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rose-of-oz · 2 years ago

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OT+: #2 + Lucia x Crowley x Aziraphil?

Pairing: The Ineffable Three (Luci Evans + Crowley + Aziraphale).

Prompt: A coming home to the sight of B & C asleep in each other's arms on the couch, and it warms their heart from OT+ Prompts.

Warnings: Kissing, mentions of food and eating, mention of past misogyny.

(A/N: Thank you so much for this, Hannah, and I hope you enjoy this!!)

LUCI COULDN'T REMEMBER THE LAST time her workday had felt as long as this one had. Typically, she loved her job; it paid well, she wasn't expected to talk to her coworkers (not that they made much of an effort to speak to her, either, as people tended not to notice secretaries), and she usually finished all her tasks early, which left plenty of time for reading or absently scrolling online, doing research on various historical events her boyfriends claimed to have been a part of.

But today had been a day. To start off, her bloody alarm hadn’t gone off and she’d wound up being late as a result of it; only by about ten minutes, but it was rather hard for the company she worked at to function properly when the woman who was expected to run their front desk didn’t show up. Besides that, the cab she’d taken had splashed her with dirty water from the rainstorm yesterday when it had stopped to pick her up, and she knew for a fact that the cabbie had overcharged her but she’d been running too late to call him out on it and had been forced to simply pay what he’d asked for.

And the people - oh, the people she’d had to deal with that day. Were she not afraid to do so after the things she’d experienced, Luci would have sworn to God that the company’s executives had gone out of their collective way to be extra stuck-up and rude to her today. They had done nothing but belittle her and make her feel guilty for not finishing work she hadn’t had time to get done with her significant workload, and one of them, a financial director with a weak chin whom she’d always disliked, had even had the nerve to ask her if this was her “time of the month,” what with how frazzled and frustrated she seemed to be.

Given all of that, Luci didn’t even consider going back to her own flat after she was finally allowed to leave. She was more than happy to trudge into Aziraphale’s bookshop as the autumn sun dipped close to the horizon, newly-bought skirt stained with dirty water around the hem and looking like she was completely done with the world.

Thankfully, the warm atmosphere and smell of old books that hit Luci as soon as she entered the bookshop was enough to put her more at ease. Closing her eyes and allowing a small smile to grace her lips for the first time that day, Luci felt her tense shoulders relax as she listened to her angel’s familiar footsteps bustling toward her from the back of the shop.

“Hello! Welcome to A.Z. Fell and-” Aziraphale began, but cut himself off as he recognized one of his lovers. “Oh, hello, darling. How was work today?”

Peeling her eyes open, Luci fixed the angel with an arch look, gesturing wordlessly to the stains on her skirt and her clearly tired expression as an answer.

“Oh,” the angel said in a soft, sympathetic voice, tilting his head at her. “Not so good, then?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Luci grumbled, shuffling toward her boyfriend and unceremoniously leaning her body into his. Without hesitation, the angel wrapped his soft arms around Luci, moving to rub small circles onto her back.

“I’m terribly sorry, my darling,” he murmured into her ear, and Luci relaxed even further at the sound of his deep, sweet voice. “Would you like me to fix that stain on your skirt?”

Luci was ready to open her mouth and remind Aziraphale how she felt about him or Crowley using their miracles on her belongings if it wasn’t to transport them, but she was interrupted by her other, demonic lover sashaying up to them from the back of the shop.

“Oh, hi, dove, what’s going-” he began, but stopped when she saw her expression and adopted a sympathetic wince. “Bad day?”

“The worst,” Luci replied into Aziraphale’s shoulder, thankfully knowing that Crowley could hear her anyway. “Nothing went right. Kinda over everything right now.”

“Well, I dare say we can fix that,” Aziraphale declared emphatically. Gently nudging Luci off of him, the angel moved his girlfriend into the arms of his other lover, who wrapped his own longer arms around her shoulders without even blinking and pulled her into his chest.

“You want me to tempt anyone for you, dove?” Crowley asked quietly as Luci listened to the sounds of Aziraphale closing up shop behind her. “Make some wankers do something embarrassing?”

“No, that’s fine,” Luci spoke into the fabric of his black t-shirt, taking another second to enjoy the comfort of the demon’s arms before reluctantly pulling away. Frowning, she rubbed firmly at her eyes, something that inexplicably usually made her feel better. “I just kind of want to relax and forget about how awful everything was today.”

“Which is exactly what I plan to assist you in doing!” Aziraphale chirped happily, bustling back from the front of the shop. “Alright, if the two of you could just go and sit on the sofa in the back, that would be lovely.”

Luci, not entirely sure what her angel was doing but not about to pass up the opportunity to sit down after the day she’d had, grabbed Crowley’s hand and led her demon to the soft brown sofa in the back of the bookshop. Crowley followed willingly, flopping his long-limbed self down onto the sofa cushions and holding out his arms so that Luci could cuddle up to him.

“Right then,” Aziraphale said determinedly as Luci snuggled into her demon lover’s long, comforting arms. “Now, I am going to go and collect some takeaway from that Thai place you’re so fond of, darling, but before I do… would you allow one of us to miracle you into some sleepwear?”

Half sitting up from Crowley’s embrace, Luci furrowed her brows and began to protest Aziraphale’s offer, but the angel cut her off with a gently raised hand.

“I know your objections to miracles being used on your possessions if it isn’t for transportation,” he said gently. “And I respect your boundaries, I swear that I do. But given that this would technically be transportation of your clothing, and that it might help you feel more comfortable than you would in those work clothes… would you be opposed to making an exception this one time?”

After a moment of debating silence, Luci let out an exaggerated huff and fell back onto Crowley’s chest. “Alright. This one time, and only because I don’t have the energy to go back to my flat and it’s going to be very hard for me to relax in a blouse and pencil skirt.”

“That’s the spirit, dove,” Crowley said cheerfully, then waved a long-fingered hand in the air over Luci’s body. There was that familiar moment of feeling a small change in the fabric of the universe, and the next second Luci felt much softer fabric on her skin than had been there a moment ago. She looked down to find herself clothed in her favorite lavender pyjamas, the tank top and capris-length pants pleasant against her skin.

“Splendid,” Aziraphale chirped happily. “Now, I’ll head out and see if I can’t scrounge up some Thai delicacies, and Crowley, you keep our dear Luci company, won’t you?”

“‘Course I will,” Crowley replied as Aziraphale swept his coat off the back of an armchair. The angel slid the old coat over his shoulders with the usual flourish, shuffling over to the couch to exchange a peck on the lips with Crowley and place a kiss on the top of Luci’s head before heading out of the shop.

After Aziraphale had left and the ringing of the bell over the shop’s door had faded into the air, Luci allowed herself to revel in the peaceful silence of the moment, cuddling closer into Crowley. She hadn’t thought she was tired when she’d left work, just frustrated and worn out, but now, surrounded by the cozy atmosphere of the shop and her demon’s comforting arms, she could feel her eyelids begging to be shut, the blissful darkness of dreamland beckoning her with every centimetre the lids drifted together.

Crowley’s gentle fingers began to card through her hair, and she let out a contented hum, sleep drawing her even further down as she enjoyed the relaxing action.

“You take a little nap if you want, dove,” the demon murmured, ceasing the movement of his fingers only long enough to press his lips against her hair. “Seems like you need it. I’ll wake you up when Aziraphale gets back, alright?”

“‘M fine,” Luci mumbled, even as her eyes finally gave in and closed all the way. “‘M not that tired.”

But the next moment, she had fully entered into the comforting darkness of sleep’s realm, so she supposed that was a big fat lie.

♡♡♡

Almost exactly a half an hour since Aziraphale had left the bookshop, he returned to it, several takeaway bags in hand and ready to enjoy a nice, leisurely supper with his two loves. He found them both asleep instead.

The demon and the human were both still curled up together on the sofa, their peaceful features illuminated by the soft golden light coming from the shop’s various lamps, but now they were both very clearly resting, faces slack with the utter peace of rest and chests rising with deep, rhythmic breaths. Crowley’s arms were still wrapped securely around Luci’s waist, but somehow she had maneuvered so that her chest was half pressed against the demon’s, one of her own arms draped across his thin torso. Her face was squished sideways against his shoulder, in a way that Aziraphale was positive would leave indents on her cheek when she awoke.

Smiling softly at the sight of his two lovers curled up and peaceful together, Aziraphale shuffled upstairs to the small flat above the bookshop, taking care to be as quiet as possible and not wake his loves. Moving into the flat’s tiny kitchen, the angel opened the old oven and slid the bags of Thai takeaway into it; they could be saved until Luci and Crowley were finished with their little nap.

After that task was completed, Aziraphale moved quietly back down to the reading area at the back of the shop. Luci and Crowley were still peacefully asleep on the sofa, so the angel merely picked up a random book from a nearby pile and settled down into the armchair to read.

He may have had no desire to sleep himself, but that did not mean he couldn’t relax, let his two lovers have their rest, and revel quietly in the fact that the three of them were content to be cozy together, in the soft golden glow of bookshop lamps.

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @auxiliarydetective, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginevrastilinski, @luucypevensie, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @ocappreciationtag.

#my ocs #oc drabbles #ot3: on our own side #ch: luci evans #oc: luci evans #ocapp #ocappreciation #ochub #allaboutocs #fyeahgoodomensocs #good omens oc #queerocs #fyeahocsofcolor #ship: the ineffable three

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years ago

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Visibility (Good Omens Fic)

Written for Lesbian Visibility Day, 2021

(26 April, 1972)

“What did you szzay?”

Beelzebub glared at the empty space before zir throne, listening to a pair of feet shuffle awkwardly.

“I just…woke up like this,” Crowley explained, in what was probably supposed to be a casual voice. “At first, I thought I was coming down with something. Flu. Hangover. Allergies. All very contagious this time of year. Really, if you haven’t been to Earth before, April is – just wait at least another month. But then I realized, s’not going away, and I thought: curse. Definitely a curse. Probably one of those angels, thwarting and all, you know how they are.”

“An angel.” The Prince of Hell tapped one finger on the arm of the throne, swarm of flies flitting around, trying to make sense of what zir own eyes weren’t telling zir. “Iszzn’t that hideouszz pieczze of real esztate you live in warded?”

“Probably. You know how it is. Get home late, really tired, swear you locked the door, but…” The footsteps – echoing as those ridiculous heeled boots struck the ground – began to circle the room. Beelzebub didn’t keep many possessions – at least, not the material sort – but Crowley seemed determined to touch them all. “Anyway, you know angels. Clever bastards.” An ornate dagger on the far table began to spin. “Or witches. Not quite as bastardly, but they cause trouble. Oh, or a cursed artifact.” Papers began rearranging themselves. “I just…I haven’t been thrift shopping in years, you know, not really my scene, not anyone’s scene anymore, but I saw this really spectacular jacket, I thought, what the Heaven? Might have some age-old horrific curse, or bedbugs, but it’s going to look stunning on the dance floor.”

Pinching zir nose, Beelzebub tried not to imagine the foolish way she was probably grinning. “And by complete coinczzidenzze,this angel, witch or…garment, juszzt happened to make you completely inviszzible on the day of your department budget review?”

“Yup.” A selection of goblets toppled to the floor with a clatter, bouncing and spinning across the floor. One rolled as if kicked, but not even Beelzebub’s cleverest flies could locate the blasted demon who had caused the mess. “I mean, not just a coincidence. Plenty of reasons. Er. The angel. Just last week, that – uh, that Aziraphale, I foiled one of her plans. Thoroughly. Foiled like…like leftover chicken. So. This could be revenge. Very unfortunately timed, but you know.”

“Indeed.” Beelzebub rose, stalking from zir throne across the floor to the spot that most strongly radiated incompetence. “And the curszze breakerszz haven’t been able to turn you back?”

“I mean, they tried.” More footsteps, hastier now, so that the echoes made them harder to track. “Course they tried. But,” she clicked her tongue, “couldn’t do it. Said they’d never seen anything like it before.” Ze would have to speak with them. No, too much trouble. Beelzebub would send the Hellhounds to take care of those idiots. “But, they did say it should wear off in…twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You know. With bed rest. Pity about the budgetary review.”

“How szzo?” Ze asked, lip curling. Every twenty-five years, like clockwork, like the courses of the blessed stars, the day of Crowley’s review, something – something highly improbably – tried to disrupt things.

“Well. I mean. Bed rest. Suggested by your curse breakers. And anyway. Can’t go like this, can I?” One of the goblets floated up from the floor, spinning in an unseen hand. “Might be disruptive.Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from Dagon – I heard, she has some fantastic charts this year. Pie graphs. One of those ones with the dots and the lines. Look at this!” From behind Beelzebub’s throne floated a ceramic pot filled with tall green plants, three dozen flies happily flitting around the attractively scented leaves. “Is this dill? Excellent choice. I’ve been doing some gardening lately, too, and let me tell you—”

“I cannot imagine anything” Beelzebub snapped, snatching the plant out of her invisible hands, “that could make you more diszzzruptive than you already are. But it appearszz you can szztill szzee, hear, and – unfortunately – szzpeak.”

“Just lucky I guess.” More pacing.

“Szzo. Dagon will be exzzpecting you in…four and a half minuteszz. I’m czzertain everyone iszz eagerly awaiting your planszz for the coming quarter-czzentury. Dagon, at leaszzt, could probably uszze the…amuszzement.”

“Course. Right. Perfect.” The footsteps began to lead towards the door. “I’ll just—”

“Szztop.” Beelzebub’s hand flew out, snapping tight around the demon’s wrist exactly as she walked past. “The otherszz will need to szzee where you are.”

“I could whistle,” she volunteered, launching into something that sounded like a tortured bird.

The Prince considered ripping her arm off and stuffing it down her throat, but the last time ze did that, the satisfaction hadn’t been worth the days of cleanup.

“Juszzt put on a hat or szzomething.”

A snap of fingers, and a band of glittering silver cloth appeared around where her waist should be. “Better? Can I go now? I’m…extremely eager to start my presentation. Ngk. Everyone is going to be impressed. This – this decade is going to put me on the map.”

“Go.”

The silver band of cloth sauntered out of the room, echoing the moronic way the demon walked. Checking the dill plant for damage, Beelzebub lowered zirself back onto the throne.

Which had, inexplicably, moved several inches back, causing zir to fall onto the floor, the potted plant shattering. “Crowley!”

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Crowley muttered, stalking down the hall towards the meeting room. She’d spent a week putting this curse together, combining ones from six of Aziraphale’s most obscure grimoires, and yet she still had to make her bloody presentation. “Next time, I’ll just give myself the plague.” That had almost worked in the fourteenth century. Just needed a more impressive plague.

Ahead on the right, a door with a piece of paper taped on it reading Temptation Department Budget Group Lambda. She hesitated, fingers hovering just short of pushing it the rest of the way open. Had Beelzebub warned everyone she was invisible? More often, ze expected demons to take care of such things themselves, on pain of pain. Two minutes to spare; might as well try.

Crowley dropped the silver belt on the floor outside and slipped through the partially-open door, transforming her extremely cool boots into a pair of quieter slippers. That, at least, she could do without being sensed; shifting the shape of her feet didn’t alert the other demons the way a real miracle would.

A dozen of them sat in chairs around the conference table, grumbling about their project proposals, miracle allotments, and soul quotas. An overhead projector sat at the front of the room. It was the one with the cracked glass, projecting a broken circle of light onto a white wall. Dagon stood beside it, shuffling papers.

Crowley could try writing dirty words on a couple of the pre-made transparencies, but that didn’t seem properly demonic. Scanning the room, she spotted the wheeled coffee cart tucked in the corner, laden with a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plate of pastries and various flavorings. Horrid stuff. All demons were required to drink three cups of it per meeting, and to eat one of the scones, which this time appeared to be…pickled herring flavored? With orange marmalade?

There wasn’t much she could do to make that worse. She grabbed a few anyway, tucking them down the front of her shirt, and dumped the marmalade into the molten coffee, turning the temperature up as high as it would go. She’d managed to grab a fistful of wet soil and some dill from Beelzebub’s plant. Most of that went into the coffee pot, a little into the sour creamer, and the rest into the alleged sugar – probably an artificial sweetener, those were all the rage lately.

What else? She stole all the spoons, then pulled off an earring and started poking holes in the bottom of the cups with it.

With the perfect sense of timing honed from millennia of avoiding one more second in the company of her coworkers than necessary, Crowley managed to slip out the door, put on the belt, and waltz back in exactly as Dagon demanded, “Where is the demon Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry. Feeling a bit under the weather today.” Only about three demons glanced her way with some level of surprise; the rest just got up and headed over to get their first requisite cup of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. And the traffic! The roads just get worse every year. Anyway, here now. Ready and eager. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She snagged an empty seat and dropped into it, crossing her boots on the table with a heavy thud.

Dagon sighed. “Do I even want to know what happened this time?”

“Pissed off an angel. Utterly ruined her plans. Cursed me out in the most unbelievable language, and then, well, you see. Or don’t see.”

It was certainly true enough. Aziraphale had been very upset when the “fine dining establishment” Crowley had selected for their meet-up turned out to be the hottest disco in the city. And the way she managed to express her disappointment while technically not swearing certainly strained credulity.

“Did you kill her?” Ligur asked. So unimaginative.

“No, I did something much worse.” She’d dragged Aziraphale onto the dance floor and managed almost twenty-three seconds of enthusiastic disco next to her before the angel – now bright red and flustered – had stormed out entirely. “But, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s have it. Numbers. Spreadsheets. I heard a rumor we might see that climate change graph.”

A general groan ran around the table.

“Shut up,” Dagon snapped. “Listen up, you lot – all you idiots, and Crowley in particular. Every one of you worthless wastes of matter needs to explain what you’re going to do in the next quarter-century, how that’s going to secure souls for our Master, and why we should waste any number of miracles on your pathetic hides. Until then—”

With an icy shiver, Crowley felt her miracles vanish.

“Now. Let’s start on the success rate of last quarter-century, and if I hear one word of complaint, you can scream it from the bottom of a sulfur pool. And don’t forget your blessed coffee.”

As Dagon started her presentation, Crowley watched the coffee cart. Someone had helpfully wheeled it next to the conference table, so the demons could more easily torture themselves. Seven managed to soak their shirts and trousers from leaking cups before the marmalade clogged the pot entirely. That, however, would never be enough to cancel the meeting. Heaven, a few of them even said it tasted better than usual. Should have seen that coming.

Still. It was a start.

Crowley played with her earring, then grinned, thinking of a possibility.

“Ow!” she shouted dramatically. “Something bit me!”

“Wasn’t me,” Hastur said sullenly.

“W—no, I mean. Some kind of insect.”

“Don’t see one,” grunted another demon called Krang, sitting right beside Crowley.

“It’s right there!” Silence. Oh, right, no one could see her pointing. “There! On the coffee pot!”

Eyes narrowing, Krang leaned forward, glaring across the table at the pot, which was rattling slightly. Crowley jabbed them in the back of the neck with her earring.

“Arg! It got me!” Krang slapped at the spot, leaping out of their chair. “Did you see where it went?”

“There! On Hastur’s head!”

“Where—?” Hastur managed before Ligur swatted him so hard he fell out of his chair.

“Ah, shit!” Crowley shouted. “It got me again! No, wait, I think it’s a different one.” The demons anxiously glanced at each other, but no one else stood up. Not enough. “Oh, no! My…my hand!” Crowley tried to think of something suitable “It’s burning! Like Holy Water!” She jabbed the earring into the arm of the demon on her other side.

“Bloody—It got me too!” He was on his feet in an instant. “I can feel it burning already!”

“And me!” That demon wasn’t even near Crowley. She grinned. It was working.

“What are these things?”

