go, Aziraphale finally turned to face Crowley. The bright smile on his face flickered and he blinked. “Whatever are you doing in your armor?”

“Thought I might ride along. You know how these things with Arthur can go. There’s no saying when you’ll be back.”

“Oh, well, I mean, I wouldn’t want to trouble you. And I know how you are with horses.”

As if to prove a point, Aziraphale’s horse flicked its long, silvery tale at Crowley as though he was a bothersome fly and not an angel. Crowley stuck the tip of a slightly forked tongue out at it which didn’t improve the situation in any way, but it did make him feel better when the horse shuffled nervously off to the side. Or it did until Aziraphale leveled him with an exasperated look which he had to defuse with a smile.

“No trouble at all. Besides, think about how cold and damp it is and how nice it would be to have someone else around to warm your bedroll.”

“It is rather damp, isn’t it?” Aziraphale replied, though the scarlet at the tips of his ears said that wasn’t the part of the statement he was really considering. “Still, it will mostly be a lot of fighting and I know how you detest combat. Not that- oh, that wasn’t-” He flapped his hands before winding them up in each other. “I wasn’t referring to your performance in the War. Or, ah, lack thereof. I only meant these human squabbles I’m handling on behalf of the king. Dreadful things and there’s no reason for the both of us to get dragged in.”

Crowley lifted and dropped his slim shoulders. “Eeh, misery loves company and all that.”

Aziraphale scuffed his boot and then scowled when the armored tip of it dug into the damp earth. “Be that as it may, I think it would be best if you sat this one out. I had a word with Gabriel the other day and he said-” A snort from Crowley that only caused Aziraphale to square his shoulders. “And he said that I ought to be working on my own. And he’s right! This is my job to do and I shouldn’t be passing it off on you. Which isn’t even to mention that Uriel rightfully pointed out how distractible I can be when you’re about or Michael’s point that my paperwork tends to come in a bit tardy.”

Crowley waved it all away with a sweep of his hand. “Eh, forget all that. None of them are ever happy with you.”

“That may be but if I only-”

“No ‘but.’ It’s not on you, Aziraphale. You are always trying to please them and for what? You always get the job done. That should be enough.” Crowley ran a hand over one of his braids and smiled in a way that never failed to make Aziraphale blush, even after hundreds of years. “So what do you say? I can help you out, you can finish in half the time, and then we can get back to more enjoyable things in our warm, dry home.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted toward their home before he broke it away. “Crowley, no. Absolutely not.”

Crowley backed away a step, surprised by Aziraphale’s vehemence. “Why? Look, if it’s about the Archangels, you know they don’t check into these things. Just leave me off the report and nobody ever has to know.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I said no.” The pink in his cheeks mottled with red. “This... this-” He flapped his hands at Crowley. “Flouting of authority. All these questions and temptations-”

Crowley flinched. “Temptations?”

“Oh, whatever it is you wish to call what you do. It’s trouble, Crowley. It’s why you were removed from your place on the Round Table. It’s why you aren’t allowed back in court and why we live all the way out here and why-” Aziraphale snapped his mouth shut and turned away. He looked back with a flutter of lashes that betrayed the moisture that had gathered in his eyes. “Why I’m the only reason things aren’t worse.”

The way he said it, Crowley knew he didn’t just mean Arthur. If this was all about some human monarch, they wouldn’t have been having this argument. There was no denying that was what this had become. Heat burned in Crowley’s cheeks and blazed a path right down into his gut. Embarrassment. Guilt. Whatever it was, it sharpened into anger.

“Well, I never asked you to stick your neck out for me,” he spat. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.” He snapped and all at once his armor was back inside and he was shivering in a doublet and leggings. “There. See? Didn’t really want to go anyway. Go play knight on your own.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Aziraphale put a foot in a stirrup and swung himself up onto his horse. He started to ride without another word. When the mist was just about to swallow him whole, he stopped. Despite Crowley’s desire to hang onto his anger, he could already feel it dissolving under the tidal pull of Aziraphale.

Turn around. Turn around. Turn around.

He should call out, he knew, but he didn’t and Aziraphale didn’t turn around. Instead the Principality rode on, leaving a vexed Seraph in his wake.

Crowley threw himself to the ground and stared up at the unrelentingly grey sky. He knew if Aziraphale was still there he would have clicked his tongue and told Crowley he was being dramatic. And maybe he was, but Aziraphale wasn’t there to say anything, so Crowley thought he was well within his rights to enjoy a proper sulk. The mud sucked unpleasantly at his limbs. He couldn’t properly glower up at the sky because it was raining just enough that droplets would fall in his unblinking eyes if he didn’t shield them with his arm. There was a growing chill in the air. All in all, it was perfectly miserable.

