#even if earth burned and everything aziraphale loved went to waste - there could still be 'us'

[transvisions]

beezebelb and gabriel going off to alpha centuri because crowley said they should is so funny. like you just gave the honeymoon plans you booked years in advance to your ex boss and your partners weird colleague that you hate. and you did this even before your own proposal flopped

[lady-divine-writes]

For the fic prompt "You might have him now, but you can't keep him" for GO or Coldflash please

I wrote this for Good Omens :) I hope you like it

A Mortal Dilemma

“Oh … oh, Crowley … oh Go—mmm …”

“Ya like that, angel?” Crowley whispers, admiring the markshe’s made on his angel’s pale neck, each one sealed with a feather-light kiss, wickedlyproud that this is the fifth time he’s almost gotten Aziraphale to take theAlmighty’s name in vain. Lying beneath his angel on the lumpy sofa in hisbookshop, arms wrapped around him, hands keeping that column of soft skinlocked to his lips, he has his angel at his complete mercy.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Y-yes …” Aziraphale stutters, pushing up on his palms to catcha breath only for Crowley to draw him back into the temptation of his arms.

“Do you want me to continue?”

Aziraphale’s brows soar to the Heavens. “Do you mean to tellme that stopping is an option?”

“Absolutely.” Crowley’s yellow eyes flicker over his angel’sflushed face. “Stopping is always an option. If that’s what you want, we canput the kettle on, read a book, finish a crossword, get plastered …”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “No, I don’t want that. I don’t thinkI’d ever choose that over this.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d have to leave you. Leave your arms, I mean.And now that I have you, I don’t ever want to be far from you.”

“Even if that meant never cracking open another book? Just sowe can do this?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can do both at the same time.”

Crowley smirks. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Would you like me to show you?”

Crowley mimics a cartoonish attempt at thinking it over while hoveringclose to Aziraphale’s throat. “Nah. Perhaps another time.” Then he goes back tothe task of marking Aziraphale up.

Airy musical notes tinkle in Aziraphale’s ears but he ignoresit. That normally happens when Crowley miracles in from wherever, but seeing ashe’s here now, it can’t be him. The thought that it might be someone else,manifesting into the room without knocking first doesn’t occur to him.

Because such a thing would be both illegal and rude.

But it’s Crowley who sees, Crowley who takes notice, bumpingAziraphale’s chin gently with his temple to make him look around.

“What in the …?” Aziraphale mutters because stationed not toofar from the sofa they’re sprawled out on is Sandalphon, rocking back and forthon their heels, hands clasped in front of their belly, grinning like thedickens.

“Well, well, well – if it isn’t our little fallen angel andhis demon boyfriend.”

“Sandalphon?”Aziraphale gasps, too stunned by the Archangel’s presence to climb off Crowley’slap and face them properly. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to deliver a message from Gabriel,” they say, pausingafter for obvious dramatic effect.

“Yes, yes, get on with it!” Aziraphale barks. Crowleysnickers, every fiber of his being vibrating from his angel on top of him,desperate to be rid of their intruder so he can go back to being kissed.

“Principality Aziraphale, you’ve been called back to Heaveneffective immediately. I’ve been sent here to deliver you personally.”

This time, Aziraphale launches off his demon’s lap and up ontohis feet, leaving Crowley draped on the sofa, on his guard but unmoving fromthe spot. “I’m sorry you made the trip all the way for nothing but I’m notgoing.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I most certainly do.”

“You may have forgotten, but you aren’t subject to free will.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Free will is reserved for mortals. You, Aziraphale, are subjectto our will.”

“Since when?” Aziraphalesquawks.

“Since the beginning of time. You’re an angel. That makes you property of the Almighty.”

“The Almighty, yes, but not you, not Gabriel, not any of theArchangels.”

Sandalphon makes an irritated noise, smacking the roof oftheir mouth with their tongue. “Same difference.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t think that’s how that works. Even I know that,” Crowley says. “But go off,I guess.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, demon,”Sandalphon says with a steely glare for Crowley.

“Too bad. I’m talking to you, baldy.”

“Crowley …” Aziraphale warns quietly, sitting back down and puttinga hand on the demon’s forearm.

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” Sandalphon asks.

“You’re probably not. But that just makes you stupider thanyou look.”

“Crowley!”

“We’ve played this game your way for far too long,” Sandalphoncontinues, focused on Crowley as if Aziraphale isn’t sitting right there, “butthat’s not the way this is going to work anymore. You’ve had your fun.” Theireyes shift to Aziraphale’s face, and for the first time, the angel can imaginewhat those poor people in Sodom and Gomorrah saw right before they turned tosalt. “Now it’s time for you to come back to our side.”

“I have no intention of coming back to your side!” Aziraphale insists. “Not until things change upstairs.Even then, the subject is a matter of much debate. Either way, you do not havepermission to be in my shop. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

Sandalphon shakes their head in disappointment. “What do youthink you’re doing, Aziraphale? Do you think this is life? A reject angel shacking up with a reject demon and doing what?Wasting your Divine gifts lazing around in an old, musty bookshop?”

“You pay him no mind, angel,” Crowley says, turning his armover to hold Aziraphale’s. “They’re still sore that they lost. He can’t touchyou. He can’t touch either of us.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong …” Sandalphon pauses, theirexpression changing to discomfort as they smack their mouth open and closed. “ForHeaven’s sake! It’s so damned dry inhere. Probably these dusty books.” Sandalphon reaches into the inside pocket oftheir coat and pulls out a silver flask. “One cinder, the tiniest spark even,and this whole place would go up like a matchbox, wouldn’t it?”

Crowley sits up straighter, his grip on Aziraphale’s armtightening. Sandalphon grins.

