#because one they treat this as being Aziraphale's fault and two it's again treated as canon

[tenok]

.

[actual-changeling]

i know i just posted a 6k+ fic today but have this ficlet from aziraphale's pov as a treat before i disappear for the night.

@dancingcrowley a lil gift for u

-

In hindsight, it is entirely his fault for getting way too drunk.

"The... point?"

Crowley is looking at him without blinking, his head hanging upside down off the edge of the sofa, his legs hooked over the backrest, and it is either by pure luck or a subconscious demonic miracle that he hasn't slid to the floor yet. His wine glass is empty and has been for a while, probably since around nine when Aziraphale swapped his glass for the bottle and began pacing around the backroom with an increasing frenzy.

"Yes! The- the point of," he vaguely waves his free hand, unsure what exactly he is even referring to, "of it all."

Another swig of red chases the dryness out of his throat and causes his next words to tumble out of his mouth like a glacier-fed waterfall in early spring.

"The point of being here, like, earth, you know?" Crowley does not, in fact, know, that much is obvious from the expression on his face, but he shifts around a little, and that's good enough for Aziraphale.

"She put me in in in the SKY, and then there was WHOOOSH heaven, all white and empty, and suddenly, oh, look, humans! Humaning like, like rabbits or something. All doing things."

Emptying the wine bottle takes him less than a few seconds, heat rising to his cheeks and blushing down his chest, and Aziraphale briefly considers taking his waistcoat off when Crowley flings himself upright and slithers into what can loosely be called a sitting position. In reality, it is closer to what you would get if you put wet spaghetti on a dollhouse chair.

"There's no point, angel," he says, sounding vaguely bored, and maybe it's his growing disinterest; maybe it's the apocalypse that should have happened two years ago but didn't, maybe it's the fact that Aziraphale has been thinking one too many times about the last time God had actually talked to him.

"There fucking HAS to be a point, Crowley. There has to be! Otherwise, what's the- why would I- there wouldn't be a reason to-"

A reason to do good except to be kind, but he could live with that. He can live without knowing Her plan or being able to return to heaven, he can even live without ever hearing Her voice again, not that the last few millennia have ever offered any of that to him.

No, the point is, and Aziraphale has a point, he is sure of that even as the room begins to spin slightly, the point is that if there is NO point, there's no reason to deny himself anything.

...fine, not anything.

Crowley. Without a point, he could have- THEY could have- but they can't because there is a point.

"I just- just can't see it," he finishes out loud, uncaring that Crowley has not been privy to the argument in his head.

"There is a point," Crowley repeats, his voice dipping into a tone he knows from late-night dinners at the Ritz and casual temptations. In the low, golden light, his face is half-covered in shadows, and he sprawls across the sofa like calligraphy drawn with watered-down ink, flowing apart at the seams.

Or maybe Aziraphale's just way too drunk.

"There's a point."

Falling back into his armchair and coming close to immediately sliding onto the floor, Aziraphale tries to settle down and returns the bottle to its place on the side table. Maybe he should sober up and steer the conversation into safer waters, but he is still busy chasing one last question around his head.

What would we do if there wasn't a point?

Who would they be, then?

Crowley is already who he would be, always has been, and the parts of him that aren't are anchor points of the red thread weaving between them.

The real question is who he would be, and the truth is that he already knows the answer.

He feels Crowley's gaze on him, his eyes glinting amber in the relative darkness of the room, and Aziraphale looks back, chews up the bitterly familiar answer on his tongue, and swallows it like he always does.

"Hungry?" Crowley asks, already grabbing his shades from between the cushions.

Aziraphale lingers for a second, watching the smooth flex of his muscles as he pulls on his jacket and the tip of his tongue when it darts out to wet his bottom lip, but he smiles when Crowley turns back towards him with raised eyebrows and concern tight on his face.

"Starving."

[dee-morris]

An Overdue Rant and a Christmas Fic

I wrote this Hallmark AU last December. It was supposed to be a jokey little one-shot, but man it ate my brain. My average daily word count is 500-1k words a day, and I think I was doing 2k to 5k a day until it was done. I couldn't fuckin stop, and it was glorious.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/43616245/chapters/109670092

This is very important to me, because I came to fanfic like a dying traveler comes to an oasis. After the pandemic I became deeply depressed and I developed chronic writer's block. Marketing was an uphill slog, and not being able to go out and socialize at events made it unbearable. When I did go out, the anxiety I felt about COVID made it not fun. I wasn't sure if I was ever going to write again.

Writing fanfiction was a welcome reprieve from all that: no deadlines! No SEO! No depressingly tiny royalty statements! Positive reinforcement with no dollar signs attached! So it was nice, it was fun, but I didn't really get my groove back until I wrote HallMark. That wasn't just fun. That was drive. That was passion. And it was glorious.

After it was done and posted, I couldn't forget about it. I had to know what it was about that story that grabbed me by the brain cells like that. So I went back and read it again, and I read the comments (thank you all kind people you're the best), and I realized that it was about Aziraphale and Crowley, but it was really about my feelings towards how children are raised.

*I'm not going to completely spoil the fic here, but feel free to go read it before we get further bc I'm about to discuss some thematic elements.*

Crowley is raising the Antichrist to be the destroyer of worlds on the surface, but underneath it he cares about the world, and he cares about Adam too. And that is the side of him that Adam responds to, and why he turns out the way he does. And that's what parents don't understand about children. They are only kind of listening to your words. What they respond to, and what nurtures them, is your behavior towards them and towards the world you're raising them in. If you tell your kid that Jesus loves everyone and we should help the poor, but you vote for people who will cut welfare bc you think you'll get a tax break and a new boat, your kid sees you. If you tell your kid that it's a sin to judge others but you glare at a tall woman going into the ladies room bc you think she might be trans, your kid sees you. They might grow up to be an asshole or they might grow up to think that you're one, but either way you lose.

And if you tell your kid that his destiny is to destroy the world and that living things are fit only to be ground under his heels, but you make him sandwiches and worry about him when he's out of your sight and buy him stupid Christmas crap because it makes him happy, your kid might not turn out as evil as you thought.

(don't actually tell your kid he's the Antichrist, btw, this fic is hyperbole for symbolic thematic purposes and not a parenting guide)

Anyway, my point is if you love your kid and treat him right, if you treat other people right, and give him a stable home and maybe a dog if you can afford it, he'll probably turn out pretty much okay. The rest is just flavor.

Parents stress too much about things that don't matter, but it's not our fault. You have to run the gauntlet a couple of times before you can filter out stuff that matters from stuff that doesn't, because the books and guides and parenting classes will just try to scare you about everything. Let me assure you that your baby does not give two shits if you feed with breast or bottle. But your child will remember whether you were happy, and whether you took pleasure in their presence in your life.

So what sucked me in about this fic was the reversal of what I've seen in the real world. My brain conjured a fantasy of someone who's a good parent despite themselves, instead of a bad parent with a church habit and a fat bank account. Of course I had to bring that fantasy into the world. It's how things become real.

[his-mother-is-lightning]

We all know that Aziraphale hates customers. But I submit that he LOVES grad students.

- if asked (by Crowley, solely to fluster his Angel) he will say that it's completely reasonable to love people who want to study and discuss books? And that feeling he gets when they come and ask him for help isn't Pride no. It just so happens that having lived for millennia means he's the best primary source on the planet. It would be selfish to not share his knowledge really. Why shouldnt he feel good about helping young people learn? So it's really only lowercase 'pride' at most...

- ...I mean, it's just harmless satisfaction that he is spreading knowledge like God intended. Err, probably intended. This knowledge isnt that Forbidden Knowledge so it's fine, right? They're way past that at this point. Surely there is no objection to knowing about books?

- if you were to ask Crowley, he will point out that grad students can't afford to actually buy any books. But no one has ever asked him

- back when the shop first opened, poor Aziraphale was struggling with the realization that people might get suspicious if never lets anyone buy any of his books. And in walks in some poor, exhausted student from Kings or London University who has spent the last 10hrs looking in every bookstore and library around for an original copy of 'The Tamer Tamed'. So they stumble in, turn to Aziraphale and ask if he has any 17th century editions of Fletcher's work. They just need to look at it bc every copy they've found has been edited.

- does Aziraphale have a 17th century editions of Flecher's 'The Woman's Prize, or The Tamer Tamed'? What an absurd question! He has the first edition, printed in 1647. Two copies in fact, one with notes in the margins written by an early actor that Aziraphale particularly liked. It was, after all, one of Crowley's favorite plays from that period.

- (Crowley claims that he has nothing to do with the plays popularity when compared to the work it was in response to, 'The Taming of the Shrew'. Yes, he preferred the feminist-leaning work by Fletcher, but it's not his fault the audience agreed with him) [1]

- the look on this students face when Aziraphale sits them down at his desk and brings over this folio - full of relief and gratitude - have the angel feeling a bit chuffed. So much so that, as he's closing the shop for the day, he tells them to come back tomorrow if they need another look. And thus one of the great student pilgrimages of London is born

- at the beginning of each term, new students make their way to this strange, magical bookstore run by a nice, possibly-immortal man. Group visits are discouraged, as they seem to make the owner nervous.

- fellow students (and sometimes professors) warn newcomers that the owner doesn't actually want people to buy any books. But if go and tell him that you just want to look at them for a class, he will let you come and look around.

- actually, browsing isn't recommended: depending on his mood, Mr. Fell (the owner) may encourage you to look around or he may decide to suddenly close early, or find some way to get you out the door. It's always safest to ask Mr. Fell for something specific, the more obscure the better: he likes it when he has the exact thing you're looking for

- there are snakes in the shelves - well, one snake, probably. Just like Mr. Fell, this snake has been hiding in the shelves since the store opened and never ages. It loves to jump out and scare customer, but is generally considered harmless unless you damage or mistreat the books. There are numerous accounts of people being bitten for dog-earing pages, putting cups on books, and general rudeness.

note: do not refer to the snake as Mr. Fell's pet. He tends to get rather indignant if you do (Mr. Fell, not the snake. If anything, you would think the snake finds Mr. Fell's reaction amusing) Think of it as his slightly terrifying roommate who occasionally hides in the shelves or curls up by/on Mr. Fell to nap

- A. Z Fell & Co had the world's least comprehensible business hours. He could be closed for days or weeks at a time, then open 24hrs for a month without explanation. Often, he would open at 4 or 5AM then close around lunch, then open again after he finished lunch (anywhere between 1 and 4PM). There was one 11 year span when the shop was almost always closed - university's saw a drop in grades in several departments until it finally opened again. If he recognizes you, sometimes you will arrive to find the store closed, only for him to suddenly open the door and let you in because he was "just about to open up".

- Mr. Fell can easily be bribed when someone needs to stay after closing or come in early the next day. Down the block and across the street is a bakery: it has had many names over the years, but it has been supplying students with bribes in the form of cream puffs, eclairs, Turkish delights, and other sweet treats since the bookstore opened. Students scrambling before a deadline got 10 cents off their purchase.

- while he never seems to know what day it is, or what year it is (see: immortal), he always remembers when it's time for exams because suddenly the shop is open at all hours, and Mr. Fell "just so happens" to have trays of sandwiches and fruit leftover, and wouldn't they help him finish it? It'll spoil, after all. Outside food and drinks are never allowed but suddenly there are little plates and napkins on a table by the door, and stacks of strange coasters from all over the world. Coffee is not allowed but tea is. Of course, everyone knows that Mr. Fell makes the BEST hot cocoa and if you put a coaster next to you, he will bring you a mug of cocoa, always at the perfect temperature.

- as revisions comes to a close, you will find almost a dozen students at Fell & Co. They will be slumped at a desk or curled up on the floor by the windows, cups of cooling cocoa and plates of healthy snacks left in places where they couldn't spill onto the books. Colorful blankets come out of a back room as Mr. Fell tidies up, smiling fondly as he drapes them over the slumbering students

- there are stories of people whose old, cruddy laptops seem to work better in the bookshop. People listening to music (quietly, of course) may notice that the songs that come up on shuffle are always exactly what they wanted to hear. Notes you could have sworn you left at home or lost show up at the bottom of your bookbag. Documents you should have lost when your computer crashed can be recovered. One Martin Pryce insists that in 2014, he brought his broken bike to the store and when he came out again, it was fixed. He actually went up to Mr. Fell as he closed shop and asked him about it but Mr. Fell insisted he had nothing to do with it. Martin says Mr. Fell sounded like he was telling the truth, but looked very pleased and muttered something about it being a "minor miracle", which is a bit much for a bike.

- if there are a thousand stories about Mr. Fell and his bookshop, there are just as many about the man in the fancy black car who comes around sometimes. Many have speculated on the nature of the men's relationship, ranging from torrid love affairs to blackmail to Dickensian-level family drama. But the only thing you really need to know is that when you see that fancy black car parked by the shop, you best just to home. The store is most definitely closed.

1. One account survives of the audiences reactions to the two plays. 'Shrew' was performed first and was "liked". 'Tamed Tamed' was performed after and it was "very well liked". Whether or not this account is from Crawley is impossible to say.

Now with a a furiously doting Crowley sequel

Aaaand a fanfic 

[themadauthorshatter]

FEBUWHUMP DAY 23

"Don't leave me!" From the Perdition books by @dreamsofspike-blog

All you CrowGabe shippers are in for a treat with this one!

Also, slight spoilers

-After a day of being tortured by Aziraphale and even glared by the demon servants, Gabriel is left with a test, to be chained at the for of a bed while Aziraphale does some business stuff, like checking on who he needs to be friends with.

- Crowley is given the 'Okay' by Aziraphale to see his pet Archangel, but on the some condition that Gabriel is not freed or healed.

-Crowley agrees and does the one thing he can think to do before walking into the room: knocking on the doorframe, which Gabriel notices and is slightly frightened by before he asks who it is.

-From his place at the door, or if sight, Crowley states that it's him and asks if he can come in. It takes Gabriel a second because he's INSANELY surprised, but Crowley takes it as Gabriel being unable to decide if he REALLY wants that and tells him that he'll get it if Gabriel says, 'no.' He won't really blame him for it either because he's made some pretty stupid decisions in the name of keeping Gabriel safe, something Gabriel can agree with nonverbally.

- Finally, Crowley admits that even if Gabriel doesn't want to see him, he just wants to know that his Archangel is okay, is still somewhere deep down in there, because he misses him, misses the guy who reads books, who can't stand the taste of lemons, who started at the world's around him with wonder because he'd never seen it before.

-Crowley admits that all of this is his fault as he cries, admitting that if he had just left Heaven and not bothered Gabriel or had given him what he wanted and let him go back to Heaven or told him ahead of time what he was planning, maybe things would be a lot different for the two of them, some good, some bad.

-Gabriel is silent as both his and Crowley's mental wounds are reopened because he remembers the elevator incident that seemingly stayed this whole thing, remembers the hellfire weapons that Aziraphale used in him, remembers how he always came back to Crowley for comfort.