When it started to rain in earnest, the whole tableau lost its appeal. He could only abide being out in the rain for so long before something tight would coil up in his chest and leave him short of breath. Besides, all that water had kicked up something unpleasant judging by the smell that was wafting through the humid air. He sucked in a breath to sigh and instead ended up coughing over the stench that filled his nostrils.

He wrinkled his nose. It smelled like the mud had somehow gone rancid. Mixed with the smell of wet earth was something like mold and rot and an after note of-

“Evil,” he said in a low growl.

He lifted his legs enough to throw himself up onto his feet. Lightning struck where his head had just been. Crowley watched wide-eyed as fire spread. It should have been impossible but the tingling down his spine told him what he already knew. This was no normal fire.

“Crowley.”

Crowley spun around. “Duke Hastur,” he said, the corner of his eye on the spreading hellfire behind him. “To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?”

“You’ve been a real thorn in my side, Crowley.”

“Me? What did I do that has a duke of Hell making a personal visit? I was under the impression that I was making work easier for your lot. At least that’s what my lot's been saying in all the interdepartmental memos. Dunno why I even get those, since I don’t, strictly speaking, have a department anymore.”

“This! This is what you did,” Hastur said, a bit of angry spittle flying from his mouth. ��I shouldn’t have to make ‘personal visits’ to some blathering wank wings, yet here I am. All because you keep discorporating every other demon we send topside.”

“You could just… stop sending them after me.”

“We did, two thousand years ago, but every idiot with an eye for advancement has decided bringing in your head would be a good way to get there.”

“And that’s my fault, how?” Crowley eyed the fire. It had formed a half ring around him. He’d be cornered if Hastur was there for a fight and the fire was too close for him to extend his wings. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to be up here. I don’t want you to be up here. So why don’t you make both our lives better and just-”

Crowley waved his hand. Hastur did not, as he’d half hoped, leave. In fact, the demon stepped closer, a scowl on his face that matched the frog on his head.

“You really think I’d be talking to you if it was up to me?”

Well, that wasn’t good. That meant Hastur was there on orders from higher up. Further down? Whatever the case, someone even more important than a duke of hell had eyes on Crowley and the Seraph didn’t like that one single bit.

“Well, what is it?” Crowley asked, crossing his arms. “Let’s get it over with already.”

“I’m here to extend an offer.” Hastur groaned. “To join us.”

“You want me to- you’re offering- you what? I ssswuh…” Crowley sputtered. “Why would I want to Fall?”

“I think it’s a stupid idea myself. Why should we want a sorry excuse for an angel who’d probably be an even sorrier excuse for a demon? But there’s certain parties that think it would be in Hell’s best interest, since you’re already working for us. Guess it looks better to have a demon doing it than some halfwit angel.”

Crowley felt the suggestion on a visceral level. He wasn’t sure whether Hastur was weaving in some demonic suggestion, but every part of him wanted to recoil. He would have, if he hadn’t been hedged in by hellfire.

He wanted to know who exactly wanted him badly enough to make this offer. He’d known Lucifer back in the day in a vague coworkery kind of way. Old Lucy had worked on some of the oldest, biggest projects in the celestial department while Crowley had been nudging stars into binaries and fiddling about with nebulae. They’d spoken a handful of times. He’d known Lucifer had thought to get him on the rebellion’s side of things but he’d hidden away instead in hopes of waiting things out. Was this an extension of that ages old offer?

Crowley had considered enough times where he’d be if he’d acted differently then. He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it again.

“No.”

Hastur shrugged. “You’re only delaying the inevitable, Crawly.”

Crowley’s stomach turned, twisted at the reminder of the snake he knew was still inside him. He’d grown somewhere close to comfortable with the idea. In this context, though, he suddenly felt less of an angel. Less of himself. But it also gave him an idea.

“Maybe so,” he said. “But I never did know what was best for me.”

His bared, smiling teeth lengthened to fangs and he fell to the ground, pearlescent scales shining dangerously in the fire light. Before Hastur could react to the sudden transformation, he struck. His fangs sank deep enough to keep him from being flung away. Although the smell was putrid and the taste was worse, he wrapped his coils around Hastur to immobilize him.

“Let me go, you snake!”

Crowley only clamped his jaws further and tightened his full body grip on the demon. This had to end here. He couldn’t take the chance that the demon would go after Aziraphale as a means of convincing him. Some wild, feral pleasure coursed through him at the way Hastur howled in anger. Smiting demons the usual way just wasn’t as satisfying. He rarely took pleasure in it, regardless, but Hastur wasn’t the sort of threat he could ignore.

Unfortunately, Hastur also wasn’t the sort to go down easy. Though he could taste the change in the blood and knew his venom was doing its job, Hastur continued to struggle. Worse, he’d managed to stumble his way closer to the hellfire. The heat of it doused Crowley in cold dread. He pulled Hastur’s legs out from under him by tightening a coil just under the knees. Hastur responded with a flick of his wrist that closed the circle of hellfire around them. One wrong move and Crowley would be worse than discorporated.