“Of course you wouldknow that, now wouldn’t you, demon?”

“My angel said leave!”Crowley makes to stand but Aziraphale keeps him grounded with a gentle squeeze.“So get on!”

“I take it that’s a nothen?”

“That’s a no,”Aziraphale says.

Sandalphon shakes their head, appearing far too amused forsomeone who’s presumably lost an important argument, and that makes Aziraphalewary.

“The two of you …” They tut “… you think you’re so slick. Thatyou’ve got everyone fooled. But just you wait. You might have him now, but thatdoesn’t mean you can keep him.”

Sandalphon wipes their mouth with the back of their hand, thensnaps their fingers, disappearing in a swirl of blue shimmer into thin air. Andas relieved as Aziraphale feels by their retreat, something about how easy thatwas doesn’t sit well in his bones. He’s nervous, anxious over something he’smissing.

And he’s right.

It’s odd. Aziraphale had been so focused on the angel goingaway – and they did just that, they went away – that he never considered theremight be collateral damage.

That flask. It seemed so innocuous. Odd since most angelsdon’t consume or imbibe, but harmless nonetheless. Admittedly, Aziraphaledoesn’t know much about Sandalphon, but if he knows anything about Archangels,there’s a reason behind everything they do. Even the slightest, mostinsignificant gesture is important. Wiping their mouth with their hand, thensnapping their fingers - none of that was necessary. It was posturing.

But why?

And that’s when Aziraphale notices it.

Senses it is actuallycloser to the operative term.

A drop of water flying through the air.

It takes less than a second to travel, between the timeSandalphon snapped their fingers and Aziraphale put two and two together.

Before Aziraphale can move, before he can even think, thewater drop lands on Crowley’s skin.

It only takes a drop. Aziraphale knows that.

He doesn’t need to hear the demon wail to know what it is,what’s happening to him.

Holywater.

Sandalphon had been drinking Holy Water. They wiped it offtheir mouth and flicked a drop in the air, aimed in Crowley’s direction.

And now, Crowley is disintegrating before Aziraphale’s eyes.

“No!” Aziraphale screams. “NO!”

“Azira—!”

“No!”

Like the flying Holy Water, it only takes a second forAziraphale to act.

A second of fire.

A second of fury.

A second of love.

A second of pure rage.

A second where Aziraphale makes a hundred decisions andgambles and negotiations so quickly his body starts working before his mind hascome to peace with what he’s going to do. His hands move fast as lightning, pullingpower from the far reaches of the Universe, combining together from above … andfrom below.

If someone were to ask Aziraphale how he did it, he’d never beable to tell them. He couldn’t repeat it if he tried. If they asked him how heknew he could, that would be a harderquestion to answer. He doesn’t know farther than he can perceive, as if someoneelse were casting the magic for him. With his right hand, he brings down allthe power of Heaven he can rally to his command, and with his left, somehow, inexplicably,he calls upon the power of Hell.

Before the drop of Holy Water can burn through Crowleycompletely, Aziraphale lays hands on him, on his chest over his heart, his celestialflesh a swirling pyre of blessing and damnation. A flash of blistering white fillsAziraphale’s shop, flooding every corner, lighting the whole of the inside tofirework intensity, so powerful it leaves shadowy reliefs of every book, every teacup,every trinket burned onto his walls.

It happens in a second.

One single second.

The light bleeds away.

The Holy Water evaporates.

The fire and flood alive in Aziraphale’s hands subside and theangel’s vision returns. He looks around at the damage that’s been done – thebleached walls, the shadows bearing witness, a few of his books turned to dust. 

And on the floor at his feet, stunned but otherwise unharmed –Crowley.

But even as Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief, he knowsthat nothing from this day forward will ever be the same.

“Wha—what did you do?” Crowley looks at his hands, turningthem over and over in front of his eyes, examining them as if they’re strangersto him. He touches his face, fingertips pulling his skin, searching for answerswithin the wrinkles and pores. When he can’t find them, he stares up atAziraphale, wide eyes begging without words to tell him what the Heaven isgoing on. Crowley can’t see the change, but he can feel it, deep within hischest where something new and awesome and excruciating has begun to fill thatvoid … and steadily beat. “Aziraphale!? What did you do!?”

“The only thing I could think of to save you, dear boy.”Aziraphale drops to his knees, cursing himself, cursing Sandalphon and Gabrieland all the Archangels … even cursing God herself. “I made you mortal.”

[goodlucktai]

giving up on giving up slowly

good omens  pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3437 part 1 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

x

They don’t quite make it back to Mayfair.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Are you really so tired?”

The demon regards him with weary yellow eyes, little more than a pile of boneless coils draped in the next seat. Aziraphale strokes a hand from Crowley’s head down his neck, fingers gentle against the smooth groove of scales. Crowley is familiar to Aziraphale in all his forms, but there is a very special place in the angel’s heart for the serpent.

There is still a conversation to be had. Heaven and Hell certainly aren’t pleased with their meddling, and Agnes’ last warning of choose your faces wisely hasn’t been far from the front of Aziraphale’s mind since he read it. They’re not out of the woods just yet.

But for now-- for a little while, at least-- there is time to rest. Crowley can press into the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands and know he is safe.

Aziraphale can hold him and know the same.

“Never you mind, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his heart full. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

It’s his turn, he thinks, to bear some of the weight.

#

There is a cross little voice somewhere in the back of Aziraphale’s mind that tells him how foolish it is, to place so much trust in a demon. It’s a familiar voice; it sounds a lot like Michael, chiding him every time he lingers too long in Crowley’s shadow, nudging him away every time he wants to stay a little longer, talk a little more. There are ways angels must behave, after all. There are things one can and cannot do.