“I can feel it crawling on my leg.”

“My neck is swelling up!”

“Sit down!” Dagon snapped, baring her teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word about bloody insects. You’re demons. Act like it! Or I’ll make it four cups.”

The room froze – silent, apart from the now-continuous rattle of the coffee pot – as a dozen demons weighed the fear of some sort of terrifying unseen holy insect versus drinking more of the vile brew.

So Crowley ripped a handful of scone out of her top and crumbled it. “What – my hair!” She tossed the crumbs across the table. “Are – are those larvae?”

Everyone shuffled back a few steps.

“I don’t think you heard me—” Dagon started, in a tone that suggested Crowley was about to lose the room. So she went all in.

“Oh, Satan!” She shouted, falling dramatically from her chair. “They’re – they’re crawling into my ears!” That earned a few nervous glances, so she took a deep breath and gave her best horror-movie scream. “That angel! She did something to me!”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Stop acting out right now,or I swear to Satan, I’ll—”

She never found out what Dagon wanted to do to her, though, because at that moment the coffee pot exploded, lid flying off, scalding brown liquid splashing in every direction, along with blobs of now-runny marmalade.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, no matter how unexpected, Crowley cried, “Eggs! They’re nesting in the coffee! Who drank that?”

A perfect panic set in, and there was nothing Dagon could do to stop all the demons – including Crowley – from evacuating the room.

In the confusion that followed, everyone lost track of a certain invisible demon. How sad. And totally unexpected, Crowley thought, climbing into the Bentley. Too bad I kept the radio off and didn’t go to the cinema. Otherwise, they could summon me back. If she were careful, she could have days to finish coming up with her proposal.

But first, a little fun. Grinning, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what kind of trouble she could get into next.

Well. One way to find out.

The London police were extremely disappointing that morning. It took nearly eight minutes of driving around at top speed, running red lights, and blaring her horn outside rich-looking homes before one finally started chasing her.

Slamming into top gear, she raced down the busiest streets, whipping around corners, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too far ahead. The second patrol car joined in somewhere near Oxford Street, the third during a quick jaunt up towards Regent’s Park. When she’d collected four, sirens blaring as they struggled to keep up with her flawless driving, she spotted a side street and lurched into it with a complicated 270-degree-spin finished with the nose of the Bentley facing the approaching cars.

Then she settled back in her seat and waited.

The black monstrosity finally slid to a stop. Officer Mills kept her eyes on it while her partner slowed their own car to a stop.

“We sure he’s not just going to run?” She asked, trying to spot the driver. The glare off the windshield must be playing tricks on her eyes; she couldn’t see a thing.

“We surround it,” Harmon said. “Got to be enough of us, even if they try to make trouble.”

Six officers eased out of their cars, silently trying to decide who should approach the window. Mills won – or lost – and took the lead, Harmon close behind her. He was the only one armed; she felt a little better for that, in case the driver turned out to be dangerous, though most likely she figured he would try to plow through the police cars to get away. They couldn’t do much in that case apart from try to kick the tires in passing.

“Think it’s stolen?” Harmon asked as a few others moved to try and block the street beyond the idling nightmare. “Teenagers messing around?”

“Could be,” Mills said doubtfully. “It’s vintage, though. Really old. And whoever was driving knows what they’re doing.”

Anderson waved from the far side of the vehicle. Everyone was in position. Mills nodded and walked up to the window, prepared for a lunatic – or a drunk – or someone on an awful lot of drugs.

Instead, it was completely empty.

“What…” She glanced back at Harmon. “No one. Did he bail out?”

“We’d have seen. Check the back seat.”

“Nothing. Wait. There’s…a tin of biscuits. That’s all.”

Down the street, Anderson crouched, checking underneath. Nothing there, apparently. Slowly, the police approached, one by one relaxing as they confirmed that yes – the car was empty.

The driver side window was open. Mills stuck her head in, glancing up and down. Nothing. No sign of what had happened to the driver. The engine still gently rumbled, and the door was locked. She definitely would have noticed if someone had stayed there long enough to lock it through the window.

“I’ll call to have it towed,” Harmon said, stepping back. She could hear the confused frown in his voice. “Maybe we’ll find…something…when we search it.”

By this point, even the officers who had waited in the patrol cars had joined them, crowded along the sides of the black vintage monster, testing doors and peering through windows. Mills leaned in to unlock the driver side door. “But where could he have gone?”

“She,” a soft voice said near Mills’s ear, and something tapped against her nose. “And I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Mills stumbled back as the radio burst to life.

You know the day destroys the night Night divides the day…

Everyone spun in place, looking for the source of the music from a nearby window or door, shouting at shadows, so only Mills was watching as the pedals and gear stick moved themselves.

Tried to run Tried to hide Break on through to the other side Break on through to the other side…

The ghost car – what else could she be? – shot backwards up the street, faster than should have been possible, spun a full 360-degree turn, then straightened up and drove away, blending into traffic with a cheerful toot of the horn.

Mills finally blinked.

“Harmon?” She called. “You do the paperwork on this one. I need a drink.”

Crowley danced in her seat far more than she usually would, but for once no one could see her.

Made the scene Week to week Day to day Hour to – Crowley!

She nearly slammed on the brakes as Jim Morrison began to sound an awful lot like Dagon. Shit. Forgot about that.

“Ahhhh…speaking?”

“Who, exactly, gave you permission to leave?”

“Oh. Ahhh.” She glanced out the window at a row of businesses and pulled over in front of some kind of barber shop. “I thought, what with all the insects—”

“There were no insects!”

“There weren’t?” Crowley really needed to work on her innocent voice. “I must be hallucinating. Better go home and lie down until it passes.”

“Crowley. Your budget proposal is due by the end of the day. Do you want to be stranded up there without miracles? Do you know what we do to demons who fail to meet their quotas?”

She knew that. She’d been told, several times, exactly what to expect. “Nnnnnh…I’ve got – it’s going to be a big project. Very big. More souls than…than wasps have larvae. Just need to work on my proposal in a secure, bug-free location.”

“Crowley! Do you think for one second—”

“Ah! They’re coming out of the radio!” Crowley cut the sound.

She sat in the Bentley, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

I just hung up on Dagon. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to send me down to file in the archives for a thousand years.

Then again, they’d have to find her first.

And, she was finding, her current state presented the kind of temptations even a demon couldn’t ignore…

Graham Palmer had been trying to get into the barber shop for twenty minutes.

The door was stuck fast. No matter how he rattled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, as if something enormous had pinned it shut. And yet, every time he stepped back to let other patrons try, the door opened easily, but slammed as if pulled shut whenever he approached. He even tried slipping through behind another customer, but then it stayed shut until Graham stepped back. There was just no way in.

Now he hammered on the window, trying to get his barber’s attention. “Stuart! Stuart! What the hell are you trying to pull?”

The barber looked up from his current customer, blinking in confusion, and jerked his head towards the door.

“I tried that, it doesn’t bloody work!” A young man half his age walked past, giving Graham a funny look, and pulled open the shop door. Graham dove to follow him, but again it snapped shut, almost catching his nose. He pounded the door with his fist, glaring at the customers inside. “I’m going to be late!”

Across the shop, Stuart put down his scissors and shouted something. All Graham caught was “…break my glass…”

There was an idea.

He crossed the pavement to where an ancient black car was parked, removing his jacket. Wrapping it around his arm for protection, he charged forward, bracing himself for impact.

The door swung open in front of him and before he could stop himself, Graham tripped over – something – there didn’t appear to be anything – and sprawled on his face, sliding across the linoleum floor.

“Watch yourself, dearie,” a cheerful woman’s voice said, but when he looked up, no one was there.

Crowley strolled around the park, her new domain, another time.

Over there, at the edge of the path, was the Strange Chill area. Anyone who paused there, perhaps studying the slightly askew sign that seemed to indicate the exit was in the fountain, would feel a touch on their shoulder, a tickle on the back of their neck, or hear heavy breathing with no source.

Over here, near the ice cream cart, was the Creepy Bush. Originally just generic ghost noises, Crowley eventually discovered what really freaked humans out was a disembodied voice whispering their name, or something they’d said in private a few minutes before. She followed strolling couples around, listening in on anything good, and when one stopped to by the other ice cream, just really let loose on the one standing by the bushes. They usually started clinging much more closely to their partner after that, so really, Crowley was doing them a favor. Instant relationship counseling.

Across from the fountain sat the Haunted Bench. Crowley really went wild with that one. Children’s songs in a creepy voice. Branches shaking with no wind. Possessions floating away from wherever they’d been set down. Really, anything was allowed.

The narrow path leading through the tulips was the Asshole Road. Anyone Crowley caught being an asshole in her park was subtly sent that direction, pickpocketed, and then beset by bees, or at least a very convincing humming and a few pricks from an invisible earring.

The fountain itself was Rare Coins and Lost Items. Her third pickpocket victim had been carrying a tube of very powerful epoxy, and it turns out the coin-stuck-to-the-sidewalk trick was even better when you glued it underwater. A few pieces of jewelry at the bottom were also glued in place, but most of the valuables were simply tossed in or – if they weren’t waterproof – hung from the sculpture of frolicking animals in an amusing way. Crowley mostly just kept the cash, and even then only if the Assholes had been particularly cruel. So far, she’d accumulated almost five hundred pounds.

It was either the best park in London, or the worst.

She leaned against the clock – now set forty-eight and a half minutes slow – and surveyed the chaos. Two teenagers were frantically trying to get something out of the fountain, while the Asshole who’d sworn at that lovely gay couple was now soaked through, desperately trying to get his watch back from the ear of a sculpted rabbit seven feet high. That had been hard to get into place, but certainly worth it. The couple, meanwhile, were hand-in-hand, clutching ice creams and hurrying away from what had been for them the Creepy but Oddly Affirming Bush. The lady with the dog that had made a mess by the roses was trying to report the Haunted Bench to a cop, who tiredly insisted it was her lunch break and that the lady would not believe the morning she’d had.

Crowley grinned up at the sky. This – this was what it was all about. Forget budget meetings and presentations. Who did that make miserable, apart from the demons themselves? This park had everything: temptation, fear, frustration, justice, ice cream, and perfect weather.

“Hey. Hey you feathered wankers,” someone shouted, followed by the sound of rattling pebbles and angry quacking.

Tipping down her invisible shades, Crowley spotted some young idiot chucking handfuls of rocks at the ducks. Most were fleeing, but one flapped her wings, panicked and possessive, over a nest. One of the eggs had already been broken.

Looks like another volunteer for Asshole Road. Crowley was already eying their watch.

Every bakery has that one customer. Probably every place that sold food.

The one that demands impossible standards, not because of any particular love of fine cuisine, but just because they can.

The one that counts the blueberries in their muffin and lets you know if there aren’t enough.

The one who spends five minutes shouting, “No, not that one, that one,” while providing no other information, until their server had touched everything in the display case.

The one who complains that their brownie is too chocolatey.

The customer who somehow gets away with murder on account of being someone’s spouse, or sibling, or old school friend.

Victoria Lockwood was that customer, and as Riley watched her approach, they held their breath in trepidation.

“This scone,” she snapped, dropping her plate onto the counter, “is not right.” Then she glared at Bailey, waiting for a response.

“Is it…” Bailey’s mind raced, trying to work out what might be wrong. “The wrong flavor?” Victoria’s face only darkened. “Um. Is – is it dry?” But most of that batch had sold without a single complaint. “Did you want…more lemon curd? Or—”

“It is not hot enough.”

“Ah.” Of course. They’d taken that batch out nearly an hour ago; the next was ready to go in. “If you’re willing to wait, um…twenty minutes? I can give you the first—”

“Twenty minutes? What kind of service is that? I want my scone now.” She glanced at the tray coming out of the oven. “Why are you making me wait? What are those?”

Bailey glanced back and relaxed for a moment. “Oh – yes, I can get you one right now. They’re Raspberry Almond Butterm—”

“Disgusting!” Victoria rapped her hand against the counter. “That is not what I ordered! I demand you warm this one up, immediately.”

“I…” Bailey glanced at their coworkers, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. “That’s…I can put it back in the oven but that would probably dry—”

“Fine.” She shoved the plate towards them. “Be quick about it, young lady, I don’t like to wait.” She clearly noticed the way Bailey flinched. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for a girl, I suggest you get a proper haircut. And not that hideous shade of pink.”

“Y’s ma’am,” Bailey muttered, because some arguments would never be worth it. They took back the scone and put it on a baking tray. Maybe if it was only in the oven for a minute or two—

“Victoria Lockwood!” Bailey spun around, searching for who had called out. Not anyone else behind the counter, they all had their heads ducked, concentrating on some other tasks. But there – on the counter – a scone sat on Victoria’s plate.

She looked up from her makeup compact, smiled triumphantly, and took a bite out of it.

Her face immediately went green, and she dropped plate and pastry, running out of the bakery faster than Bailey had ever seen anyone move. They rushed forward, ready to call after her, but very much not wanting to, and picked up the discarded scone – it smelled awful, like vinegar and fish.

There was also an enormous wad of banknotes on the counter, wrapped up in a scrap of paper with a note: Kid – Don’t take that shit from anyone. Flip off your boss when you quit. <3 C

The bakery door opened and shut on its own.

Well, there was an entire day’s pickpocketing gone in a moment, but it wasn’t like Crowley had a better use for it. She still had a few rare coins, but after the fountain, sticking them to the ground seemed an anticlimax. She’d had some fun modifying the haunting routine for the bus or Underground, but both would be filled with commuters now a ghost that swears when you elbow her in the ribs on a crowded train is…not as impressive.

Still. Not a bad day overall. The most expensive foods in the corner marked had all been re-priced, several examples of hostile architecture had been mysteriously destroyed, enough people would be sharing stories of “hauntings” that the whole city would need to be exorcised, and – just for the Heaven of it – she’d followed a particularly annoying human for almost an hour, up and down the streets, buzzing in his ear.

Really, it was the simple pleasures that made the world so enjoyable.

And speaking of simple pleasures, Crowley had left one particular part of the city for last.

Strolling down the streets of Soho, which was just waking up while more respectable – but far less fun – parts of the city were winding down, she kept her eyes open for anyone who might make a good target. A few possibilities presented themselves, but in the end her destination proved the stronger draw.

A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop.

It was just the right time of day, when the customers would still be bothering Aziraphale, and she would be running short of patient ways to refuse them and start turning to biting sarcasm and, on occasion, outright threats. She’d probably appreciate a little haunting to help chase them off, once Crowley had finished stealing her cocoa, moving her bookmarks, and changing the record in the gramophone.

But, glancing in the window, Crowley saw something that poured cold water all over her brilliant day.

Gabriel.

Michael and Uriel, too. Probably Sandalphon lurking around.

Aziraphale stood before her bosses, hands clutched anxiously, that eager, ready-to-please face that made Crowley’s chest ache. Some, when faced with the beings who had hurt them so many times, became afraid, or angry, or distressed. But Aziraphale…just wanted approval. A kind word.

Crowley glared at Gabriel. The Heaven are you up to this time?

For once, she would be able to find out.

“And, I really think,” Aziraphale said, hands twisting like captured rodents as she rambled, “that this past decade in particular,I’ve – I’ve accomplished many things. Um. I – I prepared a list…somewhere…” her eyes darted to the disaster she called a desk, and she started shifting material objects around, smiling nervously. Guiltily.

“Is this going to take long?” Gabriel asked with a pointed sigh.

“No! I just…one moment…”

“We’re already running late,” Uriel commented. “We’d expected you to be better prepared.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale snatched up a book and began flipping through it frantically, as if it might contain the answers she needed. “Only, ah, you didn’t actually say when you would be coming…”

“We did say between the 3rd of January and 28th of October,” Michael pointed out reasonably.

“Oh. Um. I…”

“Something doesn’t seem…right,” Sandalphon said, stepping close to Aziraphale, putting a hand on her shoulder. The book she held tumbled from her fingers. “This whole place has a…smell about it.”

The door slammed behind them. Gabriel glanced back, but couldn’t see it from where he stood. Sandalphon gave Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze, then headed over to check on it.

“I thought,” Gabriel said slowly, making sure the slow-witted Principality heard every word, “I told you to lock the door.”

“It was.” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “I – I mean I did.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. This had been a particularly disappointing review. Disappointing in the sense that their agent had once again conclusively failed to present evidence of meaningful victories towards Heaven’s cause. Less disappointing in that, whether she knew it or not, Aziraphale had already given him what he needed to take the arrogant fool down a few pegs.

In six thousand years, she’d barely managed to do a single thing right, yet somehow always came to him simpering and smiling like she deserved all the accolades of Heaven. Well, he’d been patient, as suited an Archangel, as patient as he could. But once per century, he had the opportunity to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Take away her miracles for a start, he thought. Though that didn’t seem to work nearly as well as it had a few centuries ago. Maybe recall her to Heaven for a year or two, re-educate her on the basics of her duty. There might be enough for a period of isolation. With restraints. They’d done that once, about three thousand years before, after a particularly poor review. Seven years chained up in an empty corner of Heaven, and Aziraphale had been wonderfully pliable for centuries after. Perhaps it was time to revisit.

“Look – look here, I have a list of…oh.” Aziraphale held out her book again, which seemed to be filled with irregular scrawl instead of the usual neatly printed words. “I started a list of accomplishments, but ah…I became busy the last few years. Um. Quite a lot has happened since…”

Uriel took the book and studied it, face impressively calm. “Interesting,” they said, not giving anything away as they turned the pages over. Gabriel trusted them to spot anything useful.

As the Archangels waited in pointed silence, Michael walked her fingers across a table. She pressed a thumb against a book, sliding it to the edge. Aziraphale stared as it teetered, then found its balance again. Michael watched it, disinterested, then moved on to another book, sliding that forward as well.

Sandalphon stepped back beside Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. No sign of anything. Well. More questions for later.

Uriel reached the final page.

“What happened in 1967?”

“Nothing!” At the panic in Aziraphale’s tone, all four Archangels raised their eyebrows. “I – I – I mean, yes, lots, many – many—” One of the books beside Michael fell to the floor with a slap. The Principality winced. “I – I’m terribly sorry, could you be more specific?”

“Your final entry,” Uriel held the book out to Aziraphale, “says 1967 – Prevented… Prevented what?”

“Ahhhhhh.” Aziraphale squirmed. “Well, I…I…there was…ummm…”

“As I recall,” Michael said slowly, “you briefly visited Heaven that year, but didn’t officially report to any of us. And then didn’t return for at least…six months? Very unusual.”

“You haven’t been hiding something, have you?” Gabriel smiled, his heart rising. More than isolation. He could probably take away this shop, for a start, give it to a more trustworthy angel.

“Nnnnno.” Aziraphale gave that particular smile, the one that meant she thought she was about to get away with something. The one she thought Gabriel didn’t know about. “But, ahhh, if you could, um, quite a lot happened in the world in the…the last ten years or so.”

Something crashed on the other side of the building. No, he’d have the place demolished. It was falling apart already. Aziraphale could watch. Maybe he could order her to help. An eminently suitable punishment for wasting his time. “As I understand it,” he said, taking a step forward, “the last decade saw…war, riots, assassinations…”

“Well, well, yes, I…but, if you look at progress with, um, civil rights, ahh…anticolonialism…”

More made-up human terms. Gabriel and Michael shared a pained glance. “Look. Aziraphale.” Gabriel pressed his hands together. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate you taking the initiative, but…what does any of this have to do with your orders?”

“Or, for that matter, with your visit to Heaven?” Michael moved her fingers across the table again, coming to rest on one of those stupid little figurines Aziraphale had accumulated. Like a packrat. A human depiction of an angel, as some kind of soft, happy baby with wings. Not a warrior at all. Michael’s finger tapped against it. “What were you trying to prevent?”