“Let me go,” Hastur growled, writhing on the heat dried earth, “and I’ll extinguish the flames.”

Crowley considered. He didn’t trust Hastur as far as he could throw him and, given that he didn’t even have arms at the moment, that was saying something. The problem was, trust him or not, he had no other way out at the moment. He reluctantly released Hastur but remained ready to strike again, should he need to. 

Hastur staggered to his feet. His eyes had gone completely black and veins filled with gold shone from his sallow skin. He looked ready to croak and Crowley was sorely disappointed he couldn’t find his voice to make that exact joke. 

Hastur looked at him with a sneer. “You had your chance.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the ground, leaving the fire behind. Crowley would have shouted after him but words continued to escape him. He was finding it harder and harder to find anything of himself. No legs or arms and certainly no wings. Worse, a mind that increasingly narrowed to fire and danger, a heart with too few ventricles that didn’t feel as much as it should. He hadn’t transformed completely since he’d been freed of this form. Had he trapped himself? Had he unwittingly thrown away the gift of himself? He still didn’t understand how he’d earned it back in the first place and now he worried he’d never regain it.

He longed to burrow into the loose earth Hastur had left behind. Instead he curled in on himself and fixed his eyes on the sky above. It was hard to see anything above the glare from the flames. He had to remind himself that it was all still out there. There were clouds and above them sky and space and stars. And somewhere, out in all that, was Aziraphale.

Even if he forgot himself, he wouldn’t forget Aziraphale. He wouldn’t forget the mercury of his eyes, the honey of his laugh, or balm in his words. He could sink away and become nothing in these flames and Aziraphale would remain.

He wrapped thoughts of Aziraphale around him like armor. While hellfire burned around him, he felt only that angelic warmth. As day became night became day, he thought of all the days they’d spent together and all those he hoped they still had. He lost track of everything- the time, the place, himself- but still he held onto that image of Aziraphale.

Rain came down in a torrent. He could hear the roar of it and feel the vibrations in the ground beneath him. He didn’t feel it, though. It was also, he realized, extinguishing the hellfire at last. He’d have blinked if he was able. Shouted. Sworn. Instead he looked up.

There was Aziraphale, still in full plate, with radiant wings outstretched. There was a hole in the clouds directly above him that allowed sunlight to bathe him. He was golden and glorious and Crowley couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so safe.

Once the fire was completely extinguished, the rain stopped and the clouds cleared. Aziraphale descended to the ground, light as anything. He snapped his fingers and his armor vanished. One last flap of his wings and they disappeared as well. Dressed in soft, cream colored linens and swathed in his fur trimmed cloak, he bent low. He ran a gentle finger along Crowley’s spine. Crowley wondered silently if there had ever been anyone who’d looked so kindly upon a snake. There was nothing but fondness in those eyes.

“So sorry to have missed whatever happened here, my dear. I do hope you weren’t waiting on me long. I’m glad to see you’re alright, of course, though I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you like that. It’s been… well, it’s been quite some time now, hasn’t it, since you last took up that form?” Aziraphale noted. He waited a beat, expecting a reply. When none came, he said, “You can change back. The fire should be well and truly gone. I, er, may have blessed the rains. A bit.”

Oh what Crowley would have done to comply with that request, to fall into Aziraphale’s arms and laugh. He writhed in place, willing his body to obey him, but he could do nothing. Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit in concern. He offered an arm, which Crowley slithered onto as fast as he was able. Aziraphale cradled him close with his hand raised high enough that they were eye to eye.

“Crowley? What’s the matter.”

Still Crowley could say nothing. Do nothing. Panic flooded his system. He wound tighter around Aziraphale’s arm, trusting that the Principality’s strength would protect him from harm.

“If this is some game, I’m not amused. I know it’s you, you silly serpent.” Crowley could feel a shiver run through Aziraphale, could smell the fear come off him. “Crowley? This isn’t… Gabriel said he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. No, I’m sure you’re not- you haven’t been-” A sharp sliver of unease cut into Aziraphale’s voice. He closed his eyes, drew in a slow breath, and when he let it out, he’d collected himself. “Whatever has happened, I’m here. No matter what. I’m with you.”

Crowley had forgotten how confining this form was until his heart filled to bursting with want. Want to reassure and to be reassured. Want to love and hug and hold. Want to go back to the early morning before Aziraphale had left, when they’d still been warm in bed together, before they’d fought and everything had fallen apart.

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale assured again.

He walked them both into their home. He ignored any chair in favor of the bed. The feather mattress sank under their shard weight as he laid back. He didn’t try to talk to Crowley anymore, simply ran a warming hand over Crowley’s sinuous form. It was nice, in its way. Crowley found it hard to fret over his fate when he was enveloped in a world that smelled of the two of them. It might just be alright, somehow, no matter what happened. He relaxed into the continued touch of calloused fingertips.

