#ineffable friends

[my-go-obsession]

David Tennant: Owns a mug with the face of David Tennant on it.

Micheal Sheen: Owns a mug with the face of David Tennant on it.

[humoringholly]

All the Kingdoms of the World

While I usually write about the Husbands, my good friend, and incredible published writer (I'm not worthy) gave me this Ineffable prompt to write about Nina and Crowley! I LOVE their dynamic and I present to you a rated T (for language and eluding to illegal substances) All the Kingdoms of the World... no warnings.

Nina is heartbroken after Lindsay finally throws her out. Crowley is heartbroken after his Angel left him for Heaven. They go on an adventure together and find comfort and friendship.

“Well fuck.” Nina sighed as she looked around. Lindsay had threatened it, and had finally made good on their promise to throw her things out of their flat, and now everything that Nina owned was on the pavement. Clothes, towels, dishes, family heirlooms… it didn’t seem to matter. It was all there, her entire life in a disorganised mess on the ground.

She called, texted, and banged on the door. No answer from Lindsay. After a humiliating and exhausting hour of theatrics on the street in front of the building, under the prying eyes of her, now, former neighbours, she collapsed on the steps with her head in her hands and shoulders shaking. After some time her mind began to work properly again. She needed to get her belongings off of the pavement and to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, and right now, she certainly was not in the mood for coffee. Through blurry eyes she pulled out her mobile and dialled the only person she knew with a car.

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 6

This 1990s pre-antichrist through the ages story follows Crowley through an unexpected loss of powers due to the accountability project of a new manager. Crowley and Aziraphale work the system to the best of their abilities to help Crowley through.

Chapter 6

Jingle, jingle, jingle.

Aziraphale leaned out from behind a bookshelf to greet the new customer, calling, “Let me know if there's anything in particular you're looking for,” after taking in the newcomer, he offered helpfully, “The ‘Outlander’ books are in Science Fiction/Fantasy over there.”

“Angel!” Crowley snapped.

“Oh, it’s you!  This is a different look,” Aziraphale turned and tilted his head thoughtfully.

“You gave me these clothes, angel!  Yesterday!”  Crowley said, marching over to Aziraphale wearing the heavily soled boots and kilt the angel had adjusted for him yesterday, but with a glint of metal that resolved into a hand-crank tucked into his belt.

“Yes, well, technically I  was ‘clothing the naked’, which is allowed!” Aziraphale said with a little flourish of one hand while he finished shelving his last book. Turning back to Crowley who was simply staring at him, Aziraphale asked, “Have you looked at yourself recently?” pointing the demon to a mirror set in the stacks (arranged so the angel could see the front of the shop when he was shelving.)

Looking in the mirror, Crowley saw the jaw drop on the young man with the tousled red hair and barely there beard wearing the same kit he had on.

“I didn’t do that!” the young man pointed to himself in the mirror.

��Really?” Aziraphale gave him a more thorough look over. 

Crowley looked at himself critically in the mirror, “No wonder Dave called me a ‘lad’ and those coeds chatted me up.  I look like I’m barely out of my A levels!”  Rubbing a hand over his jaw, Crowley muttered, “This ridiculous excuse for a beard has got to go,” he made a little miraculous movement.

Nothing happened.

Crowley dropped his head and clenched his fists.

“Still no miracles?” Aziraphale asked solicitously as Crowley ground his teeth.

“Apparently not,” Crowley grumbled.

“Well, do you know how to use a cut-throat razor?” inquired Aziraphale.

Crowley thought about it, “Of course I know how to use a cut-throat razor!”

Tipping his head to the side, Aziraphale inquired, “For shaving?”

Mouth open and finger raised to reply, Crowley stopped, “Uh, no.”

Closing up the shop with a gesture, Aziraphale merely said, “Come along, then.  I’ll teach you.”

Crowley hung back, “How much will this cost me?” rapping out the old ‘Shave and a hair cut’ knock on a bookshelf, “Two bits?”

“No.  No cost.  I’m teaching you a valuable skill, after all!” replied Aziraphale ushering the reluctant demon upstairs.

Shaving was harder than either of them expected.  Crowley because he’d never done it manually before and Aziraphale because Crowley’s corporation seemed to be trying to shift between his old familiar form and the cheeky youngster.  Luckily, the styptic pencil worked regardless. But the time spent so close to the demon gave Aziraphale a better read on the situation.  

Once all the bleeding was stopped, they went back downstairs where Crowley followed Aziraphale into the kitchen.  

