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doonarose · 1 year ago

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Awning Realisation

(Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale kissing and romance fic)

Rating: T

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley get caught in a rainstorm on their way home from lunch. This is exactly what you think. I do not apologize for the fic, but I am very sorry about the title.

Rationale: Aziraphale and Crowley will come out of Season 3 talking to each other properly, and acknowledging, out loud, that they love each other, and actually planning for a future together. I��m writing kisses in this delicious, easy setting while I figure out if/how to write proper fix it fic. You can read this on its own, or after their second kiss in ‘The first one that’s right’ and their third kiss in ‘The second one that’s quite rubbish’. This is not the next kiss, this is a couple dozen kisses into their kissing escapades, and it is a good one.

Count: 2200ish

They’re leaving the park and beginning the short walk home when the first few fat drops of rain land. Wet, heavy splotches across their shoulders and into their hair accompanied by a dramatic flash of lightning. Aziraphale and Crowley do not ordinarily get caught out in the rain; it’s easy and convenient to miracle up an umbrella or simply to choose that their corporations not get wet.

Today, sated from a long lunch and deeply in love with each other, the idea of linking arms and walking home under a big black brolly tickles Crowley’s fancy and he raises his hand to bring one into existence. But Aziraphale is fast and grabs his fingers before he can cast. “Wait a moment!”

The rain is starting to fall harder, sheets of it falling across the grass around them, soaking quickly through Crowley’s blazer and starting to seep into the wool of his turtleneck. Standing there, seemingly impervious to it, Aziraphale’s grin only widens, his eyes twinkling; he’s clearly bursting to tell Crowley the secret and so Crowley waits, dutifully.

The cold makes Crowley’s body shiver involuntarily, prompting him to ask, “Aziraphale?” his voice raised but only to be heard over the wind starting to whip up around them, pushing the rain against them from all sides. “What on Earth are we waiting for?”

A new thought occurs to Aziraphale, Crowley notes the change in countenance. Aziraphale angles his chin up and off to the side, “Wait, was this you?”

Lost as to what Aziraphale means and increasingly exasperated, Crowley responds, “What? Was what me?” Aziraphale just continues to regard him with a degree of suspicion. By now, the cold water has already saturated Crowley’s hair right down to his scalp, it’s running in a constant drip down the back of his neck, trickling down his spine to the small of his back and wetting the wool from the inside out. Somehow, it’s making his wings itch; he does not like the cold and he could storm off and miracle himself back to dry and warm but Aziraphale’s still grasping his hand.

Suspicion gives way to a tight little secretive smile. “Just wait,” Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale gives a joyous little jolt of surprise at another flash of lightning and almost immediate thunder, letting out a giggle that sounds nervous.

Bemused but distracted by Aziraphale’s obvious delight in a rainstorm of all things, Crowley watches as he turns his head up to the rain, eyes closed against the whip of the wet and the wind. It’s a picture, he admits, worth the chill: everything about Aziraphale in this moment is radiant and contrasted up against all the greys of the London sky.

Eventually, though, as gorgeous as the angel looks, Crowley’s about to demand an explanation, or at the very least shake his hair out, when suddenly Aziraphale brings his chin back down and opens his eyes. He grins, mischievous and his eyebrows waggle just a little. His voice slips too easily into the overly dramatic play-acting tone you’d expect to hear in some classic farce. “Quick! Quick, Crowley, over there! There’s an awning!”

But before Crowley can react to this revelation – and even he isn’t clueless enough to not realize immediately the game Aziraphale is playing – his hand is being squeezed again and Aziraphale is pulling him along. In moments, he’s been led across the road, weaving between the crawling traffic and the scurrying humans, along the footpath, past shops packed with people escaping the deluge, to come to a stop under the deep blue canopy of some quaint little bakery.

They stand close in front of the shop window, catching their breath as the sound of the rain on the bricks and the fabric of their shelter becomes even louder. There are streams of water coming down off the awning in the corners and splashing from the ground so that it’s only the square foot they’re occupying that’s truly staying dry. And warm golden light pouring through the shop window, pastries and breads piled high on display, the scents of jam and yeast mingling with the petrichor and the car fumes.

They’re sopping wet, drenched to the skin, and being sheltered under an awning at this point is actually kind of pointless. But Crowley can’t help but grin like an absolute idiot, wondering at the inner machinations of Aziraphale’s mind and waiting to discover exactly how he will play this out.