He wonders what Michael would say if she could see him now, giving Crowley his form to wear like armor. He wonders what his punishment would be, for granting a Fallen One this unlimited access to the holy grounds. But more than that, he wonders if this will be enough.

“If they take you,” Aziraphale says fitfully, clutching Crowley’s hands-- his own hands, piloted by Crowley’s reluctant affection as they hold each other. “If they take you to Heaven-- “

“Don’t you waste time worrying about me, angel,” Crowley mutters, shifting uneasily. He doesn’t have sunglasses to hide behind, not now that he’s wearing Aziraphale’s face, and their eye contact is a very fragile creature indeed. “I’ve been Upstairs before, for all that it’s been awhile. You just worry about Hell, about getting out safe.”

“And if it goes wrong-- “

“We’ll think of something.”

It’s strange to look down at himself and know it’s Crowley staring back at him from those misty blue eyes, but it’s only strange in a fleeting sense, the way bedclothes are cold at first until they warm with body heat. If anyone could be trusted to parade about in Aziraphale’s form-- if anyone could know Aziraphale well enough to get it right, to pass without suspicion-- it would be Crowley.

And isn’t that a funny thought, he muses as the sun warms to the idea of a new dawn. The morning light peers through the wide windows of Crowley’s airy flat, glancing down on the two of them where they sit cross-legged and facing each other on the bed.

Funny that the idea of Gabriel or Uriel coming this close, taking this much, is enough to make Aziraphale’s breath hitch with fear.

Funny that a sweep of Crowley’s thumb across his knuckles is enough to soothe him entirely.

They’ve been this close before; stowed away in the cavernous hull of the great ark with a hundred smuggled Mesopotamian children, while drowning men outside begged for entry; stranded on the shores of Pompeii as a city they were both fond of and its twenty-thousand souls succumbed to ash; Europe when it was ravaged by the plague, millions of people dying faster than two desperate angels could heal them; that awful cantina where Crowley went half out of his mind in 1481, a burned letter of commendation lost somewhere among empty jugs of wine.

They’ve held one another up through countless tragedies. They held one another up through the end of the world. It comes naturally by now.

“Whatever happens, you’re not alone,” Crowley tells him, misreading the sudden tension. “You know that.”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale says. Truly, he does.

#

It’s lovely to see the bookshop intact. Aziraphale had been fully prepared to find a smoking ruin, or so he told himself, but everything was exactly where it should have been (with the exception of a few childish additions, courtesy of the Antichrist).

Crowley follows him home from their celebratory lunch at the Ritz, picking his way gingerly up the steps with perhaps a fifth of Aziraphale’s enthusiasm.

Aziraphale, to his shame, doesn’t even notice until he’s gone on and puttered about for a good twenty minutes. It’s not until the fourth time Crowley grants him no more than a two-syllable response that Aziraphale is drawn up short. He pauses with a well-loved first edition of The Tempest in his hands, looking over at where his friend is lingering uncomfortably by the door.

“My dear?” he says. “Won’t you come in?”

Crowley slouches the rest of the way to the back room with a commendable amount of surliness, but Aziraphale isn’t fooled. He summons a bottle each of Chateau Palmer and d'Yquem and sets them on the table-- with the white nearest Crowley, who would never admit he preferred it over the red-- and settles in for a gentle interrogation.

“Don’t even start,” Crowley grumbles, cutting him off at the pass. He knocks back the first glass of wine, without a pause to appreciate the vintage or bouquet, and pours another. “Just looked different.”

Aziraphale can’t help glancing about the shop. It’s as dusty as it ever was, with its towering stacks and dimly-lit sconces. Even the piles of books on the tables and chairs are the same, down to the last crack in the last vellum spine.

“Before,” Crowley elaborates. “When it was burning. Looked different.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, surprised. “Yes, I rather think so.” He pours himself a glass, more for something to do with his hands than anything, and says slowly, “You were here, then? When it-- You saw it, I mean. From outside.”

“From inside, angel. Ran in for you, didn’t I?” Crowley abandons his glass and picks up the bottle, lifting it in a toast. The drinks over lunch have already softened his sharp edges, and what’s left of him isn’t quite up to guarding his secrets as stubbornly as usual. “Fat lot of good that did. You’d gone already.”

He’d come to the bookshop by himself earlier that morning, before their trials, at Aziraphale’s behest. The angel suddenly, fiercely regrets it.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again.

There is something churning inside him that feels both like anguish and quite a bit like wonder. How a feeling can be painful and pleasant at the same time, he’s no idea, but he embraces it.

“You’re remarkable, Crowley.” It’s the first thing he can wrestle out of his aching chest, and it falls laughably short. “Demon or not. I’ve never known anyone else like you.”

Crowley laughs, a short, unhappy sound. “Oh, yeah. I’m one of a kind.”

Aziraphale pats the seat next to his on the worn sofa, suddenly quite unable to bear the distance between them. “Come here, dear.”

For a long moment, Crowley doesn’t move. His eyes are hidden behind those sunglasses, rendering his face all but unreadable. Then, as though coming to a decision, he unfolds himself from the sagging armchair and rounds the table, collapsing showily next to the angel in a splay of long limbs.

The nearness of him settles the ache in Aziraphale’s heart, whether or not that was his intention. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s heart racing, the fragile human body wrapped around that celestial core thrumming with stubborn life. It’s a comfort, this nearness.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” Crowley says, more to the bottle in his hand than to anyone else. “Lucky me, I’m damned already.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Ngh. Don’t worry about it.” He shifts closer by an inch, head lolling along the back of the sofa until it comes to a daring rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’ve decided I’ll take what I can get.”