“I’m just going to make some tea,” Aziraphale said.   Noting Crowley’s unexpected interest in the kitchen, the angel offered, “Help yourself,” expecting the demon to make a coffee, watching in wonder as Crowley rummaged in the ice-box then ate his way through a plate full of cold cuts, a custard, a loaf of brioche with marmite, a quart of milk, and an apple.

After tidying away the plates, Aziraphale said mildly, “Feeling better?”

“Yes, that hit the spot,” Crowley sighed, drinking the last of the milk out of the quart bottle, “But, also, no.  Why am I eating?  I’ve never needed to eat before, but now…”

“Do you need to sleep, as well?” Aziraphale asked curiously.

“Yes!  I fell asleep last night.  I couldn’t keep my eyes open,” complained Crowley.

Aziraphale looked to the side and pursed his lips.

Crowley pointed at him, “You know something, angel!  I recognize that look.”

“I think it’s some sort of camouflage.  You weren’t like this when you left yesterday, but after working at the Dirty Donkey, you look like, well, like a cheeky youngster who’s trying to make his way.”

“Why would that be camouflage?  Why not look like a tough, or a rich businessman?”

“Maybe because people tend to give youth a bit of grace,” Aziraphale said to Crowley’s sneer. “Don’t grimace like that!  It got you the job at the Dirty Donkey,” pointed out Aziraphale.

“Whatever.  But why do I have to eat and sleep? I can do those things, but I’ve never had to do those things.”

“Yes, that’s a puzzler.  Either it completes the disguise, or you’ve been cut off from your resources so thoroughly that your corporation is giving you the appetite of a young man to try and compensate.”

Crowley looked aghast, “I have to requisition energy to run a body!?”

“It’s that or eat, apparently.” said Aziraphale, pushing over the plate of Eccles cakes he’d picked up at the bakery.

“This is mad.  How’m I supposed to do anything, if I’m spending all my time earning money to feed and cloth and house myself!?” Crowley said between absentminded bites.

“Humans manage it,” Aziraphale said, dryly.

“They’ve had more practice!” Crowley shot back.

Pulling a large stack of papers out of the small of his back, where he’d stashed them, Crowley started to flip through them. “Usher’s bloody denied nearly all of my requests!”  Crowley shook a paper at Aziraphale, “And he wants me to resubmit if I want to appeal the denials?  There’s hundreds of them!  How’m I to keep up with this!” he fumed, shoving the sheaf of papers into the angel’s outstretched hand and throwing himself back in his seat.

“If you could respond as quickly as he can make denials, you might be able to wear him down.  But, that would take more than just you, Crowley, even working all hours,”  Aziraphale flipped through the requests, denials, and counter requests.  “You’d need a whole office full of clerks to keep up with this, and you don’t have the money for one,” said Aziraphale, regretfully, then looked over at Crowley after an unexpected lightening of mood.

A beautific, wicked grin had settled on Crowley's face.  He’d just caught sight of the angel’s computer.

“How much to use your computer and printer, angel?” 

“I honestly don’t know,” replied Aziraphale, “It’s never come up before.”

“Let’s call that new cybercafe and ask what they’re charging.  I’ll pay you that. Deal?”

Glancing between the pile of reports and the computer, Aziraphale nodded consideringly, “Certainly.”

Crowley planned to swing into the Dirty Donkey well before his shift having successfully set up a spreadsheet on the angel’s computer with all the requisitions.  He’d set up a word processing document with ‘Standard Daily Requisitions’, so that when Usher required verbiage changes he could make them and print out the back dated and forward dated requisitions.  He’d taken the angel’s advice and requisitioned ‘Standard Daily Requisitions’ for two weeks in advance.

“Usher’s sure to deny advance requisitions, angel.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, “But it shows upper management what you actually need and starts to lay the groundwork defense for when your productivity starts to flag.  Productivity has started to flag?”

“You bloody well know it has, angel!  Don’t look so smug!” Crowley shot back while programming the computer for the functionality he needed.

Peering over Crowley’s shoulder at the computer screen, the angel suggested, “If the Dirty Donkey job doesn’t work out, perhaps you should look for something with computers!  You’re very good with them,” the angel said soothingly.  Crowley just grumbled, but a tad less irritably.  

The angel noticed Crowley was less irritable with regular snacks, and kept bringing them by the desk.  The only humans he’d ever seen eat like this were young males, especially the active ones.