-And those wounds HURT, because there was a chance things could have ended for good back then, unlike right now, where things are a bit messy, to say the least.

- He's silent for too long and Crowley apologizes, both for not leaving him alone and for everything he's done, the elevator, the weapons, the first watch, and now the drift between the two of them.

- Just as Crowley 'takes the hint' and walks away, Gabriel races toward the door until he's caught by the end of his chain and can't go any further.

- Damning the rules, Gabriel cries for Crowley that he's actually kind of sorry too, because he wasn't strong enough to actually destroy Aziraphale the first time and make sure he stayed gone, for not being able to fight back when Aziraphale came to Heaven to collect him and take him to Hell, for not having Crowley's side and encouraging him to talk to him.

- When he hearts nothing, he cries and begs Crowley not to leave him, not again, because while he's still a little mad at Crowley for his somewhat reckless behavior, he still loves him and needs him because he's possibly the only thing of home that the two have left.

- There's still no sound, even as he pulls on his chains once more and sobs, "Please. Please, don't leave me alone again."

- Turns out, in his emotional state, he did not hear the footsteps racing toward him, but did feel and heart when a body throws itself to the ground in front of him.

-Surprise, it’s Crowley, who's got tears pouring down his cheeks and is arms distance away from Gabriel with his hands clawing the floor to keep him from moving forward.

-He apologizes once more for everything, for not telling him his plan and for not asking him for his advice. Gabriel actually chuckled and admits that it probably wouldn't have mattered because no one really listens to him anymore as it is.

- He means it to be a self depreciating joke, but Crowley doesn't laugh.

- The wof he says hit him and he scooches back to hold his arms out, tears welling in his eyes and body trembling.

-Crowley takes the invite right away, carefully stealing his arms around Gabriel, who goes still before returning the gesture.

-Both shed their tears in the room, happy to have built a bridge between them, but obvious to a certain someone watching them before he strides away, his footsteps not making a sound.

[wanna-b-poet31]

Abuse by Any Other Name

So I am fascinated by Trauma and Abuse (both as a scholar and as a survivor of a toxic home environment myself) in Good Omens. This is an extension of one of my multi-part theory segments

Heaven’s Masquerade

Good Omens shows us Aziraphale and Crowley constantly coping (although often unhealthily) with the after-effects of their respective abuse and trauma. Both entities reference the way Heaven claims to “love” their angels but not once does Heaven actually cultivate healthy relationships with Aziraphale.  Instead, they masquerade as “love”.  

What they’re really asking for is ”control”. 

Example: Intimidating An Angel

Let’s examine one of the most blatant examples of Heaven’s abuse. Three angels corner Aziraphale. His supposed “siblings” who should be his closest allies, his most understanding companions,  his “side”, attack him. We can see in the above gif that although Uriel loosely holds his lapels Aziraphale is visibly shaking and terrified. Which is evident that it’s contact without consent. 

He immediately responds to the imposition wi terror, he knows that the could, and more likely would, be harmed by this contact. Which, is later seen to be correct when Sandalphon (not pictured in the Gif) punches his stomach as an act of intimidation.  Unlike Crowley’s mirrored actions, Uriel’s physical invasion of boundaries lacks respect and demonstrates an unequal power struggle.

Compare that altercation to the one that is Mirrored by Crowley:

Look at the immediate difference in body language. Sure, in the first Gif Aziraphale is surprised but the lunge, but he’s not intimidated by the attack. At first glance, it would seem Crowley’s invasion of boundaries is more aggressive and violent than Uriel’s.  However, upon closer inspection, the second gif shows that he’s not being pressed into the wall or lifted into the air. Crowley respects Aziraphale not to actually hurt him or put him into a position where Aziraphale could not escape.  There is no sign of struggle between the two. 

Whereas with Uriel Aziraphale is clearly panicking, there is no such concern in Aziraphale’s face with Crowley. There’s no shaking, no fear, no threat of death with Crowley, so we can presume that the boundary Uriel violated has not been crossed.  Rather, the consent to be touched hasn’t been violated. And that the closeness from Crowley while unexpected, is not unwelcome. In fact, Aziraphale takes advantage of the situation by taking the time to longingly inspect Crowley’s profile. 

While not the “nicest” way to be approached by his partner, Aziraphale is not scared. In fact, there’s an intimacy to the closeness. Besides the obvious hip thrust a la Crowley, and the nose touches, the second Gif shows a delay between Aziraphale’s reaction to the ex-satanic nun’s interruption and his gaze at Crowley. There’s an erotic element to the shared looks and a sense of trust here that Uriel’s attack does not share. 

Crowley’s goal is to “prove” his no-niceness, but Uriel’s goal is to intimidate. Crowley isn’t pushing against Aziraphale to show how “superior” he is to the angel, he’s doing it to show that “nice” isn’t a word he’s comfortable with. Uriel wants to make Aziraphale feel inferior to them.  

For Uriel and “the gang” it’s a means of controlling Aziraphale for his disobedience to Heaven. 

For Crowley, it’s intimacy. 

So...How Does Aziraphale Start Healing?

Aziraphale specifically needs to come to terms with the fact that Heaven, (not just angels, not just the bureaucracy, not just God, but ALL of Heaven) is the emotionally abusive, neglectful, cruelly judgmental, physically intimidating, and unsupportive “parent” to Aziraphale.  However, for much of the story, he hasn’t acknowledged it yet. 

This isn’t to say he doesn’t notice when Gabriel is cruel to him, or that Sandalphon is about .25 seconds away from smiting everything and that’s dangerous behavior, or that his calls to God are left unanswered, but he denies that these behaviors are inherent problems. The “Heavenly” behaviors we see directed towards Aziraphale, his interests, and his loves are disrespectful and belittling, but he still treats them like unquestionable authorities.  

The first step for a healthy recovery is admitting that there is a problem in the power dynamic.  At the very least, he needs to see that the terms and conditions of Heaven are unjust. 

Now, we do see Aziraphale push against his system of abuse, he lies to God for one thing, and maintains a relationship/agreement with Crowley, consequences be damned for another. But his rebellions still hold Heaven above all other relationships. It is still where his loyalties lay. At least, it’s where he claims his loyalties are, but he’s lying to himself. The bandstand scene shows us a rationalization to excuse Heaven’s treatment of him. 

Until he can admit that Heaven has hurt him, he can’t undo their damage.

Road to Recovery

I argue that the first step in Aziraphale’s recovery is when he admits that he has a problem with the end of the world. It’s not a full admission of Heaven’s fault, but it is an admission that when he does not feel comfortable with Heaven’s actions he should and CAN intervene. 

Before, with Noah and Jesus, he watched, even though he objected and was horrified by the actions against innocence. We see this again when he seems visibly upset with “all the smiting” that Sandalphon does at Sodom and Gamorah. Despite his misgivings, he doesn’t intervene (at least not on-screen). Look at the below gif. He’s clearly pained by God’s decision, but he bites his tongue. It’s not that he doesn’t want to question, it’s that he can not question. He must soldier on.

We can see that when Gabriel brings up the possibility of “something big is coming”, he is visibly perturbed. Then, once Crowley tells him about the coming of the Anti-Christ. He recognizes that his love for humanity and his life on Earth is a tipping point that he’s unwilling to give up.  But, he still does it by operating within the framework of Heaven.

The next crack happens when Aziraphale realizes Heaven is unsupportive of his efforts to save Heaven. His face visibly falls when Michael says they’ll forgive him for is an inevitable failure. He’s also upset by Gabriel who does give him encouragement, but in a tone that is clear, he thinks Aziraphale’s efforts are fruitless.  Heaven makes it clear that war is more important than love for God’s creatures.

Then Aziraphale goes to Heaven, wielding information about the Anti-Christ. He knows where Adam is, he knows the beast is released, and he knows that Armageddon is days, if not hours, away.  Yet, he falters. He’s all anxiety and nerves when he’s forced to talk to his so-called “side”, in a way he’s never like with Crowley. But this scene’s pièce de résistance is his choice to lie about the location of Adam. After first mentioning Crowley and all his wiles, he suddenly becomes uneasy. Gabriel asks “where” and Aziraphale recognizes that no one in the room cares about protecting humanity. Now, instead of the end of the world being his biggest problem, Angels (not yet Heaven) are.  This is further supported by their intimidation of him after the break-up on the bandstand.

While this scene is certainly progress towards naming his problem, he’s not all the way there yet. He meets with Crowley, and Crowley scares him because he’s not ready to admit Heaven is intrinsically abusive the same way Crowley is. He still believes that Heaven, and the angels, are on his side, that they’re doing right. He’s mortified about the very realy possibility that if he chooses Crowley, he’ll lose his divinity. His later scene summoning Metatron shows that he believes so badly that if he can only get ahold of God, everything will be sorted. But, it isn’t.  

It is only when he recognizes “hello god, it’s me Aziraphale” won’t get him shit, that HEAVEN is his problem. Not Crowley, not angels, not Hell, but Heaven is his abusive parent and he needs to pick which side he wants to be on.  

So what does he do? When he finally is pushed to the breaking point?

He chooses Crowley.

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

[inkwell1013]

Garden Woes - Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Genre: Angst with a happy ending, Oneshot

Word count: 1335

Warnings: Arguing/Domestic dispute

Summary: Crowley always bullies his plants. Aziraphale babies them. They both think they are doing what’s best for their plants and its causing some conflict in their otherwise perfect relationship. One day, all the tension that's been building up explodes and an argument ensues.

Notes: I completely forgot about this fic. It’s been on ao3 for ages, but I forgot to post it here. I hope you all enjoy!

- - - - -

Armageddon had been stopped and all was well in the world. Crowley and Aziraphale had both been fired of course; that was to be expected after what they had done. Neither of them wanted to associate with either side now anyway.

Aziraphale’s awkward confession was accepted and requited and the two of them decided to move in together. There was just one small issue with that. They couldn’t decide who should move in with who.

Crowley’s studio apartment was too small for the two of them and quite frankly, Aziraphale didn’t really like Crowley’s neighbourhood. There was nothing wrong with it really, but Aziraphale didn’t enjoy being in areas full of negative energy and hatred. It made him feel unwell. Also, whenever he met someone going down a bad path, he felt a strong urge to show them the glory of God, which did not make him a popular person in those parts. Old habits tended to die hard after all.

They tried to move Crowley into the top floor of the bookshop but that didn’t work either. Aziraphale was far too protective of the books he sold and Crowley tended to pick them up with dirty hands or dog-ear the pages, infuriating Aziraphale to no end. There was also Crowley’s unfortunate habit of walking around the bookshop shirtless, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of the customers. None of Aziraphale’s customers seemed to like Crowley very much and Crowley was always picking fights with the customers who got angry and threatened his angel.

Neither option was working. When Crowley was flipping through a newspaper early in the morning, he found an advertisement for a cottage in the outskirts of London’s suburbs. It was perfect. It had enough space for the both of them, an empty home library for all of Aziraphale’s books and a huge garden for all of his many plants.

He brought it up with Aziraphale and was met with positive feedback. They met with a realtor and arranged the purchase of the house, buying it with their collective savings and moving in on a rainy spring afternoon. The house itself was dusty but otherwise clean. The garden however was full of weeds and overgrown grass. It was a bit of a fixer-upper but with time, it would be manageable.

The two fell into a comfortable rhythm of unpacking their things and fixing up the garden. Aziraphale was apprehensive at first, worried that he would mess it up, but got into it pretty quickly. The grass was mowed and weeded. They whipped up a few raised beds and sowed a few seeds. When they didn’t start growing straight away, Aziraphale got annoyed and Crowley had to remind him that these things took time.

Aziraphale wasn’t the best at waiting for things; whenever he wanted something to be ready it was, all it took was a small miracle. The only thing this didn’t work on was plants. He had tried it a few times before but they always withered away from his ethereal energy. The only thing to do was wait.

The waiting itself was excruciatingly boring, but when the plants first began to sprout, they were both really excited. A few weeks passed, and they were growing well. There was only one problem.

They just couldn’t agree how to treat the plants. Crowley insisted on what he called tough love, whereas Aziraphale tended to baby them. So they divided the plants between the two of them.

Crowley watered his plants daily and pruned the dead branches. If they grew, they grew. If they died… then… they died. He also yelled at them to make them grow better, which they did out of pure fear. Aziraphale thought this was just cruel and would go behind Crowley back to be kind to the plants, giving them compliments and encouragement.

Aziraphale on the other hand carefully watered his plants regularly and spread fertilizer on a weekly basis. He weeded the beds and gave the taller plants support beams so that they could grow straight. He was always chatting to them and complimenting their appearance, making them grow brilliantly, trying to please him. Often he found himself searching through his once forgotten gardening books for new tips and tricks or to help him diagnose some obscure disease or insect infestation

Their tactics couldn’t have been more different. That was where the arguments came from.

It was a quiet Sunday morning and Aziraphale was in the garden spraying insecticide on his cabbages and scattering some slug repellent when he notice black spots on some of the leaves of Crowley’s roses. He had heard of this before. Diplocarpon rosae. It was an invasive fungal infection that could decimate rose plants if nothing was done.

Crowley would probably just cut off the affected branches and burn them. Aziraphale planned to tell Crowley when he got home and went to go inside but he stopped himself. He had some fungicide in the shed and Crowley didn’t have to know. He fetched the fungicide and sprayed it on Crowley’s rose bush, before going inside.

Crowley got home from the city, where he worked. He didn’t tell Aziraphale much about it because he never really asked. It was dull but well paying. He took of his coat and went to check on the roses – his favourite plants. When inspecting them, he caught a waft of something strange. It was a sharp and chemical smell. He took a closer look and smelt it again.

He recognized it. Fungicide. Aziraphale had tampered with his plants. He was pissed and went to confront him about it. Crowley thundered into the kitchen. Aziraphale was sat at the kitchen table sipping his tea. Crowley slammed his hand down on the table, making Aziraphale jump.

“Crowley, Dear, I hadn’t realised that you were-“ said Aziraphale before Crowley cut him off.

“You tampered with my plants didn’t you? We agreed to keep our plants separate. You promised me that you wouldn’t mess with my plants!”

“It’s not my fault that you’re so mean to them,” mumbled Aziraphale.

“What did you say?” asked Crowley.

“It’s not my fault that you’re so mean to your plants!” yelled Aziraphale, standing up and raising an accusing finger. “Your so mean to them all the time and it’s not fair on them,”

“My methods work Aziraphale! Babying them will do them no good in the long run,” Crowley muttered.

“I don’t have to deal with this,” said Aziraphale, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.” He stormed up the stairs, leaving Crowley alone. As soon as he saw Aziraphale leave, he regretted what he said. Sighing, he put his head in his hands.

Aziraphale was reading while sat cross-legged on the bed. He was furious at Crowley. Why was he being like that? He angrily turned a page. When the door cracked open, he didn’t look up. Crowley cleared his throat and spoke.

“I’m sorry. I guess everything got a bit much for me. It’s difficult for me to admit but I miss the way things were sometimes. When everything was familiar you know? Everything is so new now” he said sheepishly.