#

Aziraphale has a shop to run, and Crowley has plants to terrorize, so they part ways somewhere between midnight and morning. It’s surprisingly difficult to watch the demon leave, after having come so close to losing him; so Aziraphale stays safely behind his counter, where he’s far enough away that he can’t reach out and hold Crowley back.

They’ve spent whole years apart before, whole decades. What is a night or two, or even a week, even a month, now that they’ve got the rest of their lives ahead of them? A blink of an eye, really. A fraction of a second. It’s foolish to feel a pang at the parting.

Lingering by the door, Crowley turns around. There’s a peculiar look in his eyes, exposed and uncertain, when he says, “Hey. How about that picnic?”

Aziraphale brightens.

One can always count on Crowley to remember even the smallest exchange, even if it was years ago and offered as little more than a hopeful afterthought. It’s one of the staggering multitude of ways the demon is actually very sweet, though it’s best not to say as much aloud.

“I’d love to, dear boy. Tomorrow?” He glances out the window at the gray light of early dawn. “Or this evening, rather?”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley corrects, a half-smile on his face he can’t seem to help. “You’ll be wrapped up in your books all day and I’m not going to the bloody shops without you. We can pick up what we need tonight. Maybe try that new Indian restaurant in Kensington for an early supper?”

Aziraphale has the overwhelming urge to sweep out from behind the counter and gather the dear creature up in his arms. He folds his hands instead and contents himself with a smile as warm and as wide as he can make it.

“That sounds divine.”

Crowley’s half-smile graduates into the full thing, a crooked, helplessly charming number. It seems to linger in the shop long after he’s gone, and Aziraphale feels changed by it somehow, as though there’s a weight in his chest that wasn’t there before. A weight like a hand pressing harmlessly, without urgency, without agenda, against the fluttering mess of his very human heart, and when Crowley looks at him like that, smiles at him like that, it presses just a little bit harder.

#

Aziraphale tends to fuss over details, but really, he wants the picnic to be perfect. He’ll need some crisps, cold cuts, and fruits to finish out the platter he has in mind, but the cheese is an excellent start. Crowley has more virtue than the other angels of Hell combined, but even his patience is waning by the time they stop at the cheese counter.

There’s a new truffle gouda that the helpful associate recommends, offering Aziraphale a sample wedge with a generous dollop of honey and a sourdough cracker, and he’s rather taken by it.

“Really, Crowley, try a bite,” he coaxes. “It can’t be worse than the oysters.”

“We’re going to miss our reservation if you keep dithering, angel. Just get that moldy lot you usually do and be done with it.”

“I should think that for a special occasion you might be willing to try something new,” Aziraphale says primly. “And I wish you wouldn’t call it moldy, Camembert is delightful.”

“I’m going to be put off my appetite at this rate,” the demon grouses. When he stalks off, it’s not quite as dramatic as he might like it to be, considering the laden grocery basket hanging from his elbow. “I’m picking the wine.”

“Oh, get a Pinot Noir, would you?” Aziraphale calls after him. “It should compliment this gouda wonderfully.”

The associate is smothering a smile as she wraps up the gouda, along with his favorite Camembert and a large wedge of alpine.

“I hope he isn’t too upset with you,” she says when she’s handed it all over. “The two of you make a good pair.”

She doesn’t know them as any more than passing strangers, but Aziraphale can’t help feeling touched. It’s perhaps the first time anyone has said as much about the company he keeps, that they’re good together.

Aziraphale certainly thinks so, and damn anyone else’s opinion, but it’s still a nice thing to hear.

When he catches up with Crowley, the demon is making a big show of studying the white wines, but there’s clearly a Pinot Noir already bundled into his basket. Smiling, Aziraphale steps up beside him and slips a hand into the crook of his free arm.

Crowley is pleasant to the touch for a cold-blooded creature. He radiates warmth and good intentions like no angels of Heaven have ever done, a tireless spring of imagination and optimism and endless, fearless curiosity. No matter how high he builds his defenses of sarcasm and indifference, the truth is there. It’s always been there, from as early as the garden wall.

He belongs in Hell about as much as Aziraphale belongs in Heaven; which is to say, he doesn’t really belong there at all.

“You don’t have to try the cheese,” Aziraphale says, offering the token olive branch.

Crowley seems thrown for a moment, tense with surprise beneath Aziraphale’s hand, but he relaxes a heartbeat later.

“This is what we do now?” he asks of the rows of wine, hidden eyes trained straight ahead.

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale tells him. They’ve newly run out of reasons not to do as they wish, and lately-- often-- Aziraphale wishes for nothing more than this: Crowley, and himself, and as little space between them as can be managed. “You know what that young lady back there told me? She said we made a good pair.”

“Shows what she knows,” Crowley says, scathing. Incongruently, the hand he rests over Aziraphale’s is so gentle the angel has to look more than once to make sure it’s really there.

#

While Crowley was crawling about in the garden on his belly, Aziraphale was guarding it with a god-given sword. One of them has always been much softer than the other, even if they’re both usually content to lose track most of the time.

Most of the time.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, not feeling very sorry at all, “but what is it that you think you’re doing here?”

The angel in the bookshop is unfamiliar to him at a glance. It could be that their corporeal form is new, or that they’ve never met before, but he sees the way they look at Crowley. He sees the disdain dripping off them like a disease. A being of love, created for a higher purpose, and they can stand here and hate as if they have any right to.

“Michael may have told the rest of us to leave you alone, but it doesn’t seem right,” they say by-way of greeting. “Leaving you down here with nothing but a demon for company. He’ll ruin you.”

Behind him, Crowley twitches. It’s impossible to say what his expression looks like, but Aziraphale has known him for over six thousand years. He can guess.