“Do take Dave up on meals, I’m afraid I’ll have to do some grocery shopping before I see you next!” Aziraphale said as Crowley stepped out of the shop with thick stacks of computer paper.  Crowley hadn’t pulled the punched hole sprocket feed from the sides of continuous stationary.  Stopping by the Bentley, he fed it all into the glovebox, his office away from home, direct Inbox/Outbox to Hell.

Thanks for reading! If you liked this fanfic and would like to read more, here is my Master List

[vinylattes]

What is the key to enjoying life? (x)

[rainbowpopeworld]

@good-omens-heritage-posts

what if Crowley isn't even aware he's been in love with aziraphale for 6000 years, what if he thinks that's what friendship feels like because he doesn't have any other friends. what if Aziraphale is the one who had eighty years to come to terms with his feelings and is actually the most emotionally prepared about this.

[cassieoh]

A whole new perspective

[clefadrylcorner]

Obsessed with lovers and piners calling the object of their affections their best friend. Like yessss blur the lines between platonic and romantic love. show how important they are to you in a multifaceted way. Cover up your feelings with another kind of love that is just as true. One type of love does not negate the other and but tragedy can rip both out from under you single handedly, and it will hurt so much more that way. Losing a friend and a lover. Gaining both and not needing any labels for what they are. Using labels but having it be so much more than a title. Were they friends before they were lovers? Or were they lovers whose friendship grew inside of their love? Unclear! Who cares!

[dingledraw]

South Downs cottage fluff based on the Dolly Parton song “Berrypie” 🩷

[sentientsky]

wait but can we talk about how jarring it is to read official news releases ab this show after marinating for months in the good omens fandom on tumblr?? like, i'll read a piece from an actual news site that goes something like,,, "Good Omens explores the dynamic between two unlikely friends--one angelic, one demonic--as they navigate their lives on Earth in the aftermath of a failed attempt to enact Armageddon. Throughout the course of the second season's six-episode run, Crowley (as played by Dr. Who's David Tennant) and Aziraphale (played by the delightful Michael Sheen of Prodigal Son) must face down power-hungry demons, unexpected visitors, and new job prospects, all while playing matchmaker for a couple of shopkeepers in the area. In the wake of an overwhelmingly positive reception from fans, there's discussion of an upcoming season 3."

and it's like,,, I-- WHAT??? is this how non-brainrotted individuals approach the story? did we even watch the same show???

cause meanwhile, for the past three months, we've all collectively been like,,,

we really truly are living in the eye of the hyperfixation hurricane, huh?

[gleafer]

I made them ladies!😍❤️

Who speak their minds! Yes, a right prick, indeed!

[happy-mokka]

The early Christmas presents just keep piling up...

Tonight is press night for Macbeth, and Michael is sitting in the second row beaming at David as proud as can be. The two of them looking at each other like that is everything...

[rcreveal]

Run! They think we're their Valentine!

Summary:

For Sendarya's Discord Writer's Group Prompt a week 2024 Prompts:1)Valentine's day, 2)oysters, 3)"Should I say 'thank you?'" Need a palate cleanser before your next course of creating and reading Aziraphale and Crowley romantic fluff? This one is rated Teen for innuendo and states of undress. Readers have called this fic 'hilarious' with an unusual premise. This is set shortly before the Antichrist arrives on Earth in S1 when they are still more "working acquaintances". Something odd happens on Valentine's Day, and they do not care for it! How can they escape from... .

Work Text:

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Crowley hurried down the Soho streets trying to take advantage of every bit of cover.  They saw him anyway.  His only hope was to keep moving until he could make it to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Not surprisingly, the door was closed and locked.  Very surprisingly, it wouldn’t budge when he tried the doorknob.  He rattled and cursed, growling, “Aziraphale, don’t do this to me,” and pulled out his mobile to call the shop.  He heard the phone give his special ring through the windows, but there was no tread on the stairs, no one shifting up from a comfy chair.  In desperation, Crowley tried both blessing and cursing the door into opening.  Nothing.

“They’re coming,” he moaned, looking around with a hunted expression and dashing into the alley.

Trying to find the deepest, darkest shadows in the alley, cursing so angrily that he’s literally spitting sparks of fire, he hears a voice issuing from the fetid archway he’d been wanting to hide in.  Figures.

“Crowley, is that you?  Please tell me it’s you!” Aziraphale sounds desperate, and well he might, outside on this of all nights.

“Angel!  Why aren’t you in your shop!?  Why did you bloody well lock me out!” Crowley rages, as quietly as he can.

