#for that reason alone. let crowley drift that car NOW !!!

[favouritedave]

rewatching good omens season 1 and I've remembered the one thing I was a bit annoyed about - the bentley. it doesn't drive like how a regular car would. the turn it makes heading to the airbase??? no drift. 110 mph and the backend isn't sticking out even by just a smidge. i know its a lot of cgi for it but man they could've at least cgi'd in some drift. crowley deserves to be able to drift that car

[rizlowwritessortof]

Never Look Back

Bethany Rae Cooper didn’t realize when she met the Winchesters in her family’s bar and grill that her life would never be the same. But she’s always believed that everything happens for a reason, even if it’s not exactly what you were expecting…

“Bethany Rae!  Get your butt back in here!”  Beth heard her stepfather’s voice clearly through the front door as she strode angrily away from the bar, her long dark ponytail swinging with each step.  "Beth!  I mean it!“

"I’m out of here, Rick.  I’m done.  See you around,” she shouted back, unlocking her dingy-white beat-up ‘65 Ford Fairlane and climbing behind the wheel, slamming the door.  She threw up a cloud of dust as she backed up and tore out of the dirt parking lot, fishtailing a little as she hit the main road.

Her thoughts flew furiously as she drove.  Seriously!  Did Rick and her mom think she was going to let them treat her like a child forever?  She was twenty-freaking-five years old, and they had the nerve to try and tell her who she could go out with!  The guys that left about a half an hour before her were both–well, hot, with that sense of danger around them that seemed to draw her like an alcoholic to his whiskey.  And when the one who introduced himself as Dean had asked her to leave with him, her mother had come unglued and ordered them out of the bar.  Actually, unglued was an understatement–she had never seen her mom so upset, and accusing her of overreacting just made things worse.  Dean had slipped her his cell number as he left, winking, and she had stuffed it into her pocket so her mother wouldn’t see.  Beth reached for her pocket–the scrap of paper was still there.  She smiled defiantly to herself, then reached for the ipod and cranked some tunes, driving a little too fast as usual and letting the music wash over her, fitting her angry mood.

She came to a screeching stop in the driveway of their faded two-story house, slamming her car door and walking with determination to the front door.  She took the stairs two at a time, grabbing a suitcase from her closet and throwing clothes into it with abandon.  She filled a duffle bag with more, then grabbed a box and added her CD’s, laptop, a few books and pictures, and anything else she could think of on the spur of the moment.  She had threatened before, but this time she was really leaving, and she wanted to be gone before her mother or Rick had a chance to catch up to her.  She loaded her car quickly, then left her small Midwest home town in her rearview mirror, not even caring about a destination.  All she cared about was getting away.

She thought with frustration of the two years she had been gone from home, free, pursuing what she wanted to do with her life.  It had been two–no, three years now.  Nursing school.  She did well, too–and then her mom had the heart attack, and she came home to help out, then let them guilt her into staying to help run the bar and grill.  Gave up her dream to help her family, and in return they tried to run her life.  Well–no more.

It was already 1 a.m., and she knew she needed to find a motel room for the night.  Hopefully they wouldn’t follow her out of town.  They’d think this was just a tantrum, and by the time they realized differently, they hopefully wouldn’t be able to find her.  Not that she didn’t plan to let them know she was all right–just not for a few days.  She spotted the motel sign, lights partly burned out, about 30 miles from Lovell, just on the edge of Greybull, and pulled into the parking lot.  She walked into the office, reaching for the cash in her pocket, and stopped dead as she met the green gaze and wide smile of Dean Winchester, who was standing near the front door.

“Well–look who just crashed our party, Sammy,” he said, his voice husky and warm.  "Beth, right?“

Beth felt herself blush a little, nodding with a half smile.  "Yeah.  And you’re Dean, and you,” she said, turning towards the taller man, “are Sam.”

“Right,” Sam answered, nodding with a friendly smile.  "I take it you continued that shouting match with your mother after we left.“

"You have no idea,” she answered, shaking her head as she stepped up to the desk.  "Single room, please.“  She registered and paid for her room, then turned to face the brothers, who stood waiting for her to finish.  Dean’s smile was gone from his face, and she looked at him quizzically.  "Something wrong?”

He shook his head, squinting a little as he looked at her.  "Look, I didn’t mean to cause trouble for you.  Didn’t even know that was your mother, in fact.  I hope you’re not burning any bridges here.“

She looked back at him, one hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans.  "Don’t worry about me.  This has been coming for a long time.  Tonight was just the last straw.”  They walked out of the office together, grabbing bags from their vehicles and heading for the doors to their rooms, which were next door to each other.  

“Want to come in for a drink?” Dean threw the invitation over his shoulder as he entered their room, then turned to wait for an answer.

She stared at him, tempted for a moment, but then smiled and shook her head.  "Look, no offense, but I don’t really know you guys.  But thanks for the offer.“

The smirk was back on Dean’s face, and it made her heart falter a little.  "Smart girl,” he countered, and Sam smiled as he waved goodnight, closing the door behind them.  

Beth entered her room, throwing her bag on the bed and shaking her head at the hideous early-70’s decor.  She dead-bolted her door and headed for the shower, hoping it wasn’t too disgusting.  She was pleasantly surprised at the cleanliness, which helped somewhat to make up for the ugly.  She put on an old threadbare t-shirt and a pair of shorts, brushed through her long dark hair, and crawled into bed, sighing with relief and exhaustion.  It didn’t take long for her to drift off to sleep, deciding that morning would be soon enough to figure out where she was going.

A loud crash jolted Beth from a deep sleep, and she lay there, not sure if she had really heard it or if she had been dreaming.  She squinted at the alarm clock, which read 4:23; then another crash and a muffled shout startled her completely awake, her heart pounding.  The sounds were coming from next door, Sam and Dean’s room, and she scrambled out of her bed, heading for the door.  She stepped outside, planning to knock and ask them if they were all right, but the door was standing wide open.  She moved aside barely in time to avoid being flattened by a body flying out of the opening, and stood open-mouthed as Dean looked up at her, his face bloodied.  "Get back to your room!“ he ordered harshly, launching himself up from the ground and rejoining the chaos inside.  Beth backed up, her eyes wide, and did as she was told, listening, horrified, to the noises coming through the walls.  

A few seconds later, it seemed as if the silence was deafening in contrast.  Beth debated with herself, but concern for the men next door won out, and she left her room again, going to their door.  Sam was slowly getting up, while Dean was–holy crap, he was pulling a knife from the body he knelt next to on the floor.  A small sound escaped her lips, before she had time to clap her hand over her mouth.  Dean’s expression as he looked towards her frightened her almost more than the scene before her, and she turned and ran back to her room, Sam’s voice calling out her name behind her.  She grabbed her phone, shaking with shock, and heard Sam calling her name, banging on her door.  "Beth, please–just let me talk to you.  I need to explain what’s going on.”  He sounded very calm, but she was scared out of her wits.  

“Leave me alone!  I just saw your brother stab someone!  I have to get the police!”

“No, Beth–please.  Just let me explain.  Please.”  She was hesitating, and she didn’t understand why.

“How do you explain him pulling a knife out of someone’s body?”

The next voice she heard was Dean’s.  "Beth–open the door.  We need to talk.“

"No freaking way!  You are not getting in here!”  The door flew inward with a crash, and Beth backed away with a small shriek, dropping her phone and backing into the wall.  The panic she felt was so intense she was seeing spots before her eyes, and she could hear Sam’s voice trying to calm her.

“Beth, please listen.  We’re not going to hurt you.  Just calm down and let us explain.”  Sam walked towards her slowly, stopping to pull a chair out from the small table nearby.  "Please, Beth.“  He nodded towards the chair, and Beth peeled herself from the wall and perched there, ready for instant flight.  She glanced, terrified, at Dean, who sat on the bed next to his brother, staring at the floor, the muscles in his jaw working.  He picked that moment to look up, and she was relieved to see that the murderous, chilling expression he had worn earlier was gone.  He looked frustrated and tired, and he spoke softly to her.

"Beth, I know this is going to be hard to believe, but what we just killed in there–they were demons.”

Her dark eyes widened in disbelief.  "Demons.“  She turned her gaze to Sam, who looked back at her calmly, and nodded as he answered.

"That’s right–demons.”

“Demons?  Like 'The Exorcist?’”

Dean’s voice was quiet but tense.  "Yeah.  Demons.  Head-spinning, pea soup-spewing, pain-in-my-ass demons.“  His cell phone rang just then, and he grabbed it roughly from his pocket, standing and moving to just outside the door of her room.  "Bobby–got anything?”

Beth looked at Sam again, her mind reeling.  "Sam, seriously?  Those things are real?  I mean, I thought they were, but not here.  In hell.  Where they belong.“

"They’re real.  Unfortunately.  And their boss is kind of pissed at us.  He thinks we have something that belongs to him, and he wants it back.” “Satan is pissed at you?  That’s great.”

“Not Satan.  Crowley,” Dean answered as he entered the room.  "Bobby’s got nothing right now, Sam.  But he’s working on a better way to hide us from them.  Apparently he’s found a way around our hex bags.“

"Crowley?!”  Beth’s voice was incredulous as she stared back at Dean.  "Hex bags?  You guys are seriously yanking my chain.“

"No, we’re not.”  He met her gaze full-on, and she almost flinched.  "I know how crazy this sounds, believe me.“

"If those are demons, why don’t they disappear when you kill them?”

“This isn’t 'Charmed,’ sweetheart.  They don’t disappear.  At least the bodies they’re possessing don’t.  What we have in there,” he nodded towards their room, “is what’s left of the poor sons of bitches they possessed.  Most of the time the only thing keeping the bodies alive are the demons inside.  They just wear them like a rental tux for the prom.”

A single tear was making its way down Beth’s face, and she brushed it angrily away.  "You’re telling me that those things can get inside anybody?  Every person I meet could really be a demon?  They just stroll around up here like they own the place?“

"Look, we’re not trying to scare you, Beth.”  Sam spoke in a soothing voice, but she looked at him, eyes wide with fear.  

“Really?  You’re scaring the crap out of me.  Good job.”

Dean approached the table, pulling the other chair out and sitting down in front of her.  "Beth, I’m sorry.  I wish you had never seen any of this.  But you have to believe us, we are the good guys.“

"How do you know those things aren’t going to possess you?  How do you…”  Dean’s hand went to the neck of his t-shirt, and he pulled it down to reveal a symbol tattooed on his upper left chest.  She looked over at Sam, who was doing the same.

“Anti-possession symbol,” Sam answered quietly.  "We had amulets, but we figured in our line of work, we needed something more permanent.“

"And what exactly is your line of work?” Beth asked, her voice shaking a little.  She looked up into Dean’s green eyes, and was surprised to see a brief flash of vulnerability, quickly masked.

“We’re hunters.  We hunt demons, and monsters, and ghosts.  Whatever evil thing we run across.  We try to save as many people as we can.”  He looked back up at her, unflinching, waiting for her reaction.

Beth stared back at him, her eyes wide.  A few seconds passed before she shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment.  "You guys have to be crazy.  That’s the only explanation.“

"Well, darling, I suppose you could be right.  But what they just told you is the truth.”  Beth almost fell to the floor as she leapt from her chair and whirled around to see where the sarcastic voice was coming from.  Dean’s chair hit the floor as he stood, an angry sneer on his face.

“Crowley!"

"Good.  You know me, and I know you.  Now tell me, who is this charming new friend of yours?”

“Where did you come from?” Beth stammered, backing up by the headboard, as far as she could get away from this new threat.

“Hell, darling–and I need to get back.  You can’t find good help these days.”

“Then you should go, don’t you think?” Dean growled.  "And she has nothing to do with this, or with us.“

Crowley’s brows raised, and he threw a disbelieving look Dean’s direction.  "Really?  Seems like you were all getting rather cozy together.  Breaking the ice, as it were.  And she does look like your type, Dean.”  After a few seconds of silence, he sighed impatiently.  "All right.  I can see we’re getting nowhere like this.  Why don’t you just tell me where it is, and we can avoid any more unpleasantness for the time being.“

"Screw you,” Dean ground out between clenched teeth, barely getting the words out before Crowley sent him flying with a wave of his hand.  He crashed against the far wall, landing with a thud and a grunt of pain.  Sam took a step towards the demon before Crowley spoke again.

“Really, Moose, do you think that’s wise?”  He looked towards Beth, who was still cowering by the bed.  "You try to raise them right, teach them how to behave, and this is the thanks you get.“  He twisted his hand in the air, clenching it into a fist, and Sam cried out in pain, dropping to his knees on the floor.  

"Stop it!  What do you want?!” Beth screamed at him, running to Sam’s side.  Crowley flashed an evil smile, and released Sam, who leaned back on the bed, breathing heavily.

“I like her, she’s got spirit.  Hope she can keep it.”  Crowley folded his arms and continued.  "Now, boys, I grow tired of this little game.  Where is the Colt?“

Dean was sitting up slowly across the room.  "We don’t have it, you brain-dead dick.  Remember a couple of years ago, the hunters that killed us and sent us to heaven?  They cleaned us out.  Haven’t been able to find them since.”

Crowley sighed again.  "Lovely.  I think you Winchester boys had better get your priorities straight.  I need that gun.  And you need me to take you off my most wanted list.  Sounds like a fair exchange, don’t you think?“  He tilted his head and grinned, then focused on Beth, who still knelt next to Sam.  "It’s been a pleasure meeting you, ducks.  I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.  I look forward to it.”  As she gazed back at him, quaking with fear, he vanished.

“Sam, are you all right?” Beth asked quietly.  Sam nodded, and she rose to cross the room, kneeling next to Dean, who was leaning back against the wall under the windows.  "Dean?  How about you?“

Dean looked at her, his brows drawn together in frowning disbelief.  "I’ll be fine.  Sammy, my shoulder’s dislocated again.  I could use a hand.”

Beth stood and moved away as Sam came to help his brother.  She grabbed the ice bucket from the dresser and headed out to the ice machine a few doors down from their rooms.  She was only gone for a moment, but as she drew near her door with the ice, Dean came flying out towards her.  A look of pure relief crossed his face, followed by another frown as he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room.  "What the hell were you doing?“

"Getting some ice for your shoulder!  Why the hell are you yelling at me?”  She jerked her arm from his grasp, her dark-lashed eyes spitting fire back at him before she turned to go to the bathroom for a towel.  She made an ice pack and, despite her anger, positioned it very carefully on his shoulder.  He raised his other hand to hold it in place, glancing up at her with an abashed expression.  

“Thank you,” he muttered, then fired off a glare at his brother, who stood behind Beth, trying unsuccessfully to smother a grin.

“You’re welcome.”  Beth’s voice was short, but her hands were gentle as she put them on his face, tilting it to one side, then the other as she examined the cut on his forehead and one on his lip from the previous demon fight.  "These need to be cleaned,“ she murmured, turning to go back to the bathroom for the first aid kit and a clean cloth.  Sam cleared his throat, and Dean shot him a murderous look, but his brother turned his back, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, as Beth approached.  She took the warm washcloth and cleaned the cut on his forehead, then his split lip.  He spoke softly as she dabbed antibiotic ointment on his forehead.

"You clean up after a lot of bar fights?”

“A few.  And I went to nursing school for a couple of years, just didn’t get to finish.”

“Dean.”  Sam’s voice held a warning, and Beth looked down at Dean’s face in time to catch a leering grin.  

Beth looked at him sternly.  "Really?“  But the corners of her mouth teased at a smile in spite of her efforts to stifle it.

"Could have used you in a couple of hospitals I’ve been in,” Dean teased, and Beth shook her head as she gathered up the first aid supplies.  "So, when do I get my sponge bath?“  That earned him a wet washcloth in the face, and Beth walked to the bathroom to put away the kit.

Sam shook his head, a disgusted look on his face.  "Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean retorted, tossing the wet rag at him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Because we all agree that Aziraphale absolutely spent the night after the world didn’t end at Crowley’s flat, right?

.  .  .

He had not intended to get off the bus when it stopped directly in front of Crowley’s building. He still had not exactly said yes to the offer of staying at Crowley’s flat. But the demon had drunk half a bottle of wine while they waited for the bus, and the other half on the way to London, and Heaven knows how much energy he had expended on freezing time and imagining his way successfully through a flaming motorway and all that.

They had sat next to each other on the bus, like friends, instead of one a row behind the other like spies. By the end of the ride Crowley’s head was starting to drift occasionally in the direction of Aziraphale’s shoulder, and when he stood up he needed a moment to catch his balance, and all in all Aziraphale had figured it would be better to at least help him inside.

It had turned out to be a wise decision, because Crowley had taken two steps toward the building and then swayed alarmingly. Aziraphale had caught him with an arm around his waist and surreptitiously miracled the building door open and followed his mumbled directions to an upper floor.

And so they were inside Crowley’s flat. Inside Crowley’s bedroom, to be exact.

Like the rest of the flat, it was cavernous and nearly empty, the sparse furniture luxurious but a bit impersonal. The bed was massive, the wine-colored sheets a mess.

Crowley stumbled over to the bed, pausing just long enough to deposit his sunglasses on a bedside table. Then he flopped down on the bed face-first and fully clothed. After a moment there was some annoyed wiggling as he kicked off his shoes.

Aziraphale stood next to the bed for a good count of ten, trying to figure out what was supposed to happen next. “I’ll, um…be on the couch, then?” he tried finally.

“Haven’t got one,” Crowley mumbled. Which, given what seemed to be his extremely nominal commitment to the idea of human furniture, was not surprising. But…

“Don’t be a moron, angel.” Crowley, still face down among the pillows, flopped out an arm and patted the mattress next to him.

“I, um…well…” He fidgeted in place for another count of ten before he worked up the courage to think, Well…fuck it. It’s not like he could get any more Damned at this point.

There was a Louis XIV-style chair near the bed, which Aziraphale strongly suspected had actually belonged to Louis XIV. He removed his jacket, waistcoat and bowtie and set them carefully on the chair, then took off his shoes and eased into the bed.

It was, in fact, very comfortable. Memory foam or one of those new-fangled things, perhaps. And now that he was here, he realized how incredibly tired he was, even though his body was still humming with all the emergency response chemicals that the almost-end-of-the-world had generated. Angels and demons, strictly speaking, do not need to sleep. But the human body has its limits, and it really works much better if you let it rest now and then.

He lay down as carefully as he could, on his back, a perfectly reasonable distance away from Crowley, who was sprawled sideways across two-thirds of the mattress.

Crowley made a sleepy hnnh noise, then turned over to curl up on his side. Then he rolled right over and flopped an arm over Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said to no one in particular. “Um…”

He shifted a little, with the intent of doing…what, he wasn’t quite sure. Regardless of intent, the net result was that Crowley nestled even closer to him, close enough to rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale froze. They were never this close to each other, never, except for the times Aziraphale managed to goad the demon into shoving him against the nearest hard surface. (It worked more often than it should.) Now Crowley was tucked next to his side, breathing softly, in a configuration some might describe as snuggling.

Crowley smelled quite overpoweringly of burning car, and underneath that—Aziraphale realized with a pang—burning bookshop. His hair was rather damp and disheveled, and his head was heavy enough on Aziraphale’s shoulder that he could already anticipate the moment his arm would fall asleep and he’d have to move into some new, other configuration that could quite possibly also resemble snuggling.

It was wonderful.

It felt so painfully, terrifyingly real and good and right he wondered if a human heart could collapse upon itself from overwhelm alone.

“Your heart’s pounding,” Crowley mumbled, as if he’d been listening in.

“Adrenaline.” He managed a breathy laugh. “Hell of a survival system those humans have.”

“You don’t…object to this…do you?” Crowley said it slowly, without moving, but when you are that close to someone, you can feel the tiniest changes in their body, the minuscule flinch of bracing for rejection.

“No,” he said before he could think too much about it. “No, it’s”—say it, just say it—“it’s nice.”

“Good.” The flicker of tension went out of Crowley’s body. “You’re warm.” He curled a little closer, and it seemed to make sense for Aziraphale to wrap his arm around Crowley’s angular shoulders, so that’s what he did.

Aziraphale lay there, staring up at the ceiling and feeling the weight and shape and warmth of Crowley’s physical body next to him, and the searing metaphysical heat of Crowley’s love radiating off him in waves. It was a restless thing, always moving and shifting and changing, but always, always there.

Love was everywhere on Earth. Humans, for all their faults, were full of it. Most of the time, love was just background radiation, a kaleidoscope image with so many pieces you couldn’t single one out. But now that he’d really, fully identified Crowley’s particular love, it blazed, an unmistakable beacon whiting out everything else around it.

He’d always thought…that’s just what demons felt like. It wasn’t like he was in the habit of hanging around a great variety of them. He’d always just thought of it as The Crowley Feeling, the thing that told him Crowley’s here before any human sense did.

He couldn’t remember a time when being around Crowley hadn’t felt like that. Now that he’d identified it, it seemed impossible that he could have thought it was anything else. But then, the signal of a particular love gets easier to pick out of the background noise when it’s reciprocated.

How had he been so blind, so stupid and so afraid for so many millennia? The thought provoked an unexpected flash of anger. They could have had centuries, they could have had thousands of years of nights like this, if he had been a little braver, a little sooner—

Except…they couldn’t have. He knew that. Heaven and Hell would have never allowed it, and they wouldn’t allow it now. They would find them. They would separate them, and then they would kill them.

“They’ll come after us, won’t they,” he says quietly, not sure whether Crowley is still awake. “Heaven and Hell.”

“Yeah.” Crowley doesn’t even sound afraid; he just sounds exhausted. “But right now they’re busy talking their armies down from six thousand years of apocalyptic bloodlust, so I’d say we’ve got until morning.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arm tighter around Crowley’s back. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, long after the demon’s body had gone slack with sleep next to him. He lay there and he thought about Heaven and Hell, about angels and demons and witches, about sides and loyalties and God’s plan, and about the scrap of paper containing a single prophecy from Agnes Nutter, currently tucked in his waistcoat pocket.

Slowly, very slowly, the vague outlines of an idea began to form, an idea that by the first light of morning had become a plan. It was an insane plan, and its success seemed highly improbable, as insane and improbable as an angel and a demon falling in love. But then again, stranger things had happened at the almost-end-of-the-world.

[lady-divine-writes]

I Drove All Night (Rated PG13)

After Nope-aggedon and their lunch at the Ritz, instead of staying with Aziraphale, Crowley leaves under the guise of ‘tying up loose ends’. But after hours behind the wheel of his Bentley he realizes he’s not ‘tying up loose ends’, he’s running away.

And he’s going in the wrong direction. (2274 words)

(Written for the anon prompt Cyndi Lauper’s ‘I Drove All Night’. Listen to it while you read this. It sort of broke me XD)

I had to re-post this since the original was a mess XD

“That was a splendid lunch! Absolutely fabulous! I can’t remember the last time we shared such a scrumptious meal!” Aziraphale gushes, basking in the afterglow that comes from thwarting a world-ending supernatural war, helping send Satan himself back to Hell, escaping execution, then topping it off with three slices of cake and two helpings of crepes.

“I’ll admit, I can’t remember myself,” Crowley says, content, but not quite as effervescent as his angel companion.

“It was quite the celebration, wouldn’t you say?”

“That I would.”

“So, what are you in the mood to do now?” Aziraphale asks, turning to Crowley with a wiggle before the demon has thrown his car into park. Aziraphale doesn’t offer any suggestions, but the smile on his face points to the fact that he has some.

Some he’s given a great deal of thought to.

Crowley examines his steering wheel, his instrument panel, his gauges, reads the mileage forward and backward to keep his mind from wondering what those ideas could be, and if they happen to be similar to ones he’s come up with during his own drunken daydreaming.

“I’ve got to go,” he says apologetically. “Tend to some business. Tie up a few loose ends. You know how it is.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s bubbly smile falls in confusion. Without sparing a glance, Crowley can tell that wasn’t the answer Aziraphale had been expecting. “O-okay.”

“I imagine you need to, too,” Crowley adds, hoping it’s true.

He knows it isn’t.

Aziraphale takes too long to answer and that confirms Crowley’s suspicions on the matter.

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale says in a stuttered rush, struggling to re-group. “Of … of course. Quite right. I need to … tie up loose ends. As well. How long will that take you, do you think?” His eyes are puppyish, pleading. They sever the last fraying strings that have kept Crowley’s maggoty heart a prisoner in his chest.

‘Oh well. I’ll do better once it’s gone,’ he thinks. ‘Maybe I should slice it out once and for all. Put it in a box. Give it to Aziraphale to lock away in his curio cabinet beside his collection of snuff boxes and his blasted cherub figurines. It’s always belonged to him anyhow …’

“I don’t know,” Crowley replies. “Not too long? Coupl’a years at the most.”

“A couple of … a couple of years?”

“Give or take. Be back before you know it. You won’t even miss me.”

“I … I guess I won’t.” Aziraphale’s eyes drift from Crowley’s face to a random spot on the dash, his whole being sliding further and further away, as if his bookshop behind him is pulling him to it.

Or the Bentley is pushing him out.

But he can’t leave yet, not without proper acknowledgement that this is the end – that everything that’s led up to this moment, everything that he thought meant so much actually meant less than he imagined. Much less. But such is the nature of the beast, right? Angel … demon … together … and in love?

Ridiculous.

It was just a dream. His dream alone.

Besides, the world would probably explode.

“I see,” he says, steeling his shoulders and tipping up his chin. “Yes. A couple of years. Sounds about right. Well then, you’d better get started.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, surprisingly bothered that he’s taking it so well. “I guess I’d better.”

“I suspect I’ll … I’ll see you around then. Sooner or later.”

“Sooner or later.”

“As they say, don’t be a stranger.” Aziraphale offers Crowley his hand. Crowley looks at it. Shaking hands isn’t something they normally do, so Aziraphale initiating this definitely stands out as odd. Crowley had thought to leave him with a hug but perhaps this is better in the long run.

Crowley takes the offered hand and shakes it. Aziraphale gasps when they touch – a sudden and sharp mew. When they let go, he watches Crowley’s hand retreat till it’s resting on the steering wheel again.

If Aziraphale had been expecting something else, he doesn’t mention it.

“Good-bye, Crowley,” he says softly, opening the passenger door, exiting the vehicle, and closing it behind him before Crowley has the chance to say, “See ya.”

***

Crowley mulls over his and Aziraphale’s parting as he drives down the motorway on his way to Edinburgh. Hours he spends recounting every word, the tone of Aziraphale’s voice, the color in his cheeks - that rosy glow that fills the apples when he’s excited.

How quickly those roses and apples withered when Crowley said he needed to go.

The look on Aziraphale’s face, in his eyes, is one Crowley will remember for as long as he exists. It’s the same look he wore at the bandstand when Crowley stormed away, and again outside the bookshop when he said he was leaving Earth and wouldn’t think of him.

Fuck!

Bloody fuck!

What the fuck is he doing?

Why did he leave!?

Where did he really need to be?

Nowhere, and that’s the point.

He knows he isn’t exactly the bravest demon in Hell, but he didn’t see himself as disloyal.

Dammit if he isn’t proving himself wrong left and right!

He isn’t tending to business.

He’s running away.

Always running.

He’d offered to run and take Aziraphale with him, threatened to run and leave him behind, and now here he is, running under the guise of wrapping up loose ends. What loose ends? Every loose end he has should be scared shitless of him at this point! They’d all have heard by now, how he escaped a bath of Holy Water and lived to tell the tale. If he had any honest to goodness loose ends to tie up, wouldn’t it be best to do it with an angel by his side? The one angel on Earth every demon believes is impervious to Hellfire?

Crowley doesn’t even need to hide! He has nothing left to do for the moment but settle down somewhere and start enjoying himself until Heaven and Hell decide to start another row.

So why isn’t he doing that?

When he thinks about it, really thinks about it, there’s only one place he wants to spend his time, only one being he wants to spend that time with.

And he’s driving in the opposite direction.

“Shit shit shit shit shit!”

He doesn’t pull over. Doesn’t exit the motorway. He wrenches the Bentley’s steering wheel to turn his car around. The tires squeal at the abrupt change in direction, the vehicle spinning so quickly it almost flips on its side. Horns wail. Headlights from oncoming cars fly past, swerving out of his way to avoid a head on collision.

“Yeah, yeah, die mad about it,” he mumbles, throwing his car into gear. He doesn’t wait until he’s fully installed in a lane. As soon as he’s facing the way he needs to go, he drops his foot on the gas and floors it.