Aziraphale’s eyes were pointed toward the ceiling but he turned them down to Crowley with a wobbling smile. “We’ll be alright,” he said, echoing Crowley’s own thoughts. “You know this, I hope? I love you, Crowley. I don’t say it enough, perhaps. It’s simply that I’m frightened.” He worried at his lower lip. “The things the other angels say sometimes… They mean well, surely. Only trying to caution me, to prepare me for the worst. But it troubles me and I think perhaps I’ve tried to keep you at a distance to protect you. That’s all that foolish fight was.”

Crowley nuzzled into the soft curve of Aziraphale’s jaw. He couldn’t tell him how much he regretted fighting. He’d been frightened, too. Not of Falling or whatever it was the Archangels had put into Aziraphale’s head, but that he’d finally gotten to be too much. The last thing he wanted was to push Aziraphale away and yet that seemed all he was good at these days.

And yet, there they were still, together. They might have been in different forms but they still fit just as well. Aziraphale bent his neck, delicately lifted Crowley’s head, and kissed him.  Yes, there they were and there they would remain in blissful accord. Warmth blossomed from the point where lips met scales. Crowley sighed and closed his eyes before he even realized he had eyelids to close once more.

“Well, hello there,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle.

Crowley blinked rapidly. He was no longer a snake. He was, instead, a very delighted jumble of limbs collected haphazardly in Aziraphale’s arms. He wrapped his own arms around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and captured his mouth in a joyful kiss. While he had other senses as a snake, many of his angelic ones were dulled. He could have cried at the sudden return of love that blanketed him. Instead, he pressed in his lips more emphatically, let his teeth nip, and tongue explore deep into the inviting mouth beneath his own. Aziraphale moaned and quickly dug his fingers into the looser hair at the base of Crowley’s long braids.

“Love you, angel,” he panted between breaths. “Couldn’t say it before. Couldn’t say anything, but I do."

He fully planned on showing just how much but Aziraphale caught his face between his hands first. Aziraphale had a determined set to his face despite how wide his pupils had blown.

“What happened? How did you get stuck like that.”

Crowley laughed. “Do we have to talk about that right now?”

Aziraphale wiggled. “I suppose not. Only… I was terrified for you. I want to know it won’t happen again.”

“I know that tone. No matter what you say, you’ll fret silently over this and neither of us will enjoy ourselves until it’s settled.” Crowley groaned and rolled off of Aziraphale. “Don’t know if I can do that, though. Settle things, that is. I can tell you I didn’t change because of some divine punishment if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Tension visibly smoothed from Aziraphale’s shoulders. “What happened?”

“Some time after you left, Hastur came for a visit.”

Aziraphale sat up so suddenly that he nearly knocked Crowley out of bed. “What was a Duke of Hell doing here?”

Crowley cringed. Now that it came down to it, he didn’t really want to say. If Aziraphale was already worried about the state of his immortal being, that wasn’t going to help. “Oh, ehn, well, just came for a chat really.”

“A chat? About what?”

Crowley rolled onto his side so that Aziraphale could no longer look him directly in the face. “Wanted to see if I’d take the old swan dive from Heaven,” he replied with a wrinkle of his nose. “Fall. Become a demon. Make it official.”

“Make it- There’s nothing to make official!”

“I mean, I do sort of have a bad habit of stirring up trouble. You said about as much yourself.”

“You are not a demon.” Aziraphale’s face crumpled. “And I’m sorry I said all that. I’m so frightened for you. It’s no excuse, I simply need you to understand that.”

“I do. Trust me, I do. And you wouldn’t have to worry so much if it wasn’t for-” Crowley gestured vaguely at himself and then wrapped his arms around each other. “Besides, s’nothing. Do you think I ended up surrounded by hellfire because that conversation went well? Even if I’m halfway down there already, I’m not just going to… saunter the rest of the way down because they asked nice.”

“I know, I know. I don’t doubt you. I just-”

“Worry. I know. Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’ve got plenty, but let’s not beat that dead horse right now, yeah?”

He wriggled closer and buried his face in Aziraphale’s broad chest. For a moment he thought Aziraphale would actually let it drop. One hand rubbed soothing circles on Crowley’s back and the other stroked over his hair. It was quiet and nice and so of course it couldn’t last.

“Wait, you still didn't explain how you ended up as a snake. Did Hastur-?”

“Nah. It was me. He taunted me. Called my Crawly. Seemed like a good way to get rid of a demon at the time. Didn’t think I’d get stuck.” He nuzzled his face into Aziraphale’s collar, pressed his nose in and found the downy edge of chest hair. “Thought at first I’d ingested too much demon blood or something to do with the proximity of all that hellfire. Or maybe that She was mad at me for, well, take your pick.” 