“Did it have something to do with…Holy Water?” Sandalphon suddenly asked.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. Something clicking in his mind. “There was that storage jar that went missing.” Did Aziraphale look more guilty than usual? “What year was that?”

“1967,” Uriel said.

He couldn’t hold back the smile. If he could prove Aziraphale had taken Holy Water for some sort of personal use, well.

He’d pretty much be justified whatever he decided to do.

“I – I – I can explain.” The Principality tried to back away, but was stopped by her own desk. “There – there was this demon, an – an especially, ah, wily, cunning, um, crafty demon—”

“Was there?” Michael’s finger twitched, sending the false angel off the table. It fell—

Then hovered, halfway to the floor.

Slowly, it lifted, rightening itself in the air before them. There was no trace of a miracle, no power of any kind. It simply…floated. Drifting through the air to land on the desk beside Aziraphale.

“Clever,” said Gabriel, watching the Principality’s face for any sign of deception. “How did you do that?”

“I…”

The pages of a book, laid out on the stand behind her, began to turn, flipping faster and faster, slamming shut.

“This…isn’t me.” Aziraphale said.

Behind her, books began to float off their shelves. One rocketed across the room towards Gabriel. He dodged it easily, but it was followed by another, and another. The lights flickered overhead.

“If it isn’t you,” Gabriel began, but a small table by the door to the next room began to rattle. Atop it lay a black-and-white board covered with formless carvings, which lifted into the air, then exploded, pieces flying at the Archangels. Gabriel easily batted them aside, but now one of the armchairs began to shift.

Without a word, the four prepared for battle, Gabriel stepping back, Michael and Sandalphon moving to the front. At least, that was the plan – the moment he tried to move, Gabriel fell, his feet somehow tightly bound together. The same happened to Sandalphon and Uriel, and even Michael stumbled, knocking over a table in her haste to stay upright.

Glass rattled in the back of the shop.

“It’s…” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “It’s that same demon again! I thought I’d banished her!”

“What?” Banishing wasn’t exactly something angels did.

“The – the Holy Water!” A bottle of something hovered out from the back room, moving slowly but threateningly. “Did you bring any? It’s the only thing that can stop her.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s sword manifested in her hand. “What demon?”

“Crowley! She – she seems to have grown even more powerful!”

“Crowley?” Not that worthless snake again. How many times had he been assured – through Michael’s secret back-channel sources – that Crowley was the most useless, incompetent, lazy demon in Hell? And yet somehow, not a single angel had ever successfully dealt with her – except Aziraphale.

“I thought I smelled a demon,” Sandalphon said, pulling his shoes off and tossing them aside. “But I can’t sense demonic power.”

“Obviously not!” Aziraphale’s wings burst from her back, and she held out a hand towards the hovering bottle. It slowly lowered itself to the ground. “Why do you think she’s so difficult to defeat? The power she uses – it’s not of Heaven or Hell! I – I can barely counter it!”

“Let me, then,” Michael said, predatory gleam in her eyes. Like Sandalphon, she’d removed her shoes; Gabriel was working on his own, but somehow the laces had become wound together like snakes, something sticky sealing the knot shut.

Sandalphon and Michael stepped forward, swords at the ready. “No!” Aziraphale turned to block them, and immediately the rattling started up again – this time from the metal stairs to the upper floor. “You – you don’t understand! Wh – when she gets like this – the fires would only make her stronger.”

Something – horrible, screeching noises – began emanating from the back room, like some animal being torn apart.

“That’s – that’s why I need the Holy Water! In the proper ritual, it – it – it’s too complicated to explain!”

A cupboard burst open, revealing a display of holy items – consecrated Bibles, holy symbols, sticks of incense and jars of oil. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, genuine panic in her voice.

The largest, heaviest of the Bibles lifted and shot across the room. It didn’t reach the Archangels, but Gabriel could see smoke rising from its cover.

Next came a crucifix, spinning end over end, which Michael caught out of the air. The wood was burned all along one side.

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale said, eyes round. “Nothing I have in there can stop her! What could a flaming sword even do? I need more Holy Water.” A jar of oil fell to the ground and immediately began to boil, bubbling and steaming. “I’ll try to hold her back as long as I can.” Aziraphale’s face furrowed in concentration as she walked across the shop. “Please, it – it’s far too dangerous for you here…”

“Right.” Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels. Something wasn’t right. But they couldn’t risk themselves against an unknown force. “We’ll…we’ll get some Holy Water. You do what you can.”

With a thought, the ascended to Heaven.

Gabriel quickly stood up, brushing down his clothing and trying to school his expression. “Well. I think the best course of action is to wait a day or two, then go see what the damage is.”

“And Aziraphale’s review?” Uriel asked, face somehow still calm, despite everything that had happened.

“I just hope we don’t have to give her a damn commendation again.”

The Arch-Wankers vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

“Ow, ow, fuck that hurts!” Crowley gasped, stumbling away from the spilled oil and shaking her hands. “What kind of stuff do you keep in there?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale started to rush forward, then froze. “Where are you? Can’t you – reveal yourself, or whatever?”

“Nnnnnnnnope. Rrrrrgh, how does this hurt more than walking in a church?”

“I…I’m sorry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been worried lately that if – if your side realized what was happening…I thought it best to have a little insurance of my own.”

“Well it works.” Crowley managed to reach one of the shop chairs and sank into it. “Over here…no, here! Where’s…” She nudged the rug with her least-burnt toe, folding a bit of it up. Aziraphale immediately ran over.

“That was – well, that was clever, Crowley, but highly unnecessary. I – I was only having my performance review. I thought I was doing quite well.” Her soft hands found one of Crowley’s and picked it up, fingers tracing across the palm.

“I…” Crowley had seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the mention of Holy Water, while she was on the ground gluing his shoelaces together, and she counted it among the most terrifying things she’d ever seen. “I’m sure you were, but vanquishing some super-powerful demon? Saving the Archangels? Well, that’s only going to help, right?”

“Hmmm.” Another brush of her fingers, and the sting started to go out of Crowley’s palms. “And, I’m sure, spark a few rumors that might help you?”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced, looking out the windows. “Unless those rumors spread really fast, I doubt I’m going to get much benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale sank to the ground, patting around until she found one of Crowley’s feet. She gently lifted it, stroking from ankle to toe and giving it the same healing treatment. “And why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Crowley.”

“Right. Um. I…may have…borrowed a few of your books and…designed a curse to get out of my quarter-century budget review. But in my defense – it’s so boring.”

Aziraphale sighed – or possibly blew a healing breath across Crowley’s feet. No, probably the sigh, but at least they felt a bit better. “My dear, it’s only a meeting. There’s no need for these – these histrionics.”

“Histri—Angel, that is – I am not – can you grab a dictionary? I need to know how upset I should be.”

“Extremely.”

“Right. I am. And…I thought it would only last a few hours. Have a bit of fun. But…I need my miracles for, you know, ambient healing, and…look, they cut off our miracles during the review, and only give them back once you’ve wowed them with your project idea.”

“And you don’t have one, do you?”

“Not…as such.” Crowley hung her head. “I…I thought I could get an extension. Just long enough to think of something.”

“So you cursed yourself.” That pained look, the I-hate-to-tell-you-how-much-you-failed-but-also-I-love-it look. Only slightly ruined by the fact that it was aimed somewhere over the demon’s left shoulder. “Crowley, did it never occur to you that in the time it took you create such a thing, you could just as easily have come up with a project?”

“Nh.”

“And did you come up with your brilliant idea during your delay?”

“Nnnh.”

“Well. At least you’re sorry now, I assume?”

“Nope.” If she hadn’t skipped out, Crowley wouldn’t have been here to help Aziraphale. She’d saved her friend countless times over six thousand years, but sometimes…she was quite happy the angel didn’t notice. “No, demons don’t get sorry. We get…” she grunted. “We get annoyed at ourselves for…ngk…for hanginupndagonnpissinheroff.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“For hanging up on Dagon and pissing her off.” Crowley rubbed her face. “Unless I can think of the greatest project any demon ever came up with…” Her stomach dropped as the reality of it hit. A thousand years in filing meant a thousand years without Aziraphale’s bastard looks and gentle touches. “I’m…probably going to be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stroked her fingers across Crowley’s foot one more time. “No, that won’t do at all.” She looked up with that icy, determined look. The let-me-speak-to-your-manager expression that made Crowley go completely light-headed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about all this.”

“Like what?”

“How are your feet?”

“F—hmm? Oh, fine.” They were – Aziraphale seemed to have removed all the pain. Or at least, she’d removed some of the pain, and the fluttery feeling in Crowley’s chest allowed her to ignore the rest. “So. Um. What did you have in mind? Oh!” A grin stretched across her face. “Dagon and Beelzebub already think you cursed me. Maybe we can stage a second fight where they see it. I’ll definitely get an extension that way.”

“Or.” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands again and laced their fingers together, pulling her to her feet. “We can go for a drive in that beastly car of yours and actually come up with a proper idea. Something convoluted, demonic, and with that…Crowley style.”

“I have a style now?”

“Hmmm. Yes. Not as refined as mine, but I think we can make it work.” Her right hand squeezed Crowley’s, and her left slid up the demon’s arm to her shoulder. “You know, I had a little over a century apart from you. And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that. In fact I…I rather think I prefer your company to, well. Anyone’s.”

“Nnnnh.” Crowley shuffled her feet and clutched Aziraphale’s hand back, guiding the angel to stand just a little closer. Needing to say something. Afraid to say too much. “Ssssss. Mmmm. Yeah. I, uh. I like it better up here, too. Y’know. Where you are.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale’s left hand slid further up, coming to rest on the back of her neck. “I can see right through you. My dear Crowley.” With the lightest pressure, she tipped the demon’s head down.

And kissed her, soft lips covering Crowley’s shocked mouth.

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back slightly, hardly at all. “I, ah…I meant to…” Her breath still tickled Crowley’s lips. “I…forehead…”

“Nrrh.” Crowley’s free hand drifted forward, finding Aziraphale’s hip, resting on it, barely a touch. It was all she dared. “Ah…?”

Neither of them moved. Or both did. Or they stood still and the world around them shifted. Whichever way it was, their lips touched again, and held this time. Slowly, they drifted closer, caught in each other’s gravity, a decaying orbit. Crowley would surely burn up on approach, but it was worth every moment.

Eventually they parted, once more just enough to breathe, to speak, to remember that they were two beings and not a single, burning soul.

“Not…” Crowley swallowed. “Not too fast?”

“I…” Aziraphale bit her lip. “I don’t know. But…Crowley…I know…where I want to go. Eventually.”

Their foreheads pressed together. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping left hand falling away, right thumb rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped. “Oh, my word!”

“What?” Crowley glanced at herself, black cloth trousers flared wide at the legs, tight red sleeveless shirt cut scandalously low in the front and back, boots with heels that made her even taller than usual—

She was visible again.

“I…I suppose I was still healing you when we…oh…oh, Crowley…what are you wearing?”

“Angel, it’s – I look fashionable, you look – have you changed anything in the last century?”

“I…a few things! Were you honestly planning to give a presentation like that?”

“I was going to be invisible, yeah!”

“You…are…” Aziraphale pressed her eyes shut. “I am going to get my jacket. And then I’m going to get you a jacket, because it’s cold at night, and you are cold-blooded.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered.

“And then we will go for our ride and determine what evil, dastardly plan I will spend the next twenty-five years thwarting. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” After a moment, Crowley said, “Ah, Aziraphale?”

“What is it now?”

“At some point, are you going to let go of my hand?”

Aziraphale glanced down. “Oh. Hmm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

(Fifty Years Later)

Crowley sat beneath the apple tree, her hand clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s, leaning back against her angel’s chest. “And that,” she concluded, “is why we call the 26th of April Lesbian Visibility Day.”

The Them stared at the two supernatural beings, mouths slightly open.

“You…” Pepper started, “are full of so much shit.”

“Oi!”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “that’s…one of the worst stories I’ve ever heard. How are you supposed to budget miracles?”

“If they could cut you off that easy,” Brian jumped in, “why didn’t they do it when you left Hell?”

“Oh, ummm,” she glanced up at Aziraphale.

“Tactics,” the angel said enigmatically.

Pepper didn’t even seem to be listening. “How did you know what all those people were thinking?”

“That’s right,” Wensley nodded. “Particularly Gabriel.”

“He…he has a very expressive face,” Crowley argued.

“How’d you actually move around like that, without anyone hearing you? The whole day?”

“Shouldn’t you’ve been, you know, way more worried about getting killed?”

“At least one of those bookshop attacks wasn’t even possible, unless you were in two places at once.”

“And how d’you accidentally leave your healing on?”

“How could you possibly mistake her lips for her forehead?”

“This was rubbish.”

“What do you think, Adam?”

The former Antichrist looked up from where he was playing with Dog. “I think…” He gave the angel and demon a penetrating look, then shook his head, smiling as if he’d just seen the joke at the center of the universe, and it had turned out to be a truly terrible pun. “I think you should just tell us the next story.”

“Which one’s that?” Crowley asked, settling back into the curve of her angel’s arm, fingers still twined together.

“The one with the greatest project any demon ever came up with.”

“Oh.” Grinning, Crowley tipped her head to meet Aziraphale’s shining eyes. “Wahoo.”

The song is "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by the Doors, because Queen had not yet put out their first album, though there was a lot of pressure in the Discord to have Crowley dancing to Abba instead.

Final scene set next year because we'll all be sitting together under apple trees with our loved ones and telling BS stories to kids before we know it.

For everyone who contributed non-anonymous suggestions:

@amidst-innumerable-stars @tangle5ancer @fenrislorsrai @feuerkindjana @bowser14456 @taksez @yeahhiyellow @infinitevariety @gargelyfloof118 @lourek @soft-forest-rain @undertaker991 @jules-al-c @lov-lyness2 @thisleadstohollyhocks @marianrios33 @aux-barricades @lostmemimi @joybones @derederest @myusernameispie @mothmans-favorite-lamp and @n0nb1narydemon (yes I did find a way to level up the coin gluing!) and of course @5ftjewishcactus who encouraged me when you really shouldn't. Sorry I couldn't fit in everyone's suggestions!

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trashboatprince · 4 years ago

Text

I saw a challenge to write something sexy about Mr. Harrison and Mr. Cortese from this post by @naniiebimworks and I’m not missing the chance to make content of them in written form. Love me some Crowley and Aziraphale’s personas.

Summery: Warlock is too old for his nanny, but he’s not too old to start having a private tutor. Make that two tutors, who happen to look a bit like the nanny and the gardener who followed her off the grounds.

And already there’s something going on between them.

AKA Crowley and Aziraphale are really into how the other looks for this next phase of the plans.

Warning: these two are already in a relationship. Not full on content, but there is touching and such, gotta keep it pg-13 cause some of my followers are young. Also, not beta’d, so forgive the grammar errors

EDIT: There’s an extra mature chapter on ao3

On with the fic!

Nanny Ashtoreth put in her two weeks without much of a fuss, politely telling the Dowlings that young Warlock had no need for her anymore, it was time for him to get his lessons from a professional and not a nanny who was smarter than expected.

She recommended someone she said she had worked with previously, that he was highly recommended.

The day after she departed from the estate, there was a knock at the door and a tall, sharp man in an even sharper, dark suit stood there, carrying a briefcase under his arm. “I’m Mr. Harrison,” he greeted the doorman with a voice that dared him to say something, “Nanny Ashtoreth told me that this is where I would I be teaching.”

Without waiting, he stepped past the doorman and into the foyer, where he greeted Mrs. Dowling, who stepped down the stairs to greet him.

Mr. Harrison reminded her greatly of Nanny, that they looked rather similar. The same red colored hair, same facial structure, though clearly Harrison his sharp cheek bones under a beard.

“We’re cousins.” He told her simply, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

He would start his lessons with Warlock tomorrow at nine.

The next morning, while Mr. Harrison was teaching Warlock his first lessons on the ancient armies of the world, there was yet another knock at the door.

The doorman was surprised to see a man with wild, near-white hair and an equally wild beard standing there, smiling. He was dressed in creams and golds, a stark contrast to the clothing of the other man who had been at the door the day before. “Good morning!” He greeted the poor employee with a Welsh tint to his voice. “I am Mr. Cortese, I was hired to be the private tutor to Warlock Dowling.”

“Uhh…” The doorman blinked, before making himself professional. “I am so sorry to inform you that Mrs. Dowling has already hired a tutor yesterday.”

“Oh?” Mr. Cortese asked, eyebrows raised high as he glanced about past the man, as if looking for the person who took his job. “I am sure that the young boy wouldn’t mind two instructors.”

The man at the door sighed and said he would get his boss to speak to the stranger. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Dowling hired Mr. Cortese to be Warlock’s second tutor, taking two days of the week and sharing one with his coworker.

She took note that he reminded her of someone, but she wasn’t sure. Sort of like the weird gardener who happened to leave right after Nanny Ashtoreth did, but house staff come and go.

“… And that, young Warlock, is why one must not draw on his books, you never know what their worth will be in the future.” Cortese sighed loudly as he finished with erasing the last of the doodles the young boy had drawn on the open pages of the history book in front of him.

“I thought it made it look cool.” Warlock replied in his defense and Cortese nearly rolled his eyes before removing his pocket watch from his vest pocket, looking at the time.

“Right, well, it seems that our lesson for history is over for today. Off you go, enjoy your hour break. When you return, we shall begin our coverage of literature.” He waved a hand towards the door and Warlock didn’t need to be told twice to run off for fun, there was a video game with his name on it that he couldn’t keep waiting any longer.

Cortese watched him run out of the room with a small huff, smiling as he started to clean up the books and papers on the table of the building’s library where he was to do his lessons. He paused when he smelled something, a strong cologne that covered a natural, demonic musk that he knew all too well. “Mr. Harrison, I assume?” He turned to meet the man who he had yet to be introduced to since arriving yesterday.

Leaning against a bookcase, Cortese stared from behind his reading glasses, feeling his face heat up just a bit as he looked at his counterpart.

Harrison was in a dark suit, fitting of him, opened jacket and tie just a bit loose. The angel inwardly cursed as he looked at how the other had styled his hair, pulled back in a tight short ponytail. He hadn’t seen Crowley since they left the estate, wanting to get themselves ready for their next personas.

Seems that Crowley miracled up a beard that looked too good on him, the littlest of changes to the demon always got something stirring in Aziraphale, be it a new haircut or the addition of facial hair.

And he did a combo, damn him.

Clearing his throat, Cortese straightened himself up, adjusting his jacket. “I almost didn’t get the job because of you.” He told the redhead, who only smirked, crossing his arms.

“You’d have gotten it anyway, and look, you did! Come on, you knew I was gonna show up first, made it less… suspicious, if we both showed up at the same time.” Pushing himself off of the bookshelf, Harrison sauntered over to partner in this scheme, the smirk turning more playful as he stepped around Cortese, looking him up and down behind dark lenses.

He stopped behind the shorter man, who froze up at the eyes that he felt on his backside, those hungry eyes…

“Nice suit,” Harrison commented, “suits you, love the colors. Golds and creams? A change of pace from the tartan.”

“Oh!” Cortese turned sharply, giving him a hard stare. “Must I repeat myself? Tartan is stylish! But, if you must know, I decided to change it up a bit. I do wear other clothing you know, Mr. Harrison.”

Harrison looked at him, before shrugging. “Of course, just… can’t help admirin’ how good you look when you mix it up a bit.�� He was suddenly closer, when had he gotten so close? Cortese stepped back, feeling his backside bump against the table, he was pinned.