“ I didn’t lock you out! I’m locked out!  What are you doing out tonight!  I was going to try and make it to your place and beg for shelter!” whispers Aziraphale.

“Can’t get in there, either.  I’m locked out of my flat, too!  And before you ask about the Bentley, it’s locked in the underground garage. Which I also can’t get into,” Crowley snarls in frustration.

“Oh God, they’re coming, Crowley, what do we do?” Aziraphale looks to the mouth of the alley in something like terror.

“Let me think, let me think!” hisses Crowley.

Two unlikely groups rounded the corner at the same time. Suddenly, their dark refuge felt illuminated…because a building light that had been broken for thirty years miraculously restored itself over their heads.

‘ Oh damn, here it comes,’ thinks Crowley.

“Hey Ginger, give us a try!  We’ll show you a good time!  Nobody wants to be alone tonight!” catcalls a man detaching himself from a group of leather clad bikers, sauntering down the alley towards Crowley.

At almost the same moment, “Hey Angel! Be mine tonight. I’m pure…mostly,” a woman with a fake halo and wings in a skimpy white dress and 4 inch stilettos starts stalking down the alley towards Aziraphale advancing out of a group wearing similar attire, some with little toy bows and arrows.

The humans, locked onto their selected target, only seem to see one of them.

“I cannot live through another 1969, Crowley, I just cannot ,” begs Aziraphale.

“We said we’d never speak of it!” Crowley shudders.  “Is there a back way out of the alley or up to the roof?” but he already knows they’re trapped.

“We have to do the thing!” urges Crowley.

“It won’t work!” moans Aziraphale.

“At least try, Aziraphale!  Anything is better than a repeat of 1969!” Crowley implores.

Just before the humans reach them, Crowley and Aziraphale grab each other and yell, “He’s my Valentine!”

With an almost audible pop, the biker and the woman in the angel costume stop, bemused, taking in the two men clutching each other.  The woman pouts a little but seems to notice the biker for the first time, looks at him from the poured on leather pants up to the tight undershirt.  This must be the fellow she was so intent on.

“Hey, you fancy taking an angel for a ride, love?” she propositions.

“Thought you’d never ask, pet,” he holds out an arm and helps her back to the two groups, who have suddenly become one group.

“Come on!” Crowley says, head up and smiling brightly as he feigns an easy saunter up the alley.  He whispers to Aziraphale, “While they’re confused we can get out of here.  But whatever you do, DON’T LET GO OF ME!”  Crowley leads the way through the humans at the mouth of the alley, keeping his arm draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders while Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist. 

Out of the mob of humans, Aziraphale can still feel the tension Crowley is trying not to show while he saunters through the neighborhood.  Aziraphale isn't doing as well hiding his nerves, scanning every face, feeling every glance as they clutch one another for protection.

Crowley spares a vengeful thought for whatever happened around forty or fifty years ago.  Humans, whose gaze usually slid off them, could suddenly see them for the demon and angel they were on Valentine’s day.  But instead of running in terror and awe, plugged them into their own personal fantasies and pursued them relentlessly!  Even worse, if the besotted humans caught him or Aziraphale, the humans could sometimes roll them under the Valentine’s influence like some horrible fey glamor to act out those fantasies!  Even their miracles were blocked unless they followed a Valentine's script.  In short, being on the street on Valentine’s evening created an almost 100% chance of ending up somewhere… unexpected. 

Walking arm in arm, fewer people are taking an interest now that they seem to be together, but a few start to tail them anyway with that dreaded look in their eyes.

“Quickly, buy me flowers!” suggests Aziraphale, glancing over his shoulder.

Passing a corner shop with a wall of fresh blooms, Crowley selects a dozen red roses, and miracles a 50 pound note, to pay the shop keeper. 

“Happy Valentine's, keep the change,” he says to the pleased shop keeper as they keep moving.

To Aziraphale he says loudly, “For my Valentine! A token of my affection!”

“How lovely they are, dear Valentine!” Aziraphale hams it up.

Looking like he’s coming in to peck Aziraphale on the cheek, Crowley presses his lips next to the angel’s ear, “We have to get off the streets!  Can you get us a table somewhere suitably couplish?”

Aziraphale announces, “We don’t want to miss our reservation for our intimate Valentine’s dinner, my dear!” and tries to hustle them down the street, but not before two befuddled humans start to cross in their direction.