***

Knock-knock-knock.

“Aziraphale!”

Knock-knock-knock.

“Aziraphale!”

It’s well past two in the morning when Crowley ends up on Aziraphale’s doorstep, slamming his knuckles against the wood and praying Aziraphale is there. The angel wouldn’t answer his calls. Every light in the place is off. Even the lantern he reads by, its golden glow usually visible through the pulled blinds, appears absent. Aziraphale doesn’t need a lamp to read by, of course. He simply prefers the ambiance of it. The novelty.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Aziraphale! Are you in?”

Knock-knock-knock.

“Aziraphale? Why are your lights off? Are you asleep?”

Aziraphale doesn’t open the door, but he tuts from the opposite side. “Really, Crowley? Do you know me at all?”

“Aziraphale, please! Open the door!”

A moment of deliberation, than a put upon sigh. “Why should I?”

“Because I want to talk to you.”

“You’re talking to me now.”

“Ngk! You ever-loving pain in the … yes, but I want to see you!”

“I suppose you won’t go away till you do. Probably miracle straight through the door if I don’t let you.” More deliberation and another sigh. “Fine. Alright.” Crowley hears Aziraphale undo the bolts on the door one at a time. A simple snap would make short work of them, and Crowley considers it, but he can’t force Aziraphale to hear him out, no matter how much he wants him to. Aziraphale opens the door a sliver and peeks out, tired eyes assessing him like a gentleman confronted by a long lost relative, thrice removed, begging for money. “Well … what is it?” he grumbles. “Why are you here?”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley throws his hands open and sighs “… I’m here because I’m an idiot.”

Aziraphale’s eyes roll, but the door opens a hair. “I know that, but that doesn’t explain why you’ve come back. Don’t you have business to attend to? What about your loose ends?”

“There are no loose ends. None that matter. There’s just you.”

The door opens wider and this time, Aziraphale takes a step forward. “Then why did you leave?”

“I---I don’t know.” Crowley’s tongue trips, his excuse skids. No. He’s not going to start this on a lie. “That’s … that’s not true. But the reasons don’t matter. I’m back and I … I really wish …”

“Wish what?” Another step and now Aziraphale is outside.

“I wish you’d kiss me.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want me to kiss you?”

“Yes. Please,” Crowley says, a nod separating each word. “Kiss me?”

Aziraphale’s head shakes, his mouth starting to work soundlessly. “I don’t … I don’t know …”

Crowley puts a hand to Aziraphale’s cheek. His shaking stops. A pinkish burn takes its place. “Aziraphale …” Crowley reaches up with his free hand and removes his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s startled eyes dart about, subconsciously checking to see that no one is watching. And no one is. They’re in Soho, for crying out loud! Not a soul is paying any attention to them. But Aziraphale’s need to ensure Crowley’s safety, to keep him protected, reaches into the heart of him and pulls out the words he should have said yesterday afternoon when he dropped Aziraphale off and, like an imbecile, drove away. “I love you, Aziraphale. I love you and I … I need you to kiss me.”

There’s the smallest, reflexive nod of Aziraphale’s head. It would have been missed by someone else, someone not staring right into the angel’s eyes with expectation and hope. But Crowley was staring with both those things, so he saw. He nods back, and when he does, Aziraphale pounces, closing the gap between them – one of not just a few inches but thousands of years. He closes a gap of repressed feelings and unexpressed emotions, opens a door for unrealized daydreams, and sweeps away the dust off countless what ifs. There are whole chapters of their lives drafted but unedited – piled up on the sofa in Aziraphale’s back room, spread out over the passenger seat of Crowley’s Bentley, wedged between bottles of Jack Daniels and Merlot in both their liquor cabinets. Printed between the pages of Aziraphale’s open Bible and collected in a dried ring deep inside an empty tartan-print Thermos that once contained Holy Water. On the SD card in Crowley’s phone and a file on Aziraphale’s computer. Imprinted as footsteps throughout time, all over the world. While Aziraphale kisses Crowley and Crowley kisses him back, those pages are summoned. They gather in the gloam, making their way towards the angel and demon kissing at Aziraphale’s door.

“So, what are you in the mood to do now?” Aziraphale asks, realizing that with the admission of Crowley’s lie, the original question has been left newly unanswered.

“I want to stay with you, if you don’t mind. We … we don’t have to do anything. Not a thing if you don’t want to.”

“Oh. That’s a shame,” Aziraphale says with that little smile he gets when he’s just thought up a particularly clever joke. And even though that joke may very well be at Crowley’s expense, Crowley loves that smile.

He loves that he knows this about Aziraphale – something no one else on Heaven or Earth probably does.

“And why’s that?” Crowley asks.

“Because I was quite hoping you’d make love to me.”

Crowley blorts out a chuckle so unexpected, it stings his nose. If there’s one thing Aziraphale could say that would get a reaction out of him at that tense moment, it was that. Bravo, Aziraphale! But after a few awkward seconds of silence and a prolonged glare, it registers.

It’s not a joke.

That’s not a joke.

“Are you … are you serious?”

“I was.” Aziraphale clears his throat, his eyes falling to his clasped hands, visibly hurt by Crowley’s reaction; mildly broken by this whole ordeal. “I didn’t realize how ridiculous you thought …”

Crowley leans over, bends to the level of Aziraphale’s gaze and looks into his eyes. “Yes.”

Aziraphale’s brow pinches. “Yes what?”

“Yes, Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats, running the pad of his thumb lightly over the angel’s lower lip. “Yes.”

“But you …”

“Yes …”

“I thought …”

“Yes …”

Aziraphale stops rambling as Crowley inches closer. “Yes?”

Crowley nods.

“Yes.”

Their mouths meet. Aziraphale wobbles a step. Crowley catches him.

“Yes,” he mumbles between kisses, leading Aziraphale slowly backwards.

“Yes,” he says, sliding one hand underneath Aziraphale’s waistcoat to feel the angel’s warmth, his shuddering breaths.

“Are you … are you sure?” Aziraphale asks one last time, closing his eyes against days’ worth of tears he has no power to stop.

Crowley smiles and kisses them away.

“Yes,” he whispers, ushering Aziraphale inside his shop, snapping his fingers to shut and lock the door behind him.

[braver-stronger-smarter]

Good Omens - Over the Garden Wall (OTGW) AU

Hello all! This excerpt was inspired by @penbwl‘s lovely post found here! I plan to do a full chapter for each episode as a fun little side project when my current WIPs are wearing me down and I need a quick break. This isn’t the whole chapter, just the first part to introduce Aziraphale, Warlock, and Crowley.

I absolutely love this show and when I saw a lovely drawing for this AU pop up on my dash, I just knew I had to write it. I hope you all enjoy this sneak peek. First chapter should be up on my Ao3 page by the end of the week.

Thank you again to penbwl for coming up with this brilliant idea and allowing me to take a stab at it. I’m having a load of fun so far :)

Excerpt below:

The forest was dark. Much darker than it ought to be, and quiet too. Shouldn’t forests have birds singing high up in the branches? Or cute little critters scuttling about in the underbrush, foraging of nuts and berries and the like? The darkness seemed to imply that it was nighttime. Would that not suggest the presence of at least an owl or two hiding in the dense treetops?

There was nothing. Not a single sound except for the crunch of dead leaves beneath his feet and that of the boy walking beside him.

Warlock. The child’s name was Warlock. An adventurous boy of six who had a love for asking the most ridiculous questions and a predisposition to not do as he was told. It was for this very reason the pair had found themselves in this predicament, he was sure of it.

He was...a pause. A glance. What was their predicament, exactly? Alone, in an unfamiliar forest? How did they get here? What had been the events leading up to this? Why was he so certain this boy was the driving force behind it all?

Yes. The boy, Warlock. This boy was named Warlock. And he was Aziraphale. Simple gardener for the estate and sometimes caretaker for the child as well, when his parents were too busy to mind him themselves. Which was often, now that he stopped to think about it. 

“...Bartholomew, Curtis, Razzle Dazzle, Mr. McStiggins, Pete, Steve. But I think the very worst name for this frog is - ”

Aziraphale’s hand shot out reflexively, nearly slapping the child in his face and stopping them both in their tracks. The silence drifted in like a dense fog and Aziraphale found himself straining to catch a glimpse of anything that might seem familiar. Anything that might clue him in on which direction to go.

“Wait,” he chastised as a faint noise echoed at the edge of his hearing. Was that a bird taking off in the sky? The wind rustling through the thick foliage? “Wait a second, Warlock.” He paused, looking down at the boy beside him, dressed in his olive overalls and long-sleeved white shirt. His normally unruly dark hair was mostly hidden from view, with only the ends sticking out from underneath an old silver teapot that was, for some reason, perched securely on the child’s head. “Where are we?”

“In the woods,” the boy responded, shifting the frog he was carrying from one arm to the other. Aziraphale blinked. Where had Warlock gotten a frog? He didn’t remember the child stopping to pick one up. And why was this one so big? It was unlike any frog he had ever seen before, and yet, that was certainly what it was. There could be no denying it. A frog, bigger than his outstretched hand, lay dangling from Warlock’s arms like it hadn’t a care in the world. How very strange.

“Yes, my dear, I can see that,” the gardener replied, glancing around them one more time. There was something about this place. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but it made Aziraphale think that nothing in the world could be better right now than to curl up in his cottage, surrounded by his many books and nestled under a warm blanket, with a nice mug of fresh cocoa. “I meant, what are we doing out here?”

“We’re walking home,” Warlock stated so matter-of-factly that Aziraphale would have laughed were he not currently so unsettled by this bizarre situation they had found themselves in. 

Looking around once more, Aziraphale reached down to take the child’s hand in his, a sense of dread slowly starting to creep in. thunder rumbled in the distance and the man suddenly had a certain feeling that they shouldn’t be here. “Warlock, dear.” He paused, not sure if he should continue. Aziraphale didn’t want to scare the child, but he needed to make the boy understand that this was no laughing matter. “I think we may have gotten a bit turned around.”

What to do, what to do? A frown made its way onto the gardeners face. What was one supposed to do in situations like this? He turned to look behind them, images of a familiar children’s tale filling his mind. Two small children wandering through a wood just like this one, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs behind as they marched toward their doom. 

“We should have left a trail…” the man muttered to himself. Beside him, Warlock shifted, tugging his hand from Aziraphale’s grasp as he reached into his pockets.

“Don’t worry!” The small, yet boisterous voice declared as he tossed a fist full of candy at the path behind them. “I can leave a trail of candy. From my pants! See?”

Once again, Aziraphale felt the temptation to laugh, and once again, he stifled it. No reason to let his guard down now. Not until they were safely back at the Dowling Estate.

A dull thud sounded nearby and Aziraphale nearly leapt with fright. He spun around, peering in the direction of the noise, trying to ignore how his heart was currently trying to climb up and out of his throat. “Did you hear that?” he asked, hoping Warlock might say that he hadn’t and it had all been in the gardener’s mind. 

“Yeah,” Warlock nodded his head in affirmation and Aziraphale once again took him by the hand and slowly moved them forward, keeping them mostly hidden behind the large trunk of a nearby tree. 

There, just on the other side of the treeline, stood a man. He was dressed head to toe in black, pants tucked down into his boots, a rather tall hat atop his head. From here, Aziraphale couldn’t make out most of his features. The forest was dark, and the only light nearby was coming from a single lamp resting on the ground by his feet.

The thudding noise they had heard, it turns out, was the sound of the man’s axe, whacking repeatedly into the fallen tree in front of him. He was humming a soft tune to himself as he gathered the finely chopped pieces, kneeling down to ensure he gathered up every last bit. Aziraphale’s eyes drifted over the scene, trying to gather any bit of information he might have missed. Other than the sticky shadows of what looked to be sap upon the fallen tree, there appeared to be nothing of use here.

“We should ask him for help,” Warlock announced with all the innocence of a child that had not yet been taught to be hesitant around strangers. His frog croaked in what sounded like agreement and Aziraphale shot it a glare before realizing how ridiculous an action that was.

“No,” he cautioned his young charge, eyes returning to the strange man once more. “We should not ask him for help.”

“But - “

“Shush,” Aziraphale snapped, feeling immediately guilty at how harsh he sounded. He didn’t want to scare Warlock, or make him cry, but the longer they lingered here, the more nervous Aziraphale became. What they needed to do was stop wasting time and find their way back to someplace familiar. A street with cars or a neighborhood, perhaps, where they could borrow a telephone and call for help.

“You shush,” Warlock argued, tugging his hand free to bring a single finger to his lips like he’d seen his mother do a thousand times before.

“No,” Aziraphale was almost at his wit’s end. “You shush.”

The boy glowered, but there was a teasing glint in his dark brown eyes. “You shush.”

As the pair argued, the light around them grew dimmer and dimmer. By the time Aziraphale looked up to take stock of their situation, the woodsman was walking away, the light from his lamp slowly disappearing behind the trees up ahead until it was over the hill and out of sight, leaving them in darkness once more.

“Ah,” Aziraphale sighed, feeling that all-too-familiar uneasiness return to his stomach. His gaze lingered on the space where the man had been. “Perhaps we should have asked him for help.”

“Maybe I can help you.”

The voice, sounding from behind them, was soft and low. Not deep, like a bass, but warm and gentle, and just a bit sultry. Aziraphale turned and saw, to his absolute horror, a serpent, nearly seven feet long with inky black scales and a red underbelly staring at them from a nearby tree. He’d managed to climb his way up to the branches level with the top of Aziraphale’s head and was gazing over at the pair of them with bright amber eyes.

“I mean,” the serpent continued, never once averting his gaze, “you two are lost, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale gasped, reaching up a hand to slap himself in the face, now certain that this was a dream. Some kind of twisted nightmare he’d found himself in - one that he desperately needed to wake up from. When the action did not banish the snake or the darkness or the wood at all, he spluttered, hoping some sort of answer might be provided. “What in the world is going on here?”

“Well,” Warlock piped up, clearly tickled that someone had thought to ask him. “You’re slapping yourself, and I’m answering your question, and - “

Aziraphale heaved out a heavy sigh. Now was really not the time. “No, Warlock, dear boy. This isn’t real. A snake’s brain isn’t big enough for cognizant speech,” he explained, forgetting for a moment that the six-year-old wouldn’t have the slightest idea what that meant.

Before he could amend his statement, the serpent’s head drifted closer. “Excussssse me? What was that?” 

Blue eyes widened. “I mean - “ boy, had he gotten himself into a puzzle. “I’m just trying to say that you’re, well, you’re abnormal, is all. Out of the ordinary, as it were. Completely unexpected, and rather a bit alarming and - “ Goodness, he was rambling now, wasn’t he? Aziraphale had a tendency to do that when he was nervous.

“Good heavens, Aziraphale,” the man muttered, breaking eye contact for the first time. “Stop talking to it.”

“It?” He had never heard a snake, or any animal for that matter, sound so offended in his entire life. “I beg your pardon?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed back up to the luminous yellow orbs. “Uh - well, the thing is - “

Suddenly, the sharp snap of a twig sounded behind them. Aziraphale whirled around, his heart leaping from his chest when he realized Warlock had wandered several paces off to examine a slow moving turtle that he had decided to balance a piece of candy upon. There, standing before them, was the woodsman. Brown eyes wide, shadows etched into the deepest crevices of his face. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, voice thundering in the space around them, sending Aziraphale scrambling to bring Warlock back by his side, despite the boy’s protests to remain with his new friend. “Explain yourselves!”

“Aaaaand that’sss my cue,” the snake hissed, coiling up on himself as he disappeared out of the light and into the treetops, his striking golden eyes, the only part remaining visible. For a moment, the luminous orbs lingered, casting a final wink in Aziraphale’s direction before disappearing completely into the darkness “Ciao.”

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - 1 Corinthians 13:13

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Gabriel keeps missing the point by a mile but what else did you expect.

***

The funeral of Daniel Brown was a simple, dignified matter. 

Still, Gabriel found he was not overly fond of the Anglican rites; they just lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. But then again, he’d never quite understood why the humans in that island had bothered with the Schism: as far as he was concerned it had simply caused a lot of paperwork Heaven could have done without, and anyone involved on either side he might have questioned about motivations - if he’d cared - was in Hell. Their descendants seemed to have a thing for schisms, too, though this one seemed somehow even more senseless than the last to him.

But considering that he’d fought in what could be considered the first Schism, maybe he wasn’t in a position to talk. Holding back a sigh, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the church. He knew a good chunk of people attending, most of them co-workers he’d managed to free up that day by working a miracle on their schedules - or rather asking someone else to work a miracle on their schedules. Gabriel stood among them, in the third row, wearing his best suit. 

On his left, Fabrizio was wearing a much cheaper one he still somehow managed to look elegant in; somewhere on their right Łukasz still looked like he’d just come out of a pub, but with a jacket and tie on he had borrowed from Rajiv - a noticeable effort, as he absolutely loathed wearing ties. Daniel would have appreciated that.

On the other row, there were a few people Gabriel had never seen but who clearly must have known Daniel long before he did, in another life. Daniel did tend to say he’d had a life before losing his wife and home, and a life after that.

“What they don’t tell you about becoming a widower is that half the people you knew fall off the radar,” he’d told Gabriel in a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject. “A lot were couples and you know, it’s awkward to invite the guy who just lost his wife. I’m sure they had good intentions and to be honest, the few times they did invite me I made up an excuse. But then we just drifted and by the time I lost the house as well we hadn’t spoken in months.”

Gabriel didn’t know how many of those people were among those who had drifted away, nor he had any idea how Lawrence had found out about them and gotten in touch, but he had and there they were, and he supposed that had to count for something. He glanced ahead, towards the front row where Lawrence and Berenice stood. Lawrence’s head was bowed, and something ached in Gabriel’s chest. 

The unfairness of it all was staggering. The two brothers should have been reunited, shared what was left of their mortal existence; and instead Daniel had only returned in Lawrence’s life as a corpse to be buried. All that Gabriel had been able to give him of his brother were tales, some of them second hand. It was all he could give but ah, it couldn’t possibly be enough. 

If only he’d asked for help earlier, maybe they might have. But he hadn’t and there stood Lawrence, for the last goodbye. It was difficult not to think that none of those present, him aside, had the certainty of a life after their mortal one. That all they had, as they said their goodbyes to an empty vessel in a wooden casket, was the hope Daniel was not entirely gone. Faith that he was not entirely gone, amidst the grief.

And if he were in their place… Gabriel didn’t think hope alone would be enough for him. He didn’t think he could have that blind faith at all. He tried, but now he only felt more lost than ever.

You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer. God asks of you what they ask of every mortal. Faith.

When Gabriel bowed his head and his shoulders trembled, no one questioned it. 

You’re expected to weep at funerals, after all.

***

“More weeping.”

“Lord Beelzebub?”

“I said, this place needs more weeping. Weeping and gnashing of teeth, what happened to that? I don’t hear any teeth gnashing and barely any weeping! And why is the soul over there looking like it’s enjoying this?” Beelzebub demanded to know. 

The damned soul chained to the ceiling lifted its head and grinned. “Because I am,” it said. 

The Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies sighed, lifted a hand to smite the insolent soul. The grin widened expectantly. They rolled their eyes and let the hand drop, much to the damned’s chagrin. Masochists were the absolute worst. “Remove that one from my presence and put it on paint watching duty for the next century.”

Their words were met by a horrified scream as demons moved in to unchain the soul and drag it away. “No! NO! ANYTHING BUT THAT!”

Ah, yes, that was more like it. Beelzebub nodded, and turned to the demons around them. “See, this is how it’s done. To each their most dreaded punishment, that’s what Circles are for, for Satan’s sake. The guidelines are there for a reason. You don’t just group them all in a few rooms and whip them. Since when has the lot of you grown so lazy and uninspired?”

A demon of slothfulness opened his mouth, only to snap it shut when Beelzebub dismissively waved a hand. “Except those whose job description requires it,” they clarified. The demon gave a very obvious sigh of relief as Beelzebub turned their attention on the others. “The rest of you have no excuses. Or do I have to further motivate you?”

Most demons on Eternal Torment duty were not precisely a shining example of intellectual prowess - it was the main reason why they were on Eternal Torment duty in the first place, not much else they could be used for - but even they were able to guess those words were meant to be a threat and reacted accordingly, shaking their head and bowing and mumbling excuses.

Except, of course, That One Demon that simply didn’t get it. “That would help, really.”

Several heads turned towards the demon who had just spoken, in a sudden silence. Even the cries of the tortured stopped, as did the buzzing of flies around Beelzebub’s head. That would have made even someone dumb as the dumbest rock realize they had fucked up, but this one was clearly dumber than the dumbest rock and spoke again rather than groveling for mercy.

“I mean, we’d been preparing for war since… always, and then suddenly no war. Doesn’t help motivate us a whole lot.”

Not since always. There was a time we didn’t even have a word to describe war. We created it when we rebelled and then forgot we did. 

Now that was exactly the kind of thought Beelzebub had come there to ignore, and to have it back at the forefront of their mind made their already foul mood… fouler. Considering that they were always in a foul mood, and that those days it was twice as foul, right in that moment said mood was about four times fouler than normal. “I’ll give you motivation,” Beezelbub buzzed.

They snapped their fingers and a swarm of horse flies materialized out of nowhere, surrounding the demon as he screamed and uselessly shielded his head. Everyone took a step or two or twenty away from him and the swarm of biting, bloodthirsty flies. Now that made the Lord of the Flies feel better again. Which was to say, in a mood that was only about twice as foul as usual.

“Once the flies are done, move that one to janitorial duty,” they ordered, and left without a word, leaving those lowly demons properly cowed. It was a good distraction, at least.

For now.

***

“Gabriel.”

Lawrence’s voice reached him as he took a few steps away, after watching the casket being taken to the hearse. He’d meant to leave quietly, but it seemed that Lawrence wouldn’t let him go without a word. Gabriel swallowed, tried to fight back the guilt - if only you’d swallowed your fear and asked for help finding him sooner - and turned. 

Lawrence was walking up to him, eyes still damp, leaning on the cane more heavily than he had last time they had met, as the reality of seeing off his brother’s casket had been a physical blow. He held out a hand. “Again, thank you. For bringing him back to me.”

Gabriel swallowed again, his mouth dry, and took that hand. “I wish I’d been able to find you sooner.”

“You did more than you had to do,” was the reply. “And I will be forever grateful. If you ever wish to spend some time on the seaside, our home is open to you. We’d love you to visit sometime.” 

This time, Gabriel managed a smile. “I wouldn’t want to impose--”

“We insist,” Berenice cut him off, seemingly materializing by her husband’s side, and held out her own hand. When Gabriel took it, he found himself pulled suddenly into a tight hug. Gabriel had read up the definition of a motherly hug somewhere, and couldn’t quite guess what that was supposed to mean - he’d never had a mother in the sense mortals meant it, although his current form did have a belly button for accuracy’s sake - but he suddenly thought that maybe, for a moment, he could understand. 

Ridiculous, that: he’d been created out of God’s will and was unfathomably older than the woman holding him. And yet.

“Do keep in touch,” Berenice said, pulling back, and Gabriel could only nod, through tight. 

“... Of course.”

A smile, a pat on his cheek, and they were off in a car following the hearse; it occurred to him only later that he had no idea where they were taking Daniel, where his grave would be. But then again, it hardly mattered. He could ask later, he supposed; not that Daniel would be there.

“Oi, Gabriel. You coming with us?” Łukasz called out, snapping him from his thoughts. 

“We’re going to have a drink at the usual place.”

“For Daniel.”

“Make it two.”

“Both for Daniel.”

“Of course.” Gabriel managed a weak smile. “You go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

“If you don’t make us wait too long, we'll even pay your first round.”

A chuckle. “Sounds like a deal,” Gabriel said, and watched them go with a faint smile that died down a few moments later. He glanced back, at the small crowd before the church, already beginning to disperse, and sighed.

So, it was done. Lawrence had been found, and he’d been able to say goodbye the only way he could. The mission he’d taken upon himself had been accomplished. 

What now? What do I do now?

He bit his lower lip and dared glance up at the gathering rain clouds, hoping for a sign, instructions, anything. Of fucking course, none came. Humans don’t get instructions.

Gabriel lowered his gaze with a scoff and began walking, not even trying to shield himself as the first raindrops fell. He would join the others for a drink, he decided, and then… then…

“Sorry, mate - have you got any change?” The voice rang out suddenly, causing Gabriel to recoil. He glanced up to see a man sitting on the pavement, back against the wall, an upturned hat in front of him and a dog curled up by his side - a small scruffy thing that looked nowhere as elegant as Doyle, but the man was in the process of taking off his coat to lay it down on it. 

He looked barely in his twenties, of slim built, hair reddish-blond and overall looked nothing like Daniel had when they first had met - but there was a peculiar weariness to his voice that was the same. Gabriel watched for a moment as he shielded the dog from the rain, which was beginning to pick up. It didn’t look like he had another coat. 

The tent, Gabriel remembered, he let me sleep in his tent and didn’t even know me.

“Of course,” he found himself saying, and reached for his wallet. At least, this time he knew what the value of the bills and coins in his wallet was. The young man gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank you,” he muttered. “I hate to ask like that, I usually sit quietly, honest. But if I can pay for something in a cafe we get to stay out of the rain for a while.”

Gabriel glanced up at the sky, only to get a drop of water right in the eye. He rubbed it, frowning. “Have you got someplace to stay the night?” he asked. He knew heavy rain was expected through the next couple of days. 

A shrug. “Not really. I used to sleep in a shelter from time to time, but then I found Chip.” He patted the dog’s muzzle, causing it to open its eyes and lick his hand. “And there isn’t a single bloody shelter that will let her in. I can sneak her into a motel if I get enough money during the day to pay for the night, but it doesn’t happen often. Most people go cashless these days. But it’s not too bad, until winter comes.”

“Unless it rains.”

“Unless it rains. But I’m saving up for a tent.”

“I see.” Gabriel opened his wallet. He was no expert on motel rates, but he estimated the cash he had on him would be enough to pay for a couple of nights. “Here,” he said, handing over the bills. “Hope it helps. For a motel, or for the tent.”

The young man’s thin face opened up in a startled smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking it. 

“Gabriel. Name’s Gabriel.”

“Thanks, Gabriel. I’m Noah.”

Gabriel hadn’t meant to laugh, but it still escaped him, causing Noah to blink and Chip to lift her head, tilting it on one side. “Heh! Sorry, sorry - I shouldn’t have laughed. I just… remembered a guy I met once.” Gabriel gestured up to the sky, to the rain that was falling and beginning to soak their hair. “It’s looking like you should get to work to build that Ark, no?”

The puzzled expression on Noah’s face turned into a chuckle. “Ah, yes. Heard that a few times,” he said, and stood. “I’ll be getting us out of the rain, then. Thank you, mate.”

“You’re welcome.” Gabriel turned to walk away, hesitated, and turned back. Noah was tying the sleeves of the coat beneath Chip, so that she’d be dry as they walked. He cleared his throat, telling himself that the pub he was heading into was only a short walk away and some rain wouldn’t kill him. “I think you could use this,” he said, taking off his coat. “I have another home.”

He didn’t, but he could buy one. After some insistence, Noah accepted the gift and Gabriel walked off to the pub, letting the rain fall on him, once again wondering what he ought to do to please God.

Gabriel never was the brightest bulb in the box.

***

“So, have you given up on getting to the fallen Archangel?”

I’d very much rather forget about that idiot, but here you are making yourself an absolute pain in the ass and reminding me.

“I have not,” Beelzebub said, sprawled on their throne and making a point not to bother looking anywhere in Asmodeus’ general direction. One of the most annoying parts of having a fellow Prince of Hell show up before them was that they couldn’t tell them to shut the Heaven up without things getting quite ugly. Not that they generally minded things getting ugly - they were in Hell, all things were ugly all the time - but it would likely turn into a full-blown feud.

Which, with the demons still rather put off by the lack of Apocalypse and subsequent war, things could get out of hand rather quickly. “You have not? I’m told you have not left Hell in weeks.”

“And…?”

“Have you assigned someone else to winning him over? I thought it was meant to be a personal project,” Asmodeus said with  a shrug, his mismatched, sunken-in eyes glinting in malevolent glee. “One would think you’d have won him over by now. Out of practice, are you?”

Beelzebub scoffed, finally turning to look at him. “What do I owe the displeasure of your visit?” they asked, cutting the chase.