“You need to dress up more, angel.” Harrison then frowned before chuckling. “No, don’t do that, you become too much of a tease when you step out of the norm.” He toyed with the silk tie that Cortese wore, slowly, carefully loosening it as he tugged down on the knot with one finger.

Cortese’s face flared up red as a heat pooled in his stomach. “M-Mr. Harrison! You wily man, behave yourself!” He swatted at the hand. “You should be professional!”

“Oh please,” The demon rolled his eyes before leaning in closer, “it’s not like we didn’t have our fun as the nanny and the gardener, yeah? Won’t take these fools long to start rumors about us as well…”

Cortese paused, looking at Harrison’s face. Right, they had been a bit adventurous and frisky with one another when in their previous personas, what’s the harm of having a little fun as two tutors? It was like something out of his romance section, but he wouldn’t voice that out loud.

“We waited a few months as Ashtoreth and Francis before we got handy, my dear.” He finally replied and Harrison groaned.

“Wow, way to be a real buzzkill, angel!” He moved to step back, but Harrison found himself in place, hands on his hips that suddenly were pressed against Cortese’s. “Whu-?”

“Who said we weren’t going to have any fun?” The blond scoffed. “Besides…” There was a snap of fingers and Harrison heard a lock set in place.

Cortese leaned in close to his ear, he could practically hear the smug smile in the other’s voice. “We have less than an hour before my next lesson and I’d like to get my ‘coworker’ a bit better. Is that alright with you?”

The string of sounds from Harrison was all Cortese needed as an answer.

Someone, Harrison found himself flipped around, his own back pressed into the table with the angel pinning him to it, kissing him hard on the lips. Any coherent thoughts in the redhead’s mind were thrown out the window as he was snogged into next week, wrapping his legs around soft hips.

He pulled back, panting a bit as he looked at the hazel eyes that stared right at him. “Damn, angel, you’re in a mood.”

“You’re a terrible tease, dressing up like this.” Cortese huffed, kissing at his neck before working on undoing the already-loose knot of Harrison’s tie. “You know I love seeing you dressed up.”

“Mmm… sssshould do it more often than…” Harrison tilted his head back, lifting his hand up to snap his fingers, but a hand stopped him. “Come on, don’t go slow…” He groaned.

“No, I want to take it slow, I’m not going to just have your clothes vanish on me!” Cortese scoffed as he pulled back to start working on removing the suit jacket, taking note that he rather liked the pattern on it, Crowley needed to wear more patterns in his wardrobe.

Harrison pouted before his own fingers got to work on unbuttoning the vest Cortese wore, legs still firmly in place around the other’s waist. “How far?”

“Hmm… heavy petting?”

There was a loud snort. “Who taught you that?!” Harrison laughed before undoing the last button. He looked at the other man, a coy smile on his face. “Lovin’ the changes, angel. You look so good with that hair, almost feral, very you.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“Just commentin’.” Harrison mumbled as he pulled him down, talking against the other’s lips before kissing him hard. Cortese mumbled a reply that fell on deaf ears, the two clearly distracted be kissing and the sneaky fingers playing with the tie the other wore.

Both were discarded on the table, and Harrison was vaguely aware that his hair had slipped from the ponytail it had been in. He would have made a comment, but he was distracted by perfectly manicured fingers playing with his freed hair, and by the body that pressed against him.

His own fingers busied themselves with groping a rather nice, soft bottom, earning a squeak from the angel who was still toying with his hair. Harrison smirked, pressing down on the ample flesh, keeping Cortese against him as he moved to suck on the exposed skin of his advisory’s neck.

The room felt hot and both angel and demon were feeling even hotter, fingers moving here and there, but never to what was going to be wanting some attention. Well, Harrison thought, time to change that-

There was a sharp set of knocks at the doors to the library and Cortese pulled back sharply from Harrison, losing his balance and dropping to the floor at the sudden intrusion.

“Ssshit!” Harrison sat up straight and worked quickly to straighten out his shirt, trying to button it back up from where Cortese had popped a few of the buttons.

“Y-yes? Who’s there?” Cortese called out.

“Mr. Cortese,” came Warlock’s voice from the other side, “can I come in?”

“In a moment!” The blond replied before trying to get his vest and shirt back in order. “Oh, this was a bad idea…!” He whispered towards the other man in the room, who was trying to get his hair back into place.

“Yeah, yeah, I know! Gotta wait until the kid’s asleep, ‘r somethin’…” Harrison jumped from the table, throwing on his coat, then grabbing a tie, tossing the other at Cortese who was quick to try and get it done up.

Once Harrison thought he had everything in order, he rushed to the door, the lock suddenly undone and the door opened to reveal Warlock, standing there with a confusion on his face. “We’ll continue our discussion of the plans later, yes, Mr. Cortese?” He spoke, as if nothing had just happened, outside of the flushed look on his cheeks and the rumpled state of his clothes.

“Y-yes, of course, do come looking for me when you have the chance, Mr. Harrison.” Cortese replied, swallowing as he straightened his jacket out. He watched the other man walk past Warlock without much word and turned to the child. “Yes, did you need something?” He asked, trying to act like Warlock did not just interrupt something.

“Wonderin’ if I left my phone in here.” Warlock replied before tilting his head. “How come you’re wearin’ Mr. Harrison’s tie?”

Cortese looked down, seeing that, yes, he was wearing the dark colored tie.

This was gonna be a long next couple of years.

END

They make up for lost time later, but make sure that it’s when no one will bother them. >.>

Anyway, first time every writing for Harrison and Cortese that wasn’t them as the Radio Omens boys, it was fun.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #mr harrison #mr cortese #john's drabbles

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tardis-stowaway · 6 years ago

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Ten years after the Not-pocalypse, Adam Young, age 21 and recently graduated from university:

-Works in a crappy retail job and lives in a tiny, crappy flat in London

-The crappy flat has no sound insulation, so he’s always hearing the absurd amount of movement from the people in the flat above and the really loud but not quite intelligible conversations from the people in the flat next door. It’s a long way to the nearest public park, and he misses the green of home.

-Is not all that good at his customer service job, with the exception that if a customer is irrationally angry about something, he says he wants to make sure he understands the problem and repeats their complaint back to them with this look in his eyes, and they universally back down and often apologize. His coworkers love him for it. Everything else is just drudgery.

-Single, despite his best efforts. Okay, maybe not his best efforts, but some efforts.

-Knows that his childhood was uncommonly idyllic at least partly due to his powers. He’s not entirely sure how his life went quite so off the rails lately.

-Maybe his powers have faded gradually since he rejected his destiny, or maybe it’s just that on some level he absorbed the expectation that being in one’s early 20’s means being broke and a little lost, and the expectation made it happen whether he wanted it or not.

-Or maybe he just should’ve chosen a more employable course of study at uni instead of comparative religion. In his defense, it seemed relevant to his life.

-Spends much of his free time on climate crisis activism. He’ll be damned (ha) if he stood against the forces of Heaven and Hell, the Four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse, and his own birthright to preserve the continuing existence of humanity on the Earth only for humans to blunder into destroying themselves unintentionally through greed and shortsighted decisions.

-He’s been doing this since he was twelve, when Brian sent the Them’s group text an article about the group Extinction Rebellion with the caption “named for us?? :)” Adam had laughed, then actually read the article. Within a week he’d convinced the Them and a dozen of their classmates to show up at the next town council meeting with a list of sustainability demands.

-No matter how many civil disobedience events he takes part in, he never seems to get arrested. Adam suspects it’s his supernatural entity privilege. Pepper says it’s probably mostly that he’s white and great at charming his way out of trouble.

-He’s still friends with all of the Them, but they don’t live especially close together. He does have a flatmate, an American who Adam met at uni.

-At this point you, a genre-savvy reader of much Good Omens fic and meta, are probably seeing the word “American” and thinking that Adam is flatmates with Warlock Dowling. For once, you are wrong.

-Adam’s flatmate is Jesus.

-Not Jesus Christ, but a young man named Jesus Dominguez, pronounced the Spanish way (like hay-soos).

-Jesus is from Southern California, and he talks more than a little bit like a surfer stereotype. He’s got warm brown skin, shoulder-length dark hair in perpetually-mussed waves, and a little beard. He’s kinda leaning into the look to mess with people, but it’s also the same style found on at least a third of the other male-presenting hipsters in London.

-When he learned that he was going to share a flat with someone named Jesus, Adam called Crowley and Aziraphale. He’s never been gladder that he stayed in touch with them, because he NEEDED someone who understood how the Antichrist and Jesus sharing a flat sounded like the setup for a joke or a sitcom. Crowley did indeed laugh out loud, then told Adam that as a fellow lapsed member of the forces of Hell, he could personally recommend sharing quarters with a heavenly adversary. Aziraphale just muttered “oh, stop” at Crowley.

-Adam moved to London because it was easier to get to the important protests there, and because he was curious. He spent the first six months desperately homesick for Tadfield. The city was so crowded but somehow he still felt so alone, other than Jesus.

-Then a midnight fire-alarm in their building sent him and Jesus into the streets along with dozens of their neighbors. Adam finally met the people in the flat above theirs who made all that moving around noise. They were an older couple who took ballroom dancing lessons at the senior center and liked to practice at home. Mrs. Kapoor tried to teach Adam how to foxtrot right there on the pavement in the middle of the night. He stepped on her feet, but since he was in bare feet and she’d actually taken the time to find shoes it wasn’t a big deal.

-Meanwhile Jesus was finally talking to the loud young men from next door. By the time Adam wandered over, Jesus had learned their names (Leon, Seamus, and Nazim) and secured an invitation for the two of them to come over to watch Saturday’s football match, and to join their next D&D campaign (“just no more paladins,” said Nazim). Adam looked forward to finding out whether it was the D&D or the football that was the cause of more yelling.

-As the evacuation stretched on with no hint of either actual fire or clearance to go back inside, the building’s children began to get fussy. Adam found a coin on the ground (successfully picking it up, because Crowley didn’t make it to this neighborhood very often) and proceeded to distract them with stage magic.

-He initially learned stage magic from Aziraphale, but he’s better at it than the angel ever was. He hardly cheats physical reality at all. The kids love it.

-When the fire department finally gives them the clearance to go back inside, Adam’s stomach rumbles. “Is anyone else hungry?,” he asks, to a chorus of agreement. It’s too late for any nearby takeout, but Jesus chats with their neighbors about options.

-Jesus enlists Adam’s help in going from flat to flat gathering ingredients from everyone, and before long they’re serving fish tacos and grilled cheese sandwiches to a small crowd of pajama-clad people. It’s 2 am, but everyone is smiling, or at least has contentment at the edge of their yawns.

-The next day, Mrs. Kapoor brings Adam and Jesus a spider plant cutting, because she thought their flat looked too bare. Adam texts a picture of it to Crowley and receives back lengthy instructions on watering, pot size, soil, and the most effective threats for the species.

-Five months later, the local planning council has an intense debate about why crime rates in one neighborhood have dropped by 75% since their last meeting. They each try to claim credit for their pet civic projects. Actually, it’s because Adam Young has started to love London, or at least his nook of it.

-Buskers soon realize that certain tube stops are generating far more tips than they ever have before, with no obvious demographic shift accounting for the change. The common ground is that these are the stops on Adam’s commutes to work and his activist meetings. He can only occasionally spare a tip himself, but his enjoyment of the music is contagious.

-Even after the breakthrough, not every day is good. On a late summer day that just happens to be the anniversary of the day the world didn’t end, Adam comes home from a protest fuming.

-“Dude, you okay?” asks Jesus, looking up from his guitar. (Jesus sometimes goes to protests with Adam, but not usually the ones where they’re planning on breaking laws. “I’m a brown-skinned foreigner, man. Do you think I’ll get away with what you get away with? I’m not ready for that yet,” he says, and Adam can’t argue.)

-“The media barely showed up at our event, probably because it was about a million degrees and even though that’s exactly what we’re protesting, nobody wants to be out in it. Six of our people passed out from the heat and three got arrested. They still didn’t arrest me, but I got pushed over and cracked my phone screen. On my way home, some drunk on the tube vomited on my shoes. Our green jobs bill still doesn’t have the votes in Parliament, and have you seen the latest news on the Antarctic ice sheets?” Adam kicks off his shoes, then collapses dramatically onto the futon and groans.

-“Sounds rough,” says Jesus.

-“I should’ve just ended the damn world when I was eleven and I had the chance. Would’ve been quicker,” Adam mutters.

-Jesus gets up and goes to the kitchen. He brings Adam a beer. “You don’t mean that, bro,” he says.

-Adam sighs, accepting the beer. “I suppose not.”

-He drinks his beer. Dog, now grey-muzzled and slow, shuffles over to curl up at his feet. Adam pulls out his phone, which is cracked but still seems functional. He’s got a text from Aziraphale.

-“Dear Adam,” the text begins, because Aziraphale might have finally deigned to learn to text but he steadfastly refused to adopt its stylistic conventions, “I hope that you have returned safely from today’s protest. I’m very proud of your continuing efforts, and though he won’t admit it I know that Crowley feels the same. Please write back at your earliest convenience. Fondly, Aziraphale”

-Adam texts back to reassure the angel, who will doubtless pass it on to Crowley, then he texts similar reassurances to his parents and to Mrs. Kapoor upstairs. He’s still figuring out this adulthood thing, but he’s got a lot of parental figures looking out for him. His Infernal Bio-Dad isn’t one of them, and that’s the way Adam likes it.

-Through the open window comes the sound of music blasting from a car stuck in traffic below. Freddie Mercury and David Bowie are singing:

And love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night, And love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves.

-He turned down the chance to rule the world, and he’d make the same choice again, but he still feels a certain proprietary responsibility towards the planet and its inhabitants. His father—his real, earthly father—didn’t raise him to shirk responsibility, and he’s not one to cave under pressure.

-Life is hard, people are mostly idiots, and the world is coming apart at the seams, but it’s his messed up life and his idiotic people and his beautiful, half-broken world.

#good omens #adam young #good omens headcanons #fanfic #post-canon #please excuse any errors and americanisms #long post #tardis-stowaway's writing & stuff

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chamyl · 5 years ago

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Good Omens fic recs, part two

Find part one here!

All are completed. Sorted by rating and then by length, NSFW ones under the cut.

Entwined in Every Step I Take by Ghostinthehouse Gen, 1842 words "You do know," he said after a long moment, "that angels can sense love, don't you?" "Going to smite me down for it, angel?" "I think you're quite smitten enough, without adding to it."

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm Gen, 99421 words As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Too Generous by rfsmiley Teen and up, 1501 words “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.” Or: what happened after the [ we all got hit by a ] bus scene (aka "you could stay at my place, if you like")....

Birds of a Feather by idiopathicsmile Teen and up, 3608 words “Isn’t this nice?” says Aziraphale with badly feigned casualness the next time Crowley stops by for a late night drink. Crowley is all set to reply, words lined up in his mouth waiting to go, when Aziraphale adds, “I mean, all of the books and furniture and bottles of wine and things?” Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals.

forgotten (but not gone) by writeonclara Teen and up, 9541 words “Angel,” this demon accuses, somehow managing to hiss the word despite the lack of sibilant letters. Aziraphale tips his chin up, wondering why his heart had stumbled strangely at the title. It’s what he is, and has been so for millennia. Coming from this demon, though, it has the feeling of—of an endearment, somehow, which is just foolish beyond all words. “Serpent,” is what his mouth says, but then his teeth click shut around the word. The demon’s eyes widen. “You know me then?” Aziraphale shakes his head.

Dearly Departed by attheborder Teen and up, 29774 words Finally, Aziraphale spoke. “You mean to say— you got us married?” “Just as a precaution, I never really thought I’d end up discorporated again, it’d been ages, you just don’t get stampedes or assassinations like you used to —” “You got us married, and you didn’t tell me?” *** Crowley gets inconveniently discorporated. And it’s not like it’s ever been easy to get a new body, but this time around, things really aren’t looking good. His new innuendo-obsessed lust-demon of a coworker honestly isn’t helping things. Meanwhile, Aziraphale has a dead body to contend with, and an occult mortician & his very normal daughter to fend off. What lengths will he go to in order to get Crowley back to Earth?

Pray For Us, Icarus by Atalan Teen and up, 65836 words For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

Four-Letter Words by idiopathicsmile Mature, 3081 words Prompt: "humiliation kink by way of compliment, Aziraphale gets Crowley hot and bothered by accusing him of goodness." It’s a chilly day in November of 1987, and Aziraphale badly wants a drink.

These Captive Stars by darlingred1 Explicit, 6433 words Over the centuries Aziraphale learned many things about the human form, as well as his own, and among his lessons was this: most humans do not have thighs so exquisitely sensitive as his. (Aziraphale has very sensitive inner thighs. Crowley finds out, and things get smutty but also incredibly sappy.)

Consecrated ground by equestrianstatue Explicit, 8263 words Aziraphale’s mouth burned. But not like hellfire burned, cruel and destructive, sizzling a hole through whatever it touched. This was that same terrible charge of ethereal electricity, conducted in the very fluid of Aziraphale’s being. Something that had seemed so outside of him, something of heaven, something that wasn’t part of the Aziraphale who had lived six thousand years here with Crowley on Earth, careful and petty and kind. And yet here heaven had been, all this time, just past his lips.

Yield Under Pressure by writeonclara Explicit, 9934 words Aziraphale’s eyes crack back to him, like a pistol whip. The fixed look enters his gaze again. Crowley stares flatly back. He’s been an apex predator for far longer than Aziraphale ever has. But then Aziraphale wrenches his eyes away and roughly shakes his head. “I really don’t. I—that is to say—she—” “Who?” Crowley demands furiously. “Michael? Beezlebub?” “Second.” Anger bubbles up in Crowley’s chest, but he tamps it down. It can wait. “What did she do?” “I don’t know, Crowley!” It’s almost like their normal bickering, except Aziraphale is shaking so hard that Crowley can hear his wings rustle. “She said—she—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “‘Fall, or die. The choice is yours’.” OR: Aziraphale is hit with sex pollen. Crowley helps him through it.

a soft place to land by PaintedVanilla Explicit, 10005 words Crowley isn't sure how to ask for something when he doesn’t even know what it is that he wants. [My notes: this one has a special place in my ❤️]

To Give and To Receive by TheGypsyQueen Explicit, 10397 Or: Is That Really All It Took? Crowley likes to give Aziraphale things. Food, drinks, rides, whatever, it doesn't matter. It's all worth the praise and the gratitude and those glowing angelic smiles. He cannot imagine that Aziraphale would want to return the favor, and doesn't think he should. Aziraphale disagrees with that sentiment.

A Kiss Is Just A Kiss by juliet & laurashapiro Explicit, 10522 words “The rules are: apart from kissing, you don’t touch me, I don’t touch you. For the next two days.”

End with Hope by PepperPrints Explicit, 15888 words In 537 A.D., the Black Knight enters King Arthur's Tournament of Champions, with quite disastrous consequences, and Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table takes it upon himself to intervene -- which, naturally, also turns out to be quite disastrous in itself. [My notes: one of my favourites EVER. How I want to write? Like this like this like this]

One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan Explicit, 17381 words "All right, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Aziraphale says. "What exactly does this wager entail?" Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow. He grabs the bottle and swigs straight from it despite Aziraphale's tut of disapproval. "The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening." AKA The Fic That Tumblr Made Me Write. Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it. [My notes: this has been rec'd all over tumblr already, but hey. with good reason]

For the Longest Time by darlingred1 Explicit, 20370 words “You…” Aziraphale sounded baffled, and suddenly quite sober. “You liked that? But, my dear, you said it was torturous. ‘Six thousand years of torture,’ as I recall.” “Yeah. Yeah, but the anticipation, and the yearning, and…and how every moment with you was so maddeningly intense, and…” And what else could Crowley say? How could he expect Aziraphale to understand that after six thousand years of torture he’d actually got a bit used to it? That he’d felt like a band strained further and further, and now he found himself permanently stretched, flopping about with too much slack and no way to hold on to what he’d been reaching towards for so long? (Crowley kind of misses the pining when it's gone. Aziraphale comes up with a solution.) [My notes: AKA 'that 20k edging fic']

#good omens #otp: ineffable #ineffable husbands #good omens fic recs #honestly i make these lists because I get a chance to reread all my favourite fics lmfao #I still hate tumblr formatting tho

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xiaq · 5 years ago

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So next month I’m attending two different friends’ work Christmas parties and pretending to be their girlfriend and I thought to myself today: wouldn’t it be funny if someone happened to be at both parties, recognized me, and pulled aside Friend2 to tell him I was cheating on him and Friend2 panicked and claimed all three of us were dating to save face. Can you imagine the hijinks that would ensue?