“Swingers at 9 o’clock! Put your hand in my pant’s pocket,” Crowley orders, then jumps nearly a foot in the air, “My back pocket, you idiot, my back pocket!” while putting on a fake lecherous smile, “Not here, Valentine!  You get to have me all to yourself later tonight!” which sends off the hopeful couple.

Aziraphale steers them down a side street, “We’re almost to the restaurant!” They walk up to a brightly painted little cafe and duck into a dim interior lit by candles on every table.  The waiter seats them at an odd little corner booth, which forces their feet into a tangle, but at least they don’t have to manufacture a way to keep touching.  After pouring cold, flat water into their glasses, the waiter inclines his head and says, “The first course and pairing will be out shortly, gentlemen, please enjoy this perfume and pheromone mixture to set the mood,” spritzing them both full in the face before they can duck or refuse.

Blinking and wrinkling his nose, Aziraphale turns over a hand inscribed card at the table.

“A lover’s banquet!

Seven courses and wine pairings to enliven the senses and invigorate the evening!”

Shaking his head, as he reads over the angel’s shoulder, Crowley intones, “This is bad, angel, this is so, so bad.”

“We can do this, Crowley!  Just don’t lose your nerve on me!” Aziraphale whispers, hand gripping Crowley's arm, forcing a smile.

“But all the wine!  And I won’t be able to sober up quickly until tomorrow! You know that,” on Valentine’s, Crowley can neither hold his liquor nor say no when anyone offers it.  A state that leaves him open to…influences.  His eyes are swiveling in panic behind his glasses.  Feeling Aziraphale’s hand on his knee, he freezes, locking his eyes back on the angel.

“That couple was thinking of asking us over,” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, “Just keep your eyes on me, Crowley.  You’ve watched me eat for years.”

Mouth suddenly dry, Crowley grabs a sip of water, before the first course descends onto the table.  ‘ Oysters.  Of course, the first course is oysters, ’ well, might as well try and do it properly, he picks up an oyster, taking care to brush the angel’s fingers with his own and keeping desperate eye contact through his sunglasses.

After the second wine pairing, the rest of the dinner was hazy for Crowley, with the waiter, damn him, topping up the wine glasses with every course.  Other patrons are enjoying Aziraphale being even more obvious in his sensuous appreciation of every delicacy than usual (he can’t help it, it’s Valentine’s, thinks Crowley muzzily).  Despite their attempts to act completely enamored with one another, other couples start to send them things: extra oysters, couples massage vouchers, keys both personal and to hotel rooms.  With distant, tipsy horror, Crowley watches Aziraphale’s hand descend into the pile of offerings at the end of the meal and extract a hotel room key and the massage vouchers, bestowing a radiant smile on the group before scooping Crowley into the hollow of his arm and steering his stumbling feet outside.  “Hold on a little longer, we should be able to hail a cab now!” Aziraphale whispers kindly, throwing out his hand only to overbalance slightly since he’s partially supporting Crowley and none too clear-headed himself.  Thankfully a cabbie pulls over immediately.  “Please take us to this hotel,” Aziraphale shows him the room key, and the cabbie remarks, “Nice place for lovebirds such as yourselves.”  Aziraphale, smiles in relief, he’d been worried that the cabbie wouldn’t be able to read the hotel name until they’d been to the massage parlor.  Holding the massage vouchers up to his uncertain vision, he sees that the vouchers are from the same hotel.  

No one looks at them askance for arriving arm in arm without any luggage, though the bellhop discreetly takes the 100 pound note from the fair haired fellow with instructions that they not be disturbed with the promise of 200 more pounds if he can accomplish that feat all night, with the exception of the couples massage which should arrive “with alacrity”.  The bellhop opens the door of the suite displaying an enormous bed on which lays a white faux fur coverlet strewn with red rose petals.  He also demonstrates the workings of the advanced sound and television system, the jacuzzi, and the location of the champagne in a large ice bucket.  Pointing out the heavy turkish cotton ankle-length robes, he promises the two masseuses will be up in the next 20 minutes.

“Quick, Crowley, take off your clothes and put this on!” tries Aziraphale, less tipsy than the more slender demon.