Aziraphale closed his book and set it on the table. “I think I know what you mean. It’s been months but I still try to call the head office and worry about getting caught with you. It makes no sense but in a strange way, I miss it. Having a purpose and a place to be, I suppose,” he said, laughing weakly. “I think we’re both a little in the wrong here, dear. Shall we shake hands and move onwards?”

“Yes,” said Crowley. “I’m sorry,”

“So am I,” smiled Aziraphale “But try to be nicer to your plants, okay?”

“I will,” agreed Crowley, with a yawn. “Are you about done reading for the night?”

“I think I am,” said Aziraphale, switching off his lamp.

“Goodnight dear,” he said as Crowley crawled into bed next to him.

“Goodnight Angel”

[lady-divine-writes]

More than Words ... but They're Nice Anyway (Rated PG)

Summary: Aziraphale is distressed when Crowley won't admit to saying 'I love you' ... even though he's been saying it for weeks. (1559 words)

Read on AO3.

“I love you.”

“What?” Aziraphale looks up from his plate of crepes and across the table at Crowley busy buttering his slice of toast and, by all outward appearances, paying Aziraphale absolutely no mind.

“Hmm?” Crowley mutters, setting his first slice aside and starting on his second.

“Wh---what did you say?”

“When?”

“Just now?” Aziraphale glances around the dining room on the off chance someone else is about, maybe hiding in the shadows.

Someone who … loves him?

“Would you please pass the marmalade?” Crowley asks, extending a hand.

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles, curious how in the world he heard I love you if Crowley asked for the marmalade. None of those words sound even remotely alike!

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, handing the marmalade jar across the table. “Of course.”

“Thanks.”

“Is … is that what you said?”

“When?”

Aziraphale sighs in exasperation. “Just now?”

“Yeah. Why?” Crowley’s eyes meet Aziraphale’s. “Did you hear something else?”

Aziraphale holds Crowley’s gaze several long minutes before he decides he’s being ridiculous. Crowley has never exactly been shy about any of his feelings. If he loved Aziraphale, he’d simply come out and say it.

Obviously, that’s not the case here.

“No,” Aziraphale lies, returning to his crepes, his appetite gone. “No, I … I heard nothing.”

***

“I love you.”

“Wh-what!?” Aziraphale yelps, fighting to be heard over pedestrians screaming in terror as Crowley squeals around a corner and jettisons straight into traffic.

“What?” Crowley returns. “What was that?”

Aziraphale white knuckles the dash harder than required for him to keep his seat, frustrated that this volley of words above the screeching of rubber must continue since Crowley refuses to slow down and drive safely enough to engage in normal conversation.

“What … did … you … say?” Aziraphale asks through gritted teeth.

“Oh.” Crowley’s brow furrows, his eyes glued to the road as he maneuvers between cars, nearly clipping the curb when he passes a rather large lorry on the wrong side. “I said hold onto your seat. The ride’s about to get bumpy.”

Aziraphale shoots Crowley a side-long look. ‘That’s not what he said!’ he thinks. ‘That’s nowhere near what he said!’ Even if he didn’t say what Aziraphale thinks he said, he only spoke three words. Not that Aziraphale was facing him directly. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road for a second when Crowley drives in case he needs to miracle some poor innocent out of the road. Aziraphale caught Crowley’s lips move in the reflection of the rearview.

But his sleuthing gets knocked clear of his thoughts when Crowley veers to the left, throwing Aziraphale across the seat and into the door. Aziraphale swallows hard, pushing down the heart that’s lodged in his throat ready to propel itself out his mouth and escape this demonic death trap.

“I’m sorry but … it’s a bit … too late … for that … my dear.”

***

“I love …”

“What?” Aziraphale rounds in front of Crowley, stopping him in his tracks. “What is it you’re going to say? And be honest now! Because if you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, I might just be going insane!”

Crowley blinks behind dark lenses at the white fire glowing in the angel’s blue eyes despite them being outdoors in the afternoon and surrounded by humans. “I … I was about to say …”

“Yes?” Aziraphale leans in aggressively, forcing Crowley back a step.

“… that I love walking through the park with you. Reminds me of old times. The good old times, anyway.” Crowley pauses, waits for a response. He grows uncomfortable in the silence under the scrutiny of Aziraphale’s piercing glare. “You know, before we knew that feeding ducks bread was bad for them?”

Aziraphale huffs at Crowley’s attempt at humor, but only slightly. “Are you certain,” he says, enunciating each word carefully, “that that’s what you were going to say?”

“Yes?” Crowley replies unconvincingly, and with the addition of an emphatic nod. “That’s exactly what I was going to say. Why? Is there something the matter?”

His answer infuriates Aziraphale, deep down to his core.

A joke!

He’s treating this like a joke!

How can he be so cruel?

He’s a demon, yes, but this isn’t just run-of-the-mill evil.

It’s Evil.

There’s a great many things Aziraphale can stand Crowley joking about, but not this. He’s about to tell him that, too, in no uncertain terms; give him a lecture he won’t likely soon forget. But when Crowley offers the angel his arm in a gentlemanly fashion and knocks him a little bow, it topples Aziraphale’s defenses.

Aziraphale can’t fault Crowley for his feelings … or lack thereof.

He can’t be angry at him because his pride is bruised.

He takes the offered arm and winds his through.

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale says, returning to his place at Crowley’s side, matching his steps when they start strolling again. “Nothing at all.”

Aziraphale breathes in deep and exhales slow. He’s not being fair. He doesn’t know that Crowley doesn’t love him. If he didn’t love him, would he have begged him to go off to the stars as often as he did? And if that’s the case, Aziraphale doesn’t need the words if they’re what Crowley means to say. He and Crowley are supernatural entities. Their thoughts and emotions can’t be measured on the scale of common, human words. Why, he’d heard a passage in a charming older movie Tracy made him watch that explains it perfectly.

“Words, words, they're all used up, they're hard to say. They've all been wasted on the shampoo commercials, and the ads, and the flavorings. All the beautiful words. I mean, how can you love a floor wax? How can you love a diaper? How can I use the same word about you that someone else uses about a stuffing? I'm exploding with love for you and I can't use the word!”

And he was right. The distinguished older man with the unfortunately large nose who recited those words was right. What he and Crowley have goes beyond words – especially mortal words. No need for those overused and abused words!

I love you? Who needs them!? Not him! Not at all!

But once, he thinks with a heavy heart as he squeezes Crowley closer, just once … it would be so nice to hear them.

***

“Explain to me again – what are you taking me to see? Because I don’t think I understand.”

“It’s called Sixty Second Hamlet,” Crowley explains for the fifth time but with the same giddy chuckle as the first.

“So, we’re driving to a theater over two hours away to watch a performance of Hamlet that’s only a minute long?”

“Yup! And it’s worth every mile, I’ll tell you that! Someone finally figured out a way to make that damned play a helluva lot less dreary. Just wait till you see it! You’re gonna love it!”

And there’s that word, hanging in the air, directed at something other than him. And as much as he swore to himself that he wouldn’t let it bother him … it bothers him.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale hangs back a step as Crowley leads him to his car, giving himself enough time and space to say what he needs to say before they go any further. Not just for now and not just for today, but for every day forward. “Before we do anything, I … I wanted to say something.”

Crowley stops with his hand on the door handle and turns around. “Yes?”

“I …” Aziraphale looks at the demon in front of him – six-plus-feet of conceit and ego and swagger that, despite himself, Aziraphale can’t see ever getting over if he lost him. Sure, they don’t need the words. But he wants the words. And if he’s the only one willing to say them then … so be it. “I love you.”

The blank expression that answers that declaration downright terrifies Aziraphale. If Crowley were human, Aziraphale swears he’d expect him to turn tail and run, leave his Bentley behind in favor of a swifter, more expedient exit on foot. Being the insufferable demon he is, he doesn’t react - not for a while. But then he grins ever so slowly, clapping his hands together in delight. “Finally!”

Aziraphale’s head jerks, taken aback by that response. “What? What do you mean finally?”

“I’ve been saying I love you for weeks, but I couldn’t get you to say it back!”

Aziraphale’s lower jaw drops of its own accord. “But … but I … I thought I was imagining it! When I asked you to repeat it, you’d say something else!”

“Because you looked so confused. A few times, you looked angry. I thought that maybe you … you know … didn’t want to hear me say …”

“Hear you say … what?” Aziraphale fishes.

Crowley’s triumphant grin becomes softer, fonder. “I love you.”

Aziraphale nods. He’s fighting not to smile. After everything Crowley has put him through, he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But he’s losing.

“You’re quite the idiot,” he says, his lips twitching uncontrollably at the corners. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Maybe.” Crowley steps away from his car and wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. “But I’m your idiot. And there’s no getting rid of me now.”

[theoverlordmisha]

I saw this art by @whiteleyfoster and this follow-up piece by @alicerovai and had to write something. Now, I don't normally write fics because I get easily distracted, but I was inspired.

Rainy Days & Art Galleries

The British Museum Cafe had been the number four alternative rendezvous spot for decades. It wasn't used very often - the bench near the duck pond at St. James park being the preferred meeting location. Nevertheless, with the apocalypse averted and some extra free time on their hands to finally openly enjoy each other's company, an angel and a demon decided to duck into one of their old haunts to avoid an unexpected midday rain shower. There was no real need to escape from the rain, it tended to slide off the pair like water off a duck, but the duo had been feeling extra mischievous on this particular Thursday afternoon. 

Crowley held the door open for Aziraphale, who meandered towards the pastry display, brushing imaginary rain drops off his suit coat. Eyes full of desire for the delicious treats, Aziraphale licked his lips and peeked over at his companion. 

"Anything particular you're looking for today?" asked the young lady behind the counter.

"Oh, well that scone looks particularly- no, that cake, wait, um," the angel replied, glancing over at the demon. Crowley was of no help, still processing the glimpse of red from Aziraphale's tongue. "We'll just have the afternoon tea, please."

"Coming right up."

The pair strolled over to a nearby table and settled into their seats. A few minutes later, the tea arrived with a platter of pastries, and Crowley settled into his favorite activity: watching Aziraphale enjoy food. Something about the short pause and almost-silent moan from his partner when he took his first bite always distracted Crowley, and there was nothing else that could attract his attention. And Aziraphale was never one to pass up the chance to enjoy a meal or snack. Aziraphale reviewed his selection, grabbed a small cake covered in chocolate icing, and took a bite. If he conveniently licked his fingers after the bite, well, it wasn't his fault that he noticed the demon's eyes lingering behind dark lenses. Crowley cleared his throat, breaking out of his daze, and poured himself a cup of tea. 

Crowley finally spoke. "You know, I don't think I've ever gone inside the gallery." 

"Really, dear, you've never made it past the restaurant?"

"Well, I've been to the shop," Crowley mused, "always love those little shops. Guilt visitors into spending £20 on a souvenir they don't want? You'd think I had a hand in that."

"That does seem like your kind of thing," Aziraphale opined. "Well, we really must take a stroll. Not like there's much to do outside until the rain clears." 

A crack of thunder from outside seemed to echo Aziraphale's idea. The demon sighed and relented. "If we must."

The pair finished their afternoon refreshments and made their way through the different galleries. Paintings, statues, artifacts stolen from other civilizations - the different items brought back memories of days past. 

It was about halfway through the museum that Aziraphale suddenly stopped and paled. "Oh, bugger, I had forgotten that was here." 

Across the walkway was an oil painting of a man sitting with his back to the painter. The man was sitting on a blue cushion, his head turned to the side. A particularly soft man, with a mess of white curls atop his head. Crowley balked, once again at a loss for words. 

"Is… is… angel, is that you?" Crowley finally uttered.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale countered, a slight blush appearing on his cheeks.

"Angel, you know, in 6000 years you have not gotten any better at lying."

The angel scoffed. "I'll admit, I did spend some time with Rubens in the 17th century."

"Did you now?" Crowley teased. "Inspire him with your angelicness?"

"Oh, really Crowley." Aziraphale rolled his eyes before grabbing the demon's arm and dragging him to the next painting. If he noticed the demon's eyes wandering back towards the previous painting, he pretended not to notice despite the smug grin on his face. 

It was a little while later when they arrived at the Renoir. Aziraphale, who had just managed to finally recompile himself, turned a deep shade of red. Crowley's eyes hardened and his body stiffened. Just under his breath, Crowley whispered, "I don't like this place."

Confusion and guilt passed through Aziraphale. How did two paintings of him, mostly nude, end up in the same museum? He had really not thought this through when he suggested they stroll through the museum. The pair continued along their way, but the demon was noticeably quiet and aloof. Aziraphale fought the urge to explain himself, knowing the demon would eventually bring the topic up. By the time the duo made it back to the Great Court, they had barely said a few words to each other. Crowley passed through the shop towards the doors. Aziraphale, unable to distract himself among the trinkets, followed his partner out of the museum and over to where the Bentley was parked. 

Once the pair were back in the comfort of the bookshop's back room, Aziraphale finally broke the silence. "Crowley, you- you're not mad are you?"

Crowley huffed, loath to admit his feelings. Aziraphale continued to stare at the demon and after a pause Crowley couldn't help himself. "'m jealous," he muttered, sitting down onto the worn couch. 

Aziraphale was at a loss for words. The demon was jealous? Of what? "What do you mean, you're jealous?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Crowley whined. He wasn't sure why it was affecting him so much. Crowley had sat for a number of painters over the years, inspiring and tempting them. 

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale lowered himself next to Crowley. After a moment the demon spoke.

"I guess I just didn't realize you had done that sort of thing." 

"Honestly, Crowley, we've been around for 6000 years. It would have been stranger if I hadn't attracted the eye of an artist once or twice."

A chuckle escaped Crowley's lips, and soon he had broken out in a fit of laughter. The angel stared at the demon, unsure how to proceed. "I- I guess you're right," Crowley admitted. "I just hadn't expected to see so many humans admiring your backside."

"Well, why not?" Aziraphale scoffed, leaning back on the couch towards the demon.

Crowley snuggled closer. "Angel," he mused, "it's a nice backside." 

Later that evening, hidden under the smell of old books in a dimly lit bookshop back room, an angel and a demon were entangled on a worn-out couch without a care in the world except for each other. 

[c-is-for-circinate]

On Good Omens, queerbaiting, and heteronormative bullshit

Theory: Good Omens the miniseries and the way it treats relationships feels maybe a little weird and hits some of the same mental buttons as queerbaiting not because Aziraphale and Crowley are insufficiently gay, but because the entire rest of the show is.  In this essay I will actually write this essay, because no, really, I think it’s A Thing and I might even be able to prove it.

There’s a lot of nuance to both sides of the whole queerbaiting/not-queerbaiting argument, and I don’t want to neglect any of it, but I think my big takeaways have been as follows:

On the ‘this is uncomfortable and queerbaity’ side:

Good Omens the miniseries ramps up the emotional relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale to be the heart of the entire show.  Both demon and angel are coded as gay in a number of different ways, both individually and in terms of how their relationship is portrayed as a romance.  And yet despite being the core of the show, they never make any of it explicitly romantic.  There’s not a kiss, there’s not an ‘I love you’.  The entire relationship is built from implications rather than explicit statements.