“We’ve heard stories about you,” the angel goes on. They sound impossibly young. “All of us have. You’ve been on earth since the beginning. You’ve seen the garden. You faced the Morningstar. You can do whatever you want, I bet, so why are you here?”

“You’ve answered your own question, my dear,” Aziraphale says mildly. “Because I can do whatever I want.”

Crowley is tense at Aziraphale’s back, coiled like a snake ready to spring at any second. Aziraphale wishes he could reach back to soothe him.

He is, at first and at last, a Principality. He is at his strongest when he has something to guard, and this shop is his domain. With Crowley behind him, the most precious thing Aziraphale has ever put behind him, he would like to see this fledgling try anything.

Perhaps sensing how outclassed they are, the fledgling does not.

“Now,” he says briskly, “if you’d like to have a civilized conversation, you’re more than welcome to sit down for tea. I’ve even got a delicious Battenberg cake we can nip into for the occasion. But Crowley is my guest, my friend, and my dearest love; I hold him in much higher esteem than I do any of your lot, and I won’t tolerate rudeness. So what shall it be?”

For a moment, no one moves. Crowley is strung as tight as a wire, and the angel in the bookshop waffles visibly as they come to a decision they never thought they would have to make: pick a fight with a Principality or take tea with a Fallen One.

Finally, grudgingly, they ask, “What is cake?”

Only after they’re squared away in the back room, eating sweets with a look of wonder on their face, does Aziraphale turn to Crowley.

The demon is staring at him, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

“You said,” he begins, and stops there, as though he’s hit a dead end.

“I’ve been terribly unkind to you,” Aziraphale admits softly. “Denying you to everyone who asked, like you were something shameful. You must know that I love you, you clever old serpent, but I’m sure it would still have been nice to hear.”

“I thought it was an angel thing,” comes the lurching, uncertain confession. “Loving everyone. I knew you loved me, but I thought it was-- default.”

“An angel thing.” Aziraphale frowns at him. “As if Gabriel is even capable.”

Crowley laughs shortly, half-hysterical. “Okay. You’ve got a point.”

The picnic will have to wait, thanks to their visitor in the back room. The hamper receives a stern look and makes the decision to keep itself fresh for the next day, since Aziraphale refuses to be put off any longer than that.

Then he steps forward and takes Crowley’s hands.

“I was going to give up,” Crowley says helplessly. “I was jussst going to take whatever I could get and be happy with it. I go too fast and it's been so long I can't ssslow down, I don't know how."

"Don't worry about it anymore, my dear." Aziraphale uses their joined hands to pull him closer, until he can wrap his arms around Crowley and hold him as tenderly as he deserves. The demon shivers, as though chilled, and Aziraphale loses a kiss somewhere against his wayward hair. "I've finally caught up to you."

#

Nanael is still puttering about the shop a month later. Aziraphale has grown fond of them, not in the least because they take to the books like a fish to water. It took them about two days to decide Crowley was safe enough to pester, and watching them pelt a recalcitrant snake with question after question about the earth's history has quickly become one of Aziraphale's favorite ways to spend an afternoon.

"You were there when they built it?" Nanael demands, holding a book open to a glossy two-page photo spread of La Torre Di Pisa. "What was it for? Why does it lean?"

"Look, Feathers, why don't you ask Aziraphale? He's right here, not busy doing anything but laughing at me," Crowley mutters, making his slow and winding way up the side of the counter. "He'd be more than happy to tell you whatever you want to know."

"But I want to hear it from you," Nanael says stubbornly. "He knows more about things, but you know more about people. You like people, he said. You liked Eve, that's why you gave her the apple."

"I gave her a choice. She didn't have to eat the apple, did she? She chose to, because she wanted-- "

"Knowledge," Nanael says, hugging the book to their chest. There's hope for this one yet, Aziraphale thinks with a surge of pride. "Yes, exactly. Please tell me. I won't call you a demon anymore if you'll tell me."

Crowley looks up at the ceiling as though hoping for divine intervention, and then slides his yellow eyes Aziraphale's way.

"Isn't there supposed to be a honeymoon period before the kids come along?" he grouses. "I feel cheated."

"I'll make it all up to you," Aziraphale vows, stroking a familiar hand down his spine. "All of it, my love."

[mxsinistir]

I've just finished Good Omens and I'm in love. Would you write something angary about how the ineffable husbands are forbidden to see each other and fight against everything to get back to each other?? Xxxx

I am so sorry this is late and even if this isn’t exactly what you asked for I hope this still satisfied your need for ineffable husbands dramatic fighting for love content :)

Aziraphale had always hated heaven. It was cold, it reeked of nothing, and the only thing for as far as his thousands of eyes could see was white. White walls, white wings, white thoughts. Shiny, untouched, infinite.

��   Eternal. 

    He would spend an eternity here, he realized, the notion still not sinking in. He looked down at the blade in his hand - no flaming sword of Eden’s gates, but angelic none the less. He could slay many a demon with such a weapon. 

    “And you shall,” Gabriel has said to him, puffing out his chest and smiling thinly. “We will triumph over hell in a blaze of glory.” Maybe, maybe not. After all, all of history’s greatest strategists and warriors had walked the road to hell. 

    Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Julius Ceaser, and most of those that slaughtered in their name. Aziraphale admittedly had few qualms about taking their souls out of the afterlife entirely. 

    “But what of those who didn’t mean to fall?” He asked the Archangel,

    “Aziraphale, everyone that walks the road to hell has good intentions,” As always, Gabriel’s idioms were never quite correctly recited, “No one means to fall. But those who do not repent are doomed to face the merciful wrath of heaven.” Well, wasn’t that an oxymoron, though it was not one that Aziraphale commented on. “You know your part?”   