A shrug. “I want us to get the archangel for ourselves, is all. With no war happening in the foreseeable future, a small victory is better than none to keep the spirits up. Or down, depending how you look at it. It would be quite a feather in your hat, taking his soul. Is that not what you wanted?”

“He is an idiot,” Beelzebub scoffed. “And an archangel no longer. His soul is worth no more and no less than any other human’s.”

“But he was God’s messenger.”

“Who he was doesn’t matter for him as it doesn’t matter for us. We are who we are now.”

Asmodeus shrugged. “Points of view. Well then, if you’re dropping the project, I’ll be picking it--”

“I didn’t say I’m dropping it,” was the sharp reply. Truth be told they did have every intention to do just that - best not to see him, best not to remember, best not to think - but something about the idea Asmodeus or anyone else could claim his soul for Hell rubbed them all the wrong ways. The former Archangel Gabriel in Hell, with Asmodeus as his liege lord. That wouldn’t do at all.

As for the reason why it wouldn’t do, Beelzebub would rather not speculate. They settled on the thought it would amount to leaving that particular feather in someone else’s hat, and of course they couldn’t do that. They were the Lord of the Flies, the one Prince of Hell Satan had tasked with preparing for the War, and therefore they had a certain standing. 

The fact they couldn’t get that war started, while not blamed on them for obvious reasons, had been a loss of prestige. They were not looking to hand someone else an easy victory over them.

“Oh?” Asmodeus tilted his head. “You’re not?”

Beelzebub waved a hand. “I’m waiting for him to lower his guard. Think he’s safe. His soul is worth little, but Hell shall have it,” they added. Then they’d assign him to some task well away from them, so they wouldn’t have to see his stupid face all the time and remember what was best forgotten. But, of course, they didn’t say that part aloud: they couldn’t bring up knowledge they were not meant to have. It would be… unwise.

Although, come to think of it, what had been brought up may very well give them just the leverage they needed to sway that fool on the road to Hell.

***

“We are… not certain we are meant to consume any of this.”

“Well, it’s going to look rather odd if I’m the only one eating out of all four of us, wouldn’t it?” Gabriel put down his menu, which he had picked up despite knowing full well what he was going to order. “The trick is going through the menu once, pick a dish, and if you like it you keep ordering it whenever you come to the establishment again.”

Sandalphon looked confused. “Then why did you read all the dishes again just now?”

“Ah, that’s just something you do. Etiquette, I suppose. I usually have a double bacon cheeseburger and chips,” he added.

Approximately eight miles away Aziraphale made a face, causing Crowley to pause on his piece about the absolute necessity of a proper wine cellar in the cottage. “What is it, Angel?” “Oh… nothing at all, dear,” he said, waving a hand. “Just a moment, already passed. Concerning the wine selection, I think we absolutely ought to have…”

“... Chips?”

“That would be potatoes. They’re also served with fish.”

“What fish?” Uriel asked, eyeing the photo on the menu. “There are approximately thirty-four thousand species of fish on Earth, and this looks like none of them.”

“I’m not sure. I guess we could ask,” he said, knowing full well that was likely going to end in a chorus of ‘we’re having what he’s having’ right after he uttered his order, which was… exactly what happened. 

“Well,” Gabriel said as soon as the waiter was gone with their rather monotonous orders. “How are things going in--” a pause, a glance towards the next table over, which was entirely too close and well within earshot. “... At work?”

As expected, everything in Heaven was pretty much business as usual, aside from the fact they no longer had to prepare for an all-out war for victory or destruction. The war to end all wars, to be fought with more than just swords or spears - holy water and hellfire were to play a part, too. At the very least, they had prepared to use holy water, and had expected hellfire. Complete and utter destruction. They had never thought they might lose, and hardly ever paid any mind to the idea some of them may be destroyed, victorious or not.

Nor had they spared a thought for the demons they would extinguish, of course; they were meant to be destroyed, having sealed their fate the day they chose to rebel... only that now he found he was relieved it had not come to that. He'd known them, once, though the memory of the angels they had been was still beyond his grasp, as he hadn't tried to bring up more. The agony caused by bringing back up everything Ba'al had been to him was painful enough.

He'd done his best not to think about Beelzebub at all over the past few weeks, and it had… sort of worked. If he ignored it hard enough the sting was muted, duller, lost in the background. He was almost good enough at lying to himself to believe that nothing at all had happened, no memory that mattered had been brought up, and surely it would get easier as more time passed and Beelzebub no longer showed their face.

He could tell himself it was a relief, that he did not miss their presence, as Ba'al or as the Lord of the Flies. Maybe in time he would come to truly believe it, but somehow he doubted it. Once the veil has been ripped in two, it is hard to mend. It would have been easier if it was never ripped, if everything went according to the Great Plan; nothing to question, nothing to fear.

And even so, God, he was glad the war had not come. He was glad that Beelzebub had not been destroyed, that humanity was still there, that no angel had perished. And all thanks to a rebellious child turning against his Father.

Ironic, that

"... And that's about it," Sandalphon finished over a mouthful of double bacon cheeseburger, which he seemed to appreciate after all. Uriel had eaten the chips, at least; Michael still seemed rather unconvinced and had simply moved food around to make it look like she had eaten something. "What about--" Sandalphon trailed off, and went very still, eyeing around. "Something smells evil," he muttered, his voice low, causing Gabriel’s hair to stand on end. 

He turned - they all did - to glance around, as discreetly as they could, but none of them noticed anything. Gabriel did a fly buzzing close by, but they were sitting outside to eat and… well, maybe it was just a fly. He hoped it was just a fly.

Do I really?

“Ah, it’s gone,” Sandalphon was muttering. “It was a whiff, but I can’t smell it anymore.”

“... Probably a passing human with evil intent,” Gabriel said, keeping his voice.

“Probably,” Michael conceded, and looked back at him. “We can take you home and take turns to watch, just to be on the safe side.”

That would probably be excessive, Gabriel mused, because the fly was probably just a fly. But what concerned him was something else - how part of him hoped otherwise, that it wasn’t just a fly, against all logic and common sense. 

“I am sure it won’t be needed,” he finally said, and took the last bite of his meal, faintly wondering if somewhere on another plane of existence there was now a file about him to record deeds good and evil, and if the lie he’d just uttered was already being written on it, placing him just a tiny step closer to Hell.

***

Beelzebub did not like dilemmas. 

That discovery was unpleasant as it was recent; as prior to that mess - at least in their recent memories - they had never truly found themselves faced with one; in doubt, which was not often as evil accepts little doubt,  they simply went for the bigger evil and that was it. But now the decision was whether or not they should use the knowledge they had gained of themselves and Gabriel to sway the former archangel and it was, indeed, a dilemma of the worst sort.

It would be best to never bring the past up again and try with all their might to forget again, they knew that. However, that would be as good as admitting themselves that the discovery did bother them, for all their claims that it changed nothing… and they didn’t want to do that either. 

They thought back of that night, how Gabriel’s eyes leaked and theirs didn’t; focused on that only, ignoring the overwhelming sense of love cloying their throat, the ache somewhere at their very core that they could not and wished not name. None of it mattered.

Gabriel had wept. They did not. 

It changes nothing for me, Beelzebub mused, but it might change everything for this fool. Hell shall have him and it shall be my doing, Asmodeus be blessed. I only need to change strategy.

And with that thought, their mind was made up. The Lord of the Flies took wing, and followed Gabriel home. They had to talk.

Alone.

***

“So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13

***

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[d20owlbear]

Part 2 of Love and Joy and Happiness

Series Link: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938955 Fic Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26687722

Father Fell has lived a decent life, he's been mostly content and happy with how it's gone, of course. He must be, because this is the life God has given him, and since he's gone without any true hardships, then it must be Good, of course.

And then he is introduced to Father Crowley (who's not technically a Father, but good enough for Bishop Gabriel!) and is struck dumb, at least for some moments. Life, it seems, is about to change.

based off of @gayforgoodomens priest au which this is based on! pt1 pt2 pt3

Meeting of Un-Like Minds

Aziraphale held his favorite bible in his hand, it was a smaller, plain thing that he liked to keep on him. It was well-worn, well cared for, and utterly falling apart. It had always been falling apart, from use and age, and had been passed down in the Fell family from diocesan priest to priest so it would stay within the same parish to serve them as the Fell family often claimed they were compelled to do.

Aziraphale Zachariah Fell wasn't so much compelled to follow in the footsteps of the diocesan priests before him so much as he fell into it. He'd gotten through his A-levels then gone to a perfectly respectable university in Chichester and muddled happy as a duck through a Philosophy and Ethics degree for a handful of years. Afterward, he'd drifted a little, returned back home, and helped his mother deal with a funeral and then simply… never left. His brothers, all married at that point, of course, and well on their way to contributing to the pool of young catholic children just as they ought, nudged him towards seminary.

So he went with little protest. He left the house and stayed within the same diocese he'd always lived in and continued his education in seminary for the requisite years, and even took the gap year ("Come on, Ezra, you're no fun! Everyone does it!" "My name isn't Ezra.") to trundle through France, especially Brittany and occasional jaunts to Paris, enjoying the food and the people who were far too kind even though his abysmal French never quite improved. Aziraphale loved people, he loved meeting new people and knowing they were loved, he loved them too and fancied that he was the sort to fall in love with the ideas of people too. It was all rather Romantic, in the literary sense, and the whole year had been lovely.

Then he returned and completed his last degree and was assigned back to his home as a priest to the parish, had been for some time now and had mostly been on his lonesome other than the parish themselves. And that was alright, he said to himself out loud when others asked it of him and quietly under his breath when the halls of the church he served in echoed with a deafening stillness in the dark of night when he was alone. He was alone, Aziraphale said, not lonely.

But sometimes, when he could not sleep, he knelt at the altar and prayed for God to deliver him from the loneliness. It was not right of him, he beseeched God, for him to be so filled with the Lord's holy Love and to be so loved by the parish around him and bolstered by their sincere faith and yet still so bereft. And in the mornings he did his best to forget he'd ever asked. His duties were to adhere to his vows of celibacy and obedience, neither of which were difficult things for him. The rest of the world passed so quickly it felt like he was often left behind, meandering at his own pace and unable to keep up except within the walls of the church he resided in which were as old as he felt, the masonry growing moss and ivy across its arches and crannies.

"Father Fell," Bishop Gabriel smiled in a way that must certainly have been pleasant, but caught Aziraphale off guard. Had he missed something? Was the Bishop here meant to be expected today? But no, he didn't look annoyed at Aziraphale's surprise…

"Have you met our new priest, Father Crowley?" The Bishop continued to smile, large and in a way that was surely inviting if only Aziraphale had asked someone else, but he could only imagine that voice calling him Ezra and it grating on him in seminary before the slightly older, ambitious man graduated from it.

Aziraphale transferred his falling-apart-bible carefully to a single hand to prepare for a handshake, but stopped short. The man– Father Crowley stood and rubbed at the back of his neck before looking up to meet Aziraphale's eyes. There was a lance like lightning that shuddered through him as his gaze followed the Bishop's gesture to the man behind him. Lean and tall, lanky in a way that spoke of wiry muscle and a certain intensity in too-light brown eyes that shone like molten gold the way the light from the stained glass in the windows hit them. He could not have stopped the thought from passing through his head that this must be what meeting Christ was like, seen to the core of him and found wanting but simultaneously as if he could do better, be better for no reason other than the man before him would demand it of him with a soft voice and kind words that drained the soul's wounds of the filth that grew there.

"I– no, I haven't had the pleasure." Aziraphale stuttered and was unable to move forward nor to offer his hand as he ought.

"Th' pleasure 's mine." Father Crowley murmured and stepped forward, altogether too close and too much entirely for Aziraphale, and stuck out his hand. It was only the engrained years of politeness in situations he'd rather not be in that let Aziraphale's body reciprocate and reach out to grasp his hand. The lightning-feeling was back and Aziraphale's heart pounded in his chest. Bishop Gabriel seemed to be happy enough with their meeting to leave with a jaunty little wave, as if Aziraphale's shock was not written blatantly across his face.

"Wait, wait," Aziraphale said in trembling voice, but the Bishop was far enough gone he couldn't, or wouldn't hear, and so he was forced to make a fool of himself in front of the new Father.

"I must beg your pardon," Aziraphale sighed heavily and carefully closed the bible after extracting his hand carefully from Father Crowley's firm, rough, warm, welcoming grip, "But I hadn't been informed there would be a new priest for this parish…" He let the implication lay.

Father Crowley only shrugged casually, pulling Aziraphale's gaze to his shoulders in the too-tight button-up shirt, and shoved his hands into his front pockets, which drew Aziraphale's gaze downward to his trousers, also far too tight. "More of a deacon, me, than a priest. Didn't go to seminary, but Bishop Busy-body didn't let me explain it, 's all." He grinned wickedly and the lighting lingering in Aziraphale's chest settled into a warm hearth-fire by his heart, hiding a laugh with a shocked look.

"You oughtn't speak of the bishop that way!"

"M I wrong?"

"I– well… I suppose not."

"Well, there we are. Wouldn't be surprised if I'm Father officially on things though, but I got assigned here to you 'cause of the extra rooms here in the church. You live here, yeah? Even though you didn't have to take a poverty vow?" Father Crowley's eyes were far too sharp and knowing for Aziraphale's comfort, so he turned and beckoned for the man to follow. He could still feel his gaze, but it felt safer than meeting it, watched but not so flayed-open seen as before.

"Yes." Aziraphale replied in the quiet of the afternoon, their footsteps the only other sound once Bishop Gabriel's car could no longer be heard outside, "I do."

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

The Whole Truth - 2

(Full story available on AO3! If you want to be tagged as new chapters are posted, leave a comment “tag me” on this post!)

(Please note: Tumblr continues to make my Italics disappear. It’s very frustrating, so I apologize if the formatting makes anything confusing.)

Monday

1999

--

Aziraphale stared at the book on his desk. “What kind of curse?”

“Don’t know, not my department.” Gabriel smiled, excited, just a little distracted. It tugged at something in Aziraphale, made him want to prove he was worth the Archangel’s attention, too. “Michael’s soldiers seized it in a raid. Very dramatic stuff. Pity you weren’t able to make it.”

“Ah, yes, well…”

“Could have used another sword.” A nudge of the elbow, so hard Aziraphale staggered a little. “Those demons fought back hard.”

“Yes, terribly sorry. As I’d said there was this urgent business to attend to. Demonic possession. Entire family cursed. The house itself had become sentient. And. Carnivorous. I really had to deal with it all immediately.”

“Sounds frightening.”

“Oh, it was. Very frightening. And gory. And certainly not rated for general audiences.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” Aziraphale tugged on his waistcoat. The last thing he needed was for Gabriel to learn about movie night. Well. It was mid-ranked on the very long list of things Gabriel shouldn’t know. He hated lying to the Archangel, but no – things were better this way. “Regardless. You say these – these demons had this book in their possession?”

“Oh, yes. Not sure what they were planning to do with it, but it’s cursed. Very cursed.”

“Fascinating.” Aziraphale picked up a pen and used it to lift the cover, peering at the first page. He could just make out the writing. “It’s printed, not handwritten. Not Roman or Cyrillic alphabet.” He let the cover fall and started searching for a pair of gloves. “In fact, I don’t recognize the script at all. I’ll need a larger sample—”

Gabriel clapped his hands. “Good! Excellent, that’s just what I like to hear. Your obsession with material objects and human record keeping finally has a use. So glad we have an expert to consult on this.” Aziraphale hid a little smile at that. Expert. “See what you can find out by the end of the week.”

“End of the – you can’t be serious.” Aziraphale pulled his glasses off, waving them as politely as he could. “I mean, I’m sure you have your reasons, O holy Archangel, but deciphering an unknown text takes time. Not to mention identifying a curse—”

“We already have a team on that,” Gabriel interrupted, before Aziraphale could confess to knowing very little about demonic curses, apart from the sort Crowley shouted at other drivers.

“Oh. Jolly good.”

“Yes, they’ve told me the curse is so potent, any angel attempting to remove it would be immediately destroyed. Incinerated was the term they used.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale took a step away from the desk. “Well, I suppose that does change things.”

Gabriel shrugged. “As long as you don’t try to remove the curse yourself, you’re fine. Anyway, by Friday night, they’ll have worked out a proper disposal method. I proposed launching the book into the sun but apparently that would cause a, what did they call it, Superb Nova.”

“Oh dear.” Another step away. “You know, Gabriel, as…happy as I am that you wish to entrust this task to me, er, we are currently located in a major population center, and I don’t think—”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel gave him that warm look, the one he saw so rarely, the one that made him feel included. “This raid was a big deal. I don’t want to start any rumors, but…it’s possible the demons were planning something. I would consider it a huge favor if you could just, I don’t know, poke around a bit? Find out what they wanted?”

“Well…as…as a favor…” There was a shiver of happiness running up his spine at that. Gabriel never asked for favors. “Yes, I think I can…learn a few things that might help you out. As long as it’s safe?”

“It’s fine!” Gabriel picked up the book and waved it around. “Perfectly harmless to angels; obviously, don’t let any humans near it. They might set something off. Probably blow up half the city!” He laughed, tossing the book. It hit the table with a crack, falling open to a random page.

“Oh, dear.” That hardly sounded safe. “What…if a demon tried? Er, someone come looking for his lost property, perhaps?”

“It would be very bad. No one touches this but you. Understand?”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling rather ill. He should say no, there were too many things that could go wrong.

His eyes drifted to the open book, the strange writing, a drawing of some horrifying creature. One word was a little larger than the rest and for a second, it looked familiar. He bent closer, almost instinctively. “This text…I almost think I’ve seen it before. No, it’s gone now, but perhaps…” He looked up in time to catch an eager gleam in Gabriel’s eyes. “Yes, I think…I can take a look. As…as a favor.”

“Excellent! That’s exactly the attitude I like to see. Now if you’ll excuse me, lots to do, places to be. I’ll follow up with you on Friday. Say, four o’clock?”

In a twinkling of light and a pop of air pressure, Aziraphale was alone with the book.

--

“He just – just left you with a cursed book?” Crowley paid the ice cream vendor and handed Aziraphale his cone.

“Yes. Is that so strange? I am an expert on Earth tomes, and languages, and treatises on magic.” He puffed his chest a little. “Why shouldn’t Heaven give me such a fascinating project?”

“Because they don’t care about any of that,” Crowley snapped flatly. “Besides, languages? I’ve heard you speak French.”

“I was having a bit of an off day,” Aziraphale pouted. “I shouldn’t be judged based on a single incident – what was it, two hundred and six years ago now? For all you know, I’ve been brushing up on my French ever since.” He licked the ice cream, smiling at the thick, creamy texture of it.

“Have you though?” Crowley sauntered alongside him, hands in his pockets, red hair slicked and gelled tight against his head.

“Well, no, but only because I’ve already read everything of interest in French.”

“Is that so?” Crowley smirked as if he was so clever. “Does this mean you finally got around to reading Proust?”

“Well. No. But neither have you.” Aziraphale took a quick bite of his ice cream before it could melt down his hand.

“Yeah, but I don’t live in a bookshop,” Crowley took a few steps ahead and started walking backwards, smirk evolving into a rather large grin. “So that makes me wonder who else you haven’t read. Dickens? Twain? Dostoyevsky? Is the Principality Aziraphale, in fact, a giant sham?”

The angel pursed his lips. “Any luck getting your car to play other music?”

Crowley’s face fell. “No,” he muttered, circling back to walk beside Aziraphale again. “At this point I’m really starting to get sick of Queen. Hope it doesn’t go on too much longer.”

--

Aziraphale stood before his desk, book lying innocuously on the blotter. He wore the thickest gloves he could find and – just to be safe – had rolled his sleeves up past the elbow. He still approached it with extreme caution.

One finger carefully tapped the spine, pulling away instantly.

No sparks. No chills. No cloud of demonic energy.

Just a perfectly ordinary book, really.

With feather-light touch, he brushed his fingers down the cover. Leather-bound, deep red-brown. Hopefully normal leather, but you never knew with demonic books, or for that matter certain obscure human texts. Sturdy and thick, the binding worn through in a few places just enough to indicate irregular use. No title, but gold pressed into the leather formed some sort of broad-leafed plant. Nothing he recognized.

Lifting the cover, he inspected the pages inside. Thick, rough paper – the edges a bit uneven and ragged in places. When he leaned close to inspect them, he detected the distinct dusty scent of old book, with just a hint of spice.

It seemed that Gabriel was correct. Nothing suggested the book was dangerous to touch.

Aziraphale set his armchair beside the desk and settled in for some proper investigation.

The first step of his process: Aziraphale turned to a page at random. He liked to think providence was guiding him to the first clues.

It looked much as that page he’d glimpsed during Gabriel’s visit, yet also entirely different. Small, curving letters – a bit like calligraphy, half unical, he thought, perhaps English or Irish – arrayed around complex illustrations of green plants on one side, and something that might have been an insect on the other. The artwork was immensely detailed, with subtle color variations, but resembled nothing he had ever seen.

The text was also strange, the longer he looked at it. He skimmed the page looking for patterns, groups of letters that appeared together more than once. Nothing. There were distinct words, all between four and seven characters, but each was unique. And the characters each looked sharp and clear and perfectly uniform in size, but there was variation, each uniquely formed, as if handwritten.

He turned the pages, sheet after sheet, looking for anything he recognized, leaning closer as he read. Sometimes a word would look almost familiar and then – no, it was gone.--

--

(The horror movie Aziraphale mentions is supposed to be “The Haunting” but I got it a bit confused with other movies from the late 90s. The mysterious writing and diagrams are loosely based on several mysterious texts, most notably the Voynich Manuscript.)

[readingwritingcrying]

hi! whump prompt: crowley has a cold and takes cough medicine, but the medicine makes them extremely drowsy. he's desperately trying to stay awake but his eyelids keep drooping and eventually they just pass out (i saw this and just wanted to see in your writing

so. I took this prompt and decided to project my own Issue tm on it and this is what happened. Thank you for sending in this prompt! 

It wasn’t a habit of his to miss meeting with Aziraphale. Fashionably late, sure, but if Crowley could help it, he would never miss seeing his angel. After all, their Arrangement had only given them the excuse to see each other so often.

Or rather, Aziraphale’s fear had only let them meet up so many times. And Crowley wouldn’t let himself say just how much he treasured each moment they were allowed. The point being that if Aziraphale asked, Crowley would be there. That’s just the way that things worked.

It didn’t matter what was happening with himself, he told himself. He made a blessed date and he would rather discorporate then blow it off.

Crowley rather felt like discorporating, actually. His head was pounding, skin feeling all too tight over his forehead, and it wouldn’t go away no matter how he massaged his temples. His nose was red and raw, and he was rather bored with constantly sniffling. That, and the feverish chills which had begun to appear, making him slower than usual, and leaving him feeling utterly disorientated and miserable.

Still, he pushed away the thought of skipping lunch with Aziraphale. He had seemed so excited about it after all, and Crowley could practically hear him making that little noise of disappointment before insisting that no, really, it was alright.

Flinging himself impossibly further into his couch (which hadn’t existed a few days ago) Crowley let out a sigh. Of course, the blessed angel would insist that he do something like rest instead of going out on a picnic with him.  If it wasn’t for that, he could have simply asked Aziraphale to miracle away the illness. He wouldn’t be able to do it his damn self because, well… just that. Demon. He couldn’t ever heal anything the way he used to.

He snapped his thoughts away from that particular topic. Best not to dwell.

Instead, he turned on his mobile, deciding to look up what humans did these days to cure their rather weak vessels of a minor illness. The light of the screen made his head ache further, and he had to blink to keep his eyes from watering.

Quickly, he stumbled onto an advertisement for cold medicine. Briefly reading through the instructions and effects, he decided that he would leave early and pick some up on his way.

…Which would mean leaving now, he realized, seeing the time. With less than minimal effort, he heaved himself off of the rather comfortable couch, steadying himself as the blood rushed back to his head, causing his vision to swim momentarily before it righted himself.

With a snap, he miracled himself dressed and styled, and he picked up his glasses on the way outside, setting them on his face. At least it provided a brief respite for his headache; his eyes were already sensitive enough.

It didn’t take long to drop by a corner store, especially with Crowley’s driving. He stared at the different choices before shrugging, grabbing some liquid cough medicine, and sauntering to the counter to pay. (He never really had money on him, he just miracled it available whenever he needed to pay for something. And if it caused any inflation- well, hell, that was just his job as a demon.)

After buying the pinkish liquid and glaring at the poor cashier who tried to engage in small talk, Crowley found himself sitting in the Bentley, starring at the bottle. He cracked open the seal, opened the bottle, and took a few sips.  Nothing happening. It tasted gross.

He took another long sip, before deciding that if he drank any more, he just might feel worse from the taste of it alone. With a wave of his hand, the bottle disappeared, erasing any evidence of it being there in the first place. Just to be sure, Crowley rolled down the windows of his car, so not even the scent of the medicine would be left.

He checked his mobile and found he needed to meet Aziraphale in about ten minutes. Traffic said it would take him fifteen to get to the park – which, naturally meant that he would be there a few minutes early, at least.

He drove quickly, an odd buzzing feeling slowly taking over the pain in his temples. Crowley’s expression relaxed – he didn’t hurt so much, so maybe the medicine had done something after all.

He found a place to park, which was rather lucky, although most people tended to avoid parking in illegal spots. Crowley, however, couldn’t be bothered and had a bit more sway with the universe than the common Londoner.

Slamming the door with a wince, Crowley got out. He scanned the area – it was a rather quiet park Aziraphale had chosen, and not one they’d been to before. There were still people, but not as many. It was private enough to be comfortable, without really being secluded from the public.

A hill sloped gently up, and on top of a plaid picnic blanket sat Aziraphale. Crowley smiled, just the briefest upturn of his lips, and raised a hand in a wave. Seeing him, Aziraphale immediately perked up, and Crowley could spot the (adorable) wiggle the angel tended to do whenever he was excited about something.

Crowley strolled easily to him, noticing step by step that he was feeling better. He could breathe easier, coughs no longer clawed at his throat, and the fever that had started that morning was nowhere to be felt.

Maybe he’d gotten away with it.

“So, what’ve you got here?” Crowley asks pleasantly, gesturing to the food Aziraphale had carefully laid out. He took a seat next to his angel, trying to will away the bit of dizziness his change in altitude had caused. He leaned back, resting his weight on his arms.

“I found a bakery that smelled simply divine,” Aziraphale explained excitedly, “And I couldn’t choose between the pastries so you absolutely must help me finish them, dear. Oh! And they had these cute miniature sandwiches so I got those as well!”

Crowley snorted but agreed. He never cared much for eating, but he didn’t mind sampling things, especially if it would make Aziraphale smile (which it often did, so Crowley found himself trying more and more lately). Today he felt even less likely to want to eat, but Aziraphale looked so excited, he couldn’t possibly refuse.

He nibbled at a sandwich, sliced neatly into a square smaller than his palm, and found his stomach turning uncomfortably as he swallowed.

“Are you alright there, my dear boy?” Crowley blinked, startled.

“Uh,” he said intelligently.

Aziraphale straightened his coat. “It’s just well, you look a bit pale,” he said softly, a touch of a worried tone creeping its way in to Aziraphale’s (quite literally) angelic voice.

Crowley nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, of course!” he assured quickly. “Really, angel, I’m alright.” Aziraphale stared for a moment longer, scanning the demon, but didn’t seem to find any reason to press, and for that, Crowley was grateful. The whole point of the stupid medicine he had to drink was so that he wouldn’t have to worry Aziraphale.

He didn’t need Crowley being any more difficult to deal with. Really, he’d already gotten the angel into an unbelievable amount of it as it was.

Thankfully, their conversation drifted slowly back into more relaxed topics. Crowley was enamored by the sight of Aziraphale in moments like this. His eyes shone in the afternoon sun, his face was lit warmly, and his expression shifted from excitement as he explained the plot of a recent book he had red to delight at the food he was eating.

He felt himself relax, slightly sleepy, even. Except, no, he was actually beginning to feel very tired. Crowley was doing his best, but he could barely keep up with the explanation of metaphors the book used… what was the book’s name, anyway?

His body felt like lead, his eyes begging to close. He hadn’t felt this way before – not even when he had stopped time itself – and he should really be concerned, but he didn’t even have the energy for that.