Years and decades and centuries of storytelling have given us gay relationships that we have to look for.  That we have to find in implications rather than explicit statements.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so that content creators could keep mainstream/straight fans happy while also luring queer fans with crumbs and promises.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so content creators could slip hidden gay messages past censors.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so content creators could stay literally, physically safe.  But either way, it’s exhausting.  It’s been so long.  We want to see ourselves on screen.  We want somebody to admit out loud to what we’re seeing.  We’re tired.

Also, when things get heated: the opposing side are apologists and boot-lickers, ready to bend over backwards to defend their Precious Author Faves in hopes of receiving whatever crumbs they can get.  (Please note: this is an ad hominem argument with like ten different logical fallacies in it, and also it’s just mean.  We will be assuming that all parties in this discussion are attempting to act in good faith with a healthy dose of frustration, and largely ignoring this point.)

On the ‘no, this is Good Representation, really’ side:

Aziraphale and Crowley are in a queer relationship--it’s just not a gay one.  They are two genderfluid beings who mostly present as male out of preference or convenience, surrounded by additional similar genderfluid beings who may present as male, or female, or both, or neither.  Their relationship is both romantic and asexual.

The fact that those ‘explicit milestones’ of kissing, sex, etc are absent from the show is in fact part of the point.  Not only does it make sense for the characters themselves, but it means so much to see a relationship that is obviously romantic, that is the center of an entire story, where the key turning point is about something other than sex or marriage.  A relationship can be super important, can be important enough to build an entire life around, without sex, without kissing, without wedding rings.  It’s so good to see one that is.

Also, when things get heated: the opposing side are aphobes and probably transphobes, whiny babies who don’t really care about representation, they just want their kind of representation.  (Please see above note about ad hominem attacks and logical fallacies.

There are a few points that everyone can agree on.  Crowley and Aziraphale follow the plotline of a romance, and their relationship is the core of this show.  They do not kiss, or have sex, or explicitly fall into any behavior that conventionally says, ‘yes, this human couple is dating’.  Other characters in the show mistake-them-for-dating, but those characters are always uninformed about the real complex nature of this relationship.

One side says: it all comes so close to being a thing we so rarely get to see, to reflecting ourselves on screen.  Why promise and not deliver?  Why come so close and then shy away?  Aziraphale and Crowley, with all they are to each other (with Aziraphale’s shop in Soho and his time in a discrete gentleman’s club, with their so-religious families that will disown them or worse for this relationship, with everything they are an have been) are a metaphor for gayness that refuses to commit past the point of metaphor and just admit it already, and it hurts.

The other side says: it has exactly hit the nail on the head of being a different thing we so rarely get to see, to reflecting a different portion of ourselves onscreen.  It just so happens that the thing it’s reflecting is by nature a little confusing and undefined, is close to the kind of queerness you’re expecting without getting there.  Crowley and Aziraphale (who’ve been alive for six thousand years, who have seen so many different ways humans love each other and swear to each other, who are not bound by our conventions or definitions and maybe show us that we don’t have to be either) are a metaphor for nothing.  They parallel a lot of familiar narratives of a lot of kinds of queerness, without trying to be anything but what they are.

Two sides, everybody so starved for representation that they’ll grab for it and name-call and scrabble desperately when they almost get it.  One relationship.  One divided fandom.

.

Look, it is obvious by this point that this is a case of everybody fighting over our one specific instance of representation because there isn’t enough to go around, right?  If gay relationships were more common throughout fiction, it wouldn’t be so important that Aziraphale and Crowley were among them.  If ace relationships and alternative relationship dynamics were portrayed as frequently or given as much weight as sexual ones, it wouldn’t be so important.

And it’s not just about what’s important, it’s about what’s noticed.  If there were gay relationships--or if there were ace relationships, or other kinds of queer relationships!--all over fiction, then being explicit would matter so much less.  It is important, in this world, that queer relationships in fiction announce what they are out loud, because in this world they are so often brushed over or ignored.  They have to clear a much higher bar than conventional straight, sexual relationships.  If there were more representation in the world, everybody would be primed to notice Aziraphale and Crowley as a romance.  We wouldn’t need it spelled out--one, because we’d already know, and two, because it wouldn’t be such a big deal if somebody else didn’t.

Of course, there’s more representation these days than there used to be--little dribs and drabs of it all over.  There’s just enough out there that somebody can say, ‘look, we’ve seen basic gay romances, let us have this thing here, let us have this nuance’.  And meanwhile half the audience (who may be gay, or bi, or ace, or transgender or genderqueer themselves in all sorts of ways) is gaping, because...okay, maybe gay romance exists in some places, in corners, but there’s still so little of it.

We’re all living on crumbs.  It’s hard to appreciate nuance when you’re just a few steps past starving.  It’s hard to appreciate the grace of ambiguous and open endings when you’ve seen them twisted against you again and again, and you just want something that’s yours.

.

Here’s another thing, an important thing.  Humans are used to seeing patterns and we’re used to seeing stories.  It can be very hard to tell whether a storyteller is trying to give us something new and strange told well, or something more familiar told badly--especially if we’re used to seeing the familiar thing told badly.

And: if the audience cannot tell whether an author is portraying Thing A well or Thing B badly, at a certain point it doesn’t really matter which it is.

And: sometimes the only way to tell if a story is trying to show you Thing A and succeeding or Thing B and failing, is to look around the story to see if you can spot Thing B done right, anywhere else.

In other words: How do you make a difference between an audience that is collectively sure that Crowley and Aziraphale are some specific, slightly-hard-to-define but very definitely queer thing (and sometimes being hard to define is an intrinsic part of queerness), versus an audience divided amongst themselves over whether or not they’re just a bad, cowardly approximation of ‘gay’?

You put actual, explicit gay somewhere else in the story.

And that’s where we run into problems.

.

The problem with Good Omens the miniseries and how it does queer representation, how it does Crowley and Aziraphale and their romance, is the same problem that Good Omens the miniseries has across the board.  The problem is that half the writing team is gone, and so is half the story.

In the miniseries, Aziraphale and Crowley are, hands down, the main characters.  This is their story, and everyone else around them--Anathema and Newt, the Four Horsemen, Heaven and Hell, the Them, and even Adam himself--are just bit players.  I don’t fault Neil Gaiman for that, exactly.  I’m sure he did his best, and his best meant he poured the heart and soul of the story into these two characters and the relationship they share.  He gave them as much richness and depth as he possibly could.  (That’s part of why we all love them enough to fight over them.)  But the fact is, the rest of the story around them suffered.

Adam and the Them, Anathema and Newt, even Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell--humans, all of them, and very much the people who actually��stop the apocalypse.  Considering the way Anathema kick-started Adam along his path towards Armageddon, they’re even the people who started the apocalypse.  Very, very fundamentally, Good Omens is a story about how humans don’t need heaven or hell--not to be evil, not to be good, and not to keep being human.  Except that the miniseries wrote the humans off to the side, and that cracked things a little.  In some places, it cracked things a lot.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the miniseries.  I love Crowley and Aziraphale at the heart of it, and the richness and depth of their relationship.  I love the story about how an angel and a demon are so very very human, even though they think they aren’t.

But it’s a story that only works with enough of a contrast.  We can only appreciate Aziraphale and Crowley as an angel and a demon who’ve become very-nearly human if we know what the differences are in the first place.  We can only appreciate their similarities if we see enough humans acting the same way: with want, with fear, with desire, with pettiness, with love.

The difficulty with the miniseries is that we see a great deal of Crowley and Aziraphale being full of very, very human emotions and reactions.  We see their worry and desperation and how much they care about each other.  Nothing we see from any other character in the whole show comes close.

Anathema lives a life in service to (a prophecy, not a Host, but is it so different?) a thing she doesn’t quite understand and nobody can explain to her, that she just has to trust--but we see Aziraphale deal with Gabriel and Heaven again and again, and we see so little of Anathema’s fear and doubt.  Newt is fired from (a nothing job, not God’s endless love) a world he vaguely understands but isn’t good enough for, and finds himself in a strange, confusing place where he’s probably smarter than his boss and everything smells a bit weird and it might technically be his job to hurt people except maybe he doesn’t want to--and we get none of it, compared to what we see of Crowley, six thousand years post-Fall.

Adam is human and not-human, full of powers that can bend the world around him to his whim, that can make things how he thinks they should be.  He decides not to, because of love and selfishness, because he’d rather be human.  He makes the exact same decision Aziraphale and Crowley make.  We just get so much less of the weight of it.

The thing about telling the story this way is that it turns Crowley and Aziraphale into the only real people in the whole show, with everyone around them in silhouette and abstract.  It stops being a story about how this angel and this demon are, effectively, exactly the same as everyone else--oh sure they’ve got some differences, powers and abilities and age and shape-shifting (and mutable gender, and vague non-existent sexualities), but hell, people in general are full of differences in all of those things anyway.  

All of a sudden, the differences between baseline human and celestial being start to feel weird and cheap.  If Aziraphale and Crowley are the only real people in the story, and they’re not reacting in the way most people would react--it’s not just because they’re individuals, with specific individual wants and needs and reactions.  It’s either a statement or a weird error.  If the only real people in the story aren’t people, everything starts to fall just a little bit apart.

.

And so we come back around to sexuality once again.

A deeply, deeply unfortunate side effect of the Good Omens miniseries fleshing out Heaven and Hell and neglecting the humans is that all of the queer content--all of the nonbinary characters, our one shining non-heterosexual relationship, all of it--went to characters who were not human.  It makes so much sense, on one hand.  That’s where all the new depth came from, so of course that’s where all the new queerness went.  And why should non-human characters subscribe to human definitions of gender and sexuality?  Of course they wouldn’t.

Because, right: the idea that sexuality is in and of itself a primarily human thing, which most non-humans lack but some experiment with for fun (and that is Word of God and that is explicit in the text of the show and the book)--that idea’s not actually inherently bad.  The idea that sexuality is a requirement of humanity, that it comes part and parcel with love and ‘becoming more human’ (which is, after all, the best thing you can do according to show or book)--that idea is in fact bad.  But if all of your desire for sex goes to your humans AND all your queerness goes to your non-humans...that gets real unfortunate, real real fast.

The problem is, just like the show neglected to give the full depth of human characterization and emotion to its actually human characters, it failed to give them the full depth of human sexuality and gender, too.

The humans in Good Omens are painfully heterosexual.  It’s not simply that the Newt/Anathema and Tracy/Shadwell relationships are straight--it’s that they fall into place as though straight is the only choice.  Both relationships are so very much a picture of no other options.  Anathema and Newt are facing the end of the world, about to probably die, and also have been prophecied to get together under these circumstances for centuries.  Shadwell and Madame Tracy are both very deeply alone, and getting older, and if they want to be anything but alone their only choice appears to be each other.  These four people appear to default their way into traditional m/f relationships, whether it’s falling into (under) bed or moving to the country to retire together.  They hit all of those ‘explicit markers’ we were talking about before, and they don’t do it with emotional build-up.  They don’t do it with any real exploration of the individuals involved or why they’re making these choices.  There’s barely any acknowledgement that these are choices.

The thing is, gay humans do exist in the world of Good Omens!  We spend time is Soho, and we hear about a very specific extremely gay gentleman’s club, and we know it’s there, somewhere, hidden.  We just never get to see it.  Crowley and Aziraphale (who are our only touchstone to those queer areas, which the other human characters never seem to encounter) are the Only Queers In The World.  And it sucks, and I think it happened completely by accident.

I suspect that the lack of human queerness was literally just a side-effect of the lack of human anything--Crowley and Aziraphale are in fact the only queers in the world specifically because they’re the only people in the world.  None of the already-existing human characters were given enough additional development to add much of anything, including any new gay.  The human world of Tadfield and the Witchfinder Army wasn’t given enough development to make it worth creating any new characters, let alone queer ones.

It just means that, all of the sudden, straightness gets accidentally equated with every single non-child human we spend more than two lines with, and queerness becomes exclusively the province of demons and angels.  That’s really bad.  It’s one of those unfortunate accidents that happens sometimes, because the world ain’t perfect, but it’s pretty not great.  And that’s where our problems come from.

In particular that’s where this current debate comes from, because if sexuality = human and human = straight, and nonhuman = asexuality and queerness = nonhuman, then we’ve accidentally said some pretty damning things about humanity and equated all queerness with lack of sexual desire all at the same time.  And it’s subtle, and it’s easy to miss, because it’s all about a lack of queer humans that’s all mixed in with the lack of humans at all, but it feels off.  So we go looking for reasons and we go looking for scapegoats.  It’s so easy to fixate on and blame the only queer relationship (the only developed, real relationship) we get at all, writ huge and impossible-to-miss all over our screen, rather than all the invisible ones we don’t.

.

Here’s what I take away from all of this: Crowley and Aziraphale are, in every real sense, the most important characters in the Good Omens miniseries, and their relationship is without doubt the most important relationship.  It’s a well-developed, believable relationship.  It’s neither a straight relationship, nor an explicitly sexual gay relationship.  It is a different thing all its own, a thing that does not easily fit conventional human labels, that may or may not include sex at some point but certainly does not require it to be devastatingly important.

And I like that.  I, me, personally, who would rather find a reason to feel heartened than a reason to feel angry, am really glad to see something so extremely not-straight at the emotional center of a story I care about.  That’s me.

In the absence of anything that is an explicitly sexual gay relationship, this nebulous complicated thing at the core of this story looks an awful lot as though it’s trying to be gay and not getting there all the way.  And that sucks.  And for a lot of people, that hits some very specific buttons that have been made tender over many years of stories that try to be gay and refuse to go there all the way.  The flaw, though, is in the contrast and the context around the relationship--not in the relationship itself.

Stories are hard.  Telling stories, and making sure that they get heard on the other end the way we want them to, is hard.  Figuring out why certain things resonate the way they do, why some people feel connected while others feel alienated when we’re just trying to make our point, is sometimes the hardest thing of all.

I don’t blame Neil Gaiman for not magically figuring out that this would happen with the story he was trying to tell, partially because I haven’t seen anybody else in this great big argument of ours notice it either.  He tried to tell a story that was similar to but distinct from a story a lot of people wanted, and he didn’t make it clear enough.  I still really like the story we got.  I like all the slightly-different fanfic versions, too.  I like liking things.  That’s me.

If you’re still mad, if you’re still hurt: legit.  That’s valid.  But I don’t think arguing over this one specific relationship, what it Should Be and Shouldn’t Be, is helpful.  

Basically: I don’t want to sit around getting angry at each other over why Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t get the same traditional markers of Happily Ever After as Newt and Anathema, as Tracy and Shadwell.  I want to know why those couples didn’t have to (didn’t get to) EARN their happily-ever-afters with all the feeling and wanting and fearing and deciding that Aziraphale and Crowley did.