“I shall descend on London with my battalion,” Aziraphale choked out, forcing a faux-smile. “And I shall fight for the glory of God.” 

    “Very good, Aziraphale we’re all very proud of the work you’ve done over the last six thousand years spent on Earth. I don’t know how you’ve born it!” 

    “With the strength of God,” said Aziraphale, though right now, it seemed as if his faith was chipping away right in front of him as he realized that perhaps his sparkling god wasn’t as glorious as he thought. 

***

    Crowley stared at London for the last time, Big Ben tragically striking high noon for the last time. It had survived fire and blitz and the end of the world before, but not like this. This was really it - no great powers to come and intervene. He could only weep internally as he watched the families huddled together, praying to the forces of heaven who were making all of this happen in the first place. 

    The day of Armaggedon, it rained in London. But when the angels arrived in the skies, the rain began to sizzle and pop. Oil-black wings burned away and scattered into oblivion, blessed clouds of holy water speeding across the sky. 

    Crowley gripped the bow in his hand and watched, staring up at the rain one last time. His rain was earthly, though the droplets around him were not. He cringed and listened to the sound of his comrades’ screams of agony as the holy water dissolved their flesh, their weapons scattering over the ground. 

    The panic was enough to send forces in every which direction, not that there was any escape. While others wasted their energy trying to make a run from the rain, Crowley realized it was of no use. He titled his head back and clenched his fingers white around the bone limbs of his bow. He had lived six thousand years  - more than that even - and had not acquired even a single regret. Only that he would never get the chance to tell Aziraphale goodbye before the holy water took his soul away forever. 

His yellow eyes flickered shut as the rain drew in around him. But it did not touch him. 

    Crowley dared to squint one eye open, and around him was a shield of white feathers. Aziraphale. His angel had come for him. 

    “You-” Crowly stammered out, though as Aziraphale’s arms squeezed tighter around the lanky demon, he found that he could not form words. “You saved me,” And for a moment, everything went still, and he saw the two of them back in Eden, witnessing what they thought then to be the fall of humanity. 

    “Aziraphale!” A voice boomed through the fighting, booming like a thunderhead in the rain, and it didn't sound happy.

    “So I’m assuming Gabriel didn’t tell you to go out of your way to save me?” said Crowley. Azirpahel, dawning a serious expression now, shook his head and drew his sword. The demon watched in awe as flames birthed across the steel, splitting open into the air and cracking against the rain. One swipe, the oppressive holiness of the water was gone, even if only for a moment. But a moment was all the two of them needed to break into a run through the streets of London that they knew so well. Inf act, they knew them better than anybody else, and so no one could possibly catch them, not even the Archangel fucking Gabriel.    

    But the devil often worked harder than any angels, and so while the forces of Heaven were clueless about the street plans of London, Crowley’s gang seemed to be quite keen on following the two. 

    “Can you carry us both?” Crowley asked as he spun around a corner, “In flight? Can you carry us both?” Aziraphale fervently nodded, moving to loop his arm under Crowley’s. But instead, the demon stepped onto the angel’s shoulders, curling his feet around the bones and keeping perfect balance even as the angel shot vertically into the unblessed sky. 

    Crowley drew an arrow back, the tip spitting hellfire as the angels and demons who dared come after them. But it was no use - even with infinite arrows, even the snake of Eden, the demon of the Original sin, was no match for the armies of Heaven and Hell. And if there was anyone they could mutually hate, it was a defector.    

    “Hey, angel?” Crowley asked calmly, “Do we actually know where we’re going?”    “To Adam,” Well that was a good thing, only because Crowley hadn’t actually been expecting an answer. “To reason with him. If he does have all the powers of Christ, then he can stop this.” That’s what they would have to hope. 

“Them,” said Aziraphale

“Yes, I know,” Crowley sighed, “them against us and all of those good things, but how do we find Adam?”    “No, the Them.” said the angel, “They live a few blocks from here. Maybe if we find them, we find Adam.” 

“Or,” Crowley looked over Aziraphale’s shoulders, “He finds us.”

Crowley didn’t remember what happened next. All he remembered was the world falling into black as he pulled Aziraphale close for what he feared might be the last time he might ever feel the warmth of the angel’s lips on his. 

***

    The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and as Aziraphale got to his feet, he looked around and realized that this was far from the fiery hellscape he’d expected to see on Earth. This was Earth, wasn’t it?

    “No way we ended up in the same afterlife,” Crowley mused as he stirred, “Or, after-afterlife, it seems.”

    “No, Aziraphale pressed his nose to the chilly window, Big Ben and other parts of London’s skyline visible in the rising sun. “We’re still on Earth, all right. Which means Adam did it.” 

    “Which means that we did it, angel,” Crowley said in a raspy morning voice, his long arms finding their way around the waist of his other half. 

    “But what does that even mean for us now?” asked Aziraphale, “Are we supposed to go back to our sides now? Pretend this never happened? Wait around for the next ap-”

    “We don't have sides anymore, angel,” said Crowley, his hands finding a place in Zira’s. “We're eon our own side.” And as the redhaired demon pressed his lips onto the angel’s without fear or repercussion for the first time in millennia, Aziraphale decided that he could be very, very, content in his newfound neutrality. 

[the-bentley]

The Sacrifice

Crowley was correct, unfortunately.  There was some breathing space of a few thousand years before Heaven and Hell decided the time was right for their war.  And war it was.

The Earth burned and humanity destroyed in the wake as the two sides worked together to wipe out every last human alive out of fear of what the humans had become capable of through technology.  It was no longer a world for angels and demons.  Both sides feared a mortal race that was well on its way to becoming divine.