“And now? What do you think now?”

“Still not convinced this isn’t some joke on Her part but I think in this in particular, it was just me. Panicked. Lost myself. The more I panicked, the more I lost. Probably would’ve got stuck without you.” Crowley stretched out his limbs and crawled back on top of Aziraphale. Propped up on his elbows, he looked down, kissed one cheek and then the other, the tip of a nose, and finally lips. “Never feel more myself than when I’m with you. Different, too, but good different. Great different.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was transcendent, sending the skin around his eyes crinkling in pleasure. He took Crowley’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lowered it for a kiss.

“The feeling, my dear-” Another kiss. A gliding touch. Pale fingers tangled deep in crimson hair. “-is most certainly mutual. Now-” A testing, upward roll of hips. “Perhaps you were right before  and there were more pressing concerns to consider. I have no assignments in the near future. I think it best we catch up on lost time.” 

Crowley smiled into another kiss. “You read my mind.”

[not-impala]

Falling

Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Mark Pellino (not really OFC), Nickolas Kyler (OFC), Jolina Davis (OFC), Claire, Ben, Chuck, Charlie Bradbury (mentioned), Crowley

Summary: Reader finds Dean and his new girlfriend, Jolina, to get on her nerves until something changes her mind.

Prompt: I’m sorry that people are so jealous of me… but I can’t help it that I’m popular. -Mean Girls

Word Count: 2k-ish

Warnings: fluffff

AU: i did use Jolina as a character name because she kinda gets hated on and i didn’t want it to be any popular name just for the sake of offending someone. & please bare with me on the little details. I went to a very small high school, so i’m really trying to base all the ‘real-high school’ aspects off of cliches and movies, really. thanks for reading anyway. love you xx

The halls buzzed with students whirling around each other. Bags were pushed and feet were stepped on, but that happened daily, so it never honestly bothered anyone. If someone would have looked at you all from above, you would look like a swarm of bees just trying to find some nectar.

7:05 read your watch. 10 minutes to get to Pellino’s class. Internally, you rolled your eyes.

Mr. Mark Pellino was your Civics teacher. He made everyone want to die right then and there. People can just look at him and sense the Devil in him. He was slim man with a evil smirk. Not to mention, he also just got divorced a few years back. He makes everyone else’s life a living hell because his is one, essentially.

Before you could get to his hell hole, your best friend—Nicholas Kyler—started walking next to you. “Hey loser,” he joked with you. You and Nick had been friends since the first day of freshman year and he was like a big, little brother to you.

“What’s up, dork,” you said back with a chuckle.

“So guess what I heard!” he exclaimed. Oh, no. Although you and Nick weren’t the most popular kids in school, you were well-known. This meant that Nick always had juice from everyone about everyone. Usually it was about stupid relationships, but rumor or not, Nick had to tell you. It never failed, but you loved him all the more for it. It kept up his happy spirits.

Although Nick spilled this stuff to you, you never cared about the rumors. What everyone did was their own decisions, their own life, and their own consequences, but nevertheless, you let him spill his ‘secrets’ to you. “What happened this time?” you asked as you passed by the library, looking into the window. With no surprise, you saw the one and only Sam Winchester with his head buried in the biggest book you’d ever seen.

His eyes lit up as he told you. “So rumor has it that and Peter Jennings and Amanda Fields got back together. Again.” You rolled your eyes outwardly this time. Peter and Amanda were the worst couple in the history of bad couples. They fought daily about little things like why he didn’t get milk instead of a soft drink or why she wore her skirt a few inches above the knee.

“That’s daily news, Nick,” you sighed, “next.”

“Dean Winchester finally asked Jolina Davis out.” Your eyebrows rose at what he said. Really? Dean and Jolina? Yeah, she was on the cheer team and he played a mean soccer game, but the jocks going out with jocks cliché is genuinely starting to get old.

“Jolina and I have been in the same class for the past 4 years and I’m postive she’s dumber than a ton of Patrick Stars,” you deadpanned. “No offense to her, but she most likely begged him to go out with her. He may be a jock, but he’s not stupid.” Nick snorted at your comment, so you looked at him and giggled. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

At this point, you had to shut up because you finally got to Pellino’s class and he was sitting at his desk stapling today’s assignments. You and Nick sat next to each other, thankfully. With that being said, Pellino moved students who were friends for obvious reasons, so you two had to keep your composure for a whole hour.

7:12 read the clock that hung next to the mini-flag above the white board.  That’s when the one and only Joline walked in the room smacking on her gum and hand-and-hand with Dean.  You went from compose to straight up angry and annoyed. Seriously, Dean? You have so many options and you choose someone who has the personality of a brick?

“Y/N, you’re staring and it’s getting weird,” Nick nudged your shoulder and looked at you skeptically.