“Uh-uh, angel,” Crowley weaves towards him, shaking his finger, “ I have to take off yours and you have to take off mine! ‘S the Valentine’s thingie…rules,” he pats the angel’s chest and takes off Aziraphale's long coat, “But we don’t have to be uncivilized about it. Whereza wooden butler thing?” finding one behind him when he looks for it. Trying to untie Aziraphale’s bowtie, Crowley finds his fingers too clumsy for knots.  Improvising, Valentine’s style, Crowley finds the end of the bowtie with his teeth, and tugs, slowly undoing the knot, “But not too civilized!” he winks at Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath.  Aziraphale recalls that the drink and the Valentine's compulsions are making Crowley erratic now.  Tomorrow morning, he’s likely to be embarrassed and resentful.  Quickly, Aziraphale starts undoing the buttons of his own vest one handed while fumbling with Crowley’s belt, to stave off whatever Valentine induced methods he might try next.   

The belt distraction works, just like when he’d grabbed Crowley’s knee in the restaurant, Aziraphale sees him shake his head in confusion, frowning slightly, trying not to fall over.  Crowley puts one hand to his head and the other on Aziraphale’s shoulder as Aziraphale quickly eases Crowley’s tight pants to the floor. Their shoes already came off at the door.  Coming up swiftly, Aziraphale slips the shirt and jacket over the demon’s head, catching Crowley around the waist as he overbalances away from the quick move.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asks quietly while he takes off the angel’s unbuttoned vest and tugs the shirt over Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale, gives him a sympathetic smile, then says more loudly, “For that? Wait until you see what else I’ve got planned for you, Valentine!”  Crowley mouths, ‘ oh, right ’ manages the slacks reasonably well, after nudging the angel onto the loveseat, then is surprised into exclaiming,  “Savile Row Victorian unmentionables! Oh you are so lucky to be in here with me!  There are some quarters where you wouldn’t be able to keep the humans off with a sharp stick!” 

“They’re comfortable!” Aziraphale explains, “We can take our own underthings off,” he cautions, holding up a hand.

“Only if we show off the goods while we do, angel!” Crowley demonstrates, taking off his black undershirt and underwear only to pose dramatically with his back to the angel like some classical Greek statue, albeit one that is prone to tipping over.

“Lovely, dear boy, and you’d still be much admired at the Roman baths,” says Aziraphale, glancing at him, while slipping out of his undergarments.

“You and me both, angel.  I have to cover you up, tho’.  Masseuses coming and all that,” Crowley wraps the plush robe around the angel.

Aziraphale flourishes the other robe over Crowley’s shoulders and looks up at a knock on the door.

Tying the belt, Crowley says, “It’s just the masseuses,” and saunters unsteadily over to the door to let them in.

Two massive gentlemen, looking rather like WWF wrestlers but in khakis and matching polo shirts, wait in the hall carrying massage tables.

Aziraphale says brightly from behind a frozen Crowley, in whom imminent threat is causing instant sobriety, “Hello, gentlemen! Would you be able to do a brisk Turkish massage?” the dark heat in their eyes fades and the taller fellow, he must be 6’8”, replies, “My great grandpa used to talk about the massage you could get at the Turkish baths.  The nearest thing Jasper and I can do is a sports massage with interfascial release.  Would that suit you gents?”

Crowley finds that he and Aziraphale have drifted together and Aziraphale is whispering urgently into Crowley’s ear, “I have no idea what he’s talking about, do you?”

“Yes, that would do us a treat,” Crowley says with only a frisson of trepidation.

From where they’ve been helped into the loveseat after the massage, independent movement being more of a theory at the moment, Justin brings them both large vitamin waters, “You really shouldn’t drink any alcohol after a massage like that, gents.  Just stick with the vitamin waters and don’t operate any heavy equipment for several hours.” 

“Oh, and the jacuzzi is probably not your friend at this time,” Jasper rumbles from where he’s wiping down and folding up the massage tables.

Crowley miracles another couple of 100 pound notes from his robe pocket and passes them over while taking Justin and Jasper’s cards.

“Excellent work, gentlemen!  Your great grandpa would think it was 1871.  No fear, message received!  Stay out of the jacuzzi and no more alcohol tonight!” as the door closes behind the two men he lets his head fall back on the loveseat.  “That was a stroke of luck!  Massages, jacuzzi, and bubbly sorted.”

“How many more hours?” Aziraphale asks plaintively with his head propped in the corner of the loveseat and one arm calculatingly draped towards Crowley as he sips his vitamin water.

“It’s early yet.  Nine or ten hours?” Crowley holds his bottle to his forehead before taking a large gulp while Aziraphale turns on the TV.  It really is an enchanted evening if the angel can work a remote, thinks Crowley darkly.

“A romantic movie? What’s ‘Notting Hill’ like?” asks Aziraphale.