Somewhere, less than a foot away from him, Aziraphale finished his last bite, daintily wiping off the crumbs from his face with a satisfied hum. “That was just delicious,” he praised. “Now, dear, what would you think of a stroll around the park?”

Vaguely, Crowley was aware he’d been asked a question. He heard Aziraphale’s voice, the words he said, he just… he didn’t know what he had asked. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t figure out what it meant. Something had to be very wrong.

But he had to answer. Crowley couldn’t let Aziraphale see how out of it he was, couldn’t ruin this lunch. Keeping his expression as neutral as possible, he nodded. Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley had to hold in a sigh of relief.

Then the angel did something odd. He got up, began walking. Where was he going? Crowley felt a flash of nervousness. He gathered all of the energy he could muster and pushed himself up.

Oh.

Oh, no.

That was a bad idea.

His head spun, and he staggered to keep balance. The dizziness wouldn’t go away, it was only getting worse.

Crowley took a step forward, and his legs buckled. He felt himself sink to his knees, and then somehow, he was on the ground completely. He was so tired. The world wouldn’t stop moving, and his stomach was twisting uncomfortably, and he just wanted Crowley to sleep.

“Crowley! Crowley!” Someone was shouting his name, as if now was not the best time for a nap.

Exhaustion was taking over. “Sorry,” he murmured, and then, finally, let himself fall into sleep.

 Crowley woke up in the bookshop. He was on Aziraphale’s couch, his head hurt, his nose felt stuffed, and there was a definite feverish heat coursing through his body. “Zira?” Crowley winced. Even to his own ears, he sounded miserable.

The shop felt strangely empty of the angel as Crowley looked around, although that wasn’t going to last long. Just as Crowley had resigned himself to wait until Aziraphale had come back to find out what was going on (and possibly sleep some more), the door to the bookshop opened rather loudly.

Aziraphale looked pissed.

His brow was wrinkled and his eyes shone with anger as he clenched his jaw tightly. A Principality in this state wasn’t to be messed with, and Crowley felt an instinctual shiver of fear run down his spine.

This appearance was only slightly less menacing since he was carrying what looked to be several tissue boxes (extra soft with lotion), cough drops, and a thermometer.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, voice dangerously calm. The demon gulped. “What the hell do you think you were doing? You just… you just passed out! If I hadn’t been there, you would have most certainly discorporate! And from an overdose on cold medicine of all things, Crowley!”

Ah. So, thinking back on it, in films and such they only took a spoonful of the stuff. He might have possibly misjudged how much was necessary. “Crowley, what were you thinking?” Aziraphale set down his supplies to kneel next to the couch, voice gentler.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley rasped. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think-” Crowley broke off into a cough, and Aziraphale’s expression softened. “…think it would do that. I just thought I’d feel better, and we could – could have lunch.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Dear, I just wish you would have told me you weren’t feeling well. I could have helped.” Crowley shrugged, refusing to meet eye contact with the angel. That was exactly why he didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale’s hand brushed against Crowley’s softly at first before settling firmly onto his own. Crowley blinked up at him. “Whu-“

“You must stop thinking like that, my dear boy. I can assure you, you are more important to me than you’re giving yourself credit for.” Crowley gulps. The blessed angel could read him all too well, especially when he didn’t get to hide behind his sunglasses.

“Ngk. You’re just. You come first, angel,” he admits softly. Hopefully, Aziraphale would pass his flushed face off as just his illness.

Aziraphale seemed to think about this for a few moments, Crowley watched as the angel’s eyebrows scrunched, as he was trying very hard to find the right words that would make him understand without pushing past any boundaries. “Just…  I want you to know that it’s not… Well, one-sided that is.” He cleared his throat, looking down.

Crowley wanted to ask, to prod at what exactly the angel meant by that, but right then, more than that, he wanted also to fall back asleep. His eyes were getting droopy, and Aziraphale noticed. “Sleep, Crowley. You need it.”

He would have to question Aziraphale later. After all, if his angel asked for something, he complied.

That’s just how things worked.

[dragon-kazansky]

The handsome stranger - Crowley x Reader

Summary: The man across the bar is looking at you and you're distracted by his stylish appearance.

Your night out with your friends turned into a disaster. One moment you're all together, laughing and having fun, the next they begin to drift away and get distracted with other things. Mostly other people. This meant you were sitting on your own now, drink in hand and feeling rather miserable.

That is until the stranger enters the club and sits on the other side of the bar.

You were just looking around to see where your friends were, but your eyes landed on him as he came in. Your eyes followed him right up to the bar where he sat on the opposite side of where you were. He didn't notice you right away and it actually took you moment to notice when he did. His shades concealed his eyes, but he was definitely looking your way.

You turned your head quickly, not wanting to make him think you were staring. Even though you were staring.

A smirk appeared on his face when he saw you look away shyly.

You heard his strong voice when he ordered his drink, but you forced yourself not to look in his direction. He bad been here less than 10 minutes and you already thought he was the most handsome person you had ever seen.

He certainly stood out amongst the rest of the crowd.

Black stylish suit that fit his lanky frame perfectly, short red hair that definitely caught your eye and those black shades that concealed his eyes from your view.

You let several minutes pass before you risked a look up at him. He wasn't looking at you any more, his attention on the bowl of snacks beside him. He grabbed a handful and shoved them in his mouth right away. He took a swift of his drink and returned to looking around him, once again noticing you at the other side.

He smiled.

This time you kept your eyes on him as you smiled back, going as far as waving at him a little bit.

He wiggled his fingers back at you, clearly amused by your actions. You could tell he liked the attention from his grin.

The stranger knocked back the rest of his drink, ordered another one and got up from his seat, making his way over to you. He took the stool next to yours and watched the barman bring his second glass over to him.

You found it quite hard to look up at the man, choosing to look at your hands on the bar instead. You could see him from the corner of your eyes as he turned his head slightly in your direction.

"Hello."

His voice made you rather weak in the knees. There was something about the way he spoke that sent shivers down your spine.

"Hello." You replied, rather flatly. You didn't think you could hold up a conversation with him for long.

"I caught you looking at me twice. Like what you see?" He was still grinning, you could hear it in his tone of voice.

"Maybe." You decided to test the waters with this attractive stranger.

You could feel his eyes on you again.

"Can I get you a drink?" He offered, his glass empty once again.

Looking at your glass you noticed it was also empty. You had drank that quicker than you thought, not quite as quick at this man was getting through his drinks.

"Sure." You pushed your glass towards the barman who had been waved over by your companion.

"I'm Crowley." The man introduced himself once the barman had walked away.

"Y/N." You looked at the lenses of his glasses, only able to see your reflection. You did wonder if he could see all that well. It was very dark in the room and those shades couldn't be doing him much good. "Are you comfortable with those on? It's dark enough in here as is."

He chuckled. "Just fine. Probably better off I keep them on."

If you were able to see his eyes you would see the amusement in them, you would also see him for what he was. You'd either run away screaming or you would not believe him and tell him such. Either way he would be amused even further.

The barman placed your drinks on front of you both and left you both alone again.

"What brings you here?" Crowley asked. "I get the feeling you're out of your comfort zone here."

"I suppose I am. I came here with friends, but they're clearly busy with other people." You looked around to see your friends still busy.

Crowley followed your gaze and almost felt bad you had been left your own. Almost. He you hadn't, he wouldn't have come over otherwise.

"Who need them. You have me now."

"I don't know you."

"You're still talking to me." His lips curled up into a cheeky smirk.

"I am." You couldn't hold down your smile.

"What do you say we get out of here and go find our own amusement." He nodded towards the door.

"Realistically I should say no and ask you to leave me alone, but considering I don't feel threatened by you, and I believe your honesty in keeping me company, I would very like that." You emptied your glass.

Crowley slid off his stool and waited as you gathered your things, then he led you outside, staying rather close to your side. He stopped by a car a little further down the road.

"Is this yours?"

The Bentley looked brand new considering this was an old car. Almost as if it had been made yesterday.

"It is. Had it a long time time." He smiles proudly at the car and opens the passenger door for you. "I'll take you for a ride."

You give him a funny look, but get inside anyway. So many warning signs were flashing in your head, but something told you it was going to be OK. No harm was going to come to you by this man.

He closed the door and hurried around to the drivers side, flashing you a grin before driving off down the road.

"Who are you?"

"I told you, Crowley." He at you a little longer than you would have liked considering he was the one driving.

"Who is Crowley?"

He didn't say anything, eyes peering into you from behind those shades. He was clearly letting you come up with your own answer as to who he was. Not that he could tell you the truth.

"Keep your eyes on the road!" You reached out turn the wheel, but he beat you to it, flying past an oncoming car.

"Trust me, I've been doing this for years."

There was something weird about him, you just couldn't tell what it was though.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, taking it out to look st ot you saw a text from one of your friends. Clearly drunk by the way her text was worded. In short she was asking where you had gone. You just replied saying you went home early and you would call her when she was sober.

Crowley could see the message from where he was sat. He chuckled at the exchange.

"Looks they miss you. Should I take you back?"

"No. I'm happier here, actually." You smiled at him. "Where are we going?"

"Where would you like me to take you?"

"Anywhere. I don't want to go home yet."

Crowley smiled and parked the car up, taking you to one of London's small parks. The pair of you walked side by side under the star filled sky.

"Are you sure you can see with those on?"

"Yeah. I have good eye sight." He chuckled.

"It's hard to read you when I can't see your eyes." You had both stopped to look at one another.

"I wouldn't be hiding them without a reason to. Don't you trust me?"

"No." You replied confidently.

"Good. You shouldn't." He began to walk away. You hurried to his side. "You're still following me."

"I'll need a ride home later."

He laughed. In all the years he had walked amongst the human race no one had ever caught his attention like you. He liked you. He was glad he decided to drink at that club tonight. Glad your friends had left you alone. Glad he caught your attention.

"I'm surprised you're still here with me." He said after a long walk through the park. "There's no one about, I could have done anything."

"Granted, you're weird, but I'm not getting those vibes from you. If anything, you just wanted someone to keep you company." You playfully nudged him.

"I'm not the one who got left behind by their friends."

"If you were going to do something, you would have done it by now. I think we just became friends." You grinned.

"Friends?" He looked at you, trying to see if you meant that. He only had one friend. "I don't have many of those."

"Yeah. Why not? You can be the guy I rely on when my friends ditch me for strangers." You suggested.

"Alright then." He liked that idea. "Friend."

Wanting to learn more about you he took you for a late night snack. Time passed quickly as he found himself enjoying your company. The pair of you laughed and talked for hours.

"Wow, I should go home now." You took a look at the time. "Going out the night before work was a mistake."

"I don't know about that. Us meeting wasn't a mistake." He led you back to his car.

"True." You chuckled. You give your address once you reach his beloved car. He took you home, letting you put some of his music on, happy you shared the same taste in music as him.

Crowley had enjoyed his night with you. When he pulled up outside of your house, he felt a little sad you had to leave.

You didn't get out right away. Spent a few moments sitting in the car with him.

"Thanks for coming to rescue tonight. It would have been a really dull evening otherwise."

"You're welcome. Here." He handed you a note

"Your number?"

"Well, if you need rescuing, you're going to need to contact me."

You smiled sweetly. Before getting out you leaned over and placed a kiss to his cheek. You climbed out and waved over your shoulder before disappearing into your home.

Crowley remained parked outside until your door closed. He was grinning wickedly when he drove off.

You were leaning against your door as you listened to his car engine vanish down the road. You were smiling.

Days went by before you called on him. At first he didn't pick up and you wondered if he actually meant it that night, but he gave you his number. Eventually he picked up and you smiled at the sound of his voice.

"Hello?"

"Crowley? It's Y/N."

"Ah, hello Y/N! I was hoping you would call."

"You were?" You asked surprised. Had he been thinking of you as much as you had of him?

"Well... yeah." Silence hung in the air for a few moments, as if neither of you needed to say any more. "Where are you? I'll come get you."

"At home."

"I thought I was your rescue from your friends?" He sounded confused.

"Well, today you can be my rescue from boredom, if you're not too busy that is." You hoped he wasn't busy. You wanted to see him again.

"I suppose I can do that. See you shortly then."

You smiled and hung up, looking forward to seeing Crowley again. You didn't have to wait too long, less than an hour. The sound of his car stopping outside made you hurry to the door.

Crowley was leaning against his car when you came out to greet him. He had his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“You look pleased to see me.” You chuckled.

“Maybe you’re right.”

He opened the door for you as he did the other night and the pair of you drove off to no where in particular. You put on more of Crowley’s music and let him surprise you.

“I thought for a moment you weren’t going to pick up.” You told him quietly. “Thought you might not want to see me again.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to see you again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m just someone you met at a bar one night and then went for a walk with.” Your gaze focused on the passing scenery out of your window.

“Can I be completely honest with you?” His eyes drifted form the road, once again far longer than you would have felt comfortable with. He was driving after all.

“Of course.”

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met. I can’t understand why, either. If anything, I thought you wouldn’t call me.” He finally looked back at the road.

“How odd... I’ve been the same.”

Both of you were grinning as you kept your gaze out onto the outside world. It was funny how well you both go on well. Maybe not quite as funny as his friendship with an angel, but he didn’t intend on telling you that... yet.

As the demon drove with you beside him, he wondered if he would ever show you what he was. He would like to.

He liked you.

He glances at you and smiles.

Yeah, one day he would show you. He trusted you, and despite what he told you the other night about trusting him, you did. 

Your handsome stranger.

These trips into the city were about to become a regular thing and Aziraphale probably wouldn’t hear the end of it next time he saw Crowley.

[hazelandglasz]

Sweet, Sweet Temptation

Word count: 12.727

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairing(s): Arizaphale/Crowley (Ineffable Husbands) ; Hastur/Ligur ; Beelzebub/Gabriel (Ineffable Bureaucracy); Background Minor Relationships

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Beelzebub, Hastur

Tags: Alternate Universe-Humans, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food Porn, Bibliophile Aziraphale, Gourmet Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Awkward Flirting, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley started working at Heavs and Hens, F.A., but they thought he asked too many questions, and frankly, he didn’t like his colleagues’ attitude. (Well. Except for one, but he never got the chance to get close to the blond cutie.) So he left. Now he’s working in a pastry shop and life is infinitely better. (Well. Most of the time, since neither his boss nor his colleagues are too often in the shop and he’s left to his own device, which is really for the best.) Baking is fun, tempting customers is even better, and if there is a certain blond who keeps on coming back to the shop, well, Anthony is not one to deny himself that pleasure.

A massive, massive thank you to the artists who managed to create such beautiful art for this fic, to the mods who set all this process up, and to my betas for blessing this mess!

Artist: IG Hufflepuffbetty (Art Post) / @hufflepuff-betty

Artist: @scribblemakes

😇😈😇😈😇😈

They say they fired him, but if you were to ask him, Anthony J. Crowley would tell you that he quit before they could.

Or, more accurately, he would tell you to bugger off and leave him alone, but if he felt like giving you an answer, that is the one he would give you.

Joining the financial advising firm was never his idea of a good time, really, but he did because he could and that it made his mother happy. But as weeks went by, Crowley discovered some things.

About himself, and about the firm’s ways, and both were inextricably in opposite directions.

He discovered that the more answers he found, the more questions he got.

That questions were not exactly welcomed, at Heavs and Hens.

That asking questions was the equivalent of lighting yourself on fire in the middle of a family dinner--a sure way to get everybody’s attention, but at what cost?

That fairness and obeying to the idea of the law was not a top priority for the partners.

And that fairness was one of his major core value (along with curiosity, which, if you have paid attention, should tell you how bad an idea it was for Crowley to work there).

So he quit, not with a bang, but with a swagger.

(And a comfortable “keep your mouth shut” pocket money.)

Oh, Crowley doesn’t hold any lasting feeling toward his former colleagues--especially not for Gabriel, that pompous ass who kept on stealing all of Crowley’s ideas and notes for his own credit--but there is a, oh, how can he put it into words, a chance of something greater that was missed with one particular junior adviser.

The man must be approximately Crowley’s age--old enough to be an adult, young enough to still have hope and energy--, with curly hair so blond Crowley isn’t quite sure it is natural, blue eyes that remind Crowley of a Spring sky, and the perpetual shadow of a smile on his rosy lips.

Yes, Crowley could wax poetics about this angel of a man who passed his desk once, eyes on a pocket watch while Gabriel was berating him for being too soft with the clients.

Crowley also knows one thing about this former colleague of his, that could-have-been-something-more-but-wasn’t, one thing that nobody else knows--if they knew, Crowley has no doubt about whether the man would still be working at the company or not.

(The answer is a resounding “not”)

The man, Mr. Eastgate is all Crowley knows to call him, is not as robotic as the other employees and, behind his soft smile and perfect attire, hides just enough of a dark side to be interesting.

How does Crowley know this to be facts?

Crowley saw a memo that miraculously disappeared from the system the following day.

A memo stating that while Mr. and Mrs. Godson would have been very interesting clients for the firm to acquire--read, very profitable clients who would have ended up with the clothes on their backs, if at all--, Mr A. Eastgate thought it best to tell them to invest their savings in a more secure venture, such as Apple shares or any other investment they could actually profit from in the future.

Which, if you weren’t aware, goes against the grain for a financial advising firm.

Tells you a lot about the kind of ethic and the character of Mr. Eastgate, that’s for certain, but where Crowley wouldn’t have been able to resist the need to rub it in everybody’s face, Mr. Eastgate apparently possesses much more diplomatic talents and decided to just …

Swipe it under the proverbial carpet, and play dumb whenever asked about it.

Crowley has to admit it: he respects that.

In addition to his already unbearable crush on the guy for simply looking cute, that’s the only reason he has a pang of regret as he leaves the firm’s building with his potted plant and his severance check.

So long, Mr. Eastgate.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale may not be the best financial advisor in the company, let alone in the world, if only because he doesn’t like putting people in harm’s way, and financial enterprises often lead to harmful conclusions.

But he’s good with numbers, and people listen to him, so, financial advisor it is.

When A.J. Crowley is summoned in the boss’s office and leaves with a smile on his (handsome, unusually handsome) face and a swagger to his walk, sunglasses firmly in place even indoors, Aziraphale feels something akin to regret to see him go--the man was probably the only of his colleagues Aziraphale could stand.

Sad to see him go, but delighted to watch him go, if you can catch his drift.

Good Heavens, what a sight.

Anywho, Aziraphale needs to get back to work, now, doesn’t he?

After all, collecting books is one pricey hobby.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Plant in hand , Crowley lets himself stroll the streets down to the parking garage where he left his beloved car.

As content as he may be to be done with all of those self-righteous lunatics, a question keeps on nagging him:

What is he to do with his life now? Pester his neighbors until they want him blown to smithereens?

Not that he would particularly mind, Crowley delights in being a bother to his admittedly boring neighbors.

But there is a limit to the amount of little offenses one can come up with on a daily basis, isn’t it? And staying idle is really not in his temperament; again, lounging in the sun and doing nothing is a fun past-time, but there always comes a time when his mind cannot stand the passivity.

No, there is no way around it: Crowley needs to find himself a new job, one that will not make him feel like needles are piercing his skin every time his values system is breached.

A quiet, nice job, with almost non-existent colleag--

Oh, look at that shop window.

All thoughts about his future, near and far, come to a standstill as Crowley pauses in front of a bakery.

“Tempting Bites”, an interesting name for sure, but it is the content of the window that really gets his interest.

The cakes are all, indeed, bite-sized, but elegantly decorated--if a little on the morbid side, if Crowley is actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Yep, that is a tombstone on that grey-glazed éclair.

The pastry cannot be bigger than Crowley’s index finger (sure, he has long, pianist hands, as his mother called it, but still, it is a size-reference) but the fondant is still delicately decorated to mimic granite, and the tombstone is engraved and, dare he say it, sculpted to perfection.

The woman behind the counter glares at him, raising one eyebrow when he replies with a smile.

Daring him to enter her queendom, no doubt, and Crowley has never been good at resisting a dare.

“Good morning,” she says in a deadpan tone, “may I tempt you with one of our delights?”

Crowley’s smile only widens. “I would love to try the éclair in the window,” he replies, eyes perusing the store’s shelves. “And may I get a bag of chouquettes?”

The puff pastries are just, well, too tempting to pass, what with the black and red pearls of sugar decorating them.

“Temptation accomplished,” the salesperson says in a monotone, ringing his purchase. As Crowley goes to pay, he spots a sheet of paper behind them.

“You are hiring?”

They blink at him before sighing. “Yes, we do. Do you have any experience in baking?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you mind if the hours are long and the pay minimal?”

Crowley beams at her, leaning over the counter. “Not at all.”

“Are you a felon?”

“Would that matter?”

For the first time since he entered the shop, the hint of a smile appears on the person’s face. “Not at all,” they reply, “but I have to ask.” They shrug, pulling a piece of paper from under the counter. “Here, fill this and send a picture of your I.D. to the number inscribed on top.”

“Right away, boss,” Crowley replies, giving them a jaunty salute with the piece of paper.

“Call me Beelzy.”

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Okay.

If we’re going to continue with this story, there are a couple of things you need to know about Aziraphale Eastgate.

First of all, as previously stated, he is quite the bibliophile, collecting all first editions of British children’s books.

(Yes, it is a collection that requires a lot of time, care, and money.)

(Yes, Mother, he’s aware that he is an adult and that there are better things he could do with his money than chase after kiddy books.)

(No, Mother, he has yet to find a woman to marry and carry on the Eastgate’s legacy.)

((If only she knew.))

Second of all, but perhaps not entirely unrelated to the first point, Aziraphale considers himself an epicurean. A lover of good and beautiful things. A man capable of appreciating the finest things in Life, from a good book to a good meal.

After all, C.S. Lewis said it quite eloquently, “Eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.”

Third of all, as brave and smart as he vows to be on a daily basis, Aziraphale hates being confronted.

All three are needed to understand how conflicted Aziraphale has always felt about the bakery around the corner near the office.

(All right, so maybe the fact that he is a bibliophile is not particularly relevant to this part of the story. But presenting Aziraphale without insisting upon his love for books would be criminal, criminal indeed.

Back to the point.)

Because on the one hand, bakery! Provider of scrumptious cakes and food!

But on the other hand, the person usually behind the counter makes him feel like he’s about to enter a ring just to prove himself worthy of the cakes.

Oh, he has seen many of his colleagues and many people coming out of the shop with little black bags, so the confrontational attitude may just be in his head, but still.

For now, he has only savored the pastries with his eyes, for their aesthetics and satisfies his need for sweet goodness in other places.

(No one needs to know about this, but his favorite place is a little, how should he say, hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Theater district that serves the finest sushis in all of London and got him addicted to crepe cakes. Di-vine, to say the least.)

That being said, he’s reconsidering his avoidance of the bakery.

The sight of a certain shade of red hair behind the window is most definitely to be blamed for this change of mind, but Aziraphale would never admit it, even under threat.

(It depends on the kind of threat. Though he tends to avoid it if he can, Aziraphale is more than capable to handle a little brawl, shall the need arise. But threaten his books or his closet, and chances are Aziraphale will fold like a … well, like a crepe.

Oh, crepes.)

As it is, Aziraphale is not so easily tempted, so “Tempting Bites” and his possibly newly hired and very tempting salesman will have to work a little bit harder at convincing him.

Or, to be more truthful, Aziraphale will need to be sure that it is his infamous former colleague who is now behind the counter, in order to ensure a fruitful encounter.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley is many things, but he is not a liar.

When Beelzy asked if he had any baking knowledge, he did not lie when he said none whatsoever. 

But. He is a very fast learner.

“Crowley!”

And. He has a lot of imagination.

“Crowleeeeey!”

Not necessarily a bad combination--he supposes it depends on who you asked.

“What. Is. That.”

Crowley beams at his boss and at his colleague.

“That, my Lord,” he replies with a small curtsey, “is a pumpkin brioche.”

“A … brioche.”

“Yes.”

“A bit on the nose, Crowley,” Hastur drawls from behind him. “An orange brioche, shaped like a pumpkin, and you flavor it with pumpkins.”

“Try it, Hastur.”

“No thank you.”

“Try it before you ditch it.”

Hastur rolls his eyes at him but takes a knife from his pocket anyway, cutting two slices of the brioche.

Beelzy’s face barely shows any reaction, but then again, their face is usually expressionless. As it is, the slight uprising of their eyebrows is all Crowley needed from them.

Hastur’s reaction, in comparison, is far more immediate and satisfying. 

“WHAAAAA--”

“Yes, Hastur?”

“But--! How--! Beelzebub, how did he do this?”

Beelzy takes another bite, waving the slice in the air. “Well, there are definitely spices in the dough of the brioche--you’ve been too generous with the cinnamon, Crowley, curb your enthusiasm there--reminiscent of the infamous pumpkin spice latte, and there is the matter of the gooey center … Citrus?”

“Lemon zest and orange compote.”

They nod, swallowing the remains of their slice of brioche in two bites. “Good product. We’ll get the high school population and the office population tempted in no time.”

“Only a matter of days until they’re ours.”

Hastur recovered from his shock--or from his distaste of cinnamon, whichever sounds best--and is now smiling like he came up with Crowley’s creation.

“I’m glad you approve of my idea, my Lord,” he simply says, pushing Hastur out of the way with a hip check. 

Beelzy leaves the kitchen as the bell above the door rings and Hastur comes far too close for comfort.

“One of these days, Crowley,” he croaks, “one of these days, you’re going to run out of ideas. And then--”

“And then we’ll be more alike than ever, Hastur! Won’t it be wonderful?”

Hastur snarls one more time before pulling his phone out of his pocket--to text his boyfriend about all the things he wishes he could do to Crowley to make him suffer, no doubt.

Crowley picks up the last piece of brioche from the plate and nods to himself. Indeed too much cinnamon, but he lost track of his spices while he was preparing his test batch.

See, a certain blond head happened to walk by the kitchen’s window when Crowley was seasoning his dough, and, well.

Crowley preferred to follow its tracks than to follow his idea.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

That is most definitely Anthony J. Crowley arranging small brioches in a basket in the bakery’s window.

Aziraphale finds himself dry-mouthed at the sight of these long fingers carefully placing one delicate peachy confection after another on a checkered napkin, and he would have an awfully hard time telling you which of the two brings him to push the bakery’s door.

“Good afternoon, how may I tempt you--,” Crowley starts, spinning on his toes before coming to a stop as he sees Aziraphale.

The way he stops and the way he gawks at him from behind his tinted glasses makes Aziraphale blush and preen.

“--today,” Crowley finishes his welcome, a small smile appearing on his face. “Well, well, well. Welcome, Mr. Eastgate.”

He knows who I am.

He knows my name.

Say something, Aziraphale, before he thinks you are under the influence of something illegal.

“Hello, Crowley.”

There, short and to the point.

Oh, dear Lord, he’s leaning against the counter like some sort of Michelangelo’s sculpture.

“Tempted by something, Mr. Eastgate?”

“Oh please, call me Aziraphale, Mr. Eastgate is my brother Uriel.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley repeating his name should not awaken such warm tingles in his lower regions, and yet, here we are, aren’t we?

Maybe it’s the way his tongue seems to hiss on the ‘zee’ sound and curl around the last ‘el’, maybe it’s the way he says it like Aziraphale himself is the delicacy about to be devoured.

“Earth to Aziraphale?”

Oh, right. He didn’t enter the shop just to leer at his former colleague and ever-present fantasy-man.

“Forgive me, Crowley,” he manages without a stutter, “I was, um, that is to say,” so much for not stuttering, well done, “your buns caught my attention.”

An army of angels passes by, as Crowley’s smile widens into a smirk. “Did they now? Flatterer.”

Aziraphale blinks at him until the words that left his mouth fully register. “Oh! Not those buns! I--I mean! The edible buns! Brioches! In--in the window!” He groans, placing his hand over his face. “Can the floor swallow me now, please?”

“What a waste it would be,” Crowley says quietly, his smile less mocking and more … gentle. “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, your appreciation of all my kinds of buns will be my little secret.”

Aziraphale can literally feel the color of his face taking a turn for the crimson. “G-g-good to know.”

“Now, about the pastries in the window, would you care for one?”

Aziraphale relaxes with a deep breath. “That would be lovely, yes, please.”

Crowley nods and goes to pick a couple of perfectly round orange brioches to put in a paper bag, and Aziraphale watches him carefully.

There is clearly more to Mr Anthony J. Crowley than meets the eye (and a sight it is already, look at those lines, those curves!).