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

a most holy sin

i watched Bohemian Rhapsody and cried at least 12 times so of course i was (loosely) inspired by it and had to write an ineffable husbands fanfic. i definitely listened to a Best of Queen playlist while i wrote it, too. i hope you enjoy and please forgive historical and medical inaccuracies because im sure there are some. also for some reason the line break isn't working?? i'm going to try to add it again later.

(I know Gabriel does not technically outrank Aziraphale but for the sake of plot he's gonna be in charge of Earthly affairs.)

WARNING: There is usage of homophobic slurs at a point in this story. If you are sensitive to such, either be wary as you read or simply do not read this fic. Don't worry, you won't hurt my feelings if you keep scrolling.

~*~

"I'd like to be temporarily stationed in America."

Gabriel looked up from his desk, every inch of it covered in paperwork. Glasses that Aziraphale knew very well the archangel did not need slid down his nose. Gabriel pushed them back up. "Why?"

Succinct. As per usual. Aziraphale pretended that he was not twisting his ring anxiously around his pinky as he spoke. "Well, I do read American papers every so often, and I've been keeping tabs on a certain, er, an epidemic, of sorts, that is happening over there."

Gabriel removed the silver frames from his nose, folding them and placing them on his desk. "Right. The AIDS epidemic."

"Yes," Aziraphale murmured. "Yes, quite. I assure you that I don't intend to miracle up a cure for the disease. It's best to let humans work through that on their own, I assume. I simply wish to - to ease the pain of those in the final stages."

Gabriel was silent. Aziraphale began to wonder if he was pushing his luck with this request. He'd nearly been discovered with Crowley only two decades or so ago, not to mention his boss was not known for being the friendliest or the most sympathetic of angels -

"Yes."

Aziraphale blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said yes, you may go." Gabriel sighed, scrawling his signature on a document in glittering gold ink before shoving the paper away. "I have also been keeping up with information on the epidemic. Those victims could certainly use some angelic kindness right now, what with so many being rejected by their families even as they're on their deathbeds. Beelzebub undoubtedly has a special place in Hell for those sorts of nasty people, I'm sure."

"And we have a special place in Heaven for the victims?"

"Precisely." Gabriel returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him. "You're dismissed, Aziraphale. Don't stay too long."

"Of course," Aziraphale breathed, nodding. He was almost unable to believe everything had worked out so well. "Thank you, Gabriel." Not wanting to overstay his visit and risk having the decision reversed, Aziraphale promptly left. He considered taking the back exit out, but it wasn't as if he was in a rush. He still had to pack, after all.

It was quite a shame he couldn't simply miracle himself to America. Airplanes were... Less than enjoyable, in Aziraphale's opinion. But miracles had to be preserved.

He didn't want to think about how many he might have to perform in the very near future.

~*~

America, circa 1990

Aziraphale had ditched his usual tartan suit for new tartan scrubs. He was posing as a nurse, working in a ward delegated specifically to victims of AIDS in the final stages. As much as it pained him, he refrained from miracling them back into health. God probably would not take too kindly to that, what with the circle of life and all, even considering Her infinite generosity. Instead, Aziraphale eased their pain as they passed to Heaven. If nothing else, they deserved to know that good things awaited them on the other side.

"Room 636, Nurse Fell," a woman called to Aziraphale as he walked down the hall. Her voice had the rounded edge of a faint Southern drawl. "He's got family with him right now, but they'll be out soon."

"Right. Thank you." He nodded at her as she passed. Aziraphale had memorized the layout of the hospital before he'd started "working" there - it helped him maximize his time with the patients. Not to mention he had to be back in Soho before the end of the year.

"This is your own fault, you know."

Aziraphale froze.

"You're the who grew up and decided to be a fucking fag, goddamnit!"

He recognized that tone. It was one he heard all too often in the AIDS ward.

"And now that choice is killing you. Just like it killed your little queer boyfriend."

Aziraphale resisted the urge to swear. Of course the voice was coming from room 636.

"Hope you're happy with yourself. Hope you're proud."

The man's words were laced with more venom than the world's deadliest snake could provide. Aziraphale reached for the door handle, only to find that it had been locked. Very much against hospital regulations, but also rather common in these situations.

"This is the devil's consequence. You know why they're calling it the 'gay plague'? Because only fags are getting it." The man sighed, an intensified frustration bleeding into his tone. "You just had to be a queer, didn't you? You had to be the family disappointment." His voice dropped, and he growled the lethal blow. "I can't believe I ever called you my son."

Aziraphale didn't care if Heaven reprimanded him. He snapped his fingers, unlocking the door and entering the room without a moment's hesitation. He straightened his back and stared down the father. "Sir, I am going to have to ask that you leave here immediately."

The man's lip curled in disgust. "A queer nurse? I should have known."

Aziraphale ignored the comment, standing his ground. "I must insist that you leave, or else I'll be forced to call security."

For a moment, Aziraphale was afraid the man wouldn't go. But after a long pause, he left in a furious silence.

Aziraphale rushed over to the patient's bed. He was young, in his late teens or early twenties. Still a boy, really. And that only made it all the more heartbreaking.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Aziraphale checked the IV in the boy's arm, making sure it remained connected. "You don't deserve to be treated like something is wrong with you."

"Maybe there is something wrong with me."

Sweat beaded the boy's forehead, and Aziraphale's heart ached a little more when he saw tearstains on his cheeks.

"Am I really going to Hell, nurse?" the boy whispered. "Was falling in love really a sin?" He closed his eyes, biting his lip in a clear attempt to keep himself from sobbing. "I loved him. I loved him so much. All I did was fall in love."

"My dear boy." Aziraphale pulled up a chair next to the hospital bed before sitting down. "Of course you aren't going to Hell. Believe me, falling in love is no sin."

"That's not what my father thinks." His voice was bitter. Much too bitter for someone who likely had just started university.

"Well, fathers don't know everything," Aziraphale replied. "Trust me, dear boy. There is nothing you have to fear in death."

The boy wiped tears from his eyes. "Yeah? How would you know?"

Aziraphale snapped his fingers. The Almighty really was not going to be pleased with him. So many miracles only a few minutes apart was sure to get him reprimanded. Or maybe it wouldn't. He never could tell what exactly She would approve or disapprove of.

The boy's eyes widened as he took in the sudden change of his surroundings. He tried to sit up, but Aziraphale stopped him.

"Careful, now. I'm simply giving you a peek into what awaits you."

The boy shook his head in disbelief. "Is this - is this Heaven?"

"Indeed." A part of it, at least. A lovely little spot of paradise that was reminiscent of Eden. Many enjoyed it when they first ascended to Heaven. A place to get acclimated.

The boy stared at Aziraphale. "You're an angel."

Aziraphale's wings fluttered, as if responding to the query. "Yes, I am. I requested to be stationed in America to help ease the pain of those suffering from AIDS. People in the... Final stages of the disease."

The boy nodded. A faint smile appeared on his lips. "That means I'm dying, then."

Young people truly were getting more perceptive. "I'm afraid so, my dear." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the vision of Heaven dissipated. Regretfully, his wings went, too.

The boy sighed, leaning back more deeply into the hospital bed's pillow. "Would you believe me if I told you that I'm going to miss my father?"

Aziraphale didn't respond. He knew an answer wasn't expected.

"I'm going to miss him. Even if -" The boy's voice cracked. "Even if he hates me, he was the only family I had. I forgive him, and - and I want God to forgive him, too."

"She will," Aziraphale murmured, his voice so low only he could hear it. "She always does."

The boy's heart rate was dropping. Aziraphale resisted every instinct in his body to save him. He could not interfere. It was not his responsibility to influence Earthly life and death.

"At least I'll get to see Miles again," the boy breathed. Tears were trickling down his face. "It's been a long year without him."

He closed his eyes.

The machine flatlined.

Aziraphale could sense the boy's spirit leaving his body. He returned the chair to the side of the room, then slid the curtain shut around the bed.

"I'm sorry, angel."

Aziraphale didn't know when he'd started crying. "I can't imagine even your lot could be responsible for this, Crowley."

There was a pause. "AIDS itself is one of the final gifts of Pestilence unto Earth, despite that they retired eons ago." Footsteps echoed in the quiet room, moving closer to Aziraphale. "But only humans could be so cruel to one another."

"I know," Aziraphale whispered. "And I think that's the worst part of all." He didn't even blink as Crowley stepped in front of him, brushing away his tears with his thumb.

"There's nothing you can do, angel," Crowley murmured. "You know that."

Aziraphale did know that. He hated it, but he knew it all too well. "I just - I just don't understand. All they do is fall in love, Crowley! What could have wrong in human history where they started to believe that love was sinful?"

Aziraphale expected a witty comment in response. A dry quip about Catholics, or the Shaker community. He certainly had not prepared himself for a serious answer.

"When did Heaven and Hell start believing it?"

Crowley's sunglasses slid down his nose. He took them off, tucking them into his jacket. They stared at each other, eye to eye.

"I've been - I've been wondering that myself," Aziraphale stammered. His voice was hushed. "But it's not my place to question it."

Crowley shrugged. "The Almighty has been more forgiving as of late. Since it's you, She just might allow it."

"I - I couldn't possibly."

"I know, angel." He sighed. "I know."

Neither spoke after that. But neither made a move to walk away.

Aziraphale knew he had to leave. He had to report the death of the young man so the room could be available for other patients. But he couldn't bring himself to step away from Crowley.

The stood only inches apart. Aziraphale wasn't certain whether he'd reached for Crowley's hand or if the demon had grabbed his, but their fingers were intertwined and Aziraphale knew damn well he didn't want to let go.

"How did you find me?" he finally asked. "I don't recall telling you I was leaving Soho. Or where I was going." In fact, they hadn't spoken since 1967. The night in the Bentley.

Crowley shrugged. In a rare moment of tenderness, his thumb gently brushed over Aziraphale's knuckles. "The city feels different when you're not there."

"O-Oh. I see." Aziraphale found his gaze drifting down from Crowley's eyes to his lips. He didn't fail to notice that Crowley had lessened the distance between them even further.

"Is love a sin, angel?" Crowley whispered. His free hand moved to cup Aziraphale's cheek. "Because if so, it must be the holiest sin there is."

Aziraphale would have laughed had the tension between them not been almost suffocating. "Well, my dear, I really don't think there's such thing as a 'holy' sin -"

He was cut off as Crowley captured his mouth with his. Aziraphale found himself melting into the kiss, pulling the demon towards him. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist, and Aziraphale placed his arms around Crowley's neck.

He shouldn't be doing this. He didn't know why he shouldn't be, because every atom in his body was telling him that this was right, that this was love, that Crowley was all he needed -

But he couldn't.

Aziraphale pulled away, certain that regret was written all over his face. He couldn't bring himself to look Crowley in the eyes. "I'm sorry. You deserve - you deserve better than me."

Crowley laughed. It was harsh. Bitter. "I'm a demon, angel. I don't 'deserve' anything. It's part of the job description. In the fine print. Non-negotiable. You know that." He yanked his sunglasses out of his pocket and shoved them onto his face.

"No." Aziraphale's voice refused to move above a whisper. "You deserve everything, my dear. Anything you want. The whole world."

"I don't want the whole damn world. I only want you."

Aziraphale forced himself to look at Crowley. The demon's expression was unreadable behind the black lenses. "I can't, Crowley. Not now. Not yet."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "'Yet'?"

Aziraphale nodded. "One day, I'll - I'll be ready. To go faster. As fast as you. I swear it. Just - Just not today." And he meant it. More than anything he'd ever said. "Will you... Wait for me?"

A small smile appeared on Crowley's lips. It was a rare sight, but one of Aziraphale's favorites.

"For you, angel? Always."

Aziraphale blinked, and the demon was gone. He didn't know when they'd see each other again. He didn't know what the future would hold for them, either. But when Crowley had left, he'd taken all of Aziraphale's tears with him. As he so often did.

Perhaps his demon had a point.

If love was a sin, it truly was a holy one.

Maybe even one worth Falling for.

~*~

im a mess, y'all. i love these two more than i love myself. i hope you enjoyed! feel free to send me prompt requests for them or for ineffable bureaucracy because both are such good pairings.

[applepiewinchesters]

Fatal (Aziraphale x Reader)

Requested by: Anonymous

Warnings: Angst, Sad sweet bean angel

Prompt: (I combined two requests because they were very similar, hope that whoever requested them does not mind, thank you) You’re sick, really sick, and you haven’t told Aziraphale or Crowley about it because you can’t think of the right way to tell them. Crowley doesn’t exactly like you taking up all his angel’s time, so he’s a bit bitter towards you most days, finally, you reach your breaking point and tell him, and Aziraphale in the process, how he’ll have his angel all to himself soon enough.

 It was a bad day. Most days for a few weeks had been bad, but you’ve been managing to hide the pain you constantly felt, and the weakness you’ve come to get used to.

You were surprised Aziraphale, nor Crowley, had picked up on the fact that you were sick, it seemed obvious to you some days, but it’s possible they thought you were tired. No one ever said they were the most competent angel and demon to walk the earth.

Telling Aziraphale was probably going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, he really truly loved you, maybe more than his extensive book collection. You didn’t want to imagine the pained, hurt expression that would ruin his angelic features.

You shook the thoughts away, coming back into the main area of the bookshop with mugs of tea for the three of you, when you handed Aziraphale his, he smiled, leaning forward to softly kiss your lips.

On the other hand, when you handed Crowley his mug, he said, “Let’s hope you made it right this time.”

Ignoring the demon, you went and hopped up, with a little effort, onto the desk Aziraphale was sitting at, watching him comb through a recent book he’d acquired, if you remembered correctly, it was from the 16th century.

It was after a few minutes that Crowley groaned, “Do you really have to be here if you’re just going to sit there staring at him?”

He was talking about you, obviously, you really didn’t know what it was, but ever since you two had met you’d become civil enemies, you sometimes tolerated each other’s company, other times you spat insults back and forth until Aziraphale finally stopped you both.

“Crowley, you know Y/N is welcome here whenever she likes, and you are as well, you two are just going to have to learn to get along at some point,” Aziraphale spoke, turning to give Crowley a pointed look.

“But she’s always here, we barely ever talk anymore angel, everything is about you and this little human,” Crowley spat out.

You were gripping your mug tightly, trying to hold your tongue, you were rather tired today, you hadn’t slept much because of the pain, and Crowley’s words honestly stung a bit more that usual.

“Dear boy, we’ve had plenty of time to spend with each other, you’re the only one I’m hung around consistently for the past six thousand years,” Aziraphale argued.

“Well, the last six thousand years were better without her around,” Crowley said, obvious disdain in his voice.

That was it.

You slammed your mug down onto the desk, hopping off and marching over to where the demon stood, “Then you’ll be very happy to know that I won’t be around much longer to be such a bother, you’ll have your angel all to yourself again soon enough!” you shouted, hot tears beginning to drip down your cheeks.