And then because I write fanfiction I was like.

Wait.

So picture this:

Good Omens Human AU:

Crowley is a young, hotshot, workaholic lawyer who has invented a girlfriend to get his coworkers off his back. He asks his friend Anathema who runs the coffee shop next to the firm to please, please, play the part at the holiday party and she agrees.

Anathema also agrees to attend the Soho Classical Book Club’s winter party with her friend Aziraphale who runs the book shop adjacent to her coffee shop. Aziraphale has, similarly, been citing his partner as an excuse to get out of blind dates and pub nights with his book club friends and they’re starting to think he’s made said partner up.

All should be well…except one of the lawyers at Crowley’s firm also attends the Soho Classical Book Club. So when a coworker approaches Crowley at the holiday party, looking very grave, and murmurs to him that he thinks his girlfriend is cheating on him with a member of his book club, Crowley, panicked and trying to save face, says, “Ah. No. Not at all. That’s just…our boyfriend.” Dumb of ass, our Crowley. And the other lawyer is like. “Oh! Well. Of course. That’s—you should have brought Aziraphale as well. We wouldn’t—we certainly wouldn’t have a problem with that. We’re all very accepting here at the firm. He’s absolutely welcome to come to the next ‘do in addition to Anathema.” And Crowley is like. “Ah. Yes. I will certainly invite him next time. Aziraphale. My other partner.” And Anathema tells Aziraphale and everyone is all rather amused about it.

Except having two partners makes it even more suspicious when you arrive alone to company dinners or book club events, Crowley and Aziraphale find. And suddenly their friends and coworkers are overly concerned about their relationships and asking prying questions and wondering if they are unhappy or on the verge of a breakup because neither of their partners ever seem available. And finally, on the Friday before a weekend that Anathema is out of town, Crowley shows up at the book shop with every intention of introducing himself and then begging whomever this Aziraphale person is to please pretend to be his partner at the merger celebration the following night or he may have to quit his job. And Aziraphale had already been considering asking Anathema for Crowley’s phone number because he thinks if he doesn’t turn up to the Sunday book club meeting with at least one of them in tow he may blurt out the whole charade due to stress.

Except Crowley comes sauntering in through the doors and Aziraphale is peering at a book through his tiny little glasses and they both sort of freeze with sequential realizations:

Oh no, he’s hot.

Cue fumbled introductions and awkward agreements—Crowley probably makes a spreadsheet—to attend occasional events together. And over the following months they Pine Heavily. Crowley starts dropping by the bookshop under the pretense of discussing their meetings, and then the pretense of discussing the monthly book because he’s started attending the book club. And Aziraphale starts ordering Crowley’s favorite coffee for him and delivering it with the occasional scone to his office during Aziraphale’s lunch break. And Anathema occasionally joins them at various company and book club events but usually can use her odd hours at the coffee shop as an excuse to skip so it’s mostly just.

Them.

Together.

Pretending to be a couple.

And this is getting long and I should really get back to work but you know, you KNOW, that eventually, after some terrible soul-sucking case is just finished, when Crowley hasn’t slept for a week (it’s probably also raining), he stumbles into the coffee shop where Aziraphale is just ordering a bedtime hot chocolate and Aziraphale takes one look and him and is like. No. No sir. No caffeine or, god forbid, driving for you. And brings him up to the flat above the book shop and puts him to bed.

And Crowley is like, “Oh, angel,” (of course he calls Aziraphale angel. Crowley calls Aziraphale angel in every universe. It probably started as a joke about gross pet names in this particular universe and then stuck. But pet names are not at all gross, it turns out, when you’re actually in love with the person, Crowley discovers). Anyway. Crowley says, “Oh angel, I couldn’t put you out of your bed. Are you going to sleep on the couch? With your back? Can’t do. There’s plenty of room for two.” And they go to sleep on separate sides but then wake up in the morning cuddling and nearly inconsolable from how fraught everything is. Because they both think their affections are unrequited. Because they are both idiots.

But thankfully, when they awkwardly go to the coffee shop together that morning Anathema is like, “Oh thank god. You two finally banged. I was so sick of hearing you whine about how in love you are with each other.” And they’re like… “Wat.” And then they go right back upstairs to Aziraphale’s flat without coffee and the book shop does not open that day and Crowley calls in sick and whenever they do rejoin society having talked things out (among other things), they sadly report to mutual friends that they have broken up with Anathema who, oddly enough, is the officiator of their wedding a year later. So clearly it was an amicable breakup. And they live happily ever after the end.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley/aziraphale #good omens fic #myfic

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ineffably-good · 5 years ago

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Prompt #5: Miscommunication

It’s Day 5 of the Good Omens Anniversary Month Celebration! Today’s prompt is miscommunication... and I have to admit I had a lot of fun writing this one. I hope you enjoy!

____________________

Friday morning, Earth

“I got the strangest memo today,” Aziraphale said one morning at breakfast.

Crowley wasn’t quite awake enough to focus on memos, to be honest, but he was trying. He downed his espresso in one gulp and set about getting the machine set up to make another.

“From who?” he finally said.

“Gabriel, supposedly, but I think perhaps he’s got a new intern, some low-ranking angel who’s not quite up to speed on using the computer systems yet.”

“Whatsitsay?” Crowley mumbled, poking buttons wildly on the espresso machine until something started to happen.

“It says,” Aziraphale said with a hint of laughter in his voice, “that for the love of God, Aziraphale, can you please exorcise all restraint in your interactions with the demon Crowley.”

Crowley grinned, suddenly much more awake. “Exorcise restraint? Not exercise?”

Aziraphale grinned back. “Yes indeed.”

“So – you received an official reprimand letter from the wanker you no longer work for, telling you to please, for the love of god, remove all of your inhibitions, burn the modesty out of you, and go hog wild with the demon Crowley?”

Aziraphale smoothed down his waistcoat. “I believe that’s the long and the short of it.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Well I believe we should write a rather detailed field report on how you fulfilled those orders to the letter.”

“I think that would be most enjoyable,” Aziraphale said with a predatory smile. “Where should we begin?”

“Where’s that kama sutra book you hide away from the customers?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and went off to look for it.

Sunday morning

Up in Heaven, in the bowels of the smallest office, the angel Naviel watched the two printers he was in charge of grind away, one spitting out short tabs of paper that listed, line by line, each miracle used on Earth. This was quite a dull job, generally.

The other was essentially the inbox for Heaven. All incoming documents arrived there and were routed by Naviel through interoffice pneumatic tubes to their proper locations. Unless they were very, very sensitive, and then he delivered them carefully and in person.

The letter that arrived this morning appeared to fall in the latter category.

“Oh my,” he said, reading it over. His coworker over at one of the many incoming prayer desks looked up.

“You all right over there, Nav?” she asked in concern. “You look pale.”

Naviel swallowed down the urge to fling the paper across the room to her. “How long has it been since Gabriel discorporated a messenger angel?”

His coworker narrowed her eyes, trying to remember. “I think he’s only done it twice. Which really isn’t that much at all, considering how long we’ve been at this.”

“I think he’s going to make it three today,” Naviel said. “If … if I don’t come back, please take over my printers, would you?”

His coworker, momentarily distracted by an uptick in transmissions on her own devices, nodded distractedly.

Naviel gathered the customary silver tray, placed the letter on it, and hurried off to Gabriel’s office.

Friday evening

On Earth, a certain angel and demon came up for air, flushed and breathless after working their way through a remarkable number of increasingly acrobatic combinations of an amorous nature.

“Care for some sushi, angel?” Crowley said.

“Why, I think I could be tempted,” Aziraphale said with a grin. “But only if we get an amount that is truly, truly indecent. Might as well add gluttony to the list.”

Crowley grinned wolfishly. “I’ll feed it to you piece by piece, angel,” he said. “We’ll combine gluttony, sloth, and lust all in one go.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, I so hope you’re keeping a list. I do need to report all of this accurately.”

Sunday morning

Naviel knocked on Gabriel’s door and entered nervously when Gabriel bellowed. Gabriel was seated behind his immense mahogany desk, adjusting his hair in a pocket mirror. He hardly even looked up when Naviel entered.

“Field report for you, sir,” Naviel said hesitantly. “From the Principality.”

“I’m busy,” Gabriel said. “Read it to me.”

Naviel swallowed. “I- I’d rather not, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Gabriel lowered his mirror and stared at Naviel, taking him in for the first time. “Nar – Nad – what was your name again?”

“Naviel, sir.”

“Right!” He gave the clerk a broad and insincere smile. “Don’t be a drip. Do your job and read it to me, okay?”

Naviel knew enough about Gabriel to know he should definitely not push back any further if he didn’t want to be demoted to cleaning duty. “If you insist, sir,” he said, clearing his throat. He put the tray down on the corner of Gabriel’s desk, and picked up the papers in hands that he had to visibly try not to let tremble.

“My Dear Gabriel,” he began. He looked up nervously and Gabriel motioned impatiently for him to continue, as he returned to examining his hairline in the mirror.

“At last, a missive from you that I can firmly get behind, so to speak. I was delighted to receive your request for a complete cessation of all inhibitions and restraint in my dealings with the demon heretofore known as Crowley, now currently known to all and sundry as my spouse and the love of my life. As per your note, I took a few moments to excise the last remnants of modesty and restraint from my heart, and set about seeing what we could do to fulfill your instructions. The following is a rather thorough list of my activities over the last forty-eight hours. I know you do so prefer for me to be thorough in my reports.”

Saturday afternoon

Aziraphale stretched luxuriously and took a moment to admire the sight of his husband lying thoroughly debauched in their bed, his pale skin a lovely contrast to the dark blue linen sheets that were gathered around his hips. He ran a hand down his back and then hopped out of bed for a moment to pad downstairs and retrieve his favorite fountain pen and a few pieces of creamy stationery emblazoned with his winged crest.

He rejoined Crowley in the bed and leaned down to give him a kiss on the temple. Crowley murmured at him but made no effort to stir.

“Stay put, love,” Aziraphale said. “I have a letter to write. And I thought it might be a lovely bit of irony to use your beautiful, naked back as my writing desk. Would you mind terribly?”

Crowley chuckled. “Is this letter to a certain wankwings archangel?”

“But of course,” Aziraphale replied.

“Be my guest,” Crowley said. “But you have to read it aloud to me as you write.”

Aziraphale laid the paper on Crowley’s back, and began composing. “My Dear Gabriel,” he said aloud, writing in his tidy and extremely old-fashioned copperplate. “At last, a missive from you that I can firmly get behind, so to speak.”

Crowley snorted and Aziraphale patted his backside appreciatively.

“Hush now,” he said, “don’t go tempting me. And you have to hold still for this to work – do you or do you not want to know that Gabriel is holding a letter that was written on your naked body?”

Crowley smiled. His husband was the best bastard in the entire universe. He did his best to hold still.

Sunday morning

Naviel made it to the bottom of the first page, his face burning bright red and his tongue feeling dry as shoe leather and twice its usual side, as he read item after item on the world’s longest and most mortifying bullet list of debauchery.

Gabriel sat stony-faced at the desk, mirror forgotten, looking too shocked to even breathe. Not that he needed to. But he liked to keep up appearances.

Finally Naviel dared to take a slight break to cough and try to return some moisture to his tongue.

“That will be quite enough!” Gabriel shouted, returning to his senses and realizing that he was allowing another, lower angel to witness this moment of abject humiliation at the hand of his oldest and hardest-fought rival. “Leave it with me, I will read the rest.”

Naviel put the pages down in vast relief. “I do believe there are a few venn diagrams on the final pages that help to summarize some of the information,” he said. “If you’d care to send a response, I can return with the official letterhead –”

“That will NOT be necessary,” Gabriel said, waving a hand imperiously. “Leave me at once. Go!”

Naviel scurried for the door.

“And Nagriel?” Gabriel called after him.

“Navriel,” the lesser angel corrected him.

“Whatever,” Gabriel said. “Speak of this to anyone and I’ll ensure your memory is reset to the day you were made, do you understand me?”

“Absolutely sir, yes sir,” Navriel said, latching on to the doorknob like it was a life raft. He made it to the anteroom and closed the door behind him, then all but ran for his office.

That was a close one, he thought. He wondered if he could get transferred to the library. Nothing bad ever happened in a library.

#goc2020 #good omens fanfic #aziraphale x crowley #gabriel

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meli-productions · 4 years ago

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Biblically Known

Despite the name, there is no smut...though things do get heated. Day Four of #ineffablehusbandsauweek for @ineffablehusbandsweek

As always, it can be read on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620054

The soft clicking of heels from behind brought Aziraphale’s attention away from the exhibit and towards the intruder. At the sight of the approaching woman, a smile split his face.

“Antoniette! How lovely to see you again,” he said, meeting her in the middle of the room. “What brings you around this time? Biblical or modern?”

The woman, tall and looming over him with her stilettos, smiled and pulled off her glasses, “Um, I think that this time it’s Biblical - something about a garden?”

Aziraphale hesitated, taking a moment to study the woman’s gold eyes that shifted under his scrutiny, then his faltered smile returned to full power, “Of course, darling. Was it the Garden of Eden or the Hanging Gardens?”

She snapped, “That’s the one. Hanging Gardens, sounds like fun - I have a garden too so it seemed like a good report to do.”

“Then come along,” said Aziraphale, holding out his arm for her to take. “I have just the resources you need.”

The two spoke amicably as they wandered the halls of the museum - a sight to behold: the plump curator that dressed like a character off The Mummy movies and the femme fatale of a Bond film. They had met one evening when Antoniette Crowley had arrived at the museum with a notebook in hand and bumped into the curator - Aziraphale Fell - in a very literal sense.

Aziraphale had fussed over the woman, making sure she was okay before asking if there was anything she needed - that he would love to help her as the new curator of the museum. And for her part, Antoniette had blinked up at him for a few minutes, blushed, and asked if he knew anything about the Dead Sea Scrolls.

When Aziraphale beamed and dragged her down the halls, a new friendship was struck - and a promise of continuing friendship stemmed from their conversation and jaunt through history. So when he sees Antoniette in the museum, Aziraphale knows that he’s in for a good time and a wonderful conversation about history.

“So these Hanging Gardens - they were destroyed, too, huh?” asked Antoniette, looking at the mock up that had been prepared in its little corner of the museum. “Just like the tower, just like Eden itself.”

“Unfortunately,” Aziraphale responded with a sigh. “Pity. One of the wonders they said. It’s a shame to lose something so vivid. Was there anything specific you needed to know about it?”

Antoniette perched her elbow on Aziraphale’s shoulder, “Anything you’ve got for me, angel. I’ll pick and choose the information.”

With the go-ahead of a full professorial lecture, Aziraphale launched into a story head tilted up towards the honey-gold eyes that were watching him with rapt attention.

“How’d the lie go today?”

Antoniette looked down and met the smirk of her partner, Beatrice, with a sharp smile of her own.

“It went perfectly fine, thanks for asking. He doesn’t suspect a thing and I got to hear him mourn the Hanging Gardens of Babylon for almost an hour…we had lunch afterwards.”

Beatrice snickered, “Then got off on those little sounds of his?”

“Shut it, Bea.”

But they continued, “He’s gonna find out one of these days - gonna slip or he’s gonna say something historically inaccurate and you won’t be able to help yourself. One way or another, Toni, your anthropologist smartass will show.”

She just shook her head, curls flying wild, “Absolutely not. He’s too smart to say something wrong. Besides, I’m not hurting anyone. I just - I just want to get to know him and if he knew who I really was - ”

“He’d fall harder for you?” asked Bea, eyebrow raised questioningly.

“No, he’d get weird - weird academic boner like that hothead Lucius,” said Antoniette. “I don’t want this to end. And I’ll tell him the truth.”

Bea laughed again, “After you two get married? Or when the director finally spots you and calls your bluff - that you’ve been acting like an ignoramus around your own fucking exhibit.”

Antoniette’s face turned as red as her hair, “We have very insightful conversations, Bea. I don’t act like I’m stupid - just not like Professor Crowley, that’s for sure.”

A roll of bright blue eyes met her own, “Whatever, Toni. But if you don’t tell him soon, it’s gonna come out somehow. You’ll see.”

She sighed, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A steaming mug of tea thumped down at Aziraphale’s side bringing his head up towards the hand attached to the handle.

“Ana,” he said, slipping off the glasses hanging on the edge of his nose. “Thank you, dear. It’s just what I needed.”

“What you needed was a break from that book. I know your job is to appraise and reconstruct, but you’ve been on that for three hours.”

“Has it really been that long?”

Ana - Anathema - huffed, “Yes, you workaholic. Honestly, when Toni swings by those are the best days because it gets you away from those damned books.”

He tisked, “There’s no need to offend them - they’ve done nothing wrong. And yes, I do agree - it is a delight when Antoniette is around.”

Aziraphale took a sip and noticed the red-lipped smirk that his youngest coworker wore from over the rim of the mug. He raised an eyebrow in question which set her off in giggles.

“Are you ever gonna tell her that you know she’s acting dumb?”

Another tisk, “She’s not acting dumb, Anathema. Her conversations are very insightful, it’s just that she’s not sharing just how smart she is with me. And no. That’s for her to tell me when the time is right. After all, there must be a reason.”

Anathema scoffed, “Yeah, the reason is that she likes you and thinks that if you can’t help her you won’t be interested in being around her. You know what would encourage her to tell the truth,” she paused for him to question her, “ask her out on a date. An actual date, not those ‘well, since we’re at it we might as well have lunch’ dates. Ask her to dinner, buy her expensive wine, take her home and - ”

“Anathema,” said Aziraphale, blush dusting his cheeks. “Antoniette is a lady, I will not do anything untoward.”

She smirked, “Never said to do anything untoward. And besides, if anyone’s gonna make a move like that it’s gonna be her - not you. She is sin incarnate, isn’t she?”

He sighed, and rubbed his temples when she started laughing, “I regret ever telling you that. Now, are you going to join me for tea or just laugh at my misfortune? Come, tell me about your latest project.”

Wednesday night was always a quiet one at the museum - just a few stragglers that would lazily wander up and down the exhibits and when Aziraphale found himself more often than not alone in the ancient artifacts room.

And usually that’s where Antoniette would find him.

This time, though, she was not in her tight pencil skirt and stilettos, but in baggy sweats that disguised her - even her sunglasses were a cheaper pair she’d picked up from a tourist booth on the way in and yet he still recognised her.

“My dearest, are you alright?” he asked, reaching out for her then stopping a breath away from her elbow. “Is there anything you need?”

She was quiet for a moment, and he wished she would fee; comfortable taking off her glasses, but they remained on, “Just - a distraction, angel. Anything you’ve got.”

Aziraphale frowned at the deadened tone, but he gave her a little smile nonetheless, “I think I’ve got just the thing,” he held his arm out, “It’s okay if you don’t want to - ”

Antoniette grabbed onto it like it was a lifeline, “Let’s see what you have, love.”