Scrambling for the remote, Crowley says, “YES! Quick, pick that one before something else presents itself,” blessedly the light romcom actually starts playing instead of so many other movies that could have come on.

Tilting his head, Aziraphale says, “Those people from 219 are coming back, persistent, aren’t they?” as the movie gets going.

Crowley replies, “Little blighters are watching for the bellhop to move on.  Uh, try light-hearted banter about the movie, like: ‘Did you ever consider Notting Hill for your premises?’”

“Nooo, too far away from the City,” Aziraphale replies.  “Soho just has that certain something.”

With a wicked grin, Crowley banters back, “Color, a lot more color.” Carrying on like this throughout the remainder of the movie, they feel other besotted humans diverted away from their room.

“There’s nothing for it, Crowley.  We have to go to bed,” Aziraphale announces, turning off the telly before another show queues up.  They both look over the back of the loveseat at the king-sized monstrosity still strewn with rose petals as though it’s some sort of trap.  A discrete and thoughtful basket of ‘items’ sits on both nightstands.  

Crowley rubs his eyes, having taken off his sunglasses during the movie.  He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat before putting his head in his hands, “You know we have to do something vigorously on the bed,” then he sits up straight and looks wildly at Aziraphale, “How’s your Shakespeare?”

“Reasonable. Why do you ask?” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley takes his hand and draws him over to the bed, stepping up onto the broad surface like a stage, passionately intoning, “Romeo, Romeo wherefore art thou Romeo?”

“Oh, good thought,” Aziraphale shakes out his sleeves, and warms up his voice.

“It is the east and Juliet is the sun!” proclaims Aziraphale.

Then sotto voce to Crowley, “Less projection and more intimate intensity.  The iambic pentameter is calling in the Royal Shakespeare patrons!”

Crowley, sotto voce back, stares at him, appalled, “How many humans are after us in this hotel, angel!?” Seeing Aziraphale’s pained expression Crowley starts to jump lightly on the bed, shaking himself out for the performance, and, incidentally, producing a suggestively rhythmic creaking from the bedframe. “Ok, ok, we’ve got this.”

Holding nothing back from the performance of the star crossed lovers, their words are inaudible outside the room, but their sighs, exclamations, gasps, and set changes when they move on and off the bed and loveseat apparently pass muster. The physical contact required by the play doesn’t hurt, either.  Finally, panting in an artfully entangled heap, rose petals streaming from them like the lovers’ heart’s blood, they wait for their pulses and breathing to slow down again before cracking an eyelid.

Looking up at Aziraphale from where his cheek rests on the angel’s chest, Crowley asks, “Do you think it’s safe to go to sleep now?  I’m knackered.”

“I think so,” Aziraphale senses around, “But best sleep nude, just to be on the safe side.  Are you going to shower first?” he asks, even while moving towards the bathroom. 

“You go ahead.  I’ll get this mess sorted first,” Crowley downs some more vitamin water and starts to return the ravaged bed to something with bed clothes that can cover them properly and pillows that are only at the head of the bed.

Aziraphale finds Crowley already asleep when he comes out of the bathroom swathed in huge towels and steaming.  Considering how well things have gone thus far, it would be a shame to have someone sneak in on them now.  Rummaging in the bedside table for reading material, he’s encouraged to be able to produce something suitable from his own shop.  As he settles down to read love poetry and “watch his Valentine sleeping” Aziraphale smiles to himself as the couple in 219 finally give up and go to their own bed.

The next morning, Crowley wakes but keeps carefully still with his eyes closed on finding himself nude in a strange bed the morning after Valentine’s, again.  Then he hears the page of a book turning and opens his eyes to see Aziraphale reading a small, antique volume, "The Collected Love Sonnets of William Shakespeare” while drinking tea from a room service cart.  Crowley sits up and looks hopefully at a French press and a couple of covered plates.

“You’ve got pajamas on!” he points out, enviously.

“Hotel pajamas are allowed the next morning while our clothes are being cleaned and pressed.  Your pajamas are hanging up in the bathroom,” Crowley’s robe is laying across the foot of the bed.

Crowley rolls out of bed to get up, Aziraphale glances over to see the demon’s back dotted with rose petals. “Um Crowley, you’ve got rose petals on your…”

“If rose petals are the only thing that I've got stuck to me the morning after Valentine’s, I’m ahead of the game,” he says over his shoulder while putting on his robe and padding towards the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind himself.  Aziraphale, returning to reading Shakespearan sonnets, raises his eyebrows and intones, “ Strewth, ” considering some of the post-Valentine’s mornings they’ve had.