Aziraphale stood from the desk, pulling off his spectacles, a concerned look on his face, “What do you mean love?” he asked.

Shit.

Sighing, you turned towards your angel, trying to wipe at the tears that just kept coming, “I-I’m sick… I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, I didn’t know how to say it,” you sobbed.

“Sick?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head to the side.

You nodded, “Cancer, stage four, the doctor said it was too far along, fatal,” you spoke, your voice hoarse, “that’s why I’ve been so tired, everything hurts all the time.”

You could see in Aziraphale’s face that his heart had just broke at your words, he seemed speechless. Reaching out, you grabbed him, wrapping him up in a hug as you sobbed into his chest, you were sort of coming to the realization that you were dying, you weren’t going to come back, and you would have to leave your angel behind.

Crowley on the other hand felt like absolute shit, he really had no reason to hate you, Aziraphale was his best friend, but he loved you more than anything, and him being with someone was bound to happen eventually. He would really need to learn to share the angel.

“I-I’m sorry, I need a minute,” you said, pulling away from Aziraphale and walking quickly to the back room, slamming the door shut behind you.

It was silent between the angel and the demon. Aziraphale sat down in the closest chair, burying his head in his hands, when his shoulders started to shake as he cried, Crowley could feel his guilt start to worsen.

You really did mean the world to Aziraphale, Crowley was just rude to you because, well, it’d just been him and the angel for the longest time, and now here you were taking up most of the time Crowley usually spent with him.

But you were such a sweet person, he could see it in your face every time he spat an insult at you that it hurt, but he kept doing it, he was demon after all. You were still kind to him though, getting him tea when you got it for yourself and Aziraphale, inviting him along on dates (even though he always declined), even making sure to order him food when you and Aziraphale got take out, even though Crowley didn’t eat much.

For fuck’s sake, he was such a prick.

Crowley hurried towards the back room, he had to help somehow, he couldn’t see his best friend like this, and he knew Aziraphale would lose himself once you were really gone.

He knocked softly on the door, he could hear you crying inside.

After a moment the door opened and you stood there, eyes rimmed with red, face wet with tears, “Come to brag?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Crowley shook his head, pushing past you into the room, he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, unsure of what to say at first.

“I just…I just wanted to say I’m sorry, there’s no reason I should treat you the way that I do,” Crowley said.

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock,” you spat back.

“Truly, I’m sorry,” Crowley told you, he wasn’t lying, you could tell when he was.

“Well, sorry isn’t really going to fix anything now,” you said, wiping at your eyes.

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, he looked so heartbroken, and knowing it was your fault only made you more upset.

But he wasn’t angry, he didn’t yell, he just strode over to you, wrapping you up in a hug, “I’ll help you get through this, whatever you need, I’m there,” he spoke softly.

You laughed a bit, pulling away, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I should’ve told you weeks ago,” you said.

“How long have you known?” Aziraphale asked.

“A few months…,” you said quietly, making Aziraphale sigh and kiss your forehead.

“How much longer do you have?” he asked this time.

“Um, I don’t know, could be weeks, could be months, no one knows exactly,” you shrugged, looking down.

“For hell’s sake,” Crowley suddenly said, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from Aziraphale. “Stay very still.”

Crowley put his hands on either side of your face, closing his eyes, you did the same, not really sure of what was happening.

Put as you all stood there silently, you could physically feel yourself grow less tired, stronger, you didn’t feel nauseous like usual. It only took about a minute before you finally felt normal again.

When Crowley let go of you, you opened your eyes, “What did you do?” you asked, obviously confused.

“Healed you, angels can’t intervene in the normal cycle of human life, but demons can, less people going to heaven,” Crowley shrugged, like it was no big deal.

“I’m fine?” you asked, a feeling of elation spreading through your body.

“Yes, completely, long happy life ahead,” Crowley said, smiling.

You shocked the demon when you reached out and hugged him tightly, “Thank you, thank you so much!” you said happily.

“I-It was nothing, more for angel than anything else,” Crowley muttered. When you pulled away from the hug it was Aziraphale’s turn, he quickly wrapped the demon into a huge hug.

Crowley was obviously uncomfortable with all the affection as he gently peeled the angel off of him, “It was nothing, really,” he told Aziraphale, “just saw how much she means to you.”

Aziraphale had tears in his eyes as he spoke, “I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” he said, walking back over to you and hugging you tightly, pressing his lips against yours.

“Thank me at the wedding,” Crowley muttered, leaving the room, too much love, too little space.

A/N: Sorry I didn’t post anything, been having writers block. I’ve got three more imagines to write and then requests will be open again! Maybe send me some fluff this time, haha, I’ve been writing too much angst, I did ask for it though and you guys definitely delivered! Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! Love you all! ~ Sara :)

[preraphaelitepunk]

Fictober19 Day 20: Clipped Wings

Prompt #20: You could talk about it, you know.

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley

Rating: Teen (bit of swearing)

Warnings: Memories of peer neglect/rejection

On AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843936/chapters/50218805

He’d always thought that Crowley’s wings were gorgeous. Their black feathers gleamed, little hints of iridescence flickering on his tertiaries, every feather aligned and glistening and looking so impossibly elegant. Aziraphale had only seen them a few times over the millennia, but they always left him breathless.

And now he could touch them. Crowley was more fastidious than Aziraphale and his wings only ever needed a touch-up, if that. But, though he’d never admit it, he was also generous to a fault with Aziraphale and never refused an offer of preening. He seemed to know how much it meant to his angel.

“Thank you for indulging me, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured as he finished, giving a last few delicate strokes on the glossy feathers.

“Hnghk. I should be thanking you. That felt amazing.”

Aziraphale lightly kissed the center of the demon’s back, right between the wings. “It makes me so happy to hear you say that, darling. I love grooming your beautiful wings.”

Crowley put his wings away and turned on the sofa to face Aziraphale. “And I love being groomed by you.” He gave a lazy, hopeful smile and said, “Can I return the favor this time? Once I can move my arms again; too blessed relaxed right now.”

Ah. There it was, the only problem with getting to play with Crowley’s impeccable wings: the demon always wanted to reciprocate.

“Perhaps next time, darling, but thank you,” Aziraphale said brightly. Now was the time to change the subject, make his escape. “I’ll go make us some tea; I’ve got a lovely Kenyan orthodox black that I’ve been wanting to try—”

Crowley grabbed his hands before Aziraphale was halfway off the sofa; apparently he was not actually too relaxed to move his arms. “Not this time, angel. Why won’t you ever let me groom you? It’s not fair.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all.”

“Yeah, but I do. This sort of thing is meant to be reciprocal, innit? I mean, it’s a bonding activity, like birds preening each other, or gorillas picking nits off each other.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Charming image.”

“That’s not my point. My point is that it only works when it goes both ways. You give to me, and I give to you, but you won’t let me give. What’s up with that, angel?”

“You give to me so much already —”

“So what difference if I give a little more?”

“It’s just,” Aziraphale swallowed, searching for the proper words. “It’s just not right.” Crowley made a confused sound, so he continued, “It’s just not something that happens. Someone else touching my wings. Inflicting that on them.”

“Angel, you’re not making any sense. There’s a backstory to this, am I right?” When Aziraphale nodded, the demon squeezed his hands reassuringly. “You could talk about it, you know. Help me understand. I want to know what’s wrong.”

Aziraphale laughed nervously, unable to meet Crowley’s eyes. “You’ll think it’s silly. It’s nothing, really.”

“I won’t think it’s silly. It’s obviously upsetting you. Please, I want to know, Aziraphale.”

With a shaky exhale, Aziraphale relented and began the story.

He'd been returning from a debriefing session with Gabriel when he'd seen the grooming circle. They were in one of the garden squares that used to be so common, little foci of concentrated peace in an infinite realm of peace. A tiered fountain provided a soothing background burbling, fruiting experimental citrus trees twisted and gnarled in the corners, and the little cluster of angels sat in a cozy circle on the tiles, each running their fingers through the feathers of the angel in front of them, preening and straightening and chatting comfortably.

It had looked so nice, so welcoming, like love embodied. He could use a little bit of that right now. The other angels usually were distant toward him, but surely they wouldn’t mind including him in such basic socializing.

So, Aziraphale had tried to join them. It wasn't rude to do so — angels joined social grooming circles all the time, even with those they didn’t know well, budging up to a participant and working their way in with shared smiles and warm glances.

It only worked, though, when the circle members acknowledged your presence beyond a dismissive glance, an eye roll, a slightly too pointed turning away. Any wings that he tried to touch flickered away from his fingers, a little too consistently for it to be chance.

Finally, one of the angels turned to him, exasperated. “Did you want something, Aziraphale? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

They didn’t want him. Whatever sharing was going on, they didn’t want to share with him.

He'd stammered excuses that no one was listening to, not even the angel who’d snapped at him. It was if he had ceased to exist again. He shuffled away, burning with a sensation he couldn't name then. It was only later that he grew to recognize the emotions all too well: shame, embarrassment, mortification. Loneliness.

“So you see, it’s really all very silly,” Aziraphale concluded with false brightness. “No high drama, no cataclysmic trauma.”

Crowley’s grip was getting uncomfortably tight. “Bastards. Utter bastards.”

“It was their right. Nobody should have to groom anyone they don’t want to, especially someone as odd as I am. A misfit.”

“Even now you’re defending them?” Crowley growled. He shifted off the sofa and knelt beside Aziraphale, golden eyes blazing as he looked up at the angel. “They were being petty, childish, exclusionist pricks. It’s like refusing to shake hands with a human: a deliberate snub.”

“Not every human likes shaking hands,” Aziraphale pointed out. “There are germ phobias, touch aversions, compromised immune systems —”

“None of which was going on here! They had no legitimate excuse to treat you like that, angel. It was personal, and it was petty, and if I ever find out who they were I will make them regret it.” Crowley’s grip tightened on his hands. “They were idiots who couldn’t recognize how amazing and wonderful you are, and I hate that they made you feel unworthy because you’re the most precious, fantastic, maddeningly idiotic being ever.”

Aziraphale laughed damply. “I could say the same about you, my love.”

“Blessed right! We’re two absolutely fabulous idiots, and we deserve nothing less than each other.” Crowley stroked his thumb against Aziraphale’s cheek; apparently a tear or two had escaped without the angel noticing. “Thank you for telling me, angel. And I’d still like very much to groom your wings. Not right now, if you don’t feel up to it, but sometime soon. Whenever you’re ready.”

Tentatively, Aziraphale said, “Perhaps — perhaps we could try now?”

The delight on Crowley’s face made his eyes glow. “I’d love that. If it gets to be too much, though, you’ve got to promise to let me know. Okay, angel?”

“I promise.”

It did not get to be too much. It was, in fact, wonderful, and if Aziraphale cried a little, it was only because he had never before felt so safe, loved, and, above all, accepted.

[thisbitchinthecorner]

998 AD- Day 20 Reindeer

Reindeer prompt! For @drawlight

Reindeer Prompt

998 AD

In an old Norse village, at the top of the world, an angel has been sent to make certain that Christianity takes root in this pagan territory. As it happens, a demon has been sent to spur the people to their old gods and to go out and explore the world outside.

“Why shouldn’t you find new lands to conquer and explore? Who is to say what is out there, beyond the sea?” The demon purred to a strapping young man with a lust for adventure.

“What will I find out there? Will I come back?” The man questioned.

“If you are hard of heart and strong of will.” The demon whispered back.

Better you than me. I have no desire to go to that wretched land mass. Crowley mused to himself as he watched the man stride confidently away.

“Hello Crowley!” A familiar voice rang out.

“Aziraphale, what the devil are you doing here!”

“You mean besides freezing!” The angel joked. “I’m meant to be spreading the word of our Lord. Well, my Lord as it were.”

“And how is that working for you?” Crowley said snidely.

“They are rather fond of violence, and blood and spirits.”

“How is that different from your Christian ways? Seems like God is awfully fond of death and bloodshed.”

“That’s blasphemy, Crowley!” Aziraphale said as he fidgeted his fingers.

“Is it now?” The demon laughed. “Well, can’t fault me for questioning God, now can you?”

“Oh come now!” Aziraphale frowned as he rubbed his arms in attempt to warm. “And why in God’s name is it so damn dark all the time? Honestly, I can’t tell if it’s morning or night. I hate being so cold, it’s just miserable!”

“How do you think I’m fairing?” The former serpent seethed.

“Fancy a drink?” Aziraphale smiled in spite himself. “The last time we met, I believe it was your treat. This time, it’s mine.” The angel miracled a handful of coins in his hand.

“Lead the way.” Crowley said with amusement.

The village was indeed small and isolated, there was also a distinct lack of inns and bars for them to partake in, thus causing them to make do with what they could find.

“This is just dreadful.” The demon grumbled. “No decent place to drink, no where warm to sit.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and before them, two thick fur blankets and modest shelter to keep out the wind. The angel raised his eyebrow as he shrugged his shoulders.

Well, I can play this game too. Crowley performed a minor miracle of his own; creating several jugs of wine, the kind they had enjoyed together the last time they were in Rome. He then created a roaring fire, contained within the hut, giving off a pleasant warmth. The demon smirked at the angel who simply rolled his eyes.

They sat down on the furs, comfortably settling down beside the fire. “Pity there’s nothing decent to eat in these parts. I enjoy fish, but not when it’s rotten. It’s ghastly!” The angel sighed.

“Tisk! Pity they don’t have any of those fancy oysters of which you’re so fond.” Crowley teased.

“Pity.” Aziraphale pouted; his lips pursed as he batted his eyes. “I would be terribly grateful for anything remotely edible.”

Crowley snarled as he snapped his fingers creating a tray of figs, almonds, honey, unleavened bread and grapes.

“Oh! Thank you!” Aziraphale grinned. “Care for another glass of wine?”

“Wine not.” Crowley laughed at his own pun, while Aziraphale was less amused.

They drank and drank and drank some more, the fire continued to glow while their cheeks became increasingly red.

Without warning, a dazzling display of lights filled the sky; flashes of green and blue danced before them.

“Are you doing this?” Aziraphale asked softly, clearly admiring the unfolding spectacle.

“It’s not me.” Crowley murmured as he removed the glass coverings from his face. “It’s beautiful.” The cascade of light reflected in the glow of his eyes.

“Beautiful.” The angel whispered as he stole a glance at the being beside him.

“The earth has many wondrous sights.” Crowley smiled as he continued to watch the lights as they danced across the sky. “Shame to think all of this will come to an end one day.”

“It is a shame.” The angel admitted.

“Funny thing for an angel to agree with a demon.” Crowley laughed aloud as he poured them both another glass of wine.

“Just because I believe this world is lovely, that doesn’t mean I agree with you.” Aziraphale shook his head as he took a swig from his glass, spilling more than consuming.

“See those creatures over there?” Crowley pointed towards a herd of reindeer making their way through the ice and snow. “Such animals spend their entire lives looking to eat, sleep and fuc...”