What a pity that he didn’t get closer to the man when they shared an office--now, if he wants to be better acquainted with him, Aziraphale will have to come to the bakery quite often, won’t he?

As he takes a bite of one pumpkin-flavored brioche at the bus stop, letting moans that scandalize and, or, amuse his fellow commuters, Aziraphale comes to realize that it won’t be much of a hardship to pursue a friendship with his former colleague, present favorite baker.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to cross the street and turn toward the bus stop to fall to his knees behind the counter, one hand pressed against his heart.

So not only the man looks like an angel, but he decides to attack Crowley with puns, albeit unintended, and a delicious flush that Crowley wanted to follow under that crisp, white shirt?

Cruel, cruel, cruel.

Cruel and delicious torture.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

As time goes by, Crowley comes to really appreciate his new job.

Sure the hours complicate his social life, but Crowley never really had a social life to begin with, and he’d rather be in the lab in the early morning to tend to his garden of herbs and berries and try new recipes than go out and, what, dance on a sticky dance floor in the hopes of finding someone who will only be second-best to the man he really yearns for ?

He’s not that much of a dancer anyway.

And he has standards.

“I’m warning you, you better do as I say or there will be consequences.”

Luckily for him, now that both Beelzy and Hastur know he can hold the fort alone, they tend to mysteriously disappear and leave him to his own device.

All the better for Crowley to experiment to his heart’s content.

All the better for Crowley to enjoy the company of one particularly faithful customer, too.

Aziraphale comes almost every day now, several times on particularly gruesome days in fact.

By some kind of magic, the shop manages to always be empty when Aziraphale enters it, allowing Crowley to take a break with a man who is slowly becoming a friend.

Crowley doesn’t talk much, not in his nature really, unless a bottle of strong alcohol is involved, but he is a good listener.

And there are very few things in this world as entertaining and satisfying as Aziraphale daintily devouring Crowley’s cakes while ranting about his colleagues.

The man is made of contrasts, and Crowley …

Well, Crowley loves it.

Him.

Whatever.

You’re not in his head.

So what if he made a detailed mental list of all of Aziraphale’s preferences in the matter of tastes, uh?

What about it?

So what if his heart tries to compete in the Gymnastics Olympics every time the doorbell rings?

What are you going to do about it? Mock him? Tell him that he is an idiot for pining after a man who, clearly, seeks his company?

(Well, you wouldn’t be completely wrong about that, even Crowley would admit it. Not out loud, never out loud, but he would admit it.)

Trust him, he knows that this is bordering on ridiculous, this pinning and sighing and burying his feelings in yeast and flour whenever Aziraphale leaves.

Ridiculous, yet productive. 

He just put a batch of his matcha, sesame and crushed hazelnut loaves out of the oven, right before the end of the working day, when Aziraphale comes in.

“Hmmm, that smells heavenly.”

“That’s the yeast fucking.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them--he entirely blames Hastur for the phrasing (and his twisted mind for actually enjoying it)--and he looks up toward Aziraphale in alarm, with an apology on the edge of his lips.

Except that Aziraphale, while clearly startled by Crowley’s words, seems to be even more enthused by them, if the beaming smile on his face is to be trusted.

It’s blinding, truth be told, even with the protective sunglasses Crowley has to wear at all times to protect his sensitive eyes from any light.

“The yeast f--”

“I mean, it’s the dough,” Crowley interrupts. He’s not sure he would survive hearing Aziraphale actually curse.

He’s already as infatuated as can be, there is absolutely no need to add another layer of hidden bastardry into the mix.

Aziraphale hums, his amused smile hiding possibly jokes that would kill Crowley on the spot. 

“And what, pray tell my dear, did you do to make the dough rise so deliciously?”

A thousand arrows into the chest probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.

(Probably.)

Either Aziraphale has taken a secret vow to kill Crowley with innuendos while not doing anything about … whatever is brewing between them, or he is really that oblivious and Crowley’s mind just has a dirty filter.

Whatever explanation works, Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Green tea and roasted sesame seeds,” he replies before shimmying his shoulders. “And my personal touch.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. “As in …?”

“As in, that’s my secret and you won’t get it, as angelic as you may appear.”

Aziraphale looks surprised for a moment, before turning bashful. “An-angelic? Me? No, I’m not, I’m just... I’m just me.”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, mentally listing everything he would love to do to the people who ate this man’s self-esteem.

Then he starts mentally listing everything he could do to restore said self-esteem, and, folks, it takes a turn for the graphic with the speed of light.

“You are just you,” he finally says, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, “and that’s all it takes for you to be angelic.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s face darkens, but his smile is more assured already. “That’s … probably the nicest thing anyone has ever s--”

“Oh shut up,” Crowley sneers as he straightens up, “I’m not nice.”

Aziraphale makes a show of zipping his lips shut, but his shy smile is still there when he leaves.

😇😈😇

When Crowley leaves the shop, not too long after Aziraphale, the skies have taken a turn for the gloomy and seem ready to open and throw a flood on them all.

Crowley allows himself a moment of self-pity. Even if he takes the bus instead of walking home like he intended to, there is no actual bus-stop.

Hence no shelter.

Hence his new boots getting soaked and his evening ruined.

Raising his head to the heavens just as the first drops fall, he mouths a heartfelt “why” before making his way to the aforementioned bus-stop.

Only to find a blonde head and a beige trenchcoat waiting under the most Aziraphale-Esque umbrella possibly conceived.

“Aziraphale?”

The man in question looks startled before beaming at him. “Crowley!”

Without another word, he lifts the umbrella higher, giving Crowley some room to shelter himself from the downpour.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans for the evening,” Crowley says, digging his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid.

Like, on the top of his head, snake his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

That would be a terrible, awful idea.

A deliciously awful idea.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I did,” he replies, looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye, “and then decided I would rather be at home, with a nice cup of cocoa and a book--and some secret bread someone just created.”

His bus comes and leaves and Crowley cannot be bothered to leave the cocoon of warmth that the umbrella provides.

“Which bus are you taking?” Aziraphale’s voice is muted as if the umbrella really shelters them both, not only from the rain but from the rest of the world.

“I--I think it just drove away.”

Aziraphale looks at him more directly, a crooked smile on his face. Not mocking, no, just …

A smile that speaks a thousand words.

A smile that says, “I know what you did, and I know what it tells me about you and about us, but I won’t say it aloud. For now. Because this is comfortable and nice too.”

Or at least that’s how Crowley reads it.

“Looks like mine is delayed,” Aziraphale simply says. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

Crowley smiles, tired but content. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Eastgate?”

“If there is enough cocoa for one, there is enough for two, my dear Mr. Crowley.”

😇😈😇

For the life of him, Aziraphale doesn’t know what he was thinking.

He entirely blames Crowley’s tight pants and warm smile and--and ...Well, he entirely blames Crowley for being Crowley for his enthusiastic yet unplanned invitation to go to his place.

If he has to be completely honest, Aziraphale’s place is … Not somewhere you invite someone without careful planning beforehand.

(Especially someone who could potentially see more of the place than any random guest, and is possibly someone Aziraphale would like to see in the said apartment more often than not.

Possibly. 

As in, always and forever.)

Because, and not that it is a piece of information that is absolutely needed but it bares being told at least once, Aziraphale is messy.

“Ooooooh,” Crowley starts, low under his breath the moment Aziraphale lets him in, an amused look on his face. “You’re messy.”

It does bare being told twice, to be honest.

What puzzles Aziraphale is the sheer delight in Crowley’s voice. He glances around the living room, slash, kitchen, slash, dining room, slash, personal library, and tries to give it an objective look.

There are empty, dirty mugs in the sink, but otherwise, the kitchen area is clean-ish.

There are … oh dear Lord, there are dirty clothes on the couch where Aziraphale came home last night, too tired to get to his bed but not tired enough that he didn’t feel like indulging in a little one-on-one session with himself and his thoughts before succumbing to sleep.

(If said thoughts involved the very person now standing in said living room, well, that’s for Aziraphale’s shame to feed on.)

Three books are opened, stacked in a precarious pile on the coffee table.

At least Anathema is nowhere in sight. With any luck, she’s asleep on Aziraphale’s bed and won’t bother sniffing around.

(Aziraphale feels like introducing Crowley and Anathema would bare more consequences than introducing Crowley to his family.)

Some shoes and ties create a parkour-worthy arrangement around the room.

On his shelves, it’s not a mess. It’s the perfectly organized chaos Aziraphale has chosen as his way of putting his collection together.

All the editions of one book together, naturally, arranged per publication date, of course.

So it looks a bit in disarray in relation to the sizes and the conservation states.

That doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but he can see how, added to the rest of the room, his shelves give a distinctively chaotic vibe.

Still, Crowley is not running for the hills or making fun of him as some other people did in the past.

(Gabriel is a judgmental asshole who wouldn’t make the difference between a sketch by E.H. Shepard and a napkin at the bottom of a dump, and he can suck on his minimalistic design for all Aziraphale cares.

Still hurts when he makes fun of Aziraphale’s prized possessions.)

No, quite the contrary. Aziraphale can only gulp when he spots Crowley strutting, really, the man is strutting in his living room, caressing the back of Aziraphale’s chair or browsing the shelves, the same delighted look on his face softening as he goes.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he says suddenly, voice barely above the sound of the rain hitting the window. “How did you get your hands on this one?”

Aziraphale forgets all of his embarrassment at the state of his home to see what caught Crowley’s attention.

“Sendak?”

“Not just any Sendak, you little minx. Quite the controversial item, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale can tell that his cheeks are now matching some of his books binding. “Well, no respectable collection--”

Crowley snorts and raises one eyebrow.

“No collection would be complete without Sendak’s entire body of work, now would it?”

“Dreaming about baking in the nude, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s brain flies out the window and into the gutter. “I--you--but--”

Crowley snickers, reaching for the copy of “In the Night Kitchen”.

Aziraphale takes it first, clutching it to his chest. “You demon! Do you enjoy making fun of me?”

Crowley’s smile slowly melts away. “I am not making fun of you, honest. It’s just …” Crowley looks frustrated, searching for his words and that alone appeases Aziraphale. “I like finding out that there are more layers to you than what you usually let people know, okay?”

It’s raw and honest and, frankly, adorable.

If Aziraphale wasn’t so worried about losing Crowley’s friendship, he would jump in his arms right there and then kiss the sarcasm out of him.

(It would take a while. Maybe even a lifetime. That doesn’t bother him. He’s willing to spend that time on this task.)

As it is, Aziraphale simply puts the book back on its shelf before clasping his hands in front of him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Aziraphale chances a look at Crowley, who is busy pretending he finds the pattern on Aziraphale’s floor mind-riveting.

“How about that cocoa to go with your loaf?”

Crowley visibly chokes on air.

“Of bread! Your loaf of bread! That I bought!”

“... Right.”

Aziraphale all but runs to the safety of his kitchen where he gently smacks his head against a cupboard.

“Are you all right, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale closes his eyes one moment before letting out a deep breath. “Do you have a milk preference? And do you want some sugar in your ….?”

Crowley appears next to him. “I wouldn’t mind if you have sheep milk--easier to digest.” Crowley takes a step that puts his hand almost on top of Aziraphale’s. “And I think I have all the sweetness I need.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale is absolutely not using his countertop as a crutch to keep himself upright while Crowley is standing so close to him.

Dear Lord, he smells like a cologne-scented pastry, and that is more appetizing than it should be.

“Perhaps if you mixed some honey in it, though …”

Aziraphale can’t help but beam at Crowley. “Now that’s an excellent idea, my dear! Go, sit, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

Crowley frowns at him, silently muttering “a jiffy?” but still complies with the command.

Aziraphale focuses on preparing their drinks, cutting slices of the delicious green tea loaf and putting them on a clean plate--more of a feat than you’d think--before joining Crowley.

And that’s when he almost drops the tray.

Because Crowley is not sitting on the couch, oh no Sir.

Crowley is sprawled on the couch, spread on the pleather like caramel on a crêpe.

“Com-comfortable, I believe?”

“Hm-hm.”

Aziraphale straightens up and bumps his hips against Crowley’s feet. “Leave some room for me, will you?”

Fussing over the cups and saucers, Aziraphale completely misses the fond look Crowley addresses in his direction as he sits more properly.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

“What are your plans for the weekend?” Crowley asks, wondering if today is the day he’ll finally get brave enough to ask Aziraphale if he’d like to--

“Would you care to accompany me to the auction I texted you about? Afterward, we could go get some sushis ….”

“Why do you need me, exactly?” Crowley cuts in. “It’s not like I know anything about books.”

(This is a blatant lie, for once. Crowley knows it, you know it, his shelves of astronomical and botanical books and romance novels know it. Aziraphale, however, does not. This will have to wait for Aziraphale to actually come to Anthony’s place, and, well, sorry dears, but Crowley is not there yet.

Pace yourself and enjoy the moment, will you?)

Aziraphale toys with the paper napkin, wringing it into oblivion. “Well, if I remember our brief moment as colleagues, you always seemed to be the … responsible, shall we say, um, perhaps, the sensible kind of fellow.”

Crowley barely resists the need to bark a laugh at that. As it is, he keeps it to a smirk stretching his lips as he leans back in his chair.“Hardly.”

“Now come on, dear,” Aziraphale tuts, oblivious to the way Crowley’s eyes widen at the term of endearment, “you would do a fantastic wingman to contain my enthusiasm.”

Crowley briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling--dear God, there is no way his former-colleague-turned-friend-could-be-more is not doing it on purpose, is there?--before sighing. “Why is there a need to contain your enthusiasm?”

Aziraphale gives him a look. 

“No, seriously, Angel,” he continues, this time being the oblivious one to the stunned look on Aziraphale’s face at his choice of words, “you do make a decent living, working for those vampires, why would you need to, um, contain your enthusiasm?”

“Because that’s the … reasonable, err, thing to do?”

“Screw reasonable, Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims. “You’re not harming everybody, you are not going to spend all of your money during an auction. After all, there is only one book fitting your collection--”

“Oh. You looked at the catalog I sent you?”

“Of course,” Crowley shrugs, mildly offended. “So if you’re only looking to buy one book, why not splurge a little?”

“When you put it that way …”

“Treat yourself, Angel!”

“Clever tempter.” Aziraphale tries to look angry, but it only comes out as unbearably cute.

Crowley lets himself smile as fondly as his heart desires at Aziraphale. “Not much to tempt when it’s already what you wanted to do.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So, will you come with me, Crowley?”

Oh, right, he never actually gave an answer did he? “I guess. If nothing else more interesting comes my way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What? I may have hundreds of invitations waiting for me to give them a reply.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice just lower enough to awaken an unidentified heat in Crowley’s stomach, “you’re the one who asked me if I had plans over the weekend.”

With a pat on Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale is up and already at the door with a wave. “See you Saturday on New Bond Street, Crowley!”

Crowley is left stunned in his chair, looking after the blond curls bobbing down the street.

The little devil.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

To be completely honest, Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley would show up.

After all, it is his only day of freedom before going back to a job that is far more physically demanding than Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale would completely understand if Crowley decided to just sleep it away.

(He would understand. He would be disappointed and sad, but that would be for him and for his pet to know.)

But no.

Next to the entrance of the auction house, in all his glorious lankiness draped in black, stands the man starring in a lot of Aziraphale’s dreams lately.

Oh, kindly get your mind out of the gutter, not all those dreams are of the pornographic variety.

(The key-word here being “not all”.)

Crowley’s hair is out of his usual messy bun, flowing in crimson rivlets around his angular face. Sunglasses firmly in place even though it is a cloudy day in London.

As for the rest of his attire, one would call it “punk chic” if one even dared to try and qualify Crowley’s …

Well.

Crowley as a whole is inqualifiable, isn’t he? Almost …

Ineffable.

And here he goes again, waxing poetic over Crowley while being too shy, awkward, afraid, to do something about it.

Would that be so hard? “Hey Crowley, thanks for coming, after the auction, would you fancy some dinner? No, not like the hundreds we already shared, no, this one would be special. A date. I’m asking you on a date. No? Preposterous? Oh, alright, back to business as usual then, see you Monday at the bakery.”

See? Not that hard. Hardly more than a band-aid ripped from one’s skin.

… Right. As if that simple mind simulation didn’t rip Aziraphale’s heart out of his chest, stomped on it before putting the beaten pulp back for him to heal.

“Right on time, Angel.”

The pet name never fails to cause more aortic gymnastics and Aziraphale beams at Crowley. “If right on time means half an hour before the auction, then, yes, right on time.”

Crowley digs his hands in his pockets, face turned to the ground. “I know you want to find a good spot to observe without being observed,” he mumbles as they enter the auction house and are directed toward the room. “Half an hour to do so sounds reasonable.”

“I appreciate the effort,” Aziraphale says lightly, lighter than he really feels. “I thought reason was your kryptonite.”

A crooked smile appears on Crowley’s face, and he pulls his glasses down just enough for Aziraphale to see him wink. “Among other things, Angel.”

Crowley takes two strides as Aziraphale is glued on the spot.

That--that was flirting, wasn’t it?

It has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Aziraphale is going to lose his darn mind trying to read between Crowley’s lines.

(And he loves every second of it, don’t get him wrong.)

“Now, do you prefer to sit in the back, or somewhere in the middle? I’d prefer somewhere where we can talk without disturbing anybody, even if the walls have ears,” Crowley is rambling, strutting--there is really no other way to put it--strutting his stuff back and forth across the room where the auction will be held. “Do books have ears?” he mutters, to Aziraphale’s complete delight, before snickering in a way that can only be described as adorable, as much as Crowley denies being anything approaching “adorable”, “cute” ou even just “nice”. “Though I suppose they can be eared.”

It requires a lot of focus on their surroundings and a massive amount of self-control for Aziraphale to keep himself from throwing himself at Crowley and kiss the living daylights out of him right then and there.

“Get it?” Crowley insists, his smile far too much for Aziraphale to handle. “Dog-eared?”

“I get it, dear,” Aziraphale says, willing his cheeks to return to their normal, pale complexion. In a very satisfying turn of event, his blush seems to transfer to Crowley’s cheeks, too. “Very funny, and contextually appropriate. Kudos.”

Crowley gives him a little curtsey before pointing at different seats. “So? The choice is yours, Angel.”

Oh, Aziraphale knows that there is a slight percentage of Crowley’s choice of pet name which is vaguely mocking. He knows.

He does love being called “Angel” by a man who looks like one himself, only in a more lustful way.

(Can angels be lustful creatures? There is a probably a whole moral and theological debate to have there, but he’ll keep it in mind for their next date-not-a-date-God-he-wishes-it-was-a-date.)

“Right this way,” Aziraphale points to two seats in second to last row, somewhere around the middle. “Perfect view, perfect to bid.”

As if summoned by magic, a paddle seems to appear in Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale eyes it warily as Crowley twirls it in the air. “Planning on bidding, dear?”

“Yep. You should get yours too.”

“Seriously?”

Crowley looks over the rim of his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale. “Deadly.”

Aziraphale attempts to glare a him as he stands, taking a double take to make sure that his companion is not pulling his leg. When Crowley has the audacity to make a “go on” motion, Aziraphale huffs and puffs all the way to the paddle counter.

“And what, pray tell, do you plan on bidding on, exactly?”

“Something awfully overpriced, just to make some idiots pay more than they should.”

“Oh, be serious, Crowley.”

The room fills up one person at a time, but as far as Aziraphale is concerned, it’s just the two of them.

“If you must know,” Crowley replies, a faint blush appearing on the apple of his cheeks (and on the tip of his ears, that is just … Aziraphale has no words), “while browsing the catalogue you sent me, I spotted a copy of a book that could look good on my shelves.”

“As in …?”

“As in, wait and see, good things come to those who wait, for Pete’s sake!”

Aziraphale smiles crookedly at that, as discretely as he can manage.

If he had any doubts, they’re all gone now. There is definitely more to Crowley than meets the eye. The man is not as blasé as he would like to appear.

Or maybe, just maybe, he only lets Aziraphale sees under all that nonchalance to show his true self.

That possibility almost makes him faint.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention,” the auctioneer calls with a too-white smile. “Let’s begin with the first lot of this English literature, History science and Children’s book auction, shall we?”

😈😇😈

It’s not that Crowley is a bibliophile--far from it.

He simply has a profound respect for books and the answers they can provide to all the questions in the Universe.

And sometimes, just for the fun of it, he likes to splurge on books which show how far Humanity has come, in terms of knowledge.

The irony of it all, and, though he’ll never admit it, the hope that lies between those lines.

If humanity is capable of growing out of a pit of superstitions and darkness, the future cannot be as bleak as it looks, can it?

Which leads us to the present moment, to the book he spotted in the aforementioned catalogue and wishes to purchase if it fits his splurging budget.

Rachel Bell Maiden’s “The Canape Book”.

The small book doesn’t look like much, on its podium, barely held upright by the handler’s gloved hand.

And yet, Crowley wants it like he doesn’t often want for things.

(A look on his left tells a different story, but a, this is not the place nor the time, and b, Crowley himself doesn’t want to admit to himself that he yearns.

Humans can be stupid like that.)

The green binding is pretty unique, or so Crowley has learned online, and he really, really ...

“Starting the auction at 200 pounds, do we have a bidder, I have an offer at 250 pounds …”

Crowley raises his paddle like a sword in the air.

“300 pounds to paddle 666. I have an offer at 325?”

One more lift.

“350, 350 to paddle 666. What about you, Sir, care to raise the stakes? No? On the phone?”

The auctioneer looks around the room and Crowley starts sweating. As it is, with the fees, and everything, the book is going to be right on the verge of extravagant for his budget.

But it is a good purchase, if only to find recipes to try with Aziraphale, sandwiches and cocktails that will make for splendid afternoon and fantastic evenings, perhaps a prelude to more if they--if he ever gets himself together.

“Going once, going twice …”

“Come on,” Crowley mutters between gritted teeth.

“And sold to paddle 666, congratulations sir.”

“Yesss,” Crowley cannot help but hiss as he puts the paddle away.

Still in the rush of the auction--and yes, it was a rush, shut up--he slides his hand over Aziraphale’s next to him. 

And Aziraphale doesn’t move it away.

Oh, no, quite the opposite actually: he turns his hand to clasp Crowley’s firmly and doesn’t let go.

“Congratulations, dear,” he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle Crowley’s skin. “I hope to be as successful in my own endeavor.”

Crowley smiles bashfully. “Thank you, Angel.”

The fifty or so lots after that go by without Crowley noticing them.

A not so small part of him wishfully thinks that Aziraphale doesn’t pay much attention to it either.

When Aziraphale straightens up in his chair, paddle at the ready, Crowley turns his attention back to the room.

The big lot of the sale isn’t up yet, but a few heads are turning toward the three tan-leather bound books.

“Now, lot 69, a 1840 printing of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, in 3 volumes, signed by the illustrator George Cruikshank, we have a lot of interest from buyers over the phone, let’s start this auction at 1200 pounds. 1200, 1300, thank you Sir, 1400 for you Emma, 1400 over the phone, 1500 for me, 1600 over the phone with Tang, 1650 for me, 1650, do I have more bidding?”

Aziraphale raises his paddle and Crowley can feel his heart beating faster in his friend’s behalf.

Well, “friend”.

Whatever they are.

“1700 pounds for the paddle 29472, thank you Sir. 1700 in the room, not with me, not on the phone.”

Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, a proud smirk on his face.

“And 1800 for the paddle 75005.”

Aziraphale and Crowley snap their head toward the part of the room pointed by the auctioneer’s hammer. A smug looking person raises one eyebrow at them.

Aziraphale scowls at them and lifts his hand.

“1900, paddle 29472.”

“2000, paddle 75005...”

Crowley glances back at the catalogue when Aziraphale reaches 3000.

“Angel,” he whispers, “you’re at the higher estimate.”

“These books are mine,” Aziraphale growls back, and while the sound goes straight to Crowley’s bloodstream, it may be time for this whole affair to end.

Glaring at the back of Mx. 75005’s head, Crowley waits for them to lift their paddle, again, and turn to smirk at them, again.

Which they do--so predictable.

Crowley discreetly brings his thumb to his throat and hisses.

The person seems appropriately taken aback.

Aziraphale lifts his paddle one more time, bringing the auction to 3500 pounds.

“3500 pounds for paddle 29742, do you wish to continue, Sir?”

The person hesitates, glancing at them one more time. Crowley lowers his glasses to glare them into submission.

And then they shake their head.

“We’re at 3500 pounds for the gentleman with the paddle 29742, do I have any more bidder? Going once, going twice…”

Aziraphale is the one reaching for Crowley’s hand this time around.

“And sold. Congratulations, Sir. Now, moving on to lot 70 …”

“Unless you wish to stay for what most of these people consider to be the important lot of this sale,” Aziraphale whispers, his hand still clasping Crowley’s, “we can take our leave.”

“Do you want to see how it goes?”

“Nah, I’ll check the final results online.”

“Sure?”

“Sure. Let’s go. I feel peckish.”

“Peckish.”

“Indeed. How about some crepes?”

“Lead the way, Angel.”

😈😇😈😇😈

“Well, wasn’t that fun?” Aziraphale says happily, hands clasped in his back as they walk down the street.

“It was fun,” Crowley replies, a crooked smile on his face. “Especially to see that side of you, Angel.”

“Which side, my dear?”

“The feisty, slightly bastardish side, of course.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, he does, but even if he felt like lying to Crowley, he couldn’t possibly procede. And he can admit that he did let out his … inner bastard.

“Right. Well. I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

“You have no idea.”

Crowley’s voice catches Aziraphale’s attention. It’s soft suddenly around the edges, almost tender, almost fond.

Almost smitten.

Aziraphale searches Crowley’s face for more clues, but beside this smirk that has indeed softened into a grin, his blasted sunglasses block Aziraphale’s “reading”.

“Crowley …”

“Angel …”

They both start at the same time but Crowley shakes his head before Aziraphale can tell him to go ahead. “Never mind that. Where are you taking us?”

Aziraphale considers pushing it, once and for all--speak your mind and heart, damn you, so I can snog you senseless in the middle of Oxford Circus--but Crowley is not the kind of man you can push into confession, that much Aziraphale knows now.

“To my secret spot.”

Crowley’s face instantly matches the crimson lining of his jacket. “Cool. Do you take all your dates there?”

“I never brought anyone there, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale replies over the pitter patter of his heart at the mention of this afternoon being a date. “But I--I want you to be my guest there.”

They reach a crossroad and Aziraphale brings his hands in front of him, nervouser and nervouser as Crowley remains silent.

Until, that is, Crowley’s hand enters his line of vision.

“Crowley?”

Crowley is not looking at him, but he still wiggles his fingers, prompting Aziraphale to take it.

“I would love to see your secret spot, Angel,” Crowley finally says, voice barely covering the hubbub around them. “I am--I am honored.”

It’s only because he knows the way so well that Aziraphale doesn’t lose them both in the streets, floating as he is on his very own cloud.

“This,” Crowley says with as much doubt as he can put in a single syllable, “is where you take me to have crêpes?”

“Indeed it is.”

“This restaurant? Really?”

“Don’t pass on such a hasty judgment,” Aziraphale tutts. “‘For by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemned’.”

Crowley groans as he follows him inside the tiny Japanese restaurant. “Quoting scriptures at me now? Why, oh why would you do that?”

Aziraphale salutes the owner before taking “his” seat, inviting Crowley to join him. “If only to make you admit that you knew the source of my quote, you fallen soul. And to gently ask you not to say another word before you have a chance to try their desserts.”

“Fine, fine, I suppose I can put my judgmental side on hold for a moment with you.”

Oh. Wow. That’s too much, too fast, wow.

All Aziraphale can do on the outside is clearing his throat and pulling the menu in front of him.

“I mean--” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him short. 

“Should we split one plate of crêpes, or should we share two plates, I don’t know, I--I, um, I know I have built an appetite with the adrenaline and all, but how do you feel?”

Crowley shrugs, pulling off his glasses to clean them with his scarf. “You’re the connoisseur, you decide. I’m putting my faith in you, Angel.”

But all of Aziraphale’s knowledge and appreciation for the crêpe cakes on the menu flew out the window the moment Crowley’s eyes came into view.

They’re such a peculiar shade, a mesmerizing golden amber Aziraphale could bask in for all of Eternity.

“-raphale?”

“Uh? Sorry, my dear boy, I was--I was lost in thoughts.”

“Pure, happy thoughts?”