You let out a deep breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in and turned to look at Nick. “Sorry, just being internally judgemental,” you said with a sigh. You weren’t exactly lying to him. That’s when you noticed Jolina walking up to you and Nick with a pish-posh look on her face. Here comes trouble.

She stood right in front of you and you could smell the perfume she’d drenched herself in this morning. “Y/N, right?” she asked still smacking.

You took a look at Nick beside you and quickly rolled your eyes. Turning back to look at her, you said, “Yep, that’s me.”

She smirked and you automatically knew what she was going to try and do. “Well, Y/N, this is where me and my boyfriend were—”

You quickly cut her off, though. “My boyfriend and I,” you corrected her, “and no, this is where Nick and I sit. Thanks though.” Smiling at her with an innocent face, you waved her off.

She walked off and mumbled to Dean, “I’m sorry that people are so jealous of me… but I can’t help it that I’m popular.” What a self-righteous little…

Just then, the loud ringing stopped your thought. Saved by the bell.

Pellino started handing out the packet and they were thick. This was going to be long ass day.

By the time lunch came around, your body was in terrible need for a nap. But after lunch was your favorite class—writing—and that made the day all the much better. Mr. Chuck, your writing teacher was your favorite. Not only was he a great writer, but he was bright. You felt like God, or someone higher had sent him down into your life to guide you through your life. When you needed advice, you’d go to Mr. Chuck, and he always knew what to say. Whatever he said would happen, happened. It was like a miracle.

Before you could go to writing, though, you had to suffer through lunch. Not that you minded the food all that much, but more so the people. You hated sitting in the cafeteria. It was too open, as if everyone was looking at you.  Of course, you sat with Nick, Claire, and Ben, so that comforted you, but it still was just awkward for you.

You looked over a few tables to see Jolina sitting dangerously close to Dean. He didn’t even look comfortable. Part of you wanted to go over there and carry him as far from her as you possibly could, but you knew that wasn’t your job. You were essentially an outsider to them. You were supposed to just watch and deal just like everyone else.

“Y/N,” Claire called you out of your thoughts. You spun your head to look at Claire and Ben giving you concerning looks. Nick just sat across from you with a smug look on his face. “Are you okay?”

Before you could answer, Nick intruded, “No, she’s been drooling over Dean and shooting Jolina death glares all day long. You could say she’s a little jealous.”

You just rolled your eyes. “I’m judging them both, okay? She’s a fricking plastic Barbie doll and he’s an idiot for even going out with her.” Nick, knowing you the most out of the three, just raised his eyebrows and gave you the “oh, I’m sure” sarcastic look. “What?” you exclaimed back. “I’m serious.”

Ben finally took his turn to talk, “Well, I mean, isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? Stupid jocks dating other stupid jocks?”

You groaned at his comment. “That cliché is so stupid.”

“You’re just saying that cause you like him,” Claire winked at you.

Just then, the bell to go to 5th period rang and you could have never been any more grateful.

“I have to head to Mr. Chuck’s, but you all have fun at P.E. with Mr. Michael. Claire, make sure he doesn’t kill you with running,” you laughed at her.

“Oh, you know he always does,” she chuckled.

You walked out of the cafeteria to your locker. Mr. Chuck knew most kids didn’t like bringing books to lunch, so he gives everyone a free grace period before class starts.

You were almost to your locker before someone fell straight on you and you both landed with a thud. Apparently coming face-to-face with the ground was on your to-do list today. You knew it was a guy because they mumbled, “Fuck,” in a deep voice right after.

“Really, Cas, was that necessary.” Damn, no. You’d know that voice from anywhere. Feeling the weight off of your back, you turned on to your back and groaned. Staring right back at you was those enticing green eyes. He held his hand out for you to grab and you gratefully took it.

You hadn’t noticed until now that there were a good bit of people staring, some even laughing. You couldn’t take all these people looking at you. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled to him before quickly walking away with flushed cheeks. Not bothering to grab your book, you almost jogged to Mr. Chuck’s class.As weak as your knees were, it was better than having them all make fun of you.

Once you got there, you sat down and took a deep breath. Thankfully, you still got to class on time. Your prompt of the day was on the board and you surely wasted no time getting to write it.

When you were finishing up your 3rd paragraph, someone knocked on the door, but you hadn’t bothered to look up. Teachers often came in to ask for extra paper or pencils. “Mrs. Y/N,” you heard Mr. Chuck call out. Stopping your writing, you finally looked up to see Dean standing next to your teacher. “Mrs. Bradbury would like to see you.”

In your mind, you were more than confused. Mrs. Bradbury was the drama teacher, but you never took drama, and neither did Dean. Why would she want to see you? More important than anything, though, you were worried about walking alone with Dean. You awkward around him because he landed on you like a pancake.