“Language!” Aziraphale chided as he playfully slapped the demon on the arm.

“Fine, fornicate.” Crowley tried to stand but stumbled back onto the ground. “Anyway, they don’t care about anything besides what is directly in front of them. They’re God’s obedient creatures, well, more so than humans are.”

“Humans can be obedient.” Aziraphale attempted to argue.

“Oh can they? Let me ask you, this lot you’re meant to convert; are they really interested in learning about your God or would they rather keep believing what they believe to be real?”

“They will embrace Christianity, eventually.”

“Why didn’t God just make them Christians to begin with? Why give them a choice?” Crowley asked pointedly. “Why the need to make them convert in the first place?”

“Because...um...what I mean to say...” Aziraphale fumbled for words. “Oh I don’t know. Seems I’m out of wine again!”

“I don’t have any answers either, and I’ve run out of wine.” Crowley lamented as he drained the last of the liquor from the jug.

“Well, consider this your lucky day!” Aziraphale chuckled as produced another jug of wine from behind his back.

“You’re worse than I!” Crowley threw his head back in delight.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale said coyly. “Who’s to say this isn’t blessed and meant to cleanse you of your demonic ways?”

“Shut it and pour the damn wine.”

They remain in their modest shelter for the remainder of the night, the sky here was dark for the sunlight did not come during these long winter months. The wine was finished, and both demon and angel were more than a little intoxicated.

“I haven’t been this drunk in well...I can’t remember.” Aziraphale tried to settle his eyes on the demon.

“I...ugh.” Crowley tasted a foul taste in his mouth. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this. Sober up?”

“Yes, I think that’s a fine idea.”

They both forced the liquor from their bodies, as unpleasant as the task was, they knew what awaited them in the morning if they did not.

“Crowley,” the angel began. “This was, well, an enjoyable way to pass the time.”

“Better than freezing my ass off.”

As they passed through the little fishing village, they found themselves in front of an old woman selling her wares.

“Care for a talisman, good sirs?” She asked. “They’re meant to ward off evil spirits.”

“Evil spirits, you say?” Aziraphale laughed as he nudged the demon in the side. “I’ll take two please.”

“Two?” Crowley said skeptically.

“One for me, and one for you.” The angel smiled as he placed the clay pendant upon a leather cord in the demon’s hand.

Crowley looked down at the simple necklace with a crude drawing etched into its surface. Such a small token, but given freely and without expectation. Such a kindness he had not known before, not even before his fall from grace.

“Farewell Crowley, until we meet again.” Aziraphale gave a smile before vanishing.

“Goodbye, angel.” Crowley looked over the pendant once more and felt his heart beat quicken. He slipped it around his neck before disappearing into the darkness.

[sylwritesstuff]

025) Death (3567)

Part of the Light to Dancing 100x100 List.

Rating: PG13 (Language & mentions of death/murder)

Featuring: A ghost and the highest word count of the whole list

Inspired by: One of the ridiculous conversations @skimmingmilk and I have basically every day

—-

It was, of course, a human fear. Aziraphale didn't begrudge them this, of course. A great many things could kill humans. It was partly his fault, really. Humans had once lived such long, exciting lives until God had asked him why he thought humans acted so wily. Was it, She asked, because they lived so long? 

He'd nearly reminded Her of the demon on Earth and his wily ways of tempting. It was hardly against his nature to cause humanity's misbehavior. But he'd bit his tongue, gazing up at the light. "W-well, I- It's difficult to say, really, but I- I do believe you're right. It must be their ages. They live too long to fear God."

And so their lives had been shortened and they'd needed things like medicine. Aziraphale had done what he could for them and he'd been making some headway until the fourteenth century. It had become very difficult to complete his duties alone. Not that he was completely alone, no. He'd popped up to Heaven more that century than any other before or since and he'd had all manner of human to keep him company, however unpleasant. 

He certainly couldn't bring himself to stay in Europe, though, so had explored much of west Africa and the Indian subcontinent. He'd seen Crowley again just as the Fifteenth century had rolled up, awakened by his superiors giving him a commendation, he told Aziraphale over drinks. 

He took in everything he could about Crowley, beaming the whole time they ate together because he'd missed the demon. He didn't say so, of course, but he dearly had and did everything he could to ensure Crowley never slept through another century again. Letting the pious humans live simply had been too dull for him, apparently, too dirty. And so Aziraphale started to tempt good people into taking good things. Or- or he guided them. Tempting was Crowley's job. 

As the centuries had continued, Aziraphale had realized just how strong that temptation could be. He found even himself slipping into that dangerous territory, though he was tempted by the man himself rather than into doing anything wicked. He wanted a kiss, not a Fall. But he ignored that. 

He ignored quite a lot more than he should've, to be honest, right up until an antique set of ramekins appeared in his kitchen cabinet. Odd. Very odd, but not entirely unwelcome. There was nothing negative about them, anyway. They felt loved and he wondered briefly if it was a gift from young Adam. He'd given them other gifts and they'd made an appearance at each of his two birthday parties since the world had tried to end, but it had been some time since they'd spoken. 

Of course, Aziraphale promptly wrote the boy a letter asking how he was and how was school, his parents, the Them... Even his dog. Then he returned to his kitchen to find one of the ramekins rolling out of the cabinet. Aziraphale gasped, but it floated right to the counter and began to fill itself. How... odd. 

The ramekin tilted itself, popped a perfectly good cupcake onto a plate, then returned to the cabinet to join the others. 

"Oh, come now. I can't possibly accept that." There was a fizzle, something like a faded person appearing before him. He wore a chef's jacket and a pleading smile. Aziraphale stared at him. This wasn't an angel and the only way he'd recognize a demon was via Crowley. But he wasn't there. Something about Italy and betting on cars. Hm. 

At any rate, he didn't look demonic. He looked positively human. Ghostly, really. 

Oh. Oh, dear. "Are you a ghost?" he demanded and the vision faded away. 

"Oh," he muttered, not about to swear. It was a very old bookshop. There was bound to be a haunting eventually, but a chef? Odd. Aziraphale went to the cupcake and inspected it carefully before giving in and taking a bite. 

It was spectacular. Spicy and sweet, candied lemon and possibly ginger. He ate every bit over the sink to avoid getting crumbs anywhere. "Well, if that was your way of asking to stay, the answer is yes. You'll have to tell me your name, of course."

He didn't reappear, but Aziraphale smiled. "In due time, of course. Have a lovely night, chef."

---

When Crowley returned, Aziraphale still didn't know the ghost's name. But he did know he was an excellent baker. Tarts and cupcakes and tiny meat pies filled the ramekins at various times a day. Aziraphale found him very polite and wondered why he'd never thought to get a roommate before. Ghosts were everywhere. He could've tempted- encouraged one to pay him a visit. Would've been very useful in the fourteenth century, frankly. 

Crowley watched a ramekin roll with narrowed eyes. "Fuck's that?" 

"Hm? Oh! It's my ghost. I call him chef."

"You do what?" 

Aziraphale smiled. "He hasn't spoken, per say, but you'll see. Chef, would you kindly make something for my friend here?" A second ramekin began to roll. "There's a good chap. Thank you so much."

Crowley could see the shimmering edges of a ghost, piecing together a body. Where Aziraphale saw how the young man had looked in life, Crowley saw him as he'd died. Blood leaked out of his nose, bullet holes riddled the jacket, and there was danger in black eyes. A vengeful spirit, then. Murdered and looking for revenge. He wasn't surprised it hadn't taken out its fury on Aziraphale. What human would attack an angel?

Murderous, mistaken Frenchman aside. Those had been dark times. 

"I don't think I'll eat it."

"Oh, Crowley, don't be rude."

"Bet he'll poison mine."

"He wouldn't." The ramekin cracked. Aziraphale looked back at it, blinking. "Well. You are a demon, my dear."

"Right. So I'll pass." The ramekin nearly hit him in the head, but he caught it easily and glared at the ghost. "Now that'll be enough of that." A third one came out of nowhere and struck his ear. "Oi!" 

Aziraphale rose quickly. "Now, chef, this is no way to treat a guest! I've been waiting-" 

A fourth one whizzed by and Crowley scowled. "Not dealing with this. See you 'round, angel."

"Crowley, please-" But he was gone, Aziraphale slowly taking his seat again. "I was waiting for you to come home," he mumbled, staring at Crowley's full mug. A pudding settled in front of him and he sighed, dipping a spoon in anyway. Chocolate was always comforting. And Crowley hadn't invited him, so he couldn't very well make his way to the flat. It would be very rude. 

"That's no way to treat a guest, chef. Please remember that for next time."

Next time, Crowley didn't even come in. "Still haunted?" he asked from the steps. 

"Yes, but I've spoken to chef and he's agreed to leave you be."

"Oh, did he? Grand. Bet he opened his mouth and told you straight, right? Just like he's told you his name and how he died."

Aziraphale frowned, clasping his hands together to keep from reaching out. "Well, no, but..."

"Right. It's always our lot being blamed for death. Never yours, is it? Everyone loves angels when it's time to die." When Aziraphale didn't respond, Crowley turned away. "Later, angel."

"No, please," but Crowley was gone. A broken ramekin fell behind him, wobbling on the floor as the pieces pulled themselves back together. Aziraphale stared down at them. "No, no, no. We do not chase Crowley away. I've worked very hard to ensure he'd stay. So what are you doing this for?" 

For a brief second, he saw the chef. Bleeding, desperate, then angry before he popped back to normal. The broken ramekin filled with a small tart, but Aziraphale didn't eat this one. He went to Crowley's flat only to chicken out and return to the bookshop. Surely he had a book on removing ghosts. 

Not that he could find anything, which was odd. He knew every book he had and where he had it, but there were several missing. Hm. Maybe he'd just miracle up some light for him to enter, then. Helping humans cross over was the duty of far lesser angels than himself, so it couldn't be that hard. He opened the cabinet and reached for the ramekin set, finding it impossible to reach. "Come now, chef, I haven't the time. You've been a lovely guest, but all humans must cross over." Especially since Aziraphale had the company he truly wanted now. It was a little selfish, in hindsight, so he sighed and dropped back down. "Alright, chef, one more night. Then you must cross over."

He had to stop three fires that night in his oven before unhappily miracling it away. "Please stop. I'm trying to read." His kettle exploded. "Chef! How terribly cruel! You know I like my tea!" 

Pouting, he turned and went down the stairs to pluck up his phone and dial Crowley's number. 

"What?" 

"Hello, my dear. I apologize for disturbing you at such a late hour, but-" 

"I'm outside."

"Pardon?" 

"I'm outside, angel. Come out."

"Oh. Well. See you soon, then." Aziraphale hung up and scurried to the door and out, beaming when he saw Crowley leaning against the building. "Hello!" 

Crowley looked him over. "You pissed off the ghost."

"Yes, I suppose, but I hardly meant to. I was going to cross him over, but I couldn't find my books. I think he's hidden them, so I promised him one more night. He broke my kettle." He frowned, unable to see the amusement in Crowley's eyes thanks to the sunglasses. "I don't understand. Humans usually want to cross over."

"Not the ones who want revenge."

"Pardon?"

Crowley shook his head, holding out his hand. "Come on, angel. We'll go to the flat."

Aziraphale wanted to take his hand, but was too nervous to. Crowley let it fall and swaggered to the Bentley. "Don't know why you didn't just cross him over in the first place."

"He was lovely company."

"What am I, then?" 

Aziraphale dutifully put on his seat belt, hands folding in his lap. He didn't look at the demon. "You were in Italy."

"And? Was anyone stopping you from visiting?" 

"You didn't say I could come."

Crowley stared at him instead of the road. "Wot."

"You didn't say I could come, Crowley, and I didn't want to intrude. I know you appreciate your alone time. I've known since the fourteenth century."

"Oh, I hated that century."

So had Aziraphale. "You slept through it," he pointed out. 

"Well, who'd want to live through it?" 

No one, but Aziraphale had. Alone. But he said nothing more about it. It was just the sort of selfishness that had lead to him entertaining a ghost for far too long. "The point is, I entertained him and now he's very upset because I'd like him to leave. Revenge is a very... Hellish desire. He needs to forgive and forget to enter Heaven."

Crowley scoffed. "Not likely. He doesn't know who to forgive and forget."

"Well, how do you know?" 

"You think I'm incapable of doing a bit of research, angel? You wanted your sweets too much to do some basic digging."

"I wanted company," he said quietly, but Crowley either didn't hear him or ignored him. 

By the time he'd reached the flat, Aziraphale knew the young man's name and the tragic tale of his death. "I'll never understand how Thou Shalt Not Kill is such a difficult commandment to follow."

"They're all difficult to follow. They wouldn't be holy laws if they weren't."

It was an old debate, one Aziraphale didn't want to have. "Do you know how to soothe an angry ghost?" 

"Pssh. Do I look like the soothing type?" 

"Well..." Aziraphale stopped as they entered the apartment, staring at a statue that looked very much like a nude angel and a nude demon fighting. And the demon was winning. He looked up at Crowley, who cleared his throat almost nervously. "And this would be?" 

"Art."

"Ah."

"Anyway." Crowley looped an arm around Aziraphale's waist to lead him further inside. "Since we don't want to call in any sort of attention to you, asking one of those basic angels for help is out. So I've been looking into humans."

"You've been what? Crowley, you can't be serious."

"Oh, yeah, you'd be surprised. Preachers and shamans and a whole host of them will come into homes and bless it to remove and soothe angry spirits."

His brows lifted. "I am an angel."

"Yes, how's that worked out for you?" 

"I made a mistake," he mumbled. "Leave it be."

Crowley snorted. "Oh, the great angel, admitting to a mistake. Never thought I'd..." He trailed off, seeing something far too close to misery in Aziraphale's expression. Crowley cupped his chin. "You know I've made far worse mistakes, angel. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"But it was selfish. The poor human is dead and I didn't help him at all. I only upset him. I'd like to fix it."

"Then we will. I told you, I've been looking into humans. Being you, I thought a standard Christian ritual would be best. So here are your tools." He gestured to a box, the smile on it indicative of where he'd placed the order. Aziraphale didn't understand why there were nuclear grade rubber gloves next to it, though.

"What are they?" 

"A ruddy Bible and a rosary, blessed by a man in line to be a Saint. My people couldn't get to him. You're supposed to read from it."

That explained the gloves, then. "Oh, Crowley."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don't you dare say thank you."

He took Crowley's hand, surprising both of them. "I appreciate it. Very much."

"Of course." It was the closest he'd come to a "you're welcome." He also squeezed the angel's hand. "Now what do you say we go put a ghost in his place?" 

"Oh, no, we mustn't."

"Angel-"

"No, no, no. I promised him one more night. We'll just have to do it tomorrow."

Crowley stared at him for a few seconds before sighing. "Fine. Do you ever sleep?" 

"Well, yes, occasionally."

"Good. I'm not staying up all night because of you. I was asleep when you called."

"Oh! I- I'm terribly sorry, my dear, I didn't realize."