He kept a quiet drone about the latest visitors to the museum and the field trip of primary grade students that ran amok in the dinosaur exhibit and though she laughed at the right moment and agreed when she needed to, Aziraphale could tell that she was still distracted.

“Here we go, dearest,” he said and sat her at his desk. “My newest acquisition: the ‘Bugger Alle’ Bible.”

She gave a little gasp and reached out with long fingers before folding her fingers and glancing up at him, “Gloves?”

With a smile, he handed over his pair and though he knew they’d be too short, they would be enough for her to touch the book. Antoniette stroked the spine with a delicate touch and cracked it open with the care of a mother to her child, Aziraphale shivering at her gentleness.

“This is in top condition,” she said, breathless. “Did you do the restoration?”

“One of my specialties,” answered Aziraphale, leaning in close and using her fingers to follow the stitching. “Took a few hours - three if my coworker is to be believed - but it’s almost in perfect condition to be displayed.”

Antoniette looked up at him again, glasses slipped down enough for her gold eyes to be seen, “Amazing. This is - stunning work. Delicate - strong - I- ”

Aziraphale cupped her face in his hand, “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I have a feeling that you haven’t eaten - I can order some takeout?”

She leaned into the heat now on her cheek, lips brushing his thumb, “Sounds like a plan - Thai?”

“Whatever you want, dear,” he answered, breathless.

A couple of hours later the two of them had made their way out of the chair and sat on the floor of Aziraphale’s office, leaning against his desk as they passed a bottle of wine between them.

“And ‘s not fair,” said Antoniette, pouting. “That just ‘cus he’s a man he gets my project - top n’m. ‘S like I d’nt even exist.”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale agreed, “Y’re smart and w’rkd hard f’r that - that project - wanker sh’dnt get an’thin.”

Antoniette shot him a wine-drowsy smile, “Y’re not a wanker though - y’re an - an angel. Pretty, s’ft, smart, gorgeous angel. B’t you d’nt want me - y’like books more.”

He huffed and wobbled closer, hand brushing her cheeks, “My books d’nt look like you, th’r not smart and beautif’l and sweet n’ let me talk th’r ear off. Not like you, Antoniette. My dear, m’ so glad you came into my life - best day ‘f m’ life.”

A whimper escaped wine-red lips as Antoniette turned to his hand, eyes closed, and whispered, “I really want to kiss you r’now.”

Aziraphale chuckled using his finger to sweep over her lips, “Me too, but now while we’re drunk.”

Another whimper from Antoniette as he continued his ministrations down to her chin and then to her throat, the warm press of his calloused thumb bringing goosebumps on her skin. Then he pulled away and she met his half-lidded eyes. They both felt a little more sober, a little more sharper.

“If you want - we can have dinner tomorrow - real dinner,” he said. “And we’ll see how it goes.”

She pouted once again, but nodded, “‘S a date.”

Anathema fussed over Aziraphale, fixing his bowtie and coat and running her fingers through his hair before he pulled her hands away and held them tight against his chest.

“Anathema, dear,” he said, eyes crinkled in mirth. “It’ll be fine. I’ve dressed like this every time we’ve been together - mess or not, she doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a date, Zira,” she said, almost bouncing with joy. “I’m so proud of you, viejito, you’ve got a date with a hot, smart woman and you did that all on your own. Get your woman, mi vida.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but the smile did not waver, “Thank you, Ana, I guess you can say I’m finally an adult.”

A voice clearing behind them made them turn around and were greeted by the sight of a gorgeous, black dress clad Antoniette, red curls pinned to the side. Her smile was tight as her eyes flickered from Anathema to Aziraphale.

“Antoniette, darling,” Aziraphale said, his smile spreading. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, “Of course.”

Anathema pulled out of his grip, “Nice to finally meet you, Antoniette. I’m Anathema, co-worker and babysitter of this old man here.”

The two women shook hands, Antoniette’s smile still tight against her cheeks, before Aziraphale held out his arm for her to take. They bid Anathema their goodbyes and headed out.

“She seems nice,” said Antoniette, fingers tapping against the scratchy fabric of his coat. “Young. Smart.”

“And annoying as nothing else,” Aziraphale said, soothing her fingers with his free hand. “Her Americanisms can be hard to deal with - and her boyfriend has his own hands full with her.”

Antoniette’s fingers stopped as his hand wrapped around them, “Oh. She’s - she’s- ”

“An archeologist, and occultist if you can believe,” he said. “And no one for you to worry about, trust me dearest, you outshine everyone I’ve ever met before.”

She blushed and squeezed his arm, “And you truly are an angel.”

He chuckled in return, “I certainly hope not for long.”

Dinner was a slow-moving affair, Aziraphale savoring every bite and Antoniette enjoying every sound he made, tugging the hem of her dress down her dress as she grew hotter. After dessert and coffee - tea for the curator - Aziraphale offered to move the night to his flat and Antoniette took the offer with an almost embarrassing quickness.

“It’s not much,” he said, opening the door to his flat and ushering her in.

Books were scattered around, stacked in every corner and packed into bookshelves. There was a cozy messiness about the room that was perfect for him and she smiled at him.

“It’s wonderful, perfect for you,” said Antoniette, curling into the couch. “And the books make so much sense.”

Aziraphale blushed and scratched his neck, “Would you like some wine? I have a nice Burgundy that I’ve been dying to share with the right person.”

“And would that mean me?”

“I think it is.”

“Then pop it open and come join me.”

When he returned with the bottle and glasses, he found Antoniette, glasses off and flipping through the pages of a book. She looked up at him with wide eyes as he handed her a glass and she refused it.

“What’s wrong?”

She closed the book and handed it over, “Interesting choice - have you - did you - ”

The book was a detailed introspection on the Garden of Eden, a book written by Antoniette Crowley, and his eyes crinkled with mirth, “I suspected. I was just honored that you think that I was worth talking to and - you were just as beautiful as you were smart.”

Tossing the book to a side, Antoniette lunged towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck and licking her way into her mouth as he returned the kiss she laid on him. His hands came around her and hoisted her closer, and she moaned against him.

When they pulled apart for air, she laughed as she took in his lipstick covered mouth and he joined her soon after.

“Is it too soon to say that I love you?” she asked, gripping his hair as he began pressing kisses along her neck.

He hummed against her throat, “Only if it’s too soon for me to say that I love you as well.”

Antoniette gave a tug, “I think you brought that wine out too soon,” another moan, “I think I found something tastier.”

“The wine’s waited this long, it can wait longer. Let us indulge in this dessert before turning to the drink.”

She let herself be settled onto his lap as he took a seat, “Sounds tasty.”

#ineffablehusbandsauweek #ineffable husbands au week #Ineffable Husbands #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #female crowley #museum au #curator aziraphale #anthropologist crowley #crowley's name is antoniette #anathema device #beelzebub #human au #good omens #gomens #good omens fanfiction #gomens fanfiction

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kaesaaurelia · 4 years ago

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deals and contracts and paperwork fiddle-faddle

For @whumptober2020 day 11: Psych 101 (specifically "defiance," although this turned out to be much less “one person defies their captor” than I intended it to be and more “one person inspires another’s defiance.”)

Continues on from day four, wherein Aziraphale met up with a distraught coworker, waited for Crawly at the base of the Tower of Babel, and then it fell on him, day five, wherein Aziraphale did his best to help the citizens of Babylon, and was caught by demons for his trouble, and day eight, wherein Aziraphale found brief and unexpected camaraderie among the prisoners of Hell.

Background Aziraphale/f!Crawly, although this is mostly Aziraphale having a dialogue with an OC who’s trying (slightly) to sell him on a deal with the Devil.

When somebody finally came for Aziraphale, though, it wasn't Crawly. It was Nisroc, with a gaggle of Legions. "Hey, buddy, how's it going?" she asked brightly.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. He'd been planning to have an argument with Crawly about whether she'd betrayed him, and found himself very disappointed she wasn't here, but Nisroc had betrayed Heaven, so Aziraphale was determined to pick a fight with her instead.

"Ugh," she said, rolling her eyes. "So, turns out Michael is a huge bitch? Like, I guess God had to sign off on it all but I'm sure She would have been fine with it if She had the real story, Michael probably --"

"What are you doing here in front of my cell?" Aziraphale cut in. "Can you get me out of here?"

"Hmm, well, yes and no?" said Nisroc. "Satan's authorized me to give you his proposal, and if you accept it, you can get you out of here."

"But you're not even a demon yet!" said Aziraphale. "Are you?" He squinted at her. She didn't look like a demon, but maybe it was subtle.

"Nope," she said. "He's too busy fixing everyone's languages to remake me, all he did was give me Hell's new standard common language. Turns out I'm the only person we know can talk to you already, so..." She said something incomprehensible to the Legions, one of whom presented her with a clay tablet. "Okay, so, just so you know the stakes of this? Good news is, my whole status isn't gonna be affected by whether I can get you to do this, so no pressure there. Bad news is, I think they might kill you if you don't? So, probably a lot of pressure overall! Sorry about that," she said.

Aziraphale sighed. "What exactly is the deal? Do they want me to become a demon?"

"Pretty much, yeah," said Nisroc. "I guess some other demon was talking about what a great asset you'd be? Slimy or something, I don't know, Satan trusts whoever they are."

His heart sank. Crawly had betrayed him, hadn't she? He might as well stop pretending it was at all likely that she hadn't. "Crawly," he said.

"Yeah, something like that," Nisroc said. She skimmed the tablet. "You won't get to keep your name, unfortunately -- but honestly, probably more trouble than it's worth if you're not pregnant? Like, that was why I did that whole --" She waved vaguely upwards. "-- y'know, that thing. Also, apparently you have no control over what kind of animal stuff you end up with, just generally? I am so worried. Like what if Satan turns me into a slug or something? That would ruin my whole aesthetic." She looked at Aziraphale. "Sorry, don't want to make you worry, I'm sure you'll be fine on that count. You'd make a great slug."

Aziraphale gritted his teeth. "Is there anything I actually get out of this supposed deal?" he asked.

"You get to live," said Nisroc. "If you want more you can probably negotiate up? But also Satan's a huge asshole so I super wouldn't bother if I was you. I did and it's still a really shitty deal."

"Why did you take it, then?" he asked.

"My options are pretty limited these days," said Nisroc. "Being powerless but unchanging and immortal, doomed to walk the Earth forever, accepted neither by Heaven nor Hell was not cutting it. Especially since being pregnant literally forever is worse than Hell. Or, I think it is? God, I hope it is," she said, sighing.

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "So -- you actually are --"

"Yeah, like I said, Michael got really mad," said Nisroc. "Although actually I think Raphael snitched on me? Which I would not have expected out of him. Don't trust that fucker."

"I... didn't think anybody did?" Aziraphale said. There had been a big scandal a while back, where it had become obvious that Raphael's blueprints for primates and Gabriel's blueprints for humans were awfully similar, enough so that somebody had obviously been copying. Officially, no conclusion had ever been reached; unofficially, though, Raphael had been pushed out of all the important decision-making and shuffled off to the perpetually understaffed Recorporation Office.

"Well, good for them," said Nisroc. "So, uh, what do you say? You gonna take the offer?

"You make it sound so appealing," said Aziraphale, “how could I possibly say no?”

"Yeah, no, I get that it sucks," said Nisroc. "Listen, do you know anyone else down here you could bribe?" Aziraphale looked pointedly at the Legions. "Oh, don't worry about them, they don't understand me," she said. "Isn't that right?" she asked them. "You are all very cute, but kinda stupid! It's great!" They smiled confusedly at her, and Aziraphale was satisfied that they didn't understand her.

"Why can't you help me, then?" he asked.

"Oh, no, I don't think I should. Everything's a little..." She made a gesture representing the shakiness of the situation. "Like, if it was just me I'd totally help, but I'm kinda scheming for two here?"

"Ah," said Aziraphale. He was still so terribly uncomfortable with the idea of... of reproducing like that with humans. Still, he tried to dredge up some of the etiquette he had learned for dealing with new parents. "Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked.

"Probably," said Nisroc, shrugging. "I just want it to be okay. I'm sure God would have understood if I could have explained. It's creation, that's Her jam." She began to cry again, and tearfully turned to the Legions, giving them some instruction Aziraphale didn't understand. They looked very sympathetic, and scurried off. Nisroc wiped the tears from her eyes quickly. "Sorry," she said. "I just -- I really don't wanna be a demon, what if I don't even want my kid after all of this? What if I'm a totally different person?"

Aziraphale felt terrible for her then. "Is that what happens?" he asked. What had Crawly been like, before she had become this? He couldn't really imagine her as a better person -- not that she was particularly good, and not that badness was fundamental to her personality, but... he didn't really like the idea of a Better Crawly. Unless maybe it was a Crawly who hadn't got him stuck here.

"I don't know," said Nisroc. "That's what everyone says happens? That you stop being able to love, and, and you can't be nice, and stuff like that."

"Oh, I don't think that's all true," said Aziraphale, surprising himself slightly. He'd thought he was just saying it to be comforting, but he did believe it. Crawly could be kind, whether she'd betrayed Aziraphale or not. "I think you'll still be yourself," he said. "Just... different."

"I really hope so," she said, blinking back more tears. "But -- but just in case I don't..." With some difficulty, she dug a little hole in the dirt with her toe. Then she showed Aziraphale the key she had. "You're gonna say no, right?"

"Well..." Aziraphale didn't want to be a demon. Hell was a miserable place, and Crawly seemed to avoid it as best she could. It wouldn't suit Aziraphale at all.

"You should say no," she said. "If you have any way of getting out of here. I bet you could bribe someone easy enough. It's a shitty job." She lifted something over her head and Aziraphale realized she'd been wearing a key on a chain around her neck. "This goes to the cell. I don't want them to connect this to me, so I'm not gonna give this to you, I know you'll bolt -- but if you can get someone to give it to you later when I have an alibi? Go for it," she said. Then she dropped the key in the hole and scuffed dirt over it. "God, I'm so tired," she said.

"You probably shouldn't have done that," Aziraphale said, eyeing the patch of dirt.

"I probably shouldn't have, yeah," she said, sadly. "But what if I stop being a good person when Satan remakes me? What if I never really did anything good at all and this is my last opportunity?"

"I think if Satan could make you a worse person against your will, he wouldn't bother with all the deals and contracts and paperwork fiddle-faddle," Aziraphale said.

"Well, I hope you're right," said Nisroc. "Ah. Looks like my pals are coming back," she said, glancing off to her left, and indeed, the cadre of Legions were stumbling towards her, all of them at once bearing aloft a small scrap of cloth, which they argued over before one of them successfully handed it to her. She dabbed at her tears with it, and gave them a grateful smile. "I'll tell him you're thinking about it but you need more time. A little while longer in here should convince you, right?"

"Perhaps," said Aziraphale, doing his best not to look at the spot where the key was buried.

"Good luck," she said, and she walked off, dabbing her eyes with the cloth and talking to the Legions in nonsense words.

[next part]

#whumptober2020 #no.11 #psych 101 #defiance #good omens #fic #aziraphale #fallen principality nisroc #text #fiction #kaesa op

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jessicaroffe · 5 years ago

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You know when you have an idea of nothing and you share it with your friend and she tells you that the idea is very interesting? my friend and I had an idea of what a crossover between Sherlolly and Good Omens would be like. We are still working on the chapters but I brought you something to get an idea of what it would be.

-------------

Between Heaven and Hell

He placed the book in its respective space on the library shelf, sighed in satisfaction as he admired the shelf and saw it well organized, he was proud of his work and one of his greatest treasures; he heard the bell at the entrance of the establishment ring, walked to the free space he had at the entrance of the library seeing Miguel and Gabriel standing like real dizzy cockroaches, Aziraphale felt sorry for his brothers when they walked on Earth, as they did not know about human customs they knew how to behave and when they "tried" to deceive mortals it was very weird.

Gabriel spoke up -We came to deliver a .....

-Fanfic! -Michael added.

-Exactly, fanfic.

Everyone present at the place looked at the two as if they had mental problems, Aziraphale looked around in embarrassment.

-P-please come with me. - went to a reserved area of the place, when Aziraphale confirmed that there would be no one around Gabriel started.

–We received reliable information that the incarnation of Eve and Adam are here in the city.

Such information surprised the angel, Eve and Adam were their first mission on Earth after they left and never heard from him again, the news was really unexpected.

-That ... it's ... it's good ... isn't it?

-Go if they come to the light side. -Miguel replied with pride talking about heaven.

-It was just that? -Aziraphale asked hopefully.

–Aziraphale, you as a good child of God must know that just as the actions of Adam and Eve had an effect in the past, they can have an effect again now, perhaps more drastically than before, there is a prophecy that says that if Eve is not influenced by correctly, chaos on Earth can occur and only the love of your life, Adam, can save you. –Gabriel added.

At that moment Aziraphale was already wondering why Gabriel and Miguel were telling him that, he was going to have to do something, he sure would.

-You have been here on Earth for a long time and have always been efficient in your work, we will give you the mission of making the two stay together, so that chaos does not occur, we had to take such measures, because the opposite side decided to act and interfere with the natural line of events and sent a demon to do the job. –Miguel explained.

-So I will be a cupid?

–What is a cupid? -Gabriel asked.

-Nothing, forget it.

–Anyway. -Gabriel snapped his fingers and a folder appeared in his hand. -We found out the whereabouts of the two and they are here in London, another reason why it was you, their names are Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes, all the details of them will be here.

Gabriel handed the folder to Aziraphale, before leaving the folder in full possession of the angel he warned him.

-We trust you Aziraphale. -The angel swallowed, a little terrified by the subtended threat, he knew that this mission was not just any one, peace on Earth depended on him which worried him, because if the punishments failed, they would be severe.

Gabriel and Miguel left the room and the first one shouted.

–Thanks for my fanfics!

Aziraphale leaned against a table he had there to process the information, what did he get into? He soon remembered that he would be fighting with a demon who would be there to disrupt his plans, he took a deep breath.

-I just hope that the demon is not Crowley.

_______________________

Molly promised herself that she would get back on top with her passion for Sherlock, she would move on and meet other people, she was never a woman to have many dates, she also didn't want to appeal to modern relationship apps, so she thought an agency that held meetings in the dark, made the registration by email, made its due demands regarding the person who would have the meeting, the man could be a little older, nothing more than five years older than her, who had a good musical taste, a good conversation, and was red, yes, red! Molly had even thought that the best way to forget someone who doesn't return their affection for her would be to cut off any resemblance to the next one, no dark brown hair then.

On the day of the meeting he left the office at Bart's and went straight home, he wanted to have at least a few extra hours to get ready calmly, this was his first date after he broke up with Tom, which in the case had been two years since do not go out with someone, I was not nervous, it was something different, perhaps an anxiety, I hoped that those who knew today could give you a thread of hope.

She chose a red skirt and a white blouse with cherries as prints, as it was summer in London, she didn’t need a coat or something, she did light makeup and styled her hair with a braid on the side of her head and her inseparable ponytail, picked up her bag and headed for the meeting place. On the way he wondered if it was the right thing to do, had he not given up on Sherlock more easily? He had already demonstrated a few times that he cared about his feelings, but she couldn't wait for miracles to come from him, there were times when she asked God to send her concrete signs that what she felt for him will one day be reciprocated “maybe not this time. life. ”, the chestnut thought a little discouraged.

Upon arriving at the restaurant where the meeting would take place, he introduced himself and asked the attendant if the person who booked the table with her had already arrived, as the establishment was a partner of the agency, all the attendants were already used to the routine of the place, he led to the round wooden table with a U-shaped sofa where an apparently tall red-haired man with dark glasses (who covered the entire side view not showing any crack in his eyes) then he saw Molly's presence and soon stood up .