“Enough to make me fly if I had any fairy dust.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth, the smile left behind enough for Aziraphale to gather that he has a joke on the tip of his tongue and is refraining out of the goodness of his heart.

“You were saying?” he asks instead, folding back the menu to focus on Crowley, now that those jewelled eyes are once again hidden.

(What a shame, but what a relief for his poor heart, too.)

“I was asking you what was your favorite cake?”

“Depends on my mood,” Aziraphale replies, more comfortable on the subject of food. “A good vanilla crêpe can do the trick but when I feel like treating myself properly …”

“Yess?”

“Chestnut and chocolate is my go-to.”

“An interesting combination.”

“A scrumptious combination!” Aziraphale claps his hands. “Oh, that makes my decision easier. We must simply try that.”

Aziraphale’s favorite waiter approaches and they exchange a few words in Japanese before Aziraphale places his order.

As he leaves them to it, Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who is gawking at him.

“What?”

Crowley clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly. “You--you speak Japanese?”

“Oh, yes, I do, don’t I?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, fingers drumming on the tablecloth.

Aziraphale starts fidgeting under such intense scrutiny. “What’s so special about it, anyway? I’m sure you speak other languages, too.”

It comes out a bit more defensively than he really intended to. There is just something about Crowley that reveals his darker side.

Crowley smirks, still drumming on the table. “I speak Scottish, if that counts.”

“Of course it does.”

“And I suppose I can manage with French, but nothing as … exotic as Japanese.”

“French?”

“Tout à fait.”

Isn’t it funny, how we sometimes discover things about ourselves late in life?

As it is, until this very moment, Aziraphale had no idea that a few words uttered in French could affect him as it does.

But affected he is, and to his core.

“Mighty useful, French, when you enjoy baking,” Crowley continues, seemingly unaware of the sudden heat threatening to consume his companion on the spot. “So many French words just to talk about ingredients. Beurre noisette, crème pâtissière, sucre boulé …”

“Would you teach me?”

Crowley stops in his tracks and looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “French, or baking?”

“Both?”

Oh, it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t see how either lesson could turn into an apocalyptic sort of disaster. He does, he absolutely, with great clarity, does.

But on the other hand, this kind of apocalypse would inevitably lead to him and Crowley spending more time together, getting closer, until Aziraphale would be able to whisper his freshly acquired vocabulary into the meat of Crowley’s skin.

So, yes, Aziraphale would take the risk of an apocalypse of embarrassment for the reward of successfully wooing Crowley.

“That could be fun,” Crowley replies just as the crêpes land on their table, his hand suddenly covering Aziraphale in a sneak attack. “If you teach me something in return.”

Oh, boy.

“What would you want me to teach you?” Aziraphale asks.

“You could teach me Japanese,” Crowley replies, taking his hand back--both a blessing and a curse. “Or fencing.”

Aziraphale freezes. “How do you know I fence?”

Crowley sits back in his chair, cup of tea in his hand as he slouches. “Something in your posture, Angel,” he replies, gesturing in Aziraphale’s direction. “It was either fencing or horse riding.”

“And how do you know it’s not horse riding?”

“Hard on the buttocks, horses. Bit of a flaw in the design, if you ask me. But you don’t strike me as someone who would inflict such pain on his buttocks.”

Such a sentence promptly produces images of Crowley thinking about the comfort of his buttocks, which, if you are in Aziraphale’s mind, doesn’t take too long before derailing into Crowley taking care of his ass.

Not that Aziraphale’s mind needs much prompting to go in that direction nowadays.

“Touché,” is all he can say without making a fool of himself in the middle of his favorite restaurant. To cover for his sudden silence, he picks up a fork to dig into the crêpes.

Ah, crêpes.

Even when they are average, they are the superior dessert, snack and culinary creation altogether.

Aziraphale takes a moment to enjoy his first bite. Much like a French philosopher, Aziraphale thinks that as enjoyable a thing may be, nothing can surpass the happiness brought by the first bite, first sip, first encounter.

The crêpes are thin yet soft, with a delicate crispy ring on the edges. In the center, the pieces of chocolate are on the verge of being completely melted, but not yet, while the crushed chestnuts are bringing some texture to the whole plate.

Aziraphale hums in his delight, before pushing the plate toward Crowley. “Where are my manners? You’re the one who has to try this for the first time.”

Crowley picks up a fork, turning the plate so he can face an untouched part of the crêpe. Aziraphale carefully watches his face for his reaction.

His mind takes another turn for the gutter at the way Crowley flicks his tongue at the fork before closing his lips around it, but then.

Then.

Crowley’s eyes widens, visible even from behind the tainted lenses and he lets out a soft, heartfelt moan that seems to fly directly through Aziraphale’s veins and straight to his heart.

“That’s--” Crowley starts, a pink flush appearing on his high cheeks. “It’s delicious!”

A small part of Aziraphale’s mind takes pride in making his … friend discover such a pleasure, but most of it is entirely consumed by the way Crowley looks at the moment.

Amazement colors his features, and the largest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on his face stretches his lips.

If Aziraphale thought he had a crush on the lanky man before, that is nothing compared to the rush of, well, Love he feels right now.

“I can understand why you kept this place a secret, Angel,” Crowley says, picking a second piece of the crêpe cake. “This is truly a slice of Heaven.”

Aziraphale lets out a short giggle before smothering it with a forkful of cake.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley removes his glasses completely before cupping his face in his palm. The sight of those golden eyes, with their oh so particular shade, short-circuits Aziraphale’s brain.

Particularly because of the fondness warming them.

“May I tempt you for dinner?”

“T-tempt me?”

Crowley cocks one eyebrow at him. “Well, asking you for dinner on my terms means making you leave work early, thus tempting you away from them all.”

“Them?”

“The parasites who used to be my colleagues.”

And just like that, the warm feelings in Aziraphale’s chest melt away. “Parasites?”

Crowley must hear the change of tone in his voice. “Well,” he straightens up while managing to still slouch in his chair, “you know. Gabriel, Michael, all those who act all holier than thou.”

Aziraphale feels hurt--he isn’t quite sure if he feels attacked or if it’s just a sense of professional duty. “Aren’t I one of them too?”

Crowley puts his sunglasses back on. “You work there, yes, but you are not one of them,” he replies emphatically.

“How so?”

“I know so.”

Aziraphale swipes his face with his hand. “I know I should take your words as a compliment, but what makes you so sure that I’m not like them?!”

Crowley smiles at him, blinding and, and, loving, yes. “I know you would never take advantage of the people who have faith in you,” he replies simply. “And that you are more layered than any of those buffoons.”

“Oh.”

“And given the chance, you wouldn’t work for them.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Crowley. “Oh really. And what would I rather do?”

“I think that you would be way happier if your job involved books and making people happy.”

Aziraphale blinks at the image those words paint.

Far too appealing an image. He needs to stir the conversation away from it.

“To answer your earlier proposal …”

“Hmm yes?”

“I would love to let you tempt me.”

“Great.” Crowley beams at him. “Meet me at the bakery around 5pm.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

😈😇😈😇😈

The thing you need to know about Crowley is that he’s a perfectionnist.

Oh, maybe you already gathered as much about him from the rest of the story already.

But anyway, that is to say that in preparation for his date--because yes, this is officially a date, if the previous day wasn’t already one--, Crowley spends the night trying to figure out the best sweets to treat his angel to.

(Yes, his. Aziraphale is his. Move on.)

He considers making a decadent crepe cake, perhaps even on with a heart hidden in its center, cliché be damned, but does he really want to enter a competition with Aziraphale’s favorite dessert on their first date?

No, he doesn’t. Maybe later, once they will have dated for a while, for a special occasion perhaps.

No, for now, Crowley needs to blow Aziraphale’s mind and tastebuds.

(No, Crowley is absolutely not considering blowing anything else. Who do you take him for? 

… If the mood seems right.

Maybe.

Possibly.)

The rest of the meny is fairly simple: Crowley knows Aziraphale’s tastes now. Fresh, quality ingredients, some fancy ones but nothing that can take him away from the ultimate prize that is the dessert.

So he decided to start with oysters (which doesn’t require a lot of preparation, juste the mignonette sauce).

Pros: it’s easy, fresh and aphrodisiac.

Cons: the shells. But Crowley will deal with them later.

For the main dish, Crowley goes with a pancetta and butternut squash risotto.

Pros: he can prepare it in advance and simply reheat it when needed (and he totally prepares it while considering his dessert options).

Cons: well, there are ways to fail at making a risotto, but this is not Crowley’s first risotto. He knows where the potential failure lies, and he sidesteps it like a pro.

And now back to the dessert.

If everything goes as well as Crowley wishes, thinks, hopes it will go, then by the time they get to dessert, they will both want to get closer.

Maybe kiss.

Maybe hold each other.

(Oh, to feel Aziraphale’s soft body pressed against his. Now that would be his treat.)

In order to to so, Crowley has two choices, really.

Either a dessert they can feed to each other, like an ice cream or a mousse of some sorts, or a dessert they can nibble on, like some kinds of biscuits or--

Hold that thought.

Crowley applauds himself before going through the pages of his book.

“Good Nommins: Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Recipes”, a book he got from his great-great-great-great aunt. All of Crowley’s recipes are a variation he played from those ancient recipes.

And there is something he thinks will do the trick.

So, yes, he spends the night trying recipes, finding ways to recycle what doesn’t make the cut (an unsuitable cookie is only a good cheesecake crust waiting to happen) until Crowley is sure he has the right treat.

And now he is.

At 5 a.m.

Which means that there is no point in going to bed now, is there, since he has to be at the bakery in one hour.

That’s alright, though. Crowley doesn’t really mind, especially considering the ultimate goal. Mission Woo Aziraphale Eastgate out of his waistcoat, dot dot dot, is a go.

😈😇😈

Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale in front of the bakery and he does his best not to be nervous.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Crowley is too tired to hide that Beelzy managed to surprise him.

“I’m waiting. For my, um, my friend.”

“Right,” they drawl, fixing the brooch on their lapel. “Your … friend, the blondy from the vampire office.”

“You know them?”

“Got my loan from them.”

Crowley can’t help but pull a face.

“And my regular booty call.”

Crowley’s grimace takes a turn for the worse. “Isn’t that what people call a boyfriend?”

Beelzy makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be gross. Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Should I worry?”

“Do or do not, I don’t care. Bye!”

Crowley is still frowning after them when Aziraphale taps on his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good afternoon, dear!” Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels. “So, where are we going?”

Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, bringing the rocking to a stop. 

“Follow me.”

😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know what makes him trust Crowley so much that he’s willing to follow him through the streets of London until they reach what looks like an old factory.

“What is--where are we, dear boy?”

“My place, Angel.”

(I told you it would come in the proper time, didn’t I, dear readers? Good things come to those who wait.)

“Your--your place?”

“I thought it would be better to have an intimate setting for our, err, first, you know,” Crowley says while opening his door.

Aziraphale’s brain has already melted at the word “intimate”, but the design of Crowley’s flat finishes the job.

Given the look of the building, Aziraphale expected something rough, somehow bohemian. The idea doesn’t quite fit Crowley’s general look, but what does he know, right?

But that flat!

Everything is sleek and modern, except for the kitchen which has a wooden counter, but even that part of the flat is in the darker shades, black wood and metal.

Though the space is not big, the whole space is tidy and sparkly clean, a complete opposite to the way Aziraphale himself keeps his own flat. Next to the windows, which could be seen from the outside, stand giant plants. Monstera, succulents and alocasia fill in the space, probably eating up the light during the day.

It’s the most luxurious private garden Aziraphale has ever seen. Next to them, in the biggest sunlight spot, stands a vivarium with a napping snake.

Now, that fits the picture of Crowley he has built in his mind.

“Welcome to my casa,” Crowley tells him, taking off his jacket and sending it with a scary accuracy onto the hook. Aziraphale doesn’t trust his own talent and goes to hang his own coat. “I hope you don’t mind Newt?”

“You have a lovely home, Anthony,” he replies instead, looking around. A door is closed, probably leading to Crowley’s private parts of the flat--and Aziraphale is now very intrigued to know more about the kind of bedding Crowley likes to sleep in, while the main room is split between the living room, where the plants are, and the kitchen, where Crowley is standing.

His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, good Lord.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies softly, simultaneously opening the refrigerator and turning the fire on under a large pan.

For some reason, hearing his first name in Crowley’s mouth is even better than the pet name he got used to.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Make yourself comfortable, angel, and perhaps open a bottle of wine?”

Aziraphale works quickly to open the bottle of red wine in order to be able to return to his gawking at Crowley in action.

“Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“This is a date, right?”

Crowley freezes before nodding.

“I’m really glad it is.”

Crowley comes to sit at the table too, a large plate covered in oysters and a light vinegary sauce. He has a small smile, almost shy. “I’m really glad too.”

“Oh, oysters,” Aziraphale can’t help but sigh happily. “How did you know that they are my “péché mignon”?”

“I had a hunch,” Crowley says, pushing the plate toward Aziraphale.

“You have a lot of them, about me?”

“Quite a few.” Here is that smile again, soft and warm and reaching into Aziraphale’s body to seize his heart in the most tender way.

Aziraphale tries to hide his blush by slurping on an oyster, the peppercorn and the vinegar heightening the ioded taste of the mollusk.

“That’s delicious.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you so good at cooking?”

That, more than anything else, gets Crowley started, and the hours tick by as they devour the plate of oysters and then the entire pan of risotto, spoonful by spoonful, while Crowley talks about his childhood, his desire to cook and his incessant need to ask questions to understand, really, the why’s and how’s of the universe. Aziraphale interjects some questions, mostly savouring both the food and the way Crowley seems to lighten up from the inside as they move to the plush looking couch in the living room. Truth be told, he becomes more alive the emptier the bottle becomes, sure, and his speech makes less and less sense, but it only makes him more attractive in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And then, then--” Crowley pauses, pouting. “What was I saying?”

Aziraphale blinks, and yes, he is quite inebriated himself. “Something about fish soup?”

“Bouillabaisse! Yes!”

“What about bulibaze?”

“... I don’t know. But it’s bloody good.”

Aziraphale starts giggling, and when he looks up again to pour himself another glass, Crowley is sitting far closer than he was just a moment ago.

“Oh.”

Crowley’s hair is ruffled and soft-looking, begging for Aziraphale to pass his fingers through them. His eyes are dark, a golden circle surrounding his irises. And his mouth is …

It’s calling for Aziraphale’s touch, that’s what it is.

They both lean closer, and Aziraphale licks his lips the moment Crowley bites on his lower lip.

“I have dessert.”

“You--uh?”

Crowley leans back, still close enough that Aziraphale can feel his body heat radiating on his left side.

“I prepared a dessert. For you. A special dessert.”

I could be happy with you as my dessert, fleetingly crosses Aziraphale’s mind but in the ranking of his sins, gluttony must supersedes lust because he is immediately curious.

“A special dessert for me?”

Crowley winks, the devil, before jumping out of the couch and sautering to the kitchen.

While he waits, Aziraphale tries to compose himself. 

Oh, he has every intention of bringing what almost happened to something that definitely happened, but he doesn’t want it to be a drunken, or worse, rushed moment.

Hence the composing.

“Tadaaa,” Crowley singsongs as he brings a plate to his coffee table. The plate is covered in thin golden biscuits, as thin as paper, rolled up and folded.

“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale picks up one of the biscuits. It’s amazingly light and buttery. “What are those?”

“They have two names,” Crowley explains, pushing forward Aziraphale’s glass. “They’re known as gavottes, or as crêpes dentelles.”

Aziraphale recognizes the first word. “Those are crêpe biscuits?”

“Yes.”

“And you made them for me.”

“... Yes, angel.”

Aziraphale delicately puts the biscuit back on the plate.

“What are y--”

Crowley doesn’t get to finish his sentence, his lips otherwise occupied by Aziraphale’s.

After months of dreaming about it, picturing how it would be, the reality of kissing Crowley is even better than he imagined. It’s soft and passionate and clumsy and perfect, all at once.

Crowley wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer until Aziraphale is practically lying on top of Crowley on the couch.

Clumsy? Definitely.

Uncomfortable? Just a little bit.

Everything Aziraphale wished for? And more.

Crowley moans into the kiss, and it’s not necessarily the good kind of moans. Aziraphale pushes himself up. “Everything alright, my dear boy?”

“Hm-hm,” Crowley replies, looking a bit dizzy. “Just, let me--agh--” Crowley winces, reaching behind him and picking a book. He glares at it, putting it on the table, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. The love and adoration in those golden eyes render Aziraphale silent. “Better. Now, where were we?”

Aziraphale smiles, caressing Crowley’s cheek. “At the beginning of forever, I believe,” he whispers, before diving in for another kiss.

(They do get to the gavottes, eventually, once Aziraphale is out of his waistcoat and his shirt is opened, and once Crowley’s pants have been opened.)

😈😇😈😇😈

It’s a heartbreak to part, but on the other hand, they make the journey from Crowley’s flat to the street where they both work together, so Crowley counts that as a win.

He waits for Aziraphale to pause at the entrance of his building, smiling at him one more time before they meet again in the evening, before entering the bakery.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.” Beelzy’s words contrast with their tone, but Crowley is used to that by now.”

“What can I do for you, my Lord?”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“I--I do. Did I give you the impression I wanted to leave?”

“No. Then again, I don’t usually care.”

“Oh. Then why--”

“I don’t want to work anymore. So. Are you interested?”

Crowley feels like he has entered the Twilight Zone. “Interested in?”

“In the shop, you imbecile. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Not really, no. But I could be interested.”

Beelzebub smiles at him. “Not so dumb after all then. Take your time, think about it, and come back tomorrow with your answer. I’m off now.”

With that, they walk out of the shop, leaving him alone with more to think about that he thought he would have on this day.

😈😇😈

“Are you interested?”

Crowley walks back and forth in Aziraphale’s living room, after retelling him of his boss’s proposal.

“I am! Of course I am!” he exclaims. “Fancy me, business owner. In charge of …”

“Of everything.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m sure you could do it,” Aziraphale points out, before sipping out of his mug of tea. “You have all it takes to turn this business into a success.”

“Except for the will to be responsible for it.”

“Hm.”

Crowley pauses. “Do you really think I could do it?”

“I do. You’re smart, creative, intuitive. You can do it.”

Crowley leans over the table to kiss Aziraphale before resuming his walking around. “But what of the money?”

“You have your severance money from Heavs.”

“True.”

“And, um.”

“What?”

Aziraphale wiggles on his spot. “I could, um, invest in it too?”

Crowley freezes. “You? What?”

Aziraphale stands to come in front of him. “I have money I could invest in your business.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish; he’s sure it’s not attractive, but he can’t do anything else.

“Or better yet?”

“Better?”

Aziraphale nods. “I could … be a partner.”

Crowley feels his face heating up but he focuses. “A partner?”

“Yes.”

“Care to develop on that idea, Angel?”

“I could--that is, I have been thinking.”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and then unloads all of the following in seemingly one breath.

“I have been miserable at my job for a while now, even though I’m quite good at it. I just, just, have enough of it, and I don’t think my soul can take much more of it. Meanwhile, I can see myself having a library of sorts, making my books available for all to peruse and enjoy while, I don’t know, maybe, savor some mini pastries?”

Crowley stares at him.

That idea is crazy.

Demented.

Completely out of this world.

Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

… Exactly what he wants, without ever knowing he did.

And yet, what comes out of his mouth next doesn’t make much sense either.

“You’d let people eat or drink near your books?”

Aziraphale had his mouth open to keep on babbling about his plans, but Crowley’s interjection brings him to a halt and he beams at him.

“I would. Would be rather hypocritical of me not to when I do it so often, wouldn’t it?”

“Ah. Right.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Was that your only objection, my dear, dear boy?”

Crowley’s brain fires up before he can get back to his senses. “I would love for us to be partners.”

“You would.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea, Angel.”

Aziraphale pulls on Crowley’s hand, pulling him closer, pulling him to him so they can kiss. “I do have a lot of ideas, Anthony.”

“Can’t wait to test them all, Aziraphale.”

(It takes them a moment to get their shop running, but eventually, Londoners get to enter “Above and Below”, thus named for the nurturing of the mind, through the books-- above-- and the body, through the food--below.

Crowley finds a way to make one-bite delicacies that match some of the books and Aziraphale is the one making the match when it’s not obvious.

They work well together, what can we say?) 

~~ The End ~~

[eveningstarcatcher]

Terrible Chances

Happy Valentine’s Day! <3

For @ineffably-good for the @goloveday art exchange Also on A03

Title from the song "Nevertheless I'm in Love With You" (Somehow, I know at a glance, the terrible chances I'm taking Fine at the start, then left with a heart that is breaking)

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice cut through the demon’s thoughts.

They were dining at the Ritz on a cold, grey Valentine’s Day afternoon. Aziraphale had been chattering on about something and Crowey, chin in hand, had drifted off, daydreaming of how it would feel to pull the angel close, to hold him, to be held by those sturdy arms. He wondered if he would smell different with his nose pressed against his skin, if he would feel soft or sturdy under his lips, how it would feel to be pressed up against his chest and feel his heartbeat and the rumble of his laughter.

“My dear, are you alright?” Azirphale’s brows were furrowed, his fork set across his dessert plate, his focus completely on the distracted demon.

“M’fine. Distracted, sorry. What were you saying?” Crowley brushed it off, scolding himself for letting his mind wander to the forbidden places he had sworn off for 6,000 years.

“Nothing important, I assure you,” Aziraphale smiled kindly across the table at him. “Would you like to share what’s on your mind?”

“S’really nothing,” Crowley poured them each more wine.

“You do know you can trust me, don’t you?” Aziraphale gazed at him with concern and apology etched into the lines on his face.

Crowley smiled fondly. “I know, angel.”

Azirphale shot him a suspicious look and lifted his fork to his mouth, savoring the deep flavors of the chocolate soufflé. 

“But you’d rather not discuss it?” The angel said softly, his eyes on his plate, a strange look creeping over his features.

“There’s nothing to discuss!” Crowley insisted. “Really, absolutely nothing.”

“Isn’t there?” Aziraphale set his fork down with unnecessary force.

“No!” Crowley groaned, earning looks from nearby diners.

“Absolutely nothing you want to discuss with me today at this restaurant?” Aziraphale prodded, a blush spreading across his cheeks, his lips in a tight line.

“Nothing special, just the usual stuff.” Crowey knew he was missing something, but he didn’t know what it was. He felt like he was about to be submerged under a tidal wave, but he didn’t have the resources to save himself, so he was just treading water.

“Nothing special. I see,” Aziraphale pushed himself away from the table and stood, tossing his napkin to the table.

“You haven’t finished your dessert.” Crowley gestured, hoping to convince Aziraphale to sit back down.

“I’m not hungry,” he retorted and strode from the dining room.

“Angel, wait!” Crowley waved a hand to pay the bill and send the leftovers to the bookshop, then jogged after his companion, who was already out of the restaurant.

Crowley burst out of the doors, looking frantically for the familiar halo of pale curls. He found Aziraphale standing by the Bentley, hands wringing in front of his stomach, a pinched look on his face. The grey sky cast a shadow over his soft features, turning them harsh and cold.

“Please take me home.” His voice was as cold as the wind that blew, making Crowley shudder.

“Of course,” Crowley replied curtly.

The ride back to the bookshop was strained and silent. Aziraphale kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat, fidgeting. He adjusted his bow tie, wrung his hands, smoothed his waistcoat, unable to keep still. When they arrived at the shop muttered a quick “thank you” and hopped out of the car.

Crowley stared after him for a moment, unsure what to do, then jumped out and followed him into the shop. He had to fix this.

“Angel, what’s going on?” He immediately headed to the backroom, knowing that’s where he would find the disgruntled angel.

“What’s going on?” Aziraphale scoffed, pouring a glass of wine for himself. “You take me out to lunch at the Ritz, today of all days, and you act like it doesn’t mean anything!” He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one go, bending over to refill it.

“Is it supposed to mean something?” Crowley was getting very hot here, the conversation veering in a direction he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to go in. This was uncharted territory.

“Isn’t it?” Aziraphale was edging on hysterical. “We’ve known each other for 6,000 years! We prevented the apocalypse together! I thought, well, I’d hoped that maybe…” his eyes focused on the dark red liquid in his glass. “Well, I thought things might be different now!”

“Different?” Crowley echoed dumbly.

“Things are different, aren’t they, my dear? I think we’ve gotten closer since the world didn’t end, or was I imagining it?” His blue eyes were laser focused on Crowley, who shook his head, unable to form words.

“I suppose I was hoping that… well, you obviously don’t feel the same. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Azirpahale turned away from Crowley.

“Wait, what? What am I missing?” Crowley crossed the space between them, turning the angel around to face him.

“You still don’t see it? You can’t feel it?” Aziraphales eyes were puffy and wet.

“Feel what? Angel, I’m sorry, but I’m lost. What do you want to change?” His heart was pounding. Aziraphale’s eyes were boring holes into his soul, searching for something - was it love? Was that what the angel wanted? Was he asking for Crowley to open the gates and let the flood of emotion out? He didn’t know if he could refuse him, he had never been good at denying the angel, but he had to. He couldn’t tempt him that way.

“Crowley, I know you’re a demon, but you’re not an idiot. Can’t you feel it? It’s everywhere, all around us, don’t you sense it?” Azirphale had grabbed fistfuls of Crowley’s jacket, pulling him closer, pleading. “Crowley, don’t you know by now that I love you?”

“You what???” Crowley breathed out quickly, sounding harsher than he anticipated.

“You have to know. Don’t you know? I’ve loved you for so long, my dear, but I was too afraid to tell you, too afraid to love you and risk losing you. Too afraid to disobey Heaven and put you in danger. But we don’t have to worry about that anymore!” He smiled earnestly, pushing himself onto his tiptoes. “I love you, Crowley.”

He leaned into the demon, who was standing frozen, unable to process what was happening. He had dreamt of this for eternity. It was finally happening, but it couldn’t. He longed to give in, to wrap his arms around Aziraphale and kiss him, to find the answers to the questions he hated himself for asking - what does he feel like, what does he taste like, how soft are those beautiful lips?

Aziraphale brushed his lips lightly against Crowley’s cheek, sending shivers down both of their spines. Aziraphale repeated the action on the other cheek, then moved to center himself, hovering just a breath from Crowley’s lips. He waited, inviting Crowley to close the distance. He wanted to be kissed. He wanted Crowley.

The demon panicked and shoved Aziraphale away from him, sending them both stumbling backwards.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was small and weak, betrayed, hurt, heartbroken. He clutched at his chest, his tears spilling over.

“I-I can’t,” Crowley stuttered, moving backwards and bumping into everything in his path. He kicked books and knocked into the couch, steadying himself on anything he could reach.

“Why?” Aziraphale was folding in on himself.

“I- I just can’t.” Crowley couldn’t find the words to explain it all. How he couldn’t be the reason the angel falls, would never tempt him, would never hurt him. 

He ran out of the bookshop, leaving Aziraphale to crumple to the floor, sobbing.

“Crowley, why?” he cried out.

“Stupid demon. Could have explained,” Crowley scolded himself. He had ended up at St. James Park, sitting at their usual bench, hunched over his knees, muttering. He threw bread at the ducks rather than to them, creating a frenzy of angry and confused wildlife. “Sure, just tell him ‘You know I’ve been in love with you since Eden and I’ve fantasized about kissing you a million times in a million ways, but no thanks. I don’t want to be responsible for you falling, so let’s just stay friends, shall we? No problem. Just another 6,000 years of repressed feelings, no big deal, right? Just tickety-boo!’” 

He let out a deep scream and chucked the last of the bread at the ducks who had finally had enough of this behavior and fled, leaving behind chunks of bread.

Crowley stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, stomping down the path.

“What kind of jerk would just leave without a word? Reject him without explanation and leave? He might never want to see me again. Shouldn’t ever want to see me again. Would make things easier. No,” he slowed for a moment, “not easier. Safer, but not better. Definitely worse.” He resumed his quick pace through the park, heading back toward the Bentley. “Doesn’t matter. Selfish to run. You have to explain it.” 

He drove back to the bookshop in record time and dashed to the door. His hand was on the knob, ready to throw it open, but stopped, recognizing the strange energy coming from inside. He pressed his ear to the door and heard voices, many voices. Aziraphale’s was higher than usual, distressed, the others were calm. Too calm. 