Aziraphale and Crowley could do nothing even though they still stood with humanity.  They were only two supernatural beings against an army of millions of them.  Eventually both were captured then pressed into service, the attempted executions forgotten.  Their sides seemed to think it was a greater anguish to force lover to fight against lover in the next wave of the War to End Everything.  With humanity gone, Heaven and Hell had turned on each other.

The Almighty was still absent, not speaking to even the Metatron.  The Adversary had not been merely sent back to Hell by Adam Young; he had been erased from existence when the boy told him he was not his father. The angels had been running the show for almost all of human history.  Satan’s lieutenants were the ones in charge since that first attempt at world destruction.  Chaos reigned supreme.

Beelzebub eventually had been killed by Michael in a dual between the two.  Both sides watched her crumple to the ground after a fight that could have been either one’s.  Michael was gravely wounded in the process, exiting the war until Raphael could heal her.

Crowley found himself in charge of the Legions of the Damned.  Suddenly, he went from traitor to the one who could save them all because he was the only demon with an imagination; the only one who could think outside the box. It wasn’t enough.  It couldn’t be enough, ever.

They were overwhelmed from the start – only one third of Heaven Fell in the Great Rebellion.  The angels greatly outnumbered them.  Demon by demon, Hell started to realize this, understand that even Crowley’s cunning couldn’t pull them out of a sound defeat. Crowley felt wearied by it all. All he wanted was his angel back along with a safe place to spend time with him.  Instead he was fighting to keep the carnage down and hopefully come to some kind of cease-fire until Heaven decided it was all or nothing.

He had lost Aziraphale to Heaven, half his troops had been destroyed and it looked like the remaining demons still alive would be joining them very soon.  In their anger, their despair, they blazed quite a path through the Army of the Divine.  It was a scorched Earth policy that left every angel in their path dead.  Heaven had forced Crowley’s hand in that manner. He hated himself for what he had become.

The Legions were under orders to only take one prisoner.  Crowley wanted to make sure Aziraphale stayed alive.  The best way he could accomplish this was by having him captured then delivered to him so he could personally keep the one he loved safe from harm.  If he couldn’t, they would perish together.

The life of any demon who dared to kill him was forfeit.  Crowley would make sure that demon died the most painful death possible before he followed Aziraphale to the grave.  There would be nothing left in the world for him if the angel was gone.

Currently, he was in hand-to-hand combat with Michael, sure that he wasn’t getting out of it alive when suddenly the Metatron approached to call for a parley.  Michael backed off at the appearance of her superior, standing off to the side with head bowed and sword held casually by her side.  Crowley was not fooled.  It would take the Archangel a fraction of a second to become lethal again.

At the sound of “Parley!” being boomed across the burned and broken battlefield, both sides gathered behind their leaders, the fighting momentarily stopped.  Armies stood behind both the Metatron and Crowley, the infernal looking more battered and bruised than the ethereal.  

“This ends now,” said the Metatron.  “You will be cast back into the Pit and sealed in never to surface to bother us again. If you turn on yourselves and destroy each other down to the last demon, that is not our concern.”

“That’s not much of a parley,” sneered Crowley.  “What do we get out of it?”

“You get a Realm of your own.  Rule it how you choose.”

“Ok . . . An isolated Realm of my own to rule, which I don’t even want.  How nice of you leaving me thousands of bored demons to find busy work for.  Thanks so ever much.  How is that negotiation, again?  You’ve offered me nothing I desire.”

The lieutenants standing behind the Metatron parted, revealing a kneeling figure dressed in white, hands chained, white-blond head bowed low.  Crowley immediately reacted.

“Aziraphale!  No!  What did you do to him?”

“Nothing.  He’s just been held as a prisoner.  He’s yours now,” replied the Metatron.  “It is an ancient Earth custom that the winning side would offer a member of its own tribe to the losing side as a symbol of the end of tensions between the two.  We offer you Aziraphale as that traditional sacrifice.”

“No!  You can’t.  He’s not meant to Fall.  He’s the best among you!”

“He will not Fall.  Only God can make that happen, but he’s no longer one of us.”

Tortured blue eyes met pained serpentine ones.  Not Aziraphale.  Not the purest of angels, in terms of belief, condemned to the Pit.  This couldn’t happen.  Better Aziraphale be separated from him forever than endure eternity in Hell. How could he endure the horribleness that was Hell with that unpolluted belief of his?  Crowley might be in charge now, but he was smart enough to know Hell was always going to be Hell.  He couldn’t conceivably make it a place Aziraphale could cope with.  He shed tears at those thoughts, not concerned that millions of angels and demons could see him doing so.

“And if I don’t accept?”

Michael walked over to Aziraphale, her sword re-ignited.  She stood with it poised over his neck.  To his credit, Crowley’s angel didn’t flinch.  

Aziraphale’s demon did.

“No!  You can’t kill him.  Please . . .” Crowley begged.  “Let him go. I will take him.”

Aziraphale was helped to his feet, unchained and allowed to run over to Crowley, who hugged him tightly. All around them demons screamed as they were sucked into the Earth, never to return.  Crowley unwound from the embrace, quickly taking Aziraphale’s hand. Dragging the angel after him, he leapt into the air.

“C’mon!  Beat those wings!  We’ve got to escape!”

Surprised into action, Aziraphale clumsily flapped at first then wasted no time getting up to steady strokes that helped carry both of them higher.  He gave Crowley a confused look.  Crowley returned it with a reassuring smile.

“We’ll get killed!” cried the angel.

“Is that so bad? Neither of us is going to like our “reward”.  C’mon, angel. We’re off to Alpha Centauri.  We should have done this the first time.” Crowley’s grin was feral and his auburn hair fiery in the sunlight as they passed beyond the cloud cover.  