Crowley waved it off with his free hand. "I know. It wasn't a bother anyway. Been waiting for you to call. So come on. I'm tired tonight and you obviously need to let that mind of yours rest."

When he started to walk, Aziraphale followed curiously. Waiting for his call? Whatever for? They entered a bedroom, obvious only because of the bed under the window. There wasn't even a wardrobe. "Well, this is dreary," he heard himself remark. 

Crowley let out something akin to a snicker. "I suppose your bedroom is full of pillows and books and useless furniture."

"It's not useless if it's used."

Shaking his head, Crowley walked further into the room. The door swung shut and the sheets turned down of their accord. 

Aziraphale clasped his hand, realization dawning. "Are we both to sleep in here?" 

"That was the plan, angel. I only have the one bed. When you sleep, what do you wear?" 

"Crowley!" 

"Pajamas, I bet. The full set." He flicked a wrist, bringing a miracle upwards. Then wrinkled his nose. "Black really doesn't suit you."

A snap turned them white and Aziraphale checked to make sure every button on the nightshirt was buttoned. At least he was covered. Crowley had even been decent enough to include comfortable slippers. When he looked up, gratitude on the tip of his tongue, he stilled. He'd seen Crowley in shorts and a tank before. He'd been Crowley in just this before, splashing at demons in a holy water bath. But that had been life or death. This was... Well, frankly, he didn't know what this was. 

"Get in bed, angel."

"With you."

"Yes. You can go first if that makes you feel better." 

Not really, but he took the offering. It would be ruder to turn back and this sort of thing was just the type of companionship he'd been wanting from Crowley. He likely meant it platonically, but it was companionship all the same. 

Crowley slid into bed and the lights went out. Their eyes needed no time to adjust to the dim stream of moonlight. They could see perfectly well in the night when it suited them. Aziraphale slid further beneath the covers, cheek resting on the pillow as he watched Crowley close his eyes and steady his breathing. It would take nothing for him to be asleep, but it would take Aziraphale more time. "Goodnight, Crowley."

"'Night, angel."

Aziraphale watched him for a few more seconds before he rolled onto his other side. His leg bumped Crowley's, making him roll right back over to apologize. Crowley was staring at him. "If you're gonna toss and turn-" 

"No. No, I'm not. Terribly sorry. I'm not used to... to this. I haven't even seen you sleep since the fourteenth century."

"Wait, you saw me?" 

Aziraphale's face burned in embarrassment. Oh... Oh, bugger. "Yes, but I can explain. I hadn't seen you in some time, so I got... Well, I was worried. So I searched for you and I found your little cabin in the forest. At first I thought something was wrong, but then I realized you were simply having a- a nap or something. I left."

"You left."

"Yes. I didn't want to bother you. I knew you'd been struggling with the century and I... I did too."

Crowley frowned, rolling onto his side fully to face him. "What'd you end up doing, then? I never asked."

It was very difficult to look away when lying on one's side in a bed. Even one as large as Crowley's. "I... Well, I left Europe."

"Why?" It was no secret that it was their favorite. London had been their preferred home for centuries. Aziraphale warred with himself for a few seconds, searching for the right words, when Crowley spoke. "Come on, angel. Thou shalt not lie."

"I missed you," Aziraphale blurted. "I was created specifically to be on Earth, you know. I was created, God handed me a flaming sword, I was issued a body and orders to defend the eastern gate, and I was placed on a wall. And you were there, ready to stir up trouble already. You've always been there, Crowley. Even when we didn't speak for years, there was still a chance that you'd pop up where I was. You did it all the time. I very rarely had to be the one to find you, Black Knight. I got used to it. So for you to suddenly just not be there... I didn't want to stay in Europe, so I went elsewhere."

"Why didn't you just wake me up?" 

"That would've been rude. As would appearing Italy or- or coming over here without permission when you got back. I wanted to hear about your trip and... and just spend a bit of time with you, but the ghost scared you off."

"I was not scared. I don't get scared."

"Oh, Crowley."

He lifted a hand, surprising Aziraphale with how gently he laid it on his cheek. "Why didn't you call me?" 

"W-well, I- I didn't want to be a bother."

Crowley shifted closer, kissing the angel's brow. "You're not a bother, angel."

"Good Lord," he whispered. 

"Don't you dare start praying in my bed. Now we'll get this straight because you're too bloody polite."

"I beg your pardon."

"Exactly. Now anytime I go anywhere, you're welcome. This is your invitation, got it? It's permanent. You're also welcome to drop by here whenever you like. I'll get another bloody chair for you and everything. I want you to be used to me." He'd been working towards that for six thousand years, and it had worked better than expected. Sooner, too, which was a tragedy of its own. "But I don't want you to miss me. Got it?" 

"I... I think so. But then I've heard pillow talk is all false, so-" 

"Ah-ah. Stop that. I swear, alright? I'm being truthful. You know I c... I ca..." 

"Yes. I care about you too, Crowley." Aziraphale smiled. "Thank you, my dear. I promise I won't welcome ghostly companionship the next time I'm missing you."

"Good. Now go to sleep, angel. I told you, that brain of yours needs a rest."

"I'm fine." Aziraphale rolled onto his opposite side, letting his eyes close. "I tend to sleep more when you're away." Warmth pressed against his back, an arm slinging across his waist. "Oh, dear."

Crowley smirked against the back of his neck, a pinky linking with Aziraphale's. "Don't get into bed with a snake and expect not to end up surrounded."

Aziraphale giggled, relaxing against him. He wasn't used to this, but he was used to the demon. "I suppose one shouldn't. We have a ghost to cross over tomorrow and then you'll have to tell me how Italy was. I've been waiting."

"I will, angel. G'night."

"Goodnight," he murmured, willing himself to sleep. He'd have to remember that things were different now. Death may have been a uniquely human fear, but love and heartbreak? That transcended even celestial boundaries. 

[codicesandflora]

Ineffable Inktober-Day Twenty Seven: Wings

Yep, this is me, ignoring the fact that October is over and still working on finishing this....

This takes place a couple of years after the Notpocalypse. And just as a heads up, there are some brief mentions of an injury and pain in this one.

Barriers Broken (AO3 Link)

“Angel? Are you all right?”

Aziraphale started and looked at Crowley with a hasty smile. “Oh yes, everything’s tickety….”

Crowley frowned. “Angel, if you say ‘tickety-boo’, I’ll set your Oscar Wilde’s on fire.”

Aziraphale’s lips formed an ‘o’. “You wouldn’t dare,” he spluttered.

Indignation lit up Aziraphale’s eyes which relieved some of the tension that had been building up inside Crowley. At least the angel could still be offended. That was a comforting sign.

“I might,” Crowley said with a half smirk. “I still haven’t forgiven you for the mess you got us into just so you could get that copy of A House of Pomegranates.”

“That was hardly my fault. No reasonable person would respond to an offer of generous financial compensation with a request for a gun duel.”

“And no sane person would stick around to see what happens after a threat like that.” Crowley sighed and gave him a fond smile. “Come on, angel quit trying to change the subject. You’ve had that look on your face like someone actually managed to worm a book away from you all morning. What’s wrong?”

It wasn’t just the expression on Aziraphale’s face that had Crowley worried. There was also pallor the angel had and the way his features were pinched with pain. Aziraphale’s step had been sluggish and punctuated with the occasional stumble. Now, beads of sweat were appearing on the angel’s forehead, and Crowley refused to put his questions off any longer.

Aziraphale shook his head and pulled a small handkerchief that had embroidered golden wings on the corners out of his pocket. He wiped his forehead with it and frowned when he pulled it away from his face.

“I, I’m afraid I might have to make an appointment to visit Heaven soon. And I’m really not looking forward to it.”

Crowley let out a huge breath. Neither of them visited their former head offices in the two years since they had been released after the Nearpocalypse. Although he never said a word about it, Crowley was certain that Aziraphale dearly wanted to avoid Heaven.

However, if the angel was truly ill, a visit to Heaven might be necessary. The fact that Aziraphale was considering it meant that, whatever this was, it was serious.

“Why?” Crowley asked. He hadn’t meant for that to come out as an accusation, but the worry that had frayed his nerves had also stretched his vocal cords past sounding casual or simply concerned.

“I��.” Aziraphale cast his eyes downward. “It’s my wings. I think there is something wrong with them.”

At that moment, Crowley was grateful for the sunglasses on his face because he doubted that he could hide the terror that was sure to widening his eyes. While their wings were usually kept out of the physical plane, that didn’t meant that they could be ignored or that they couldn’t be injured.

Even worse, because an angel and a demon’s wings were so intertwined with their True Self, a severe injury or a minor one that was neglected could spread to the rest of the non-corporeal form. And if that was allowed to happen…it meant a death as sure and as permanent as one delivered with holy water or Hellfire.

“What happened?” Crowley said, his voice morphing into a low growl.

“I…there was a demon who visited the shop a couple of weeks ago,” Aziraphale replied. “They was looking for you. But after I refused to tell them anything, I suppose they decided to get rid of me before continuing their search.”

Crowley’s hands curled into fists, his jaw tightening. “I warned them. Looks like I’ll have to….”

“No, not really,” Aziraphale said, holding up a hand. “I already Smote them. Quite decisively too. They won’t be back for a long while. But I’m afraid they did manage to land a nasty gash to my right wing before I dispatched it. I, I thought I could take care of it on my own….”

“Open your wings,” Crowley cut in. Aziraphale took a step back from him, and Crowley struggled to ignore the twist in his heart at the sight. “Look, I’m not going to do anything to them unless you want me to, but we got to see how bad the damage is, right? So please, angel. For me?”

That last part was blackmail, and Crowley knew it, but he was too worried to focus on that right now. He would deal with the repercussions of that later when he knew that Aziraphale was going to be all right.

The angel ducked his head and nodded. Slowly, he pulled his wings out of the celestial plane and into the physical one. Once they were fully out, Crowley did another sharp intake of breath.

Aziraphale’s wings were beautiful, but they were also horribly messy, full of broken and disheveled feathers and what looked like a molt that hadn’t been completely cleared away. Worst of all though, was a long slash in the upper part of the right wing. The wound was scarlet through the fluff of sparse feathers that stuck to it and it was trickling stray drips of a green ooze.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed. “This…this is….”

“Crowley…I’m, I’m afraid that I….”

The angel put his hand to his forehead again, his eyelids fluttering and his posture wavering. Crowley immediately took the hint and rushed over just in time to catch him before Aziraphale fell face first onto the floor.

‘Shit! Shit, shit, shit...!’ “Hey, I’ve got you,” Crowley said, struggling to sound reassuring. “Ok, I’ve got you. Can you walk? Angel? Hey, can you hear me?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. His head flopped onto Crowley’s shoulder, and the demon didn’t have to see his face to know that Aziraphale was likely unconscious by now. Deciding not to waste any more time on conversation, Crowley hoisted Aziraphale over his shoulder, the angel’s wings draped around him like a shroud.

“It’s ok,” Crowley babbled. “It’ll be all right. We’ll get you fixed up and it’ll be fine. Just hold on, Aziraphale, ok? I’ve got you.”

He continued the steady stream of comforting nonsense while using a miracle to move both of them to the bedroom and as he lowered Aziraphale onto the bed. A bed which suddenly became much larger and wider to accommodate the wings and both of them being on it. Crowley snapped his fingers to brighten the light in the room, because despite the discomfort it would cause, he needed to be able to see even the smallest details of what he was doing.

Crowley ripped the sunglasses off his face and tossed them aside as he climbed onto the bed. He turned Aziraphale face down so he could examine the wing from a better angle.

‘Don’t think it has spread through the whole wing yet. So at least there’s that. Hard to tell though with how they look right now….’

Crowley frowned. It was obvious that the angel hadn’t taken care of his wings at all and the neglect had exacerbated the trauma of the wound. He was going to have a talk with Aziraphale about this when the angel woke up, but for now, he needed to focus on the bigger problem at hand.

“Angel, if you can hear me, I’m going to treat your wound, all right? So, I’m going to have to touch you and….”

That got a response, but not one Crowley had hoped for. Aziraphale’s wings trembled, curling away from him and there was a pained whimper. Whispers laced with shame and agony.

“Please…please don’t, Crowley…please….”

‘Damn him.’ Crowley’s eyes stung. To do nothing would mean death, and he already knew which he would prefer if he had to decide between Aziraphale loathing him and Aziraphale not existing.

“Aziraphale,” he said, his voice deliberately stern. “If I don’t take care of this…you know what will happen. I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me to do this, but…ngk….”

He could have said more. He was a tempter, and damn good at his job. He should have been able to find the words to convince Aziraphale, but words could break through the hurt he felt at the husky sob he heard from the angel.

‘Please,’ Crowley’s heart cried out. ‘Please, Aziraphale…’

Slowly, awkwardly, Aziraphale’s wings stretched out again, still trembling, but steady enough so that Crowley could work.

‘Right….’ Crowley snapped his fingers and a stack of soft, green towels appeared on the stand next to the bed. Another snap and some tonics he had stored at his flat sat next to them.

There was so much Crowley wanted to do to Aziraphale’s wings. Not just heal them, but fix them. Straighten and clean them so that they could be as beautiful as Crowley remembered them being in Eden. But doing more than what was necessary to save Aziraphale’s life would be a violation of trust at this point. As much as he burned to do more, he swore to himself he would make this quick.

Crowley looked through his tonics, chose one, and sprinkled a tiny pool of it onto his hand. “Ok, this will sting a little, but I promise it will help, ok?”

There was no response, but Crowley knew better than to assume that Aziraphale hadn’t heard him. More likely, the angel just shut himself down to conserve his strength and as a way to cope with what was coming. But Aziraphale was probably still aware, and Crowley made sure that that remained at the forefront of his brain throughout this.

Gingerly, he rubbed the tonic into the wound. Aziraphale moaned and shuddered, but did not open his eyes or make any other sound. Crowley rubbed the excess away with one of the towels, mopping up the green goo that had congealed on the nearby feathers.

Crowley took a deep breath. “Ok, this is going to be the worst of it. But I’m going to make this as fast as possible, I promise.”

There was still no reply from the inert form on the bed. Crowley slowly blinked and then placed his hands on either side of the wound. A harsh cry rang out, and Crowley almost let go. But then he reminded himself that this was coming and held on.

Then he closed his eyes and focused everything into drawing out the poison and repairing the damaged flesh. The poison turned his stomach. The knitting of soft tissue drained him. But Crowley was sure that none of it could compare to how dreadful Aziraphale felt right now.

Once he was certain that the wound was purified and healed, Crowley let go, releasing a long sigh as he did. Aziraphale was completely out, boneless, his wings drooping over the sides of the bed.

Crowley scooted to the foot of the bed, lying down and curling into a ball on his side. He wanted to be there when Aziraphale woke up. He told himself it was just to make sure that Aziraphale was going to recover.

It hurt too much to acknowledge that it was also because he couldn’t bear the thought of Aziraphale being alone after all that.