Aziraphale drops his hand and scrubs the water back off his face. “My goodness, what an unexpected and tempestuous storm!” he narrates, gleefully. “You’re soaking wet!” As though he hadn’t just been the one to make them stand in the rain for a solid minute and a half.

“Yes, quite,” Crowley plays along, failing to stifle his grin and get into some sort of character. They’re in public but no one’s paying them attention so he slips off his sunglasses and lets his eyes sparkle for Aziraphale to see. “There comes a point where you’re so wet you just can’t get any wetter.” He shakes his arms and shoulders sending water droplets flying, and then rakes both hands through his hair, pushing it back and away from where it’s started to fall in wet clumps across his forehead.

Aziraphale’s biting his bottom lip in an effort to hold some of his excitement at bay, and then he steps in, close and not quite warm, just wetter still where their clothes make contact and press into their skin; toe to toe, hip to hip and chest to chest. He loops his arms around Crowley’s waist and captures him there against him, holding his gaze steady and playful with their faces only a few inches apart.

“Oh Crowley,” he sighs, very much overly dramatically.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley encourages, tone tinged with mockery but overflowing with affection.

They continue to stare into each other’s eyes until there’s another rumble of thunder. Aziraphale yells to speak over it as it dissipates: “You know, until this moment, I never really knew myself.”

Crowley chuckles, hands at Aziraphale’s hips, just gently rubbing little circles with his thumbs and willing Aziraphale to kiss him now. “A lovely sentiment, thank you.”

“Yes, and you should know,” Aziraphale continues boisterously. “That my feelings will not be repressed! You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

“Ah,” Still grinning and shuffling to try to get that little bit closer, Crowley recognises that. “Our friend, Jane.”

Aziraphale looks pleased with the both of them. “You’ve been reading!”

“Watched the movie,” Crowley explains, giving Aziraphale’s hips another squeeze. “And it’s only fair, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s confession catches in his throat: this is silly and wonderful, but vulnerable, too. They’re not like this often, even now, they struggle with it, because it’s so vulnerable and they could never ever have been vulnerable before, not with all that danger and risk. But they can now, and deep down, Crowley wants to be.

So, he swallows and focuses on Aziraphale’s grinning, expectant, wet face. “You are every reason, every hope, and every dream I’ve ever had.”

In the end, he tries to play it off as silly, failing, thankfully, because his cheeks are burning hot enough to start to evaporate the water, and his eyes are imploringly honest because actually, he means every damn word. He holds Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes out and looks suddenly on the brink of blissfully happy tears.

“It’s from The Notebook,” Crowley mumbles.

“Don’t care,” and then Aziraphale’s lips are pressed up against his, sweet and slick with the rain, hot with passion and still curved up into a smile.

Crowley falls into Aziraphale like he’s starting to do every time they kiss, collapsing into his embrace and crumbling to have found his refuge. His arms snake around Aziraphale’s back, crushing them even closer together as Aziraphale kisses at his lips and cradles his cheeks in his hands.

Everything is deeper and somehow more with the wet heaviness of their bodies and their clothes, with the rolls of thunder overhead, and the warm golden light from the bakery cut through by blasts of white lightning. The rain draws out the essence of them, the familiar rosewater and sandalwood Aziraphale always wears almost overwhelmed by the earthier base notes of his skin and his hair and his mouth, right there under Crowley’s hands and lips.

Aziraphale’s mouth shifts, peppering kisses across his lips and his cheeks, and then back to focus on the pout of Crowley’s bottom lip to slip and tug at it in a manner that’s becoming familiar and expected. Aziraphale sucks against it, gentle and slow, as his hands slip back into Crowley’s hair, fingers splayed and sliding seamlessly into strands made slippery with rain. His hands fist, grasping hold in a way that wrings water from Crowley’s hair in wet dribbles and makes Crowley’s eyes flutter open for a moment, his lips parted around a quiet, unexpected gasp. Aziraphale’s tongue flicks up against his open lips, against Crowley’s teeth and behind and this time it’s crepes and sweet cream and sticky raspberry jam that Aziraphale tastes of.

Crowley can’t help but groan at it, quiet and private, just between them, but undeniably letting Aziraphale know that he’s coming apart. Crowley kisses him back, hard and letting go of some of his control, licking into Aziraphale’s open mouth, meeting his tongue and shocked to find himself starving for the taste there. Crepes, cream, raspberries, Aziraphale, licking it from his lips and his tongue, swallowing it down like it’s the very best wine.