You put all of your supplies into your school bag and walked out of the door right after Dean. Right as you walked out, he turned to you and said, “I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry about what happened earlier. I didn’t mean to. Cas and I were joking around and he pushed me and—”

“Dean, stop talking,” you interrupted him. “It’s whatever. I don’t even care.” You were still walking down the hall, arms in your back jean pockets. “Does Mrs. Bradbury even want to talk to me?“

“I know, but I feel bad,” he said with a low voice and his head down, completely ignoring your question. He looked nervous, actually and honestly upset.

“I was never really mad, I just don’t do well when a lot of people are looking at me,” you confessed. He looked up at you with furrowed eyebrows, almost like he was taken aback. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I just think that’s stupid,” he said bluntly.

You were shocked at his comment. “So first you ran me over and now you’re telling me my opinions are stupid. Wow, what a great day,” you sarcastically shot back at him. “I’m gonna go back to class.” Turning around, you sighed.

Before you could go anywhere, Dean grabbed your wrist. “No, Y/N that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, then what did you mean, Dean? Yeah, I don’t like when people look at me. I know they’re judging me. Not everyone can be like you and your Barbie girlfriend, okay?” You glared at him.

“We’re not even dating,” he said back.

You were barely listening to what he was saying. “That’s not the point, Dean.” Yanking your wrist from his hold, you started walking back to class. Then you felt a hold on your hips and you were turned around to face Dean. “What are—”

He cut you off with a kiss. For a second, you couldn’t wrap your mind around it, but you melted into it. It wasn’t rough, but it was hungry, like he needed it.

You pushed him away, though. “What was that for?” you questioned.

“I was saying it’s stupid because people look at you all the time, Y/N. You’re beautiful  and smart and I’ve been wanting to do that for forever,” he said breathing heavily.

“What about Jolina?” you asked. They were dating 20 minutes ago. Literally.

“I broke up with her. I didn’t even like her. I’ve been wanting to ask you out. I’m just too scared you weren’t going to like me back.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment and kissed him again. “Oh, trust me, I do.”

“Dean, Y/N,” you heard Principal Crowley yell. He appeared at the end of the hallway. “In my office. Now.”

“Oh shit,” Dean huffed. “Never a happy ending, is it?” You just laughed, not even caring about the consequences with Crowley.

[secretlyafrogman]

In-Laws

Word Count: 1,521

Pairing: None

Characters: Crowley, Female Reader

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of mental illness, mentions of religion

Summary: You hated your in-laws. More so than you could even put into words. So what happens when your roommate decides to intervene? Well, when your roommate is the King of Hell, anything is possible.

A/N: Okay, so I wrote this a few nights ago after my actual in-laws called my parents to try and call off our wedding hen it’s happening in two weeks. I wish I was joking. 

Please note that there are mentions of mental illness being downgraded like it’s nothing and Godly people bringing people down. I for one do not agree with this on any means, but once again, both things I’ve had to deal with in the two years that I’ve known my fiance. 

Anyway, this is a very personal fic for me and I was considering not posting it, but two of my friends that I read it to really enjoyed it and said I should. So here we go. It was written as an outlet to my emotions at the time.

By the way, I’m terrible with titles. Can’t you tell?

Hope you enjoy!

Living with Crowley wasn’t exactly your ideal living situation. Sure, he stayed away most of the time bothering the Winchesters and their angel friend or sealing deals here and there or at meetings with other demons doing “boring work” as he called it. And sure, the decor was nice and sophisticated if not a bit dreary and depressing at times. But living with a demon did have it’s downfalls: such as the smell of sulfur and ash filling the place or the screams from down in the basement that made it hard to sleep at night or the constant bitching and moaning about work or so many other countless things you couldn’t even begin to list off. And yet here you were all because you had promised the Winchesters that you would look after him and make sure that he wasn’t causing trouble... Like you could look after the King of Hell. Yeah... that was a realistic job choice right there. 

Truth be told, it kind of was. Because maybe you and Crowley were a bit closer than what the Winchesters initially thought. That’s not to say you wanted to be in any sort of relationship with him, oh no! But he was decent company at times and being tainted by human blood seemed to have made him sentimental. He needed a friend even if he said he didn’t want one, and for some reason he had seemed to lean on you, and while you weren’t close it was still a friendship nonetheless. Maybe it’s because out of the little band of boy wonders that the Winchesters were, you had always treated him with some sort of dignity and respect. And if he saw you and him as being friends, that was fine by you. 

But then something changed one night that made you two almost inseparable. 

It had all started when you had went out on what was supposed to be a nice family outing with your fiance and his family. They took you two to dinner, bought you two a glass of wine, made pleasant conversations that unbeknownst to you turned out to be nothing but a trap. Because just as soon as you had gotten comfortable with the evening, his father brought up the wedding. Oh, here we go again. This had been a constant issue with his parents from the very beginning because “They didn’t approve of your job,” or “Why are you working with so many other men?” or “Why are you living with an older gentleman? Is he your sugar daddy?” or “Why do you have anxiety? There is no such thing as mental illness.” 