“Angels,” Crowey hissed.  He squatted down to peek through the window below the shade and saw four figures standing over a heap on the floor.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried and flung the doors open. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” He bellowed.

“The demon Crowley, we wondered when you’d be arriving.” Gabriel turned to him, flashing his most polite smile. “We were just paying a little visit to former principality Aziraphale.” He gestured to the floor where the poor angel lay.

“Former?” Crowley faltered. Had he failed? Had he hurt the angel in vain, causing him to fall despite his best efforts? Had he let the angel go through the fall alone?

“Well, he doesn’t work for us anymore, doesn’t work for anyone,” Gabriel shrugged, hardly invested, yet inconvenienced by this.

“He hasn’t fallen, if that’s what you’re asking,” Uriel interjected matter-of-factly.

“I don’t think he will,” Michael added, looking down at Aziraphale, grimacing in disappointment. “Would have already done it if he was going to.”

“There are other ways to punish him,” Sandalphon was standing directly above Aziraphale, his teeth bared in a horrific smile, hands ready to strike the angel, though it was clear that he’d already done enough damage.

“And what does the demon have to say?” Gabriel’s focus was intense, but Crowley refused to shift under it, standing his ground, ready to defend the angel by any means necessary.

“I say get away from him.” Crowley growled between his teeth.

“Or what? You think you can take on four angels?” Gabriel laughed, quick and loud.

“You may have avoided execution in Hell, but you won’t fare so well here,” Michael sneered.

“Accept your fate,” Uriel advises. “Leave and he will be spared.”

“Spared?” It was Crowley’s turn to laugh. “Since when does Heaven spare anyone? You tried to destroy him with Hellfire!” He felt the rage flaming up inside him, a strange power coursing through his veins, hot and molten. “You think I’m going to just leave him with you? Just let you take him?”

“It would be best,” Uriel responded, looking once again at the heap of cream and tartan.

“You have no idea what’s best!” Crowley roared, widening his stance to steady himself, preparing to fight. “I won’t let you have him! He doesn’t belong to you anymore! Now, last chance: Get. Out.” He gestured to the door in offering.

Gabriel laughed in Crowley’s face. Sandalphon followed suit. Michael and Uriel exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“Fine. The hard way then,” Crowley’s face broke into a wide grin as he snapped fingers and felt the strange power surge and take control. He gave in to the tingling in his veins, feeling the heat seep into every cell, sweeping over him from the inside out. A faint orange glow was emanating from his limbs and his eyes were turning blood red. His night-black wings burst out with a flutter and a single, powerful beat, sending the angels staggering backwards. He snapped his fingers and held his hands out to reveal two spheres of Hellfire dancing in his palms. He grinned maniacally and scanned the room, taking in each terrified face before him.

“Sorry it had to be like this, Gabey, but I can’t have you bothering Aziraphale anymore.” He threw one ball of flame at Gabriel, who just barely ducked in time, falling to the floor and rolling away. “As for you, you’re not laying another finger on him, you basssstard!” He turned on Sandalphon and lunged forward, flinging fire at him. The flame caught Sandalphon’s shoulder and he screamed in pain, tearing off his overcoat, jumping to the side to cower behind Michael and Uriel.

“Can all demons do that?” Michael asked, eyes wide in fear and awe.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Crowley snapped two more flames into his hands, intending to advance on Michael and Uriel, but he sensed a shift behind him. He spun around and caught Gabriel by the throat, holding him aloft and striding forward until the angel was trapped between a bookshelf and Crowley’s strong grip. Of course, the archangel didn’t need to breathe, but he was unaccustomed to a human corporation, so he sputtered and grabbed at Crowley’s arm, begging to be released.

“I’ll say it once more - get out. And if any of you come back here or contact Aziraphale in any way, I won’t hesitate to remove you permanently.” Crowley brought his free hand to Gabriel’s face, the heat from the Hellfire singeing the tips of his hair. “Do you accept my terms?”

Gabriel glared at him in response. Crowley tightened his grip and brought the fire closer to Gabriel’s eyes, earning him a frantic nod. 

Crowley released him, shifting to grab at the collar of the crisp white shirt and throwing Gabriel to the floor at the other angels’ feet. “Go. Now!” He commanded and in a brief flash of blinding light they were gone.

Crowey stood, panting. His limbs suddenly felt very heavy. Where the Hellfire had flowed in power, he now felt leaden and exhausted. He dropped to his knees, one hand clutching at his head, which was pounding from the exertion, then he heard a small sound.

“Aziraphale!” He cried and clambered over to the angel, shifting him carefully to lay on the demon’s lap. “Are you okay?” Crowley’s hands supported Aziraphale’s neck and head as he lay it against his legs, then looked for injuries, fluttering over his chest, arms, stomach.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, his eyes growing wide with panic. “They’re here. The angels. Get out before they see you!” He was trying to push himself up, to hide Crowley. Even after the demon had deserted him, left him broken-hearted, he still cared for him, tried to protect him.

“It’s okay, angel. They’re gone,”  Crowley soothed, pulling Aziraphale gently into his arms.

“Gone?” Azirpahale repeated, incredulously.

“Yeah, got rid of ‘em. Shouldn’t be bothering you anymore.” Crowley held him tight. At last, allowed to wrap his arms around Aziraphale and breathe him in.

“By yourself? There were four of them!” Azirpahale’s voice indicated shock, but he closed his eyes and relaxed into Crowley’s chest.

“Yeah. What did they do to you?”

“Well, I was in quite a bad way before they arrived. They told me that I deserved to be hurt, I deserved to be deserted, deserved to die for what I did, for my crimes against Heaven.” He shivered against Crowley. “They promised me forgiveness if I repented of my sins and returned to Heaven. Permanently. I refused and they hit me. Well, Sandalphon hit me. Gabriel didn’t want to get his hands dirty.” Azirphale frowned. “He made Michael and Uriel hold me so I couldn’t escape or fight back.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up, angel.” Crowey cooed, shifting out from under Aziraphale and snapping a bowl of warm water and a cloth into existence. He dipped the cloth into the water and twisted it, watching as the excess liquid fell back into the bowl.

He raised the cloth to Aziraphale’s forehead and dabbed lightly at the cut there. “S’not deep. Should be fine in no time.” He wiped the tear stains from his cheeks and set the cloth in the bowl. “I’m going to need to remove your shirt.” Crowley’s fingers hovered above the buttons until Aziraphale nodded his consent.

Crowley moved quickly, but cautiously, carefully helping the angel out of his waistcoat, then his shirt, laying them carefully over a stack of books that lay nearby.

There were bruises forming over his ribs and stomach, but no blood. He gently ran the cloth over the skin anyway, hoping the warm water would soothe the pain. There were scratches around Azirpahale’s wrists where Michael and Uriel’s nails had dug in to keep him still. He had struggled, fought back, while Crowley was moping in the park. 

“Were they watching you? Us? Waiting for me to leave you alone?” Crowley inquired softly, pressing the cloth against one wrist.

“It’s very likely,” Aziraphale nodded.

“I’m sorry I left.”

“What happened? Please talk to me.” Azirpahale took Crowley’s chin in his hand and tiled his head up to face him. “I told you I love you and you ran away. If you don’t feel the same, you could have just said so. I’d understand.” His eyes were clear blue, sincere and forgiving.

“Oh, angel. It’s not that,” Crowley sagged under the weight of this confession. “I was afraid of losing you.”

“Losing me? I had just admitted my feelings for you!” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up in amusement.

“I know. That’s what scared me. I thought… I thought that I’d tempted you. I thought you’d fall because of me.” Crowley could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, dropping his head to stare into his lap. “I thought that if I never told you, never let you know how I felt, that you’d be safe. Never thought you’d be the one to make the first move.” He chuckled sadly.

“Dear, I won’t fall.” Azirpahale took Crowley’s hands in his.

“How do you know?”

“How could a love this pure be a sin?” Aziraphale beamed at him and Crowley was overwhelmed by the waves of love crashing down over him. It was dizzying and disorienting and everything he had been longing for for 6,000 years. He felt torn apart and put together by this love, it was destruction and new life, it emptied him into the angel and was filled to overflowing in return.

“Are you sure?” He choked out, sobs rising in his chest.

“My dear Crowley, I’m very sure. Are you?” Azirpahale asked shyly.

“Oh, shit! I didn’t say it, did I? You know, don’t you? Since Eden! Oh, angel, since you told me you gave away your stupid sword. Aziraphale,” he stared into the eyes of the being he loved, “I love you, too!”

Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley’s neck and squeezed. Crowley wrapped him in his arms and buried his head in the angel’s shoulder.

“I love you, angel. I never thought I’d be able to tell you. Never dreamed that you’d feel the same.”

“I love you, too, Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled back to caress Crowley’s cheek. “Will you kiss me now?” The blush was creeping back onto his cheeks.

“I’ll kiss you forever if you want, angel!” Crowley wrapped a hand around the back of Azirpahale’s neck and guided him in.

When their lips met it felt like lightning - uncontrollable and hot and beautiful. They moved slowly at first, unsure. This was unfamiliar, and yet it felt inevitable, like they’d been hurtling towards this moment for 6,000 years. Their hands roamed, exploring, finally able to touch the skin they’d been dreaming about for millennium. The sharp planes of Crowley’s shoulders, the soft skin of Aziraphale’s stomach, the long line of Crowley’s neck, the gentle curve of the small of Aziraphale’s back. It was intoxicating. It felt like jumping into a pool on a hot day - sudden and cool, but powerful and overwhelming at the same time. They broke apart, coming to the surface for air, panting and grinning like fools. 

“My love,”’Aziraphale whispered, his forehead leaning against Crowley’s.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Crowley chuckled, diving back into the cool waters of Aziraphale’s kiss.

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 30: Recovery

And here’s the second fill for today! 

Note: This is a sequel to my story Crossfire

~~~~~~~

Prompt: Recovery

Fandom: Good Omens

Links: Ao3   FF.net

(This one’s for @tessseagull )

~~~~~~~

It had been over a month and Crowley still couldn’t stand to be in his flat.

           He knew it was stupid—probably, anyway—but when he was there, all he could think about was the demons coming for him, dragging him to Hell to face the wrath of Hastur and Malebranche. Yes, he was pretty sure that all of that had been cleared up, but it had still happened and for some reason he couldn’t get over it. And there were the nightmares. For a while, after his injuries had healed, he had stopped sleeping, afraid of the nightmares that had plagued him during his convalescence, but he grew weary, and sometimes he drifted off to sleep. He’d been doing that a lot lately, and every time, he had been forced to, once again, relive what had happened to him in Hell. After which, he would usually spend the rest of the night pacing around or going out, being anywhere but the place everything had gone wrong.

           So, after pacing around, firmly avoiding his bedroom where the capture had taken place while he had been sleeping, he finally decided that he couldn’t stay there another minute and went out for a drive.

           He’d been doing that a lot lately. Driving. Trying to make attempts at getting back to work with his meddling and tempting to make himself look good for his superiors again. But even he would admit that he didn’t really have his heart in it like he usually would. It was funny, how being tortured brutally could do that to you.

           While he was driving, trying to decide what new wile to come up with, his car phone rang and he jumped, heart beating heavily, before he remembered that Hell never contacted him like that.

           He answered it. “Hullo?”

           “Oh, hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice came over the line.

           “Angel? Is something up?” Crowley asked.

           “What? Oh, no, I was just wondering if you wanted to meet for dinner tonight. There’s a new place I’d love to try.”

           Crowley bit his lip. On one hand he didn’t want to be accidently seen with the angel so soon after their ruse, and they had risked their covers getting blown only two weeks ago meeting at the park. But on the other hand, he really, really,didn’t want to be alone right now.

           “Sure, why not?” he replied. “Where are we meeting?”

           Aziraphale gave him the address and Crowley showed up there early, waiting for the angel to arrive.

           When Aziraphale appeared, Crowley breathed a silent sigh of relief. The angel’s presence and the glow of his halo had been the only thing that had gotten Crowley through the worst of his recovery, during his convalescence. When he’d been bedridden and couldn’t even speak for the injuries Malebranche had given him, Aziraphale had never left his side. He owed everything to his friend—which was partly why he hated the thought of putting the angel in danger even by seeing him. But he needed his friend too; being alone had been…difficult lately. He spent most of his time jumping at shadows and he hated it. He hated that this is what he had become.

           “There you are, my dear!” Aziraphale greeted as Crowley got out of the Bentley. “You’re looking well.”

           Crowley knew that was a lie. While the bruises and scars had faded, he knew he still had the pale, gaunt look of an invalid. But he supposed it was an improvement on his former appearance, so there was that.

           He gave a tight smile and shrugged before following the angel into the restaurant where there just happened to be a table ready. Crowley also noticed that it was in an inconspicuous spot in the back, near the wall, and away from any windows. He relaxed slightly, seeing that Aziraphale was at least being careful. Or maybe that had been his influence on the host, he wasn’t sure.

           They ordered their food and drinks before Aziraphale launched into conversation. Nonsense, nothing of import, and Crowley was again glad. Glad the angel seemed to see what he needed, that he didn’t want to talk about what he had been doing. How he had been. Crowley felt some of his worries start to dissipate.

           But as the night wore on and it was nearly closing time at the restaurant, the darkness began to descend on Crowley again. The inevitability of going back to his flat, of sitting down, trying to relax. Perhaps falling asleep, and when he did, how there would be nightmares waiting for him because there always were. They were there when he simply closed his eyes, right behind his eyelids, and if he didn’t let them take him then while he was awake, they would wait until he was asleep and then jumped on him, pulling him down until he couldn’t fight.

           “I think we had best be going, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, breaking Crowley out of his dark thoughts and making him sick to his stomach. He thought a moment about making the restaurant staff think the place was open all night, but that would only delay the inevitable. He just wished he could find a way to fix this all together.

           He nodded shakily, and stood, following Aziraphale outside the restaurant, fumbling for his keys, trying to think of another way to stall, when Aziraphale asked him for a ride.

XXX

Aziraphale had noticed as soon as Crowley met up with him that there was something wrong. He had that haunted look that he’d had right after the whole thing with Hell had gone down. Aziraphale’s heart sank at the sight. His friend had seemed to be doing well for a while, and now it seemed like everything was bothering him again. He really hoped something else hadn’t happened to trigger it. Perhaps it was just the memories coming back naturally. He knew memories had the pesky habit of doing that.

           When he saw Crowley’s distress at his suggesting they leave the restaurant, he made up his mind that he needed to do something to help. So as Crowley fumbled for his keys, taking far more time than he needed to, Aziraphale had asked, “Could I trouble you for a ride?”

           Crowley looked up, but nodded. “Sure.”

           Aziraphale got into the car and was silent as Crowley started it, then…he took a deep breath. “My dear, I feel slightly embarrassed for asking this, but…they’re doing roadwork near my shop and the noise is utterly infernal! Would you mind terribly if I stayed at your place for tonight? Perhaps a couple nights depending on how long it takes them.”

           He watched with relief as some of the tension left Crowley, his hands loosening on the steering wheel and his shoulders slumping with a sigh. “Sure, angel. Don’t have that many books though…”

           “Oh, I’m sure I can manage,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps we could watch one of your films.”

           Crowley raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Well, all right.”

           Aziraphale smiled, feeling relieved himself. So he had most likely been right. Crowley simply didn’t want to be alone and Aziraphale couldn’t really blame him. Especially when he had been taken from his own apartment. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be to have someone assault him in his own bookshop.

           By the time they got there, Crowley seemed to have a little more lightness to his step. Aziraphale had not spent a lot of time at the demon’s flat, they usually met in his bookshop, both agreeing it was a cozier atmosphere than the dark walls. Though Aziraphale had always liked the plants, which trembled slightly as Crowley passed before Aziraphale shushed them with a kind smile.

           Crowley led him to the entertainment room where there was a big comfortable looking sofa and a very large television.

           “Alright then, what do you want to watch?” Crowley asked him.

           “Oh, anything you recommend is fine, I wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale told him. Anything that would distract the demon from his problems.

           Crowley shrugged and put on a movie as they took seats on the sofa.

           Aziraphale watched the demon more than the film. There was definitely something ill at ease with Crowley. He was even less able to hide it here in his own place, which bothered Aziraphale. He wanted Crowley to feel safe in his own home again.

           Every once in a while, Crowley would glance to the side as if expecting to see something in the shadows. But there was nothing there and he would relax until he did it again a few minutes later.

           This had to stop.

           During a quieter part of the movie, Aziraphale turned to his friend and touched his arm gently. “Crowley? Are you all right?”

           The demon flinched slightly at his touch and looked away. “’Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

           Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Because you know it’s okay if you’re not.”

           Crowley froze and clutched his hands together in his lap, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. “No, it’s not,” he muttered.

           “Crowley—”

           “It’s not okay that I can’t even get into my own bed without fearing that I’m going to get dragged to Hell. That I can’t even stand to be in this place, half the time.” He clenched his jaw. “That I still can’t shake the nightmares. That I’m still working for the people who did this.” He hunched his shoulders defensively. “That Hastur reminds me of that every time I see him, that he’s just waiting for an excuse to condemn me again, put me back on that rack.” He snapped and the television shut off. “So you shouldn’t even be here, angel, because he could come back at any time. Road work is better than Hell, Aziraphale.”

           But Aziraphale stood his ground. “I didn’t come because of that, Crowley, I came because I’m worried about you.”

           Crowley had gotten up to pace, but he turned around again and furrowed his brow. “What?”

           “Because I’m worried about how you’ve been acting,” the angel said gently. “You obviously haven’t gotten over it; you still need time to recover, and that’s okay.”

           “No, it’s not, angel!” Crowley said, eyes shining as he clenched his teeth and hugged himself tightly. “Why can’t I shake this? It was just a little torture…it was…” He sniffed and turned away, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

           “Oh, Crowley, it wasn’t,” Aziraphale said softly, his heart aching for his friend, remembering the state he had found Crowley in when he had rescued him from Hell. “No one would blame you for your reaction to it. What they did to you… It could break anyone.”

           “I’m not broken,” Crowley snapped, spinning back around, then more hesitantly, “Am I?”

           “Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “Not permanently. But you have to understand how you’re reacting to this and why. Look, whether or not you trust the other demons, they are still your people, your co-workers. The fact that they betrayed you, when they should be on your side had to hurt. That, coupled with the torture itself. Oh, Crowley, it was bad. No one would blame you for not being over it. I’mnot over seeing you like that.”

           Crowley looked down but seemed a little better for his admission. “I hate being here right now. It’s so big and empty. I always think I’m seeing things in the shadows when I’m not.”

           “Well, you’re not alone right now, dear, and I will stay as long as you need me.” He smiled. “Now, how about we finish the movie and I’ll groom your wings for you. That always relaxes you and I want to see how your feathers are growing back in.”

           Crowley sagged, and returned to the couch. He turned the movie back on, and sat with his back to Aziraphale, materializing his wings.

           Aziraphale was glad to see that the feathers Crowley had lost during the torment, had mostly grown back. He straightened them and put Crowley’s wings back in order, happy to see that the tension was easing out of the demon as he went.

           By the time he was done, Crowley had practically drifted off and slumped against the side of the couch.

           Aziraphale gently pulled him down so Crowley’s head was resting in his lap and heightened the glow of his halo just a bit, knowing that had comforted Crowley before. He could see the shadows in the room dispersing at the added light and the demon sighed in relief.

           “Thanks,” he murmured.

           Aziraphale smiled and squeezed his shoulder gently. “Just rest, dear. I don’t think there will be any nightmares tonight.”

           Crowley closed his eyes, and slept.

           And Aziraphale had been right—there were no nightmares that night.

[elvendorkinfinity]

105 Crowley/Aziraphale

Okay so… Probably not remotely what you had in mind, but it just jumped into my head as soon as I read this prompt. Not really a drabble either, it got out of hand. Background: Human AU. South Downs. Also, I’m sorry. You’ll see why.105 “I believe in you.” More prompts here. 

(You can specify a fandom, a character, a pairing, a genre… whatever you like.)It was bound to happen eventually. It would have taken a miracle, or several, to stop it. Contrary to what Crowley appears to believe, you really can’t just drive at whatever speed happens to suit you on whatever road you happen to be on, and assume nothing will be in your way.

He hadn’t been expecting the corner. It was too sharp. And the hedge wasn’t nearly as impenetrable as it appeared. The ditch is deeper than expected, too, and the night air cooler. Quite cold, actually, which is strange. It has been a fairly warm day, and the sun only set half an hour ago. Didn’t it?

The Bentley is probably a write-off. This is disappointing, but for some reason Crowley cannot not quite summon the strength of feeling this realisation should be imparting. It wasn’t built for little country roads like this, but even when leaving London Crowley had never been going to part with the only car he has ever owned.

Aziraphale will be annoyed. Crowley smiles vaguely. He wonders how many times Aziraphale will say I told you so before he is forgiven. Aziraphale always forgives him eventually; always.

He should probably call Aziraphale, come to think of it. Let him know that he will be late home, or he will worry. It doesn’t take much to make him worry.

Yes, he ought to call. He wonders were his phone is, and why his arm doesn’t appear to be working properly.

00000

The passage of time is a little hazy, but it eventually occurs to Crowley that he probably should have moved by now. It is darker than he thought. Aziraphale will definitely be worrying now. Crowley’s head hurts.

He realises that the reason his left eye is sticking closed is because he is bleeding into it from his forehead at the same time as he realises that actually, phoning for an ambulance might be a better plan than phoning for Aziraphale right now. 

00000

He is not really in pain, which is probably concerning now that he has come to think about it. He is cold, but that might just be because his surroundings are cold. He hopes it is because his surroundings are cold.

It slowly dawns on him that Aziraphale will probably not be annoyed after all. He probably won’t have time. The idea that he is going to die is not as frightening as he would have thought. The idea that he will be leaving Aziraphale alone is much worse.

He has finally located his phone, but it is too far away to reach. He tries calling out voice commands, but they are not working. He doesn’t know why. Maybe the phone is broken. Maybe he isn’t speaking clearly enough.

Perhaps someone will find him. It is a quiet road, but not a deserted one; during the day, at least, people pass by now and then. 

He hopes someone will find him. He doesn’t want to die here. Or if he is going to die, he at least wants to say goodbye to Aziraphale first.

His eyes feel strangely hot. It takes a moment to realise that this is because he is crying.

He is going to die, and he is never going to see Aziraphale again.

Just once more. That would be enough. Just once. He doesn’t want to die alone.

000000

Crowley drifts in and out of consciousness for some time. He isn’t sure how long.

Eventually he opens his eyes to see a light flickering in the distance. He thinks at first that it might be a car, and the relief that rushes through him is so strong that he almost passes out again. 

No, it can’t be a car. There is only one light, not two. It isn’t moving fast enough, either, or being held steadily. It is wandering back and forth, sometimes methodical and sometimes frantic; waving up, down, around… and there is a sound too.

It is a torch. It is a torch, and there is a person shouting.

Crowley is weak enough already; the hope that courses through him at the sound of another human being is nearly enough to finish him off.

He tries to call out and only coughs, but he will not give up. He is not going to give up here.

‘I’m here,’ he croaks; too quietly to be heard, but it is something. ‘I’m down here!’ It feels like he is tearing his own throat open with the effort. There is a pause in the other person’s calls; the light freezes for a moment as they listen. ‘Here!’ Crowley tries again. He cannot move, and isn’t sure if this is because he is trapped or because he is too badly injured for his body to respond as it should.

The voice is getting closer. The voice is getting closer, and Crowley recognises it. Fresh tears make tracks down his cheeks. He is saved.

‘I’m here!’ he calls again. ‘Aziraphale, I’m here!’

‘Crowley? Crowley!’

A scrambling, rustling sound; a desperate gasp; the light is close enough to hurt his eyes now, and he squeezes them shut for a moment before remembering his wish to just see Aziraphale once more. He forces them open. 

Aziraphale is clambering down the bank, through the hole torn in the hedge, around a twisted lump of metal that may or may not be the remains of the Bentley.

‘Crowley!’ he exclaims again, choking back tears of his own. Suddenly he is on the phone; his own, or Crowley’s? Calling an ambulance, Crowley thinks muzzily. That’s a good idea. He should have thought of that. No. He did think of that, didn’t he? He just hadn’t been able to do it. Oh well. Aziraphale is here now, he can sort all that out. 

‘No, no - don’t you dare, don’t you dare…!’ Only on opening them does Crowley realise that his eyes had slid shut again. Aziraphale is beside him now, hovering close enough to touch but not actually touching. Why not? Oh, right. Injuries. Probably he is frightened of making this worse. Silly of him. Of course Aziraphale can’t make anything worse. Aziraphale can only make things better. Crowley is grinning foolishly now. Aziraphale is crying. Why is Aziraphale crying? Crowley tries to lift his arm to wipe away the tears, but it is too heavy.

‘Knew you’d come,’ Crowley says. ‘Knew you’d find me.’

‘You stupid… What were you playing at? You idiot, you could have… How could you…?’

‘M’alright, angel,’ Crowley interrupts, managing to move his arm enough to nudge Aziraphale’s hand with his own. Aziraphale takes the hint and grabs hold even as he splutters in terrified indignation at Crowley’s words. 

‘You are not alright! The ambulance is on its way. How long have you been… Where are you hurt? Are you - is there anything I can do?’

Crowley shakes his head slightly. He is pleased to find he can do that. Movement is good.

‘Doing it already,’ he manages to reply, through increasingly foggy thoughts. ‘Knew you’d come,’ he repeats.

‘You already said that.’

‘S’truth,’ Crowley insists. ‘Knew you’d come. Prayed.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in God?’ Aziraphale is really just trying to keep Crowley talking. He looks up towards the road, desperately searching for lights, listening for sirens; there are none just yet. He looks back towards Crowley, who is too pale. Crowley, who is smiling. His heart might just burst with the enormity of the love and the fear he feels in that moment.

‘I believe in you,’ is Crowley’s simple response, moments before his eyes slip closed and his grip on Aziraphale’s hand goes slack.

[stusbunker]

Known: Two Halves, Three Hearts

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: MOC!Dean x Female OC, x Demon!Reader, Claire Novak, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley

Summary: CC learns to navigate more of the Winchesters’ associates. Meanwhile, Dean crosses the line to end Cain’s reign of terror. He finds her vulnerable, will she let him sate himself in every way imaginable? Can he run from what he is becoming? Is she enough to keep the evil at bay? Crowley finds our Reader and offers a path to redemption, if she can trust what he’s selling.

Warnings: Post murder haze, torture, period sex, blood, blood play, stabbing, dub!con smut, subtle mention of past sexual assault, disassociation, humiliation, and loss of sense of self.

Series Masterlist

*^*^*^*

December 11, 2014

The Bunker

           It was nearly dawn when Chloe felt the air tighten against the Impala’s entry into the garage. Something was wrong; Sam was driving. Dean sat in the passenger seat and in the back, Castiel beside a blonde who had cried out a week’s worth of mascara and eyeliner. Dean was bleeding, but that wasn’t what was wrong. He stared ahead, lost and empty, covered in others’ blood. It was human, every last drop, CC could tell just by the smell. An ability she would have appreciated if it didn’t lead to the implications on Dean’s clothing.

           Other than the upset teenager, no one else seemed to have been touched by the fray. Sam rapped on the hood, giving CC his best ‘I can’t explain this away’ eyes. He was worried mute. CC finally moved toward the car, both Sam and she eventually earning swats as Dean came to, silently protesting their help.

           “How many?” CC whispered against his retreating form.

           “Look, they were loan sharks and they were going to use Claire-,” Sam started.

           “How many people did he kill?”

           “Four.” Castiel cut in, glimpsing back to the girl in the backseat.

           CC’s stomach pitched, a phantom whiff of manure and dust drifted past her nose and into her thoughts. She didn’t allow herself to focus on the reality of Dean’s crimes, instead she moved the conversation along. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

           “She won’t stay here. I was going to take her to a motel in town. Chloe, I’m sorry, CC, would you be willing to accompany me?”

           Sam huffed. “Is that really a good idea, Cas?”

           “I just thought that, maybe an older female might be able to get through to her.” Cas looked wrecked, his vessel wearing his worry like a neon sign. He felt more human to CC than he ever had.