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale knows that that’s what this kiss tastes like, wonders if he can sense – whether he can match – the desperation. It’s not just tender and loving – they’ve gotten good at that – this is hungry and delicious and perhaps too much for standing on a footpath. Yes, definitely too much. Crowley needs to slow them down and does, arms uncoiling from around Aziraphale’s waist, hands going back to his hips to squeeze and dig into the soft flesh just a little too tightly. Crowley pulls back and Aziraphale releases his hold of Crowley’s hair, hands shifting back to his cheeks. Crowley does his best, resisting Aziraphale’s gravitational pull until their faces are far enough apart that they can look at each other.

White hair curled messily from the rain, clothes hanging heavy off his shoulders and his bowtie askew and coming undone, Aziraphale looks out of breath and a little dazed, his lips kissed pink and wetter than the rest of him, cheeks a ruddy red, and his eye shining. He pouts and goes to say something, but Crowley falls back in for one last taste, lips meeting quickly, roughly, and Crowley licks at Aziraphale’s lips until he lets him in to feel the vibration of a moan and taste the sweetness and the lingering rain on his tongue. Crowley’s fingers dig into Aziraphale’s hips and then they really do pull apart.

Aziraphale takes a very deliberate, loud deep breath, in through his nose and then shakily out through his parted lips. He casts his gaze around, settling appreciatively for a moment on the bakery display; Crowley’s stuck still staring at his mouth. “Well then…” Aziraphale says and trails off as he turns back to look at Crowley with an encouraging, somewhat flustered smile.

Crowley commits to nothing and gives an audible but unintelligible murmur in response.

“I stand corrected,” Aziraphale offers after a couple of moments.

Crowley isn’t sure what he means but has noticed that he’s starting to feel cold and wet and not fantastic again. He arches an eyebrow in question, “Oh?”

Aziraphale’s gaze dips to the pavement and then back up to meet Crowley’s. “Well, you know… Vavoom.”

“Vavoom?” Crowley turns the word – his word – over in his mouth and understands exactly what Aziraphale is getting at. “Yes, vavoom indeed.” He presses his lips together to stop from smiling too broadly.

“Honestly,” Aziraphale continues, tone turning conversational. “I don’t know how Maggie and Nina didn’t fall in love immediately, even with all the extra water. It’s a wonder they even noticed they were getting wet.”

“Humans…” Crowley offers by way of explanation with a shrug. “Although admittedly, I am starting to understand some of their proclivities.” He slips his sunglasses back into place and looks out into the still-falling rain. “Are you ready to dry out?”

“Yes, certainly,” Aziraphale says. “That was, as always, very lovely, but I’m not sure it couldn’t be improved by the water being nice and warm.”

“Agreed.” Crowley wriggles his fingers in Aziraphale’s general direction, dispelling the water from their skin and their clothes in a million tiny droplets thrown off in every direction all at once. Just for good measure, he gives Aziraphale’s ensemble the added warmth and softness of a recent tumble dry without any of the potential fabric damage.

This is clearly to the angel’s liking, as Aziraphale beams at him in thanks before offering Crowley his arm and pulling a large black umbrella from nowhere. “Time to go back to the bookshop, my dear,” he says.

Crowley loops his arm through Aziraphale’s, joining him under the umbrella, and together they step out from under the awning to continue making their way home.

A/N: It is what it is, folks. Whatever head-shaking, cheek-aching grinning, eye-rolling, or snickering you have done, I, too, have felt it. When they work themselves out and get to this very pleasant place where it’s working through their trauma and their weirdness together, it is going to be ridiculously glorious. I have a few more of these planned and they’re all getting posted on AO3 now!

A/N 2: Should also say, that yes, there are five or six direct quotes, or close approximations through this from Four Weddings and a Funeral, Pride and Prejudice, and The Notebook. Because without the quotes it would only have been very fluffy and I wanted it ridiculously fluffy.

#good omens 2 fanfic #good omens 2 fic #ineffible husbands #ineffible idiots #the fluffiest fucking fluff that ever fluff #and then they got a little bit sexy which wasn't planned #but i guess that's what happens with a sudden rainstorm #vavoom etc #doonas fic

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