He looked down at Aziraphale whose eyes and hair shone like the sky and sun in this utter freedom. Aziraphale smiled slightly.  It was a scared smile, but a trusting one. Willingly, he allowed Crowley to guide them up away from the carnage below.

On the battlefield, the Metatron held Michael back from following them and barked at the archers to stand down.

“You’re letting them get away?” demanded Michael.

The Metatron looked serenely at her with eyes the color of deepest metallic gold.  “The Seers foresaw this future . . . one of many.  I hoped it was the one that would come to pass.”

“Why?”  Michael watched them dwindle from a black-robed redheaded demon holding the hand of a white-robed, blond-haired angel to two dots that eventually merged into one before vanishing entirely.  “If those two don’t deserve death for all they’ve done, they surely deserve imprisonment for eternity.”

“Yes, but imprisonment means the chance for escape while death means the chance their spirits would eventually be recreated.  There are only so many spirits in the world and in the near future, the Almighty will start creating new angels and humans to replace those lost, pulling together the scattered atoms of former spirits.  Paradise will be reconstructed.  We do not need another pair of freethinkers among us,” replied the Metatron.  “Their rogue atoms will no longer be around to trouble the world.”

He surveyed the broken land containing the remaining angel army.  “Send them into the ground to kill all the demons.  We cannot risk them ever rising again.  Without Lucifer’s spirit to resurrect and those two troublemakers gone, the Almighty can re-Create them as proper, obedient angels in the future. As further precaution, the Seraphim will weave a spell around the Realms to prevent our rebellious angel and demon from ever returning.”

Michael nodded.  “It sounds like we just might get our Paradise after all.”

“We will.  We will make sure of it this time.”

 ~*~*~

 Two balls made up of motes of energy barely held together after being buffeted by the stark radiation of space for the years they traveled floated gently to the beach to manifest into two beings – one with tousled fiery red hair and yellow serpentine eyes, the other with a curly cloud of white-blond hair and sky blue eyes.  They still wore the tattered, battle-damaged tunics they left Earth in. The one in black carried a sword, the one in white held nothing.

“We are truly on our own now,” commented Aziraphale.  

Crowley squeezed his shoulder in an attempt to reassure him.  “We’ll be fine.  We survived the trip and it looks habitable here.  It should be ok.”

“What about our powers?”

“What about them?  I still feel mine.  It wouldn’t make sense if we couldn’t use them anywhere in God’s Creation.”

Aziraphale poked a bit at the green sand with his sandaled foot and stared at the riot of colors that made up the various tree leaves.  This place was going to take some getting used to.  What was he going to do without books?  Putting that thought aside, he reached inside of himself to feel for his connection with God.  It was still there, mourning for the destruction of Earth.  

“I still feel the Divine Grace,” he said to Crowley.  “God is mourning the loss of Earth.  Why didn’t the Almighty prevent it?”

“I don’t know.  It’s not like God talks to demons.  Let’s take a look around.”  

They headed into the forest with its trees of different coloured leaves.  Alien species of bird-like creatures that flew with four wings sang high up in the strange trees.  Something furred galloped by on six legs.  Unfamiliar squawks and calls surrounded them, making Aziraphale rather nervous, reaching out to grab the demon’s hand.  Crowley seemed to take it more in stride.

More deliberate sounds than those of animals moving around came from the east in the forest. Puzzled the pair moved that direction to check it out, Aziraphale holding tightly to Crowley’s hand; Crowley raising the sword in a defensive position as they moved forward carefully. Sentient life was not exactly something he was expecting.

Aziraphale ignited the blade, making Crowley almost jump.

“Don’t do that!” he hissed. “You almost scared me to death. I’m on edge enough as it is here.”

“It’s impossible to scare you to death, my dear.”

“Shh.  Just prepare some offensive magic, ok?”

Aziraphale crept up to peek through some pink-leaved bushes.  He blinked in complete surprise.  “Crowley, it’s a village.”

Crowley pushed aside branches to view the primitive but comfortable-looking village complete with humanoid creatures that greatly resembled Earth’s humans.  He almost rejoiced.  They were not here alone and he found that comforting for some reason.

“Life finds a way, right Aziraphale?  I forget what film that’s from, but it’s not exactly important anymore, is it?”  Crowley grinned.  “A whole new set of humans free to develop as they choose.”

“No ethereal plane here,” commented Aziraphale.  “I can’t move my wings into it.  That means no Heaven or Hell.  Do you think God wanted to start again without interference?  Or is it part of the ineffable Plan that we’re here?  Are we meant to guide them?”

Crowley thought a moment. “No.  They’re meant to guide themselves.  We should keep our distance and watch from afar for a while.  C’mon.  Let’s head a few miles away from here and make our own camp for the night.  Hopefully there are no apple trees on this planet; I’d like to avoid those, too.”

Aziraphale gasped in excitement, pulling at Crowley’s tunic.  “Crowley, look!  They have wings!  We’ll fit right in.”

And the humans did –  feathered wings of various colors and shades within those colors.  They spotted every color of the rainbow, silvers, even some off-white ones.  With a little help from their powers, they could change theirs enough to blend in, if they so desired.

“I know, we can’t guide them, but we can live among them like we did on Earth.”  Aziraphale got a far-off look in his sky blue eyes.  “We still get to be a part of it all over again. Imagine what they are going to be this time around without the threat of destruction hanging over their heads.”

Crowley laughed and kissed his angel.  “You’re going to invent books if they don’t, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale’s sweet, sly smile told he just might.  

They took each other’s hands, their fingers lovingly interlinking.  Together they headed off to find a patch of paradise they could call their own until they were ready to introduce themselves and integrate with the winged humans.