           “I’m not babysitting.” CC stared between Sam and Cas and back again. Her annoyance and concern reciprocated in one form or another. She should be checking on Dean, not playing Big Brother Big Sister to Castiel’s ward. Dean didn’t want to see her; he had made that painfully clear. CC fiddled with her knife as the girl’s ghostly eyes challenged them from the backseat. “I’m not ready to leave the wards, not yet. But, if you guys need a minute, I can get some food in her? Keep her out of your hair for a—”

           “Thank you,” Sam mouthed to CC as he and Cas nearly ran out of the garage and the blast radius all she could do was reply with a single finger. CC walked around the hood of the Impala, hands tucked in her back pockets as she watched the girl glare and roll her eyes.

           “What do you want?”

           “I want to go back to bed, but since that’s not happening. Coffee?” CC gave Claire five seconds before walking away, nodding over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Claire followed CC dejectedly, hunger trumped petulance apparently, if barely.

           “So, who are you anyway?”

           “You can call me CC.” She almost smiled over her shoulder, dropping down into the sunken kitchen.

           “Which one of them is your–?”

“My what?” CC pushed the automatic drip setting from delayed brew to ON and started rifling through the pantry for English muffins once Claire made up her mind to join her.

           “Dean, huh? Figures. Well, your man’s a murderer, if you didn’t know.”

           CC didn’t really look up at the girl while she started preparing their hasty meal, but it was evident that her bitterness was far from fading. CC slammed the toaster lever in place and leered down at Claire, who was sitting on the kitchen table with her feet on the seat of a chair. “Alright, Miss Teen Bitch. First off, you are in their home, so I’d watch who you call what. Secondly, yeah, I did know. Pretty much every hunter has the bad kind of blood on their hands, that includes me.”

           The creak of the muffins’ release broke the silence. There was more eye rolling and tongue tisking, but eventually Claire began to listen for the answer to her more pointed questions.

           “What are you even doing with him?”

           CC shrugged, “I could ask the same about you and the angel.”

           “Gross.” Claire recoiled. “Besides, they came after me! I just swiped his wallet for some spare cash. They should have just let me go! If they had—- Fuck! You know what? Screw you lady. You’re on their side. You’re not gonna listen to me.”

           “Hey, cool it, alright?” Claire threw her fists down at her sides and folded them over her stomach. CC could see she needed to keep prodding because Claire was so close to the next hurdle. “Let’s get things straight. This isn’t a black white, us vs. you scenario. They thought you were in danger and did what they thought was best for you; to keep you safe. Sucks not being able to make the call on your own life, don’t it?” CC waited for Claire to acknowledge the helplessness they shared.

“Yeah, well, I might be Dean’s whatever. But I know all too well about Winchester intentions. For the record, me and Castiel? Not friends.”

           “He’s wearing my dad’s face. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

           CC dropped onto the bench below Claire, handing her a plate. “Just a little weirder than living in an underground bunker with the guys that sent your closest friend to Hell?”

           Claire nibbled on the toasted olive branch, tearing it to pieces before finally relaxing. She was scared and desperate, it came off in every gesture of her defensive attitude. CC started to wonder just what was going to happen with the kid now that she had been brought in.

           “I hate them, all of them. I hate them for what they did.”

           CC’s mouth twisted in sad empathy at the girl, knowing that the grief she wasn’t processing was much more palatable as rage. It was like looking into a fun house mirror of her past: overdone make up and culturally rebellious hair style. All just more things to help in the lie to herself about how empty she felt.

“What?! I do.”

“I know.” CC rolled back up to her feet, nodding toward the fridge. “Let’s see what else there is to eat. There’s one thing that’ll piss Dean off more than messing with his car and that’s eating the last of his pie.”

“Okay?” Claire huffed out an unamused agreement, a reluctant warmth shone from her eyes.

*^*^*^*

February 2015

Dean had gone cold turkey. He stopped drinking, stopping lurking outside CC’s room at night, and started eating egg white omelets, apparently. Fat lot of good it did. The Oz Case with Charlie gave him whiplash, seeing his friend spilt into parts as if she was just the sum of her emotions rubbed him the wrong way. Breaking her arm was something he was never going to be able to forgive himself for; his knuckles still scabbed over from decimating her porcelain face. Her dogged determination and forgiveness still got him in the throat. Ever present, CC had stood, unflinching as the boys and Charlie had their goodbyes.

Now as Sam casually mentioned Tina from the Hansel and Gretel run in, something akin to jealousy flashed in her steely eyes. Something he had no desire to press her on nor any hope that it could lead to getting her back. She had helped out with Claire, had researched the hell out of the Bunker’s stacks alongside them through it all, and she had all but admitted the demon was the one moaning his name, the one that used her body to make his every nerve sing. If that wasn’t enough to drive him to drink again, nothing was.

*^*^*^*

February 16, 2015

A festering cavern, Hell

           Blinding daylight burst from an unseen door to your left. Once your eyes adjusted a figure appeared, breaking through the shafts of light, like a key in a lock. His footfalls were leisurely, the clipping beat of his obscenely expensive shoes barely gaining ground. Crowley walked into your isolated prison like a birder on a Sunday stroll.

           “Oh good, you’re conscious.” His big eyes teetered on compassion as his words fell in a nice noncommittal little heap. You wanted to reply; the empty air loomed as your mouth tried to form words. You couldn’t remember how long it had been since you had used your voice. Your tongue thick and coarse in your throat as it strove to remember language. Crowley squinted, but waited as you grew frustrated with yourself. You sighed, nodding in exasperation before he could mock you for it. You weren’t certain he was real, but the thought of a visitor, even one seeking twisted entertainment, was better than another decade alone. Eventually you decided that you couldn’t have made him up; you had better imagination than that.

           “I wasn’t aware we still used places like these. These rubbish heaps were from the initial days of Hell. The time when the fallen Angels fought for control and some unseen judicial system weighed the disloyal and usurpers’ crimes. You got off lightly, by the old standards. It takes a lot of energy to maintain this kind of torment; it simply isn’t worth the output for a single demon here or there. Then again, we all must answer for our crimes; no matter how seemingly noble the reasoning. Rebels against an outdated hierarchy—”

           He continued to drone on, though your exhausted mind could hardly keep up and when it did; you found yourself unaffected by his rallying attempts. You were too downtrodden to feel any comradery with the man who held the keys to your cage. To all the cages. Hate was a delicious main course that followed the apathetic appetizer. You began to wade out to the swells of emotion. Things that hadn’t reached you in years carving through you until you were ready to swim in the rage as he spoke, eyes beetle black and bulging as he spat his points.

           Finally, you fissured as the sound erupted from your mouth, a frustrated wail that shut the King up well and good.

“What do you want?!” you demanded between staccato breaths. You glared down at him, his human form was nearly a head shorter than you, but the inches of debris locking your ankles in place nearly evened the field of vision. You hoped the words you used made sense; because he was taking his time answering.

           “I need someone to do a little digging on a certain individual. Someone who owes me and who won’t go gossiping to the demon next door.” Crowley tongue worked his cheek. “In short, I am offering you a one-way ticket back, what do you say?”

           “Who?” The confusion began to clear as the delirious hum of hope rang in your ears.

           “Can’t tell you here. Now–” Crowley looked over his shoulder and raised his fist in the air. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more accommodating, shall we?”

           Before you could even nod, he snapped his fingers, freeing you from the slop and stench.

*^*^*^

Tale End of Executioner’s Song

Dean has killed Cain

Dean comes up from the dark with rasping breaths. His tendons are locked into place and his wrist is screaming from strain, a frequency he has yet to process. He doesn’t remember telling his feet to move, but his legs have carried him this far: away from the evidence and back down to those waiting on him. All pretense shrivels as he hears Sammy’s voice close by, persistent but muddled. Then Crowley’s, asking for his arm, no, the blade. Right, it isn’t a part of him after all. He should really let go, he isn’t sure what part of him is making these decisions, but grateful it doesn’t seem to be as hard as it feels.

Dean turns the weapon handle out and passes it to Cas. His eyes have focused enough to see the disbelief on the demon’s face at the gesture. Dean isn’t here to suffer fools; however helpful they had become. He reveals his deceits, unblinking as Crowley disappears. Sam catches him then, before his legs finally catch up to the path that got them there and Dean wonders what God sees in man.

The fog of battle clung to his mind, the Mark dulled, but never silenced. His blood flowed hot and vibrant, pumping through his veins in and out of his heart, that very human organ thumping in his gnawing chest. Dean moved as if he was tailing himself, looking down on his movements from some unimaginable higher ground until he slid into the Impala and drove away. Everything was reflex, instinct, autopilot. The moment the driver’s side door creaked open, he smelled it. Blood, faint and intoxicating. That hot beat inside of him pounded deeper.

He threw his duffel to the foot of his bed and shrugged out of his jacket. The Mark peered beneath the rolled cuff of his flannel, a garish pink against the dark fabric. Somehow, Dean found himself in the kitchen and despite the caffeine and the cheerleading from Sam, he felt hollowed out. Dean’s vision tunneled as he dodged out of further conversation to march down the hall. Finally, he could seek what had been calling to him.

CC froze over the washing machine as he loomed in the doorway. Her eyes closed as she felt him scent her, she didn’t turn an inch in his direction. Her bare legs, plump and smooth, beneath her tiny pajama shorts were just enough exposed skin to do some real damage. She fell back, heavy on to her heels. “How was it?”

“Final,” Dean said after stopping to consider an appropriate description for an assassination.

Chloe finally saw him, torn between shadow and shame. “I was scared you’d—"

“Yeah, well. I did.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hulking as he considered her concern.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” CC swallowed more air, the fear and electricity making her lightheaded. She moved to rest her hand on her knife handle, but it slid over the missing weapon. Her oversized sweatshirt sleeve covering her hand as it dangled in unfulfilled habit.

“How you doin’ Cease?”

“What?”

“How are you?” Dean said each word with a step forward, head bowing as he watched her straighten to face him.

“Uh, pretty crabby, but okay, I guess.”

Dean hummed, eyes squinting as she nervously looked to the door and back to space between their feet. “Anything I can help you out with?”

She blushed, a warmth twisting around her eyes and an awkward smile pulled at her cheeks as she centered her ponytail, giving her itching hands something to hold on to. “Dean?”

“Chloe?” Dean’s eyes darkened, the dangerous smirk pulling far enough back to let the overhead lights glint on his impossible teeth. He was gaunt and sallow; yet power continued to radiate from all over him.

“How are you looking at me like that,” she whispered in disbelief, pulling her top lower over her wide hips. “I am disgusting right now.”

“Yeah, well, compared to my butchered mug; you’re as tantalizing as ever, Cease. Besides, I could use a distraction or two, however dirty they might be.” Dean’s voice dropped another octave, an invisible fist clenched inside her. She groaned, letting her head fall in indecision. Dean closed the distance between them, big hands taking her shoulders firmly as he leaned down, earning a grin as she found his eyes suddenly playful beneath lush lashes.

“Seriously, I’m gross.”

“Not to me you’re not,” Dean purred, wide thumb stroking her strong cheek bone. “Let me make you less crabby.” CC’s head rolled to the side; her nose nuzzled into his comforting stubble.

At long last, she caved, her spiced skin slipping beneath his cracked lips as they danced over her collar bone. Dean’s entire body hummed with a need nearly as wide as the void inside him. They collided, grabbing and shoving until Dean started to wonder who was truly strongest. Then CC nipped below his ear and he tossed her on top of the washing machine she had set to HOT. She pinched her knees together, twisting side saddle on the hissing appliance, lips parting as Dean’s tongue took its time riling her up from the inside out.

Dean’s hands widened, tips and palms digging into her fleshy thighs, begging access until he demanded it. She groaned into his mouth before pulling back, her uncertainty crumbled beneath his singular focus. She tasted the iron from his split lip, a bit of coffee and something unimaginable. Even bad decisions need to be made to prove their consequence. Chloe grabbed Dean’s forearms and pushed him back, his gaze slow to move up from his target.

“Shower room?” she asked hopping back down on her bare feet.

Dean barely shook his head, nose buried in her hair. Her arms threaded around his waist as his thumb cocked up her face, his fingers threading into the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

“My room? It’s farthest from Sam’s?” Dean answered with clashing teeth and a fistful of Chloe’s ass.

There was a threatening rhythm to their efforts, hefty pauses ending only after the other started to teeter; to break. They had gotten to CC’s room, clothes shoved and forgotten along the way to the bed. Dean grasped the nape of her neck, his arm locked as he stared through her, eyes unfocused and mouth open against a horror she couldn’t see. She tried to pull him closer, to sit back and take him with her, but he was frozen. She slid her palm under his elbow and pushed up, her other arm braced across his chest to keep him back, in case his reaction was less than friendly.

His jaw worked over all the words that wouldn’t form, eyes dropping closed as he came back from the brink, grip softening as his forehead fell to her shoulder. CC couldn’t stop from shaking as the moment passed, Dean’s mouth finding her pulse point more than conversational again. All that hovered over them: fear, power, destiny and damnation, fueled them until they were desperate and starving, knowing that the other was just as empty. Just as wanton. Dean’s hands pulled her thighs apart and his teeth ran the edge of the faded cotton. The iron sang through his nose as it mixed with her arousal; a signature cocktail he couldn’t refuse.

CC swallowed as his fingers dragged down the last barrier between his mouth and her coated folds. No sound could reach her as she battled the disgust and desire, Dean’s tongue threaded through her lips, nipping and sucking them swollen. He moved in to circle her clit; the heat of her shame began to burn away as yearning eclipsed all custom and ceremony. CC’s head fell back, and when she closed her eyes knots of wood looked back.

Suddenly she was suspended from her every nerve, tucked away from feeling Dean shove three fingers inside her mess. In a bubble of warmth and muffled sound, CC drifted. It was calm and quiet there, a place without resistance or time. She began to wonder if this is what Death felt like, if the veil could manifest itself to tease her. To coax her immortality from her by sheer tranquility. There was something pulling at the back of her thoughts, something she was forgetting, something that demanded her opposition even, but CC couldn’t be bothered to think on that. Not quite yet.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s lost her, he just keeps finger fucking her until the thinning blood is snaking down his arm. His lips pull at her, thirst crazed and blind. The beat inside his head overtakes her pulse, heavy and languid, building. Her breath catches and he feels the gentle trickle, a silent compliment for his efforts. Her body pulls while he pushes, deeper, solid, unmoving as the shuttering of her walls loosen outward in waves.

Dean pulls his hand back and admires it in the light, rust rimmed nails and ruddied knuckles as the skin cools beneath the liquid as it dries and cracks. It’s not enough. His eyes search the desk and dresser, knowing it must be here, somewhere. He isn’t thinking, he is only moving. The battered leather sheath lays across her boots, handle smooth and solid as he grips it in his right hand. It’s smaller than he thought, but the spellworked blade dazzles as Dean pulls it from its case.

She hasn’t moved safe for her chest rising and eyes scrunched against the ceiling. Dean should know that isn’t a good sign, but either he doesn’t register it, or he doesn’t care. He moves to her side, where he can feel her curves against him, her lungs expand as he lets his weight fall against her. Her head lulls to the side and a soft whimper passes her lips as he slides home, blood thick and gritty along every inch of him. Dean almost cums at the sight of the gore he pulls out of CC’s channel. He pushes back in, shoving her knees obscenely against the comforter, letting every ripple of her thighs and ass urge him on.

CC feels the first slice between her breasts. Like a tuft of hair caught in a necklace she is pulled from her weightlessness and placed back in reality. The sweat stings her skin as it opens, her granddad’s knife dangles above her as Dean catches her eye. He thrusts into her with clenched teeth, eyes dark and muscles constricting as he shifts lower. Her legs lock around his waist as he stands, still buried inside her. She tries to sit, but his free hand pushes her back down, rough palm burning against the mangled flesh.

He grunts and gasps, and CC finally sees it, the terror in his eyes. He’s frozen once more. The knife is shaking in his hand, a not so invisible force extending over his forearm. CC needs to do something; Dean’s panicking as his body moves without him. She rolls her hips and threads her fingers around his wrist. Dean’s eyes go wide as she sinks the metal beneath her ribs. She shushes him, nodding and rocking into his body. Dean looks away and moves again, entering her doubly as the Mark takes her offering to free him. She tries to keep breathing, to stay conscious and keep watch on Dean.

Her hand slips up from his wrist and over the cursed brand in his white skin. She focuses on it, stomping on the tendrils of control with her mind; it remains immobile and unnerving. She feels the darkness pulling at her, trying to put her under, to stow her away. Dean’s face falls to her neck, he pulls the knife from her side, leaving jarring pain shooting through her as the wound registers. Dean cries out, clutching her head to his, arms tight and knife falling.

CC thrashes against him, breaking through with a fist through his near headlock; they roll back, clinging to each other like a life raft. His scruff prickles her throat and CC coughs, breaking the stalemate. They pull apart, limbs and groins untangling in guilt riddled silence. Dean clears his throat and sits up, hand hovering over her wounds. He’s mesmerized and apologetic, biting back any sorry when CC inhales against the pain. She waves him off and pops up onto her elbows. Her eyes take in the damage and she frowns in consideration before closing her eyes.

“Cease?” Dean whines a worry as her skin starts to glow.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine, just, uh, just gimme a sec.” CC wills the walls of her organs to fuse, her muscles knit together, and the skin zips closed and clean before Dean’s eyes. She pants from effort and falls back to the bed, a gentle smile twisting on her face before she opens her eyes. Dean’s are like saucers, his slack jawed expression made worse by the patches of blood and slick crusted in his scruff. All CC can think is how his mix of scary and stoned is causing her heart to catch in her throat.

“Hey?” CC whispers, slipping her hand over his, despite the nausea that was creeping back up. “You good?”

Dean lets her question sit unanswered, floating in the space between his guilty hands and her enabling eyes. The world seemed to tilt before he falls into the damp darkness of unconsciousness.

^*^*^*^

Dean woke to the sound of his own screams, his fist jutting up into some unseen enemy. He swung against her as CC tried to pull him back, her hand cool on his left bicep. He smelled soap and felt damp pillows; he couldn’t remember showering. Finally, the room righted itself and he could piece together what little furniture she had accumulated since they’d been brought back to the Bunker. Since the demon inside her had helped Sam cure him. He spotted her empty boots and the images of her knife in his grip flashed in his mind’s eye; his stomach twisted against the memories he forced himself to swallow.

           CC let him work through it, she was sore and exhausted and couldn’t find the words that would bring him back from the brick wall he kept running himself into. His recoil from her every touch set up her haunches as it was, maybe she should have dragged him to his own bed after all. Having him here felt like they were hiding, but the only person she felt any guilt for was no longer in this phase of existence.

He whispered a desperate ‘fuck’ into the early morning quiet. Finding his undershirt; he ducked into the neck before turning to face CC. Whatever he was hoping to find in her face, it wasn’t there. Her tired eyes were set deep atop her full cheeks, her uncertainty and caution bordering on annoyance.

“What?” Her voice warbled.

“Forget it.” Dean closed his eyes as her hand snaked over the sheets to cage his in. “I’m sorry I woke you up, I’ma head back to my room, let you get some rest.”

“Dean? You don’t have to—” She didn’t even try to sell it.

“I know, but, I just keep going through the thing with Cain and, you need to recuperate now, so.” Dean shrugged, left a peck on her forehead and threw on the rest of his clothes before either said another word. Once he was free to the safety of the empty hallway Dean shivered, his bare feet and wet head oddly comforting in the confines of his body and bones.

CC watched him leave, quick and painlessly. There was so much lacking between them that it didn’t even register as a rejection; they were simply saying what they thought the other wanted to hear. They were quite the lop-sided pair: the cursed hunter and Heaven’s bastard’s mistake. Both broken, in very different directions.

*^*^*^*

Next Chapter: The Mark

[hanneswrites]

it’s been so, so long (chapter 4)

Chapter Title: Lay my head, under the water; Aloud I pray, for calmer seas

Pairings: Sam Winchester/Gabriel | Dean Winchester/Castiel | background Crobby

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.8k

Chapter Summary: Dean-centric chapter with a bit of focus on both DeanCas and Bobby/Crowley. || Feathers are found and decisions are made.

Three Weeks Later

Dean sat at the kitchen table, twelve individually spaced black-as-night feathers laid out before him as he thumbed through the yellowed pages of a somewhat-ancient text on trickster gods. His eyes kept blurring, not quite able to read the words in front of him, but his fingers turned the pages all the same. The night outside is loud--crickets singing and the far-off sound of cars whirring past on a rural highway. Bobby had headed off to catch some shut-eye a few hours ago. Sam was in the living room, searching for something on his laptop with the television going at a low hum. This should feel normal. Should feel good, even. Sammy was safe, Bobby was alive and well, and the world wasn’t ending. Or, at least if it was, he didn’t know about it. Cas wasn’t here. Cas hadn’t been here in a few weeks. Almost a month. And there was a heaviness in Dean’s stomach, a constant breathlessness in his lungs. It didn’t feel right without Cas here.

Chilled night air drifted in from the open kitchen window, tugging lightly at the pages of the text he hadn’t been able to focus on for hours. Dean closed the book and let his eyes slip shut.

It was colder, all those nights ago. A bit muggier. They were hunting a pack of werewolves, trying to get back into the swing of things after dealing solely with the apocalypse for close to a year. The pack was active near Bobby’s house, so they settled down, enjoyed the comforts of having their own bedrooms for once. Hunting werewolves would be a walk in the park, almost ingrained in them by now, like riding a bike. And yet, as Sam and Bobby both eventually surrendered to sleep, Dean sat at the kitchen table, guns laid out, meticulously cleaning and checking and reassembling. Castiel was beside him, sitting too close, his knee resting against Dean’s thigh as he stared out the window. If they weren’t alone, maybe Dean would have told him to move.

An hour passed, and Dean had cleaned all of the guns he had brought in with him. The clock on the stove read 2:18am and Castiel was still beside him. His hand was on Dean’s arm, stilling his hand before he could move to start cleaning the first gun for a second time.

“It’s clean.” Castiel said, and Dean relented, though Castiel did not move his hand. They stayed like that for a few minutes, bile rising up into Dean’s throat as his heart beat quicker and quicker until Cas took his hand away. He started on the first gun again, and Castiel’s hand moved to his thigh, warm even through the thick, lined fabric of his jeans. Cas didn’t say anything else that night, but he stayed with him until morning, got up from his chair around 8am and started a new pot of coffee.

People always talk about realizing you’re in love like it’s some grand event. Like it washes over you when you least expect it, like a grand romantic gesture would suddenly have you struck head-over-heels for someone. And Dean was sure that for some people, that may be how it happened. But loving Castiel? Realizing that he was in love with Castiel? Felt like breathing. Felt like laughing. Felt like something that had always been there. Felt like home . It was nights like these, nights where his anxiety, his paranoia overwhelmed him and made him feel like he couldn’t breathe, that really nailed the coffin. Soft reassurances, warm comfort, no pushing, no prying, just letting him work through it on his own, but still there if he felt he needed help.

They returned home from the hunt without injury and Castiel guided him to his room, settled him down on his bed and told him to sleep. He did not protest when Dean pulled him down into the covers with him, apart from pausing to slip off his shoes before curling around him and entwining their fingers together.  

Dean jolted back into awareness as Sam shuffled into the kitchen, the old, worn-down floorboards creaking beneath his feet, coffee mug in hand and a golden feather sticking out of the pocket of his robe. Groggily, Dean wondered if Sam was aware that the feather was there. They seemed to show up in the oddest of places; places where they shouldn’t be able to be without someone having noticed them being placed there.  Every day there seemed to be a black feather tucked away somewhere Dean knew it hadn’t been the previous day. They hadn’t talked about it, but Dean knew that the same thing was happening with Sam. Golden feathers hidden away in his clothes, his shoes, his bed. Each feather Dean saw was less pure-gold and more of a shining amber, though he was half-sure that may be his mind playing tricks on him. They had been cooped up in Bobby’s house all week, reading text after text, poring over websites on angel feather lore, only to find nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just the odd historical reference to wings as a whole, or whackjobs on religious forums talking about how “angel feathers were messages from God himself” or “it means He is near”.

“Find anything?” Sam’s voice was rough and Dean got a sudden, unbidden urge to pour some honey in Sam’s coffee.

“Nope.” Dean said, snapping hsi book shut. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to will the drowsiness from them.  

“Same here.” Sam said. He recoiled as the coffee touched his tongue, nose scrunching up in bitter distaste.

“Is that coffee still showing up?” Dean asked. If they weren’t in this situation, if Cas was still here, if the threat of not knowing where he was or if he was hurt wasn’t looming over him like a reaper, Dean would probably have teased Sam about getting addicted to trickster coffee. Probably would have been more concerned about it, really. In all reality, they didn’t actually know where the coffee was coming from or what exactly was in it and Dean probably should be more concerned about that.

“Yeah. Every once in a while. Less and less though, lately.” Sam said, and then gestured to the feathers Dean had laid on the table, “More feathers?”

“Every day now.”

“Anything new?”    

Dean looked at the feathers, touching his fingertips to the edge of the one that had arrived just this morning.

“Hot--eh--”

“GedUnPaDonGonGraphUr.”

“ Dean.”

“ Bond.”

Shaking his head, Dean chuckled softly, “Just a bunch of broken syllables, my name, and the word ‘bond’.” Dean could see Sam perk up at “bond”.

“That’s...interesting.” Sam paused for a moment, “You know, you’ve been getting a lot more feathers than I have.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe the feathers have something to do with a bond? You and Castiel would obviously have a stronger one...for a variety of reasons. It would make sense that Gabriel and I would have a weak bond. But…” Sam trailed off, eyebrows knitting together. A minute passed and Dean was growing impatient. He wanted this to be done; he wanted Cas back.

“But? Out with it, Sammy.” Dean snapped.

“Have you been receiving anything other than feathers? Noticing anything missing from your room? Feeling anything strange?” Sam asked, his voice soft, like he didn’t want to bring this up.

“No?” Dean answered.

Sam hummed and took out his phone, scrolled through something and eventually put the phone up to his ear.

“Hey, Crowley.” Sam said, and Dean’s blood ran cold in his veins.

-=-=-=-=

Crowley appeared in the living room about 30 minutes later, hellhound in tow, smiling like a goddamn child on christmas morning.

“It’s been much too long, darling.” Crowley drawled, eyes focused intently on Bobby. The old hunter sighed and flopped down on the couch, downing the rest of the beer in his hand.

“You saw me this morning, ya old bastard.” Bobby said, expressly trying to ignore all of them. Dean frowned, moving more toward the center of the room, inching in between his surrogate father and the demon.

“Love you too, Robert.” Crowley grinned wider and then turned to face Sam, “What’s so special that you needed to call me in, Moose? It’s not like you to call me up for just an evening chat.”

“Cas is missing.” Sam said, “Do you know anything about angel feathers?”

Crowley considered them for a moment, eyes searching for something in Sam’s face before snapping himself up a glass of whiskey.

“Get into a scuffle with your boyfriend and he goes missing, so naturally, ask the king of hell to track him down and solve all your problems, eh?” Crowley smirked, focus now shifted to Dean.

“ Crowley.” Bobby all but growled from the couch, and Crowley chuckled.

“Angel feathers are pretty powerful stuff. They have traces of grace in them. There was a saying in hell, back when I was first recruited, that said something along the lines of: if you need to kill an angel, stab a feather through their heart. Not sure if that’s true, but always worth a shot.” Crowley said, absently patting what Dean assumed to be the hellhound.

“Anything about communicating through them? Leaving messages? Clues?” Sam asked.

“Back in the day some angels used them to convey messages to humans in their charge without having to physically manifest.” Crowley said. He sat on the couch next to Bobby, shooing the hunter’s legs out of the way so that he would have enough room.

“Could you use Darla to find him?” Bobby asked as something seemed to nuzzle into his lap.

“Hellhounds aren’t really equipped to find angels. Not enough scent to them.” Crowley said.

“What if we got some of Cas’ feathers?” Bobby said.

“Uhm. Ex cuse me?” Dean said, “We’re not using a hellhound to track down Cas.” Sam shot him a look, like he should keep his mouth shut and Dean glared back. There was no way in hell he’d he giving one of Cas’ feathers to Crowley, let alone a fucking hellhound.

“Maybe. No promises.” Crowley continued, ignoring Dean in favor of leaning back into the couch, refilling his empty glass with another snap of his fingers. “It’s been a while since you invited me onto a case. If I help you, what do I--”

Bobby cut him off, “You get to be invited back, idjit.” Bobby folded his feet into Crowley’s lap and Crowley huffed in defeat.

“ Fine.” Crowley grumbled.

Tagged: @archangelgabriellives