"Hello!" Said Crowley excitedly. "You owe me company tonight," he finished by kissing Molly's hands.

- Hello, - he said a little embarrassed. - I'm Molly Hopper and you are?

- Anthony J. Crowley, at your service.

While talking Molly found Crowley very interesting, enigmatic with those sunglasses (which she really didn't know why he was wearing this time of night, would remind me to ask him later), funny, talking about things as interesting as if had lived thousands of years.

- So Molly, what do you do with your life?

- I'm a pathologist at St Bartholomew's Hospital.

- Wow. It must be a difficult job.- he said smiling.

- Until not, the dead are not the problem, the living that appear there wanting information or sometimes clues. Molly said and took a sip of the wine in her glass.

- And this guy would be a coworker or ex boyfriend ?!

Molly laughed at Crowley's questioning and shook her head.

- No, no, let's say he's more like a co-worker than anything else.

Well, if I can say something, he's an idiot. He doesn't really know what he's missing. ”Crowley smiled seductively and Molly bit her bottom lip and let a red appear on her face.“ I don't know about you, but here's boredom, come on.

Crowley got up leaving the money on the table, Moly was confused by his sudden action, but decided to follow him.

-Where are we going? Hooper questioned.

-You must spend a lot of time inside a morgue that doesn't do any good to anyone, let's have fun, do you dance?

"I'm not much of a thing," Molly said sincerely and found it too crazy for a first date in the dark.

- No problem. I'll teach you. Come on.- the redhead held out his hand to Molly who accepted.

Outside Crowley, he made his way to his car. Molly was feeling like a real adventure, a mixture of fear and excitement was running through her blood, she barely knew the guy next to her and they were already going to a nightclub, what if he were to traffic her? Or drug her and leave her on the street? "Stop paranoia Molly" Molly scolded herself in thought.

- So, how do we go to this nightclub you talked about?

- Let's go in my car. - The taller looked at Molly, at that moment curiosity hit her, she imagined what such a car would be like an ordinary car like all the others, but when Crowley approached a Bentley Molly she couldn't help but show surprise! - Then? What did you think? - is leaned against the car.

- He's very, very different.

- Is this different good or bad?

- It's a very good different. I never rode such a model.

- Feel free, miss. Crowley opened the door and pointed into the car like a real gentleman.

-Thanks.

As soon as he closed the passenger door he went around and got into the driver's side.

“So where's this club at?” Asked Molly.

- Stay in Soho, I discovered this place a few years ago.

- Hmm looks cool.

Upon arriving at the nightclub that was packed with songs from the 70s and 80s and with all the themed decor of those decades, with lights, a dance floor and everything else that was entitled to a themed nightclub.

Crowley took Molly's hand and led it to the center of the floor where he was playing “Night Fever” by

Bee Gees and making a few steps the redhead approached as if calling to join him in the roar of the music.

- Wow, I ... I like to take a few steps but I'm not much of a thing.- Molly said sincerely and found it very crazy for a first date in the dark.

- No problems! I teach you! Come on.- the redhead held out his hand for Molly to rise from the table.

Crowley insisted on paying the dinner bill and then headed out of the restaurant.

- So, how do we go to this nightclub you talked about?

- Let's go in my car. - The taller looked at Molly, at that moment she did not know what to expect, imagined that it would be an ordinary car like all the others, but when Crowley approached an old car model Molly can't help but show surprise! - Then?! What did you think? - is leaned against the car.

- Wow! He's very, very different.

- Is this different good or bad?

- It's a very good different. I never rode such a model.

- Feel free, miss. Crowley opened the door and pointed into the car like a real gentleman.

-Thanks.

As soon as he closed the passenger door he went around and got into the driver's side.

“So where's this club at?” Asked Molly.

- Stay in Soho, I discovered this place a few years ago.

- Hmm looks cool.

Upon arriving at the nightclub that was packed with songs from the 70s and 80s and with all the thematic decoration of those decades, with lights, a dance floor and everything else that was entitled to a themed nightclub.

Crowley took Molly's hand and led it to the center of the floor where he was playing “Night Fever” by

Bee Gees and making a few steps the redhead approached as if calling to join him in the roar of the music.

It was not possible to notice that they were being watched by a certain consultant detective who was sitting on the other side of the establishment.

-----------------

The question now is this ... Does this fic have a future? I'm dying to know your opinion.

#Sherlock #sherlolly #molly hooper #good omens #fanfic

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not-a-space-alien · 7 years ago

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Hello here i am to post the fic that i wrote for the exchange this year :D

Title: No Pain, No…Loss?

Pairing/Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley

Rating: T

Word count: 7k words

Warnings: Eating disorders etc.

Summary: Aziraphale has a horrifying realization and decides he needs to lose weight.

On Dreamwidth

On AO3

It happened one day when Aziraphale finally admitted that he needed to replace the shirt he had refused to miracle the paint stain out of all those years ago. He had gone to the department store, and a friendly associate had been helping him pick out something new when she said:

“You know, you carry yourself with a lot of confidence for someone your size. It’s refreshing.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, unsure of what to say. The young lady, who had meant it as a compliment but who had failed to consider that it might not be received that way, shifted nervously from foot to foot and waited for the angel to start yelling at her.

“What do you mean?” was what Aziraphale finally said.

“Well, you know,” said the employee. “Sometimes people who aren’t exactly thin don’t have confidence, and…”

“Why would not being thin mean I don’t have confidence?” said Aziraphale. “I thought…Isn’t being overweight considered attractive?”

As soon as the words left Aziraphale’s mouth, an electric thrill of realization bolted through him as he suddenly saw all the mannequins in the store—all very sticklike specimens—in a new light.

How…How could he have missed it? Had he really still been stuck in archaic standards of beauty this whole time? When had being overweight shifted from being desirable to being ugly? How could he not have noticed?

What else wasn’t he aware of? What if he was constantly embarrassing himself because of something obvious he had failed to notice was actually hideous?

What if tartan wasn’t stylish?

“Well, it’s—it’s like this,” said the hapless saleswoman, breaking his train of thought. “Is there someone that you fancy?”

“In what way?”

“You know…in the way that you want to impress them?”

Aziraphale’s thoughts went to Crowley and the angel’s rather nebulous feelings about him, which he refused to define, but which seemed to fit the description well enough. “Yes.”

“Well, don’t you think she’d want a strong, fit specimen? Instead of someone who looks like they sit on the couch all day?”*

*Aziraphale did, in fact, sit on the couch almost all day reading.

“Or he!” interjected another sales associate, who was folding shirts nearby and had been eavesdropping. “Nobody said it has to be a woman.”

“Oh, you can’t make assumption about people like that,” said the first woman. “It’s rude.”

They both looked at Aziraphale, again afraid he would get angry at them, but he was too deep in thought to notice. He was so abjectly horrified by the realization that Crowley had probably thought he was incredibly ugly for decades now, and how could he not have noticed?

“Sir?” said the woman, noting the growing unease on his face.

“I have to go,” said Aziraphale, thrusting the entire selection of tops he had picked out back into her arms and hustling out the store.

“Told you it was rude,” she said to her coworker.

Aziraphale called Crowley up immediately and asked him to have dinner that night. Aziraphale found himself eating through his pantry in the meantime, and only realised afterwards that he had never noticed his habit of stress-eating before.

Crowley was already at the restaurant when Aziraphale got there, which was surprising because Crowley was usually late. The demon had a small white rectangle in his hand, which he was playing with as Aziraphale sat down.

“Aziraphale!” he said cheerfully. “Check it out! The latest electronic trap from my favourite over-priced computer company. It’s designed to trick people into buying something incredibly expensive that they don’t need or even particularly want.”

“You bought one,” said Aziraphale, preoccupied.

Crowley reddened. “Well, of course I bought one. That doesn’t count because I didn’t use real money. It costs a grand. I spent a thousand even. More than some humans make in a month! And I didn’t even get all the extra features that increase the price. My finest work.” He brandished the device for Aziraphale to see. “Here, watch this. It unlocks by scanning your face. Pretty cool, huh?” He fiddled with it, but the touted feature failed to materialise. “Here—wait—just watch…”

He got it to work eventually, and seemed disappointed when Aziraphale did not act impressed. He tapped things on the screen and tried to explain what everything did. To any technically-savvy human, it would have been obvious he had no idea what he was talking about.

“And it has twelve Hertz of RAM,” he said proudly. “It’s the next big gotta-have-it that every rich yuppie will clamber to get their consumeristic hands on this holiday season—”

“Crowley,” interrupted Aziraphale irritably, “it’s exactly the same as the last one you showed me.”

Crowley drew his phone to his chest, as though Aziraphale might have hurt its feelings. “Why, that’s simply not true!”

“Then how is it different?”

“Well, it’s thinner.”

Aziraphale felt himself starting to sweat. “It’s…thin?”

“Twenty percent thinner! They were quite specific about that. Thinner than what, I’m not sure. But it’s thin all right.”

Aziraphale pulled at his collar as Crowley tapped enthusiastically on the screen. The demon was relieved that Aziraphale seemed too distracted to notice he didn’t actually know how to use most of his phone’s new features.

“So…you like things that are thin, then?” said Aziraphale.

“That’s the aesthetic nowadays,” said Crowley, absorbed in the screen. “Amazing how much they can cram in there. The next iteration will disappear completely when you turn it sideways. Say, do you have a cell phone, Aziraphale? I can help you pick one out if not. But I bet you have one of those old ones you refuse to part with, one of those really chunky…”

Aziraphale looked down at himself.

“Beige…”

Aziraphale tugged at his slacks and brown sweater.

“And horrendously ugly things.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale burst out, unable to bear it any longer, “do you think I’m fat?”

And here is what made what came next really tragic: If Aziraphale had asked Do you think I’m ugly? instead, Crowley would have said No, of course not, what made you think that? and all the tragedies that were about to befall poor Aziraphale would have been averted. But that’s not what he had asked, and Crowley, who did think Aziraphale was fat, but not necessarily ugly, did not realise saying so would to Aziraphale, in this state of mind, be the equivalent of Yes, and therefore I think you are ugly.

Aziraphale was very visibly, very obviously fat, and Crowley had always thought he seemed quite proud of it** actually, so Crowley let a faint smile ghost across his face. “Um…Is this a trick question?”

**He had been.

Aziraphale stood, pushing his chair out and clattering the silverware. “I have to go right now.”

“Uhh…” said Crowley. “All right? Shall I come by the shop later?”

“No!” said Aziraphale, grabbing his jacket. “No, you’d better not. Don’t come over until I’m proper.”

“Proper?” said Crowley, bewildered, but Aziraphale had already run away.

Exactly as I feared, Aziraphale thought. He does think I’m ugly. Fat and ugly and a loser. And why wouldn’t he? He’s probably just been spending time with me out of pity.

Aziraphale did not want to examine exactly why he felt it was so important that Crowley think he was attractive. It’s not like he, Aziraphale, was attracted to Crowley. Was he?

No, of course not. Angels didn’t really think that way. So it had to be something else. Something entirely innocent and perfectly reasonable to explain why he wanted taking his shirt off to prompt Crowley to whistle and go “Nice body, angel,” or somesuch nonsense.

Not that he had been fantasising about it.

He did unfortunately think that this desire might be considered vanity, which was unambiguously a sin. He was able to brush the issue aside very quickly with some clumsy excuse besides wanting to impress his demonic counterpart. Being thin was healthier, wasn’t it? Why else would it be a beauty standard? That’s it, his being thin would be for health reasons, of course. He had to be a good role model for humans. Therefore his losing weight would be promoting heavenly values. Or something.

The excuse was good enough and he shelved that train of thought, turning himself towards the matter at hand: He had to become thin, and he had to do it as fast as possible.

The thought occurred to him to simply use a miracle to change his corporation, of course. Crowley did it all the time. He suspected that was how Crowley stayed as thin as he did. Aziraphale had always assumed Crowley wanted to look that way because he was a snake and it felt right, but now he knew it was because Crowley wanted to be hip and fashionable. Thin.

But that’s not how Aziraphale did things. He was going to do it the right way. The human way.

And he had a treasure trove of human knowledge in his bookshop. This was going to be a snap. He’d just look through his books for something about how to lose weight, and he’d do it, and then Crowley would love him.

What? Where had that last thought come from? He pushed it from his mind as quickly as it appeared, then got to work.

Aziraphale began to scour his collection, piling everything that looked even remotely useful into his arms. Then, he took it all into the back room and thumped it onto the table to do what he did best: Read.

The first thing he found was a pamphlet that came with a little container of something which rattled around. He had dug it out of a trunk buried under a stack of newspapers. He saw that the tag affixed to the bottle promised him he could keep eating as much as he wanted and still lose weight by swallowing the pill within, a single-use miracle cure. Aziraphale fetched a glass of water and swallowed it. It wasn’t until much later when he read the fine print did he realise it had been a capsule containing tapeworm eggs.

That was the only thing in the pile that required something other than reading. Most of his materials jogged his memory about something he had heard once years before.

“Oh, yes. I remember this,” he said, taking out a pamphlet he had bought for one dollar decades ago.

He put the one that looked easiest at the very top of the pile, then sorted the rest of them by the order in which he wanted to try them.

This was going to be easy.

Contrary to instructions, Crowley came over to the shop the next morning. He had just downloaded a very amusing app onto his phone, and he wanted to show Aziraphale.

He found the angel behind the counter of his bookshop. His hand was in a jar which was filled with something that looked suspiciously like cotton balls. Crowley peered through the front window and watched him pop one of the white spheres into his mouth and swallow without chewing. Crowley also noted he had on a pair of cheap-looking glasses with blue lenses.

Crowley used a miracle to keep the bell on the door silent so he could sneak up without Aziraphale seeing. He slithered through the books and crawled in front of the counter, then peeked up. Aziraphale did not notice him, consuming another one of the white spheres, which Crowley was at this point convinced was some kind of novelty candy very cleverly made up to look like cotton balls, so you could eat one and then say to your horrified friends Ha! It’s just candy floss, don’t worry.

Crowley reached one hand up and snuck a globule from the jar, then put it in his mouth. It was genuinely just a cotton ball.

“Angel, what the Heaven?” said Crowley, shooting up and scaring Aziraphale. “Are you eating cotton balls?”

Aziraphale looked at him with two bloodshot eyes, one of which was lazily drifting off center, visible even through the blue lenses. “Yes, of course,” he mumbled.

“Are…are you drunk?” said Crowley. “It’s not even noon yet!”

“”ve got to lose weight,” said Aziraphale.

Lose weight? A shadow of a doubt crossed Crowley’s mind briefly, wondering if maybe it had been because of the exchange they had had at dinner. But he put it out of his mind; he knew Aziraphale didn’t hold Crowley’s good opinion in such high regard, even if Crowley did think Aziraphale needed to lose weight, which he didn’t. Besides, it had only been a quick exchange; he was probably reading into it too much.

“Just use a miracle to change your shape if you want to be thin so bad,” said Crowley, who couldn’t comprehend why Aziraphale would suddenly want to take such a hard turn in his body image.

Aziraphale shook his head sadly. “I’ll always know. Deep down.”

“…What, like as in you’ve got buildup in your arteries?”

“I just want to be more svelte,” Aziraphale snapped.

“But why?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale drunkenly leaned forwards, pointing at the demon menacingly. His blue-lensed glasses slid down his nose. “That. Is not any of your businessssssssss, you reptile!”

“All right, all right,” said Crowley, putting his hands up. “But what made you think getting drunk is the way to lose weight?”

Aziraphale pushed his glasses back up, then reached behind the counter and slapped a pamphlet in front of Crowley. “This doctor man says so,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley leaned forwards to see the pamphlet said:

THE DRINKING MAN’S DIET ROBERT CAMERON THE ORIGINAL LOW-CARB DIET HOW TO LOSE WEIGHT WITH A MINIMUM OF WILLPOWER

Also Recommended for Teetotalers

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale and quirked an eyebrow.

“I paid an entire dollar for this book, and I intend to use it,” Aziraphale slurred. “For your information, gin, vodka, rum, brandy, whisky, and distilled spirits contain at most trace amounts of car—carbohindr…car… car-bo-hy-drates.”

“So?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale paused with another cotton ball halfway to his mouth. “So?” he shrieked. “That makes you lose weight!”

“And the glasses?” said Crowley, tapping the rims resting on Aziraphale’s nose. “They what? Make everything look a bit sadder?”

“For your information,” said Aziraphale, tossing another book onto the counter, “the color blue suppresses appetite. It’s called the vision diet.”

“And the cotton balls?!”

“They fill your stomach!”

Crowley eyed the cottons balls on the counter, which were resting next to a jar of pills, which thankfully looked a bit more modern than the rest of Aziraphale’s materials. “…Just don’t throw up. You might take your nail polish off. What are these?” The pill bottle rattled as he picked it up.

“Oh!” said Aziraphale. “A very reliable salesman at the store assured me the weight would just fall off if I took one of those pills a day.”

Crowley paled a little as he recognised the bottle. It was one of those supposed miracle weight loss cures that amounted to little more than sugar pills peddled extremely convincingly to gullible and desperate people, and Crowley had been partly responsible for this specific brand’s propagation. It had seemed like a good low-grade evil at the time.

He struggled to think of a way to tell Aziraphale the pills wouldn’t work without telling him how he knew that, since that would surely merit him a stern—and drunken—talking-to from Aziraphale, who was clearly very irritated.

He set the bottle down. “Look, angel, I’m saying this as a friend. If you want to lose weight, all this junk and supposed cheat codes aren’t the way to do it. This isn’t healthy. You have to exercise, and you have to eat fewer calories, fewer fats and more vegetables. That’s the way to do it.”

Aziraphale looked at him blearily. “Mmmm…how would you know about all that? I’m positive you’ve never worked to lose weight in your entire life.”

“There’s an entire industry built around peddling this nonsense,” said Crowley, carefully avoiding who had contributed to it. Famine tended to do most of the big legwork in this area, but Crowley may have encouraged the charlatans and snake oil salesmen…s…something oil…that came out of the woodworks to profit off of it, just a little bit. “They profit off the fact that people are desperate to take a shortcut. None of it’s really real. They make money off making you feel bad about yourself. Their power would disappear the instant any of these humans looked in the mirror and decided they liked what they saw.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale snipped. “If it’s so easy, you do it.”

“I never said it was easy,” said Crowley. “I’m telling you, just type it into Google if you don’t believe me.”

“Get out of my shop!” said Aziraphale. “I think I know what I’m doing! I don’t need you pestering me with un-asked for advice.”

Crowley sighed. “All right.”

Aziraphale angrily watched his back as he exited the shop. Aziraphale reached into the jar and took another cotton ball. Then, he sighed, put it down, and went upstairs and booted up his personal computer.

“All right,” said Timothy, which happened to be the name of the dietician and fitness trainer Aziraphale had gone to consult. “What’s your goal weight?”

Aziraphale scooted forwards in his chair to try and see what Tim was typing on his screen, but Tim tilted it away from him. “Ah, my goal?” said Aziraphale. “I’d like to be thin and beautiful.”

Tim chuckled. “We have to set more specific goals if you want success, Mr Fell. Trust me, this always works better if you have a number in mind.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale. “I’d like to weigh a hundred and fifty pounds.”

Tim’s eyes swept up and down Aziraphale, and his lip curled. “Mmmm….I’ll…I’ll mark your first stepping stone at two hundred. Now let’s set a time frame. What do you think is a reasonable amount of time to lose forty pounds?”

“Oh, well I’d like it to be as soon as possible,” said Aziraphale. “Do you think we could do it in a week? How many cotton balls would I have to eat to make that happen?”