Once again, issues that they have had since the beginning of your relationship were being brought up again and you were being attacked viciously. Your fiance had your back, trying to call them off but you couldn’t take anymore. Standing up, you threw the glass of wine in their faces and stormed out to the distressed calls of the one that you loved. You found your car, jumped in and ignored all of them as you drove off as fast as your car could take you just to get out of your situation. 

As soon as you arrived home, you stepped into the house and let out a scream of frustration. You didn’t think anyone would be home at the time, so why the hell not let off some steam? Walking into the living room and picking up an empty wine glass that was on the table from the previous night, you chunked it at the wall waiting to hear a shatter. But it never came. Instead you saw the irritated face of Crowley as he appeared and grabbed the glass mid air. 

“That’s a thousand dollar glass, love. Clear crystal. Let’s not just break it without good cause.”

You growled as you watched him put it back down on the table. 

“I’ll make a deal with you. You tell Uncle Crowley what’s got your panties bunched up and if I think it’s a valid reason, I’ll let you break that glass. But if I don’t, you have to do dishes for a week. And I know how much you hate doing those.”

Grumbling, you slouched down on the couch with a huff. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That much is obvious.” Crowley replied as he walked over to you and sat down beside you, two glasses of scotch appearing in his hand as he handed you one. “Trouble in paradise?”

“That’s an understatement.” You scoffed as you took a drink of the scotch. 

“It’s not your in-laws again, is it?”

“It might be.”

“What on earth did they do this time, Y/N?”

“What haven’t they done?” You raised you free hand, rolling your eyes as you placed the scotch on the coffee table as to not spill it. “It’s always something because they’re people of God and see me as not being good enough for their son. I bet they would shit a brick if they knew I was roommates and friends with the bloody King of Hell.”

Crowley chuckled. “I can make that happen.”

“Don’t tempt me.” You shook you head and took another sip of the scotch before putting it back down. “But seriously, if it’s not one thing to them it’s a thousand other things. Whether it be my job or my living arrangement or my fucking anxiety and depression that they don’t seem to understand. But let me tell you something. I would really like to see them go through the shit I’ve seen... that I KNOW to be out there in the real world without needing something to help calm their nerves. I mean... look at you.”

He shrugged. “Point valid and taken.” 

Reaching a hand up, you rubbed your temples in frustration. “They call themselves people of God, but they are far from it being the judgmental assholes that they are. I think they need to know where they’re going to go if they don’t stop.”

That must have given Crowley an idea. Because before you could say another world, he had downed his scotch and stood from the couch. “Do you really want all your problems to go away? I can make that happen for you.”

“At the expense of my soul...”

“No, darling. Not this time. We’re friends, after all. Just give me twenty four hours and I promise you your in-laws will no longer be a problem.”

“Crowls, please don’t murder them.”

“Not on the agenda at all. See you soon.”

And with that he was gone. Rolling your eyes, you downed the rest of your scotch and went upstairs to get some rest. What the hell was he thinking...?

---------------

The ringing of your cell phone is what woke you up the next morning. Groaning, you grabbed your phone and looked at it, seeing the number of your in-laws flash on the screen. Great. What did they want?

“Hello?”

“Y/N!” Your father in-law’s voice was shaking as if he had seen a ghost and his words felt forced. “We just want you to know how sorry we are for last night and that we see nothing wrong with you marrying our son. In fact, we would like to make it up to you by offering to pay for the entire wedding and you can do whatever you would like!”

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Seriously?”

“Of course. You are going to be our daughter, after all. Now run along and get started with your day. We know that you must be very busy and have to meet with the boys you work with soon. We love you.”

“Yeah... love you too.”

You hung up the phone in confusion as Crowley appeared in front of your bed, a smirk on his lips. 

“Well? Didn’t I tell you that everything would be alright?”

“What did you do, Crowley?”

You watched as he reached up and patted the space next to him. “Thought it might be nice if the in-laws met Juliet. I also might have told them that if they didn’t start treating you like a daughter that Juliet did quite enjoy using humans as squeaky toys and that I would have her on them faster than they could run.”

You rolled your eyes as Juliet jumped in bed with you and gave you a lick on the cheek. You reached up where you thought the hellhound’s ears were and gave her a scratch. “You really are unbelievable at times.”

“Is that any way to say thank you to your best friend?”

“You know we’re not besties, Crowley.”

You chuckled as he made a mock-hurt expression. “Did I not just help you out of your bad situation?”

“Yes, you did.”

“And did I even ask for your soul?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“And you’re telling me we’re not besties yet!?”

You laughed and shrugged your shoulders, giving Juliet a pet as you heard her sigh in content. “I guess I can reconsider.”

“You better.”

You rolled your eyes a second time. “Shut up!”

“I love you too.”