Sauntering back to the vicinity of the room service in a set of his own black silk pajamas, apparently miracled out of his flat, Crowley stretches himself into the love seat and gratefully sips on some excellent coffee.

“I haven’t been locked out of my place in years, you?” says Crowley.

“Last year I let it be known that I was out of the country that week and hid in the basement for the night of.  The pressure must have built up,” remarks Aziraphale.

Waving a croissant with a bite out of it at the angel, Crowley says, “Yeah, but, all things considered, we got out of quite a tight spot last night, by being…you know.”

“Each other’s Valentine?  Yes, it could probably use some refinement next year.  And maybe if we set it up earlier the humans wouldn’t be so hard to deflect!” Aziraphale is getting that, ‘up to something’ look.

“Are you thinking, what I think you’re thinking? Crowley asks the angel, dubiously.

“Would you be my Valentine again next year?” asks Aziraphale, brightly.

Crowley, considers for a moment, “Yeah, sure, but do me a favor.  No oysters, okay?” he begs, extending a hand.

Aziraphale tries to nod solemnly, as they shake on it, then claps a hand over his giggles  and chuckles until tears stream out of his eyes egged on as Crowley starts to laugh along with him.

Thank you for reading! Your comments and kudos make my day. If you enjoyed this fanfic, there's more at my Master List

[mcrowann]

I wrote out how to watch Good Omens in chronological order if for some reason you wanted to do that.

I miss-typed for hell in the 1970s. It’s supposed to be Episode 5 21:27 - 22:26

Edit: I’ve made a Youtube Playlist with this all recorded and put into order, it took me a week of solid work but I got there. The link is in the pinned post on my profile

[whats-mine-is-hers]

GO wips + doodle dump

[wordsinhaled]

feeling something about... crowley at the beginning of season 2 telling aziraphale "you're on your own with this one." and then crowley at the end of the season, leaning into aziraphale like it's their secret and saying, "i won't leave you on your own."

it's in how he says "i mean, in the last few years, not really" about how they haven't had to pretend not to be each other's anymore and it's just so clear how all this time, all this fucking time since the apocalypse-that-wasn't he's been treating aziraphale without any more of that pretense. instead he treats him with this terribly soft tenderness, this long-suffering fondness, with the protectiveness that comes of someone being fundamentally yours to protect in the first place and you being theirs in return. this sort of foregone conclusion of a commitment that lets everyone know he's completely aziraphale's and he's got eyes and attention for no one else

it's in how he not only humors aziraphale's magic act but also gives him a genuine lovely pep talk like a supportive partner. it's in how he walks into the magic shop trailing after him and watches aziraphale get excited over the magic tricks with that sort of air of someone watching their partner deeply enjoy a thing - it's just got this, this energy to it, it's in his body language, like, yes, he's here with me and i'm here with him and we're going to leave together as well. it's in the way he tells aziraphale "you read too many books," all soft and indulgent and you know he's thinking he wouldn't want aziraphale any other way

it's in the way he got dressed flashy to go to the pub and he ordered aziraphale's drink for him and brought it back to their little table; and it's in the way he changed into a collared shirt for aziraphale's event. it's in the way he tosses aziraphale's books around while he's minding the shop for him but will never sell a single one in his absence and it's in how he tidies up the shop back to just how aziraphale likes it after the ball. it's in the vulnerability of not wearing his glasses any longer when he and aziraphale are alone together and how he tosses them aside like they're just another thing separating them, for almost the entire season

it's in how he says they're a "group of the two of us" but he sees them as a couple, and he acts like it too. like. he doesn't think he needs to talk, he doesn't need to say it, it's all there in every. single. thing. he does. it's in the lovelorn soppy glances he gives aziraphale across their table and the voice he's got reserved just for aziraphale and it's like, genuinely it's unhinged how much he loves, loves, loves him

[melonsharks]

i went. insane. LOOK. i know a lot of people realllyyyy wanted crowley to be the wedding dress designer LOOK I KNOW AND ITS OK u can make ur own au i promise but in MY WORLD. you need to understand me.

crowley owning a vineyard is personal to me. he is THE snake in the garden of eden, tempting is his JOB ok. he makes wines aziraphale indulges in, aziraphale designs dresses with crowley in mind. do you hear me. are you listening to me. i have everything from the second they meet mapped out OK i know what im talking about. listen to my delusions, boy.