Aziraphale walked out of the dietician’s office with a meal plan, an exercise routine, and a sinking feeling that he would have to start lopping limbs off to make the numbers on the scale go down.

Tim had asked how many calories Aziraphale usually ate in a day, and Aziraphale had asked what the devil a calorie was, and assured Tim he was sure he had never eaten such a thing in his whole life. That had given Tim a better idea of what kind of work he had cut out for him, and had been able to adjust his calculations accordingly.

The plan on the paper, Tim assured him, would get him to 200 pounds by March, if he followed it to the letter.

Aziraphale worked on the exercise part first, because that seemed easiest. Tim had agreed that jogging would be an acceptable start, so Aziraphale dug out a pair of track shorts that had been long buried at the bottom of his wardrobe, snapping the elastic against his skin and then moving on to try and find a sweatband. He put on his running shoes, then stepped outside.

Perfect. The weather was good and there weren’t many people in the street. All he’d have to do was jog down the sidewalk, and then he’d lose weight, and then Crowley would love him.

Aziraphale started; the feeling of his weight bouncing was not entirely comfortable, and he soon made the discovery that he couldn’t do this activity while wearing his glasses because the heavy lenses wouldn’t stay situated on his face. He made a U-turn and put his glasses back in the shop. He didn’t really need them anyway; they were mostly for aesthetics.

He started a second time, only to realise he should probably get some music to listen to. He veered back into the shop and found his Zune, sitting disused in his desk drawer, and put his headphones in.

He set out a third time and got halfway down the block before thinking he should probably bring a water bottle in case he got dehydrated. While he was there, he got some reflective stickers so that motorists could see him in case in got dark.

“All right,” said Aziraphale, while his Zune played “Eye of the Tiger” at the appropriate moment. “Let’s do this.”

He jogged. After a while, his legs started to hurt, but he reminded himself no pain meant no gain. His knees also felt the brunt of the impact of his feet on the sidewalk, but it’s not like he had to worry about arthritis.

He stopped when his legs felt like they were Jell-O and couldn’t support his weight anymore. Gasping, wiping his brow with his sweatband, and feeling like his workout should be quite close to over by now, he looked up to see how far he had gone. He could still see the bookshop at the end of the block.

Aziraphale very quickly convinced himself he didn’t have time to exercise, what with how busy he was with angelic work and all that, and Crowley had seemed to be hitting the mischief quite a bit harder than usual lately, and maybe after things had calmed down a little he could really put his mind to this exercise thing, but not now, because he was too distracted.

But the diet portion of Tim’s plan he could do, surely. Not exercising would slow it down a little, but he would still get there. After showering, Aziraphale took the meal plan out and looked at it.

He frowned. “That doesn’t seem right.”

He mounted the stairs and fired up his computer again so he could access the internet and type in “how many calories should I eat in a day to lose weight?”

Crowley had thought that maybe he had done something to upset Aziraphale, so he was surprised when Aziraphale accepted his offer to go out to eat again. Hopefully he would eat something more substantial than cotton balls.

Aziraphale was standing outside the restaurant smoking when Crowley got there. This took him doubly by surprise, because Crowley sometimes smoked, but Aziraphale usually didn’t.

“Nicotine is an appetite suppressant,” was what Aziraphale said to answer the demon’s questioning gaze.

“…All right,” said Crowley, sensing that Aziraphale was very crabby and wanting to avoid a row. “I’ll get us a table. You can come inside when you’re done.”

Aziraphale came in as soon as Crowley sat down, and when he seated himself across from the demon, he immediately produced a bottle of apple cider vinegar and started to drink it.

Crowley stared at him.

Aziraphale put the bottle down and made eye contact with Crowley challengingly.

“Are you drinking apple cider vinegar?” Crowley asked, despite the fact that Aziraphale had just very clearly and unambiguously drunk apple cider vinegar.

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

“Because it tastes less horrible than plain vinegar.”

“But why are you drinking vinegar at all?”

“It’s called the vinegar diet.”

“And the vinegar diet consists of…?”

“Drinking vinegar.”

“Ah.”

Aziraphale just sat stewing without looking at the menu. When the waiter came over, Crowley had a wonderful idea to try and cheer him up.

“I’ll have a slice of devil’s food cake, please.” He glanced at Aziraphale, who didn’t seem to have noticed. “And an order of deviled eggs, please,” Crowley tacked on quickly, to no response.

Crowley frowned. Usually when he ordered anything like that, Aziraphale found it uproariously funny but tried to hide his giggles behind polite coughs. But he hadn’t responded at all.

Normally neither of these things was on the menu, but the server inexplicably found himself inclined to go check for them in the kitchen, where they would miraculously be waiting for him, at a thought from Crowley. The server moved off to get his order for him, leaving the two of them alone.

The silence was awkward and unbearable. The server brought Crowley’s order out, then asked Aziraphale if he wanted anything. Aziraphale asked if he could have the nutritional information for the items on the menu. The server produced a special menu with dietary information on it, which Aziraphale scanned for a moment before distastefully ordering a salad and handing it back.

“So,” said Crowley, playing with his fork, “how’s the losing weight thing going, anyway?”

Aziraphale tensed up. “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth.

Crowley desperately wanted to ask why Aziraphale wanted to lose weight, but knew that with Aziraphale in such a foul mood, it would only earn him an irritated and snapped reply of no real substance. The way he evaded the topic earlier indicated very clearly that it was for some reason Aziraphale didn’t want to say, which made Crowley think that maybe Heaven had had something to do with it. He didn’t know what else could motivate the angel so thoroughly— and so bitterly.

Crowley dared not say anything until the server came out with Aziraphale’s salad—which he set about eating in a strangely methodic way.

“Um,” said Crowley. “Angel, are you….counting?”

“I have to chew salad exactly forty-two times,” said Aziraphale, without looking up from his salad as though it were a very difficult math problem.

“…Why?”

“‘Nature will castigate those who don’t masticate.’ Mr Fletcher.”

Crowley was too scared to ask what the hell that meant. This version of Aziraphale was a nightmare. He took another bite of cake.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale snarled. “You and your cake.”

Crowley’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “Er…yes?”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to flip the table. “You’re a hypocrite, you know that? You’re shallow and petty, and I don’t know why I expected anything more from someone like you.”

His voice rose steadily in volume until he was practically shouting, and those at the tables around them had gone silent and twisted to look at him.

Slowly, Crowley slipped his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and put them on, hoping they would keep Aziraphale from reading the expression on his face. “I don’t know what you’re on about, Aziraphale. But go fuck yourself.”

Aziraphale collected his coat and vacated the table without a further word, red with anger.

Aziraphale knew that he had just snapped at Crowley because he hadn’t had anything real to eat for days at that point. And watching him eat as though he hadn’t a care in the world, and have that perfect figure, was just too much for him, when he was feeling weighted down so much recently—both literally and metaphorically.

He thought he hated Crowley for making him do this, which should have in theory made Aziraphale want to give up since impressing him wouldn’t be important any more. But it wasn’t really that he hated Crowley. It was the terrible, disgusting feeling of not being good enough in your own skin, of looking in the mirror and seeing someone that no one could ever love, not even yourself. And that made him decide to step it up and get this over with. Anything to just feel okay with himself.

That’s how he ended up lying on the floor of the shop’s back room, stoned out of his mind. He had bought a concoction of every drug he thought might be helpful and taken them all at once.

Currently, he was not enjoying it. His hands had gone numb, and a faint roar of fuzzy static vibrated in the back of skull. His stomach felt like it was in knots. And he was having auditory hallucinations.

“Aziraphale,” said a faint voice, muffled, as though being transmitted through water.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me. I’m down here.”

“Who?”

“I’m in your stomach. You swallowed me earlier.”

Aziraphale looked down at his feet, which seemed to be miles away. “Oh, worm?”

“That’s right,” gurgled the voice. “And you might as well give up on this whole endeavor. Just start stuffing yourself again and feed me. You’ll always be an ugly blob. There’s no use fighting it.”

“Listen here, you!” said Aziraphale indignantly. “You’re one to talk! You’re a tapeworm living in someone else’s stomach!”

“Aziraphale?” said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Crowley’s. He felt something ghost against his arm, and waved his hands wildly to try and dispatch it.

“Get off me! Go away! I’m going to do this!”

“Aziraphale?” repeated the voice, and this time Aziraphale felt his perception of reality snap back into place so fast he almost got whiplash. He was sprawled out on the floor, and Crowley was kneeling beside him, hovering over him.

“Oh, thank somebody,” said Crowley. “I thought you might be dying.”

Aziraphale sat up. “What happened? What? When did you get here?”

“I just came over and you were lying down and yelling about how I was living in someone else’s stomach. Then I noticed you had overdosed on enough drugs to tranquilize a horse and performed a miracle so you wouldn’t get discorporated, you bloody idiot.”

Aziraphale looked over at the pill bottles that still lay spilled everywhere. “’s how Elvis lost weight,” he offered sheepishly.

“You know how Elvis died, right?”

“…’s not dead, you know.”

“All right,” said Crowley. “This has gone from kind of funny to genuinely worrying, Aziraphale. What’s really going on?”

Aziraphale didn’t make eye contact, looking downcast. “’ve just got to lose weight, that’s all.”

Crowley stared at him for a second, gears in his head turning. “All right. I think I see what’s going on here.”

“You do?” said Aziraphale, suddenly worried that Crowley would figure it out and then they’d have to have a conversation about their feelings.

Crowley stood. “Yes. I know exactly what’s happening here. And I’m going to fix it. You wait here.”

And he ran out the front door on a mission, leaving Aziraphale leaning blearily on the couch.

The Newtrition Corp.’s executive headquarters were stationed in New York, in a very tall building that made sure whoever was at the top could look down on the entire city. This is what Raven Sable was currently doing, looking out the impressive wall made of glass panes that afforded the breathtaking view. Behind him, his marketing strategiser was pecking away on a tablet with a very small keyboard.

“Penny, write this down,” said Sable.

Penny swiped her screen and opened a new document.

Sable tented his fingers. “America has been the biggest challenge yet. There’s just so much food everywhere. Wait, don’t write this down. It’s just my philosophical preamble. Penny? Penny, I can hear you writing it down.”

“Sorry.”

Sable turned around and spread his arms wide. “There’s food everywhere. Countries with scarce resources are hardly a challenge anymore. That’s why I was drawn to America. Have you seen how much corn there is in the Midwest? How could anyone possibly starve in this country? I’ve managed to convince them to throw a lot of it away, but it doesn’t even make a dent.”

Penny pecked away on her undersized keyboard, nodding. She never understood a single thing her boss said, but she had learned he was the kind of eclectic genius that you just needed to wait around until he was done spouting nonsense and got to a good idea, and then the money would start pouring in.

“That’s where we came in several years ago,” said Sable. “And CHOW has been a massive success. There’s a kind of modern beauty in someone being simultaneously overweight and undernourished. But we need to go deeper.”

“Deeper, sir?”

“We need to start them earlier. Too many parents are still making their kids eat their vegetables.” He tented his hands. “What if—and hear me out—what if we made a product exclusively for children?”

Penny popped her gum. “We’d have to compete with Lunchables and Kid Cuisine.”

“We can undercut them by making our product slightly less expensive,” said Sable. “Something that will fit in a lunchbox, and has just the right amount of sugar. Or, wait, even better.” He pointed at Penny. “Tell me, Penny. What’s the best part of a Happy Meal?”

Penny looked at him boredly, knowing he was just going to tell her anyway regardless of her answer.

“The fact that it comes with a toy,” Sable answered himself. “But what if we made a version of a Happy Meal that came with no toy.”

“So…just a meal?”

“Yes, you’ve got it!”

Penny, who couldn’t help but feel her boss’s natural talent had been steadily slipping since a certain visit to Tadfield a few decades ago, looked at Sable doubtfully. “We already sell a product called Meals.”

Sable paused, seeming to think very hard. “Ah…Of course we do. I know that. It wouldn’t just be called Meals. It could be…Meals for kids!”

“A kid’s meal?”

“Yes!”

“That’s what Burger King already calls theirs.”

Whatever potential embarrassment would have come upon Sable in his reply was spared him, for at that moment there was a commotion in the hall, and a man in a suit and dark glasses shoved his way past the security guards and tumbled into the office.

“Sir, you can’t go in there!”

“Piss off, the lot of you!” the intruder shouted.

“Well, well!” said Sable. “Donnie, let the man in, it’s obvious he’s got something very important to say.”

The security guard retreated slightly, still looking at the newcomer suspiciously.

Sable sat down at his desk. His eyes swept up and down Crowley, seeming to see there was something off about him even through the dark glasses. “Penny, Donnie, give us a minute alone, will you?”

The room was cleared of humans in a few seconds. Crowley straightened his tie and took a seat across from Sable’s desk. “Thank you.”

Sable produced a bottle of liquor from somewhere and offered the demon some. Crowley politely declined, feeling it would be unwise to have anything to eat or drink offered to him by Famine, of all people.

“More for me,” said Sable, shrugging. He poured himself a glass, then took a luxurious sip before speaking. “So, care to introduce yourself, Mr ...?”

“You know damn well who I am,” Crowley growled.

“Ah…” said Sable. “Of course…old sport.”

“You’ve done something to my friend,” said Crowley. “And I demand you knock it off immediately.”

“Your friend is…?”

“Aziraphale, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, of course.”

Sable smiled. “Ah, the Garden was a bit before my time, unfortunately.”

“Wait…I’m older than you?” said Crowley, who had somehow gotten into the habit of assuming anyone who was more powerful than him had to have been birthed in the stormy origins of the universe long before he was even thought of.

“’Fraid so…old sport.”

“Never mind that,” said Crowley viciously. “You’ve done something to him. I know it was you. I demand you fix him. Back to the way he was before.”

Sable stared at Crowley very, very hard, seeming to look right through his sunglasses and stare into his core.

Sable snapped his fingers. “Crowley.”

“Yes?”

“I remember you from that thing you did with the diet pills. Excellent craftsmanship.”

“Oh, you noticed that?” said Crowley, brightening. “All in a day’s work, really. If—No! No, I’m angry with you. My friend Aziraphale. Fix him.”

Sable tossed back the rest of his drink and poured himself more. “Mmm…can’t say I’ve done any work on angels recently. Not that I recall. Not really in my job description.”

“Oh don’t bullshite me,” said Crowley. “All infernal agents are encouraged to attack celestial ones.”

Sable swirled his alcohol. “Crowley…I’m not from Hell.”

“Of course you are. Where else would you be from? Heaven?”

Sable eyed him sardonically. “Crowley…I sprung from humanity. I’m not from Heaven or Hell. I’m a kind of tulpa.”

“Wh…” said Crowley.

“Meaning I work on humans. Tell me, this friend of yours, I assume he’s become obsessed with losing weight, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Mm, I can see why you were confused. But between you and me, just as friends.” He motioned Crowley to lean in closer. “There’s a limit to what I can do, but if you want someone to really, truly, self-destructively motive themselves, fear of personal rejection does any number of things on a psyche.” He leaned back, looking self-satisfied.

“Fear of personal rejection?” said Crowley, tasting the concept on his tongue.

Sable nodded. “Yes. Now, Mr Crowley, since we’ve discussed your problem, I think we should discuss mine next.” He stood and pulled a screen down from the ceiling; on it was displayed a line graph, which squiggled up and down indecipherably. “That thing you did with the diet pills encouraged salesmen to peddle them at considerably higher prices than usual, which increased their revenue, but as you can see it made our profits dip by 3%...”

Crowley high-tailed it out of America as fast he could, coming back over to England with newfound perspective.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was still in his shop exactly where Crowley had left him. He was crying.*** He could not imagine where Crowley had gone or what he could possibly have to say when he came back.

***Aziraphale did not cry very often. He had cried at the burning of the Library of Alexandria, the crucifixion of Christ, and he had secretly cried while reading The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch and trying to decipher how exactly to keep the world from ending.

He curled up on the sofa and waited miserably.

Finally, he heard the front door open and close softly, and footsteps clicked towards him. Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley put a white box on the table they always had drinks on.

“What’s that?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley unfolded the box to reveal an impeccably iced cake with shavings of white chocolate on top. “Eat this,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale bumbled upright, glowering. “You have some nerve.”

“Angel,” said Crowley. He sat on the couch and took the angel’s hand, which sent a thrill of some unnamed emotion coursing through Aziraphale. His hands were surprisingly warm. “Do you want to lose weight? Do you really want to?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

“Then why are you doing this to yourself?”

“B-because,” he sobbed, finally out with it. “Because I don’t want you to think I’m ugly.”

Crowley’s hands squeezed his. “I don’t think you’re ugly.”

Aziraphale sniffled. “You don’t?”

“Of course not,” said Crowley.

“But you said being thin was the ‘aesthetic.’”

“Angel,” said Crowley, smiling sadly. “You’re not a fancy electronic device. You’re my friend.”

“Oh.”

“Did you really think I want you to be thin like a phone or sleek like a car or what-have-you? Come on, Aziraphale, you’ve been a plump bookshop owner wearing questionable clothes for centuries now. I wouldn’t want you to change a single thing about yourself. That’s what I lo…”

Aziraphale looked up sharply as the word almost left Crowley’s lips. Crowley’s eyes widened, and he wished he had been wearing his glasses. He plunged on before they could linger on it. “And besides, I know this isn’t what you really look like, remember?”

“What I ‘really’ look like?”

“Y’know. I’ve seen the version with four heads and the billion eyes and whatnot.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale had spent so long in a human body he had almost forgotten about that, if he were honest with himself.

“And for the record, that one’s not too hard on the eyes either.” The embarrassing truth was he found Aziraphale’s inhuman form curiously attractive, and had been wondering if having four faces meant Aziraphale had four of any other parts of his anatomy. Not that he’d been fantasising.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, reddening. “Crowley, I suppose I should…apologise for yelling at you.”

Crowley looked a bit rumpled. “Hmm…Yes, you should.”

“You’re not shallow or petty or any of those things I said about you. You’re wonderful.”

Crowley tried not to blush. “W-well,” he stammered. “You were cranky because you hadn’t eaten.”

“Still.”

Crowley sighed. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to lose weight. But you have to do it for yourself, because you want it. Not for someone else, and not because you think you ‘should.’”

“But you really don’t think it looks bad?” said Aziraphale. “All the humans seem convinced it’s improper.”

Crowley’s serpentine tongue flicked out briefly, and he edged closer to Aziraphale. “Well, I mean, personally I think it’s better for hugging if the other person has a little padding. And there are some groups that think your body type is attractive. You could think of yourself as a bear.”

Aziraphale eyed him sharply. “Crowley, you don’t have to make fun of me.”

“No, no,” said Crowley. “It’s what they call people who look like you. It’s a compliment.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “A bear? Then what would they call you?”

Crowley didn’t answer. They had called him a twunk, but he thought that was too embarrassing to share. “S’not important. But you’re not ugly, all right? And even if you were ugly, who cares? I can think of worse things to be than ugly.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale. “You’re right.”

“Now, stop punishing yourself over it.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“What?”

“You said earlier it was ‘better for hugging.’ Do you want to hug?”

Crowley fiddled with the embroidery on the couch. “...Yes.”

Aziraphale’s arms came around him and squeezed. Just as predicted, it contained exactly the right amount of squish, and it was even better than Crowley had imagined.

“Great,” said Aziraphale, disengaging.

“Great,” said Crowley. He got up and went back to the table, picking up the serving knife the cake had come with. “Now come on. This cake isn’t going to eat itself.”

“Oooh,” said Aziraphale delectably. “What kind is it?”

“What else?” said Crowley. “Angel food.”

Aziraphale smiled and tried to hide his laughter in his shirt sleeve.

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic #gohe

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