#or OR ‘I remember you’ - breath of cruel hope - ‘-Aziraphale right?��

[theclaravoyant]

what if Crowley gets ascended and they wipe his memory and he introduces himself to Aziraphale who is dying inside because he knows Crowley would never have done this if there was literally any other real choice . But Angel!Crowley is all peppy and cute like “hi! I’m Rory. Aurora if you want to be formal about it. Blurgh. Haha! Who are you? 😇”

[aziraphales-library]

Hiii, how y'all doing, hope you're good :)))

I was wondering if you might know any fics where Aziraphale temporarily goes out with someone else with nefarious plans or is manipulated or smth into not caring about Crowley, kinda like in Love is a temporary madness by Beckers522? I just loved this trope there and I crave more!

Thank you sooo much once again for all your work, you're doing miracles for this fandom!

Hello! Here are some fics with nefarious people and manipulation towards Aziraphale...

Beginning at the End by sapphose (T)

After Armageddon, the battle between Heaven and Hell is ongoing. Aziraphale interrogates a captured demon for information. Crowley, meanwhile, is trying to pull off the most important temptation of his existence.

What About Hope? by AppleSeeds (M)

Crowley met Aziraphale in the spring of 1989 while he was on his lunchbreak from the factory, his attention immediately drawn to the posh boy sitting by the canal writing poetry. It was immediately obvious that they came from entirely different worlds, but the time they spent together was the happiest Crowley had ever known. With Aziraphale, Crowley experienced many firsts - his first kiss, his first love... his first heartbreak.

Twenty years later, they are reunited when Crowley, now a successful writer and vlogger, comes to work as an Associate Lecturer in the university department where Aziraphale is an academic. Seeing Crowley brings back Aziraphale's intense regret for allowing himself to be persuaded to leave him behind all those years ago. Aziraphale desperately wishes to renew their acquaintance, but Crowley seems determined to keep his distance. Aziraphale can't blame him for not forgiving him, since he has never been able to forgive himself, but when Crowley begins to spend more time with him, Aziraphale is left with the hope that maybe they could at least be friends again - no matter how much it might hurt.

Envy the Subtle Serpent by walkwithursus (T)

A mysterious bookshop patron strikes up an unlikely friendship with Aziraphale. Crowley sees right through the stranger's charming exterior to the serpent that lies beneath. Like recognizes like.

Palimpsest by sburbanite (M)

Hastur wants revenge, Gabriel doesn't want to waste a perfectly good angel. It's a deal made in Hell.

Crowley will do anything it takes to get his angel back, but will Aziraphale even remember who he is?

Sharp Objects by ElderlySardine (M)

Back in the mid-nineties, Aziraphale and Crowley had it all. They were friends, lovers, soulmates. Life was hard, but as long as they were together it didn't matter. Then in one catastrophic fight caused by Aziraphale's cruel, coercive brother Gabriel, the whole thing came crashing down. The boys parted company for good.

Now it's 2021. Life has spun Crowley and Aziraphale in very different directions before throwing them back together at their lowest ebb. Can they manage to hide their history from their new friends? Can they forgive each other, and themselves? Could there possibly still be something there between them?

And with Gabriel still lurking on the horizon, will they be strong enough to do anything about it?

And the one you mentioned...

Love is a Temporary Madness by Beckers522 (M)

"They'll leave us alone, for a bit. If you ask me, both sides are going to use this as breathing space, before the big one." "I thought that was the big one." "No. For my money, the really big one is going to be all of us against all of them." "What? Heaven and Hell against...humanity?"

The Apocalypse has come and gone, but Heaven and Hell aren't satisfied. They'd tried and failed to enact their revenge once. Perhaps it is time to try a different strategy.

- Mod D

[willowpenguinwritting]

Crepes? ------A quickly written good omens oneshot. The idea came to me whilst messaging an incredible friend of mine and we were discussing the promo picture released today.

Aziraphale as his new normal, was sitting in an armchair drinking a cup of tea with a book in his hands. It was a book he had read only once before and he had decided he simply must read it again as it was only fair to the book. Near him loitered his "assistant" If Aziraphale was been perfectly honest he was starting to get a bit bothered with all Gabriel's comments about the dust or the layout or something else. There were times when he simply pretended that it didn't bother him, there were times when he ignored it, and there were times when he wanted to shove him into a cupboard and lock him in for an hour but that was too cruel and he couldn't do that.

If he was to be truly honest with himself it was nice to have company, it wasn't Crowley's company but it kept him socialised and at least partly content he did miss the speeding Bentley driver but he wouldn't admit it out loud. Well, not now he wouldn't maybe in the future but not now when he had a kind of feeling that something important or special was to happen.

In the bookshop, music did tend to play but never much more than soft classical music. Until now, the music switched tone in an instant, and before it could be processed further Aziraphale's ears twitched at the ting of the bell as the door opened. In walked none other than Crowley. The very same Crowley who had been missing. By the time the demon of Crowley was recognised the music of Queen was also recognised.

"Crowley?" choked out Aziraphale in a partial shock to see him but a sense of he didn't want to appear too keen.

Crowley stepped forward adjusting his glasses slightly and a suspiciously wide smile across his face, " 'Tis me indeed, good to see you Azi-". Crowley froze mid-sentence. His eyes scanned the room and landed on Gabriel as if he was the prey of the snake inside him.

Crowley swallowed and spoke with a distinct scowl, "Aziraphale, what is he doing here?"

"He must be here, he could be in danger." The bowtie-wearing man explained tucking his bookmark into his book and standing in front of Gabriel.

Crowley stepped forward another few paces, he lightly placed his hand on Aziraphale's wrist and tugged a book down and the shelf swung abruptly to reveal a room.

"How the heaven did you know about that?" Aziraphale asked with a squeak as no one was supposed to know about this area.

Crowley laughed Aziraphale couldn't decide if this laugh made him more comfortable or more uncomfortable. "I guess one might call it luck."

Aziraphale smiled, it was a half-forced smile but still a smile, "Oh Aziraphale don't bother forcing smiles with me, Now will you please tell me what he is doing here?"

"I am protecting him until I can find out," Aziraphale said with the hope that some sort of confidence shined through his tone.

Crowley nodded, "Right and do you think we could leave him here for say two hours by himself?"

The angel's face had confusion painted across it, "I don't know why?"

"Because I wanted to take you out for crepes I know how much you love them." Crowley sighed, He thought he could sense a no slipping from the lips of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled, "Oooo that is tempting and does sound delicious but only if there is somewhere we could go where we know where he is at all time."

"Sounds like a perfect plan." The angel grinned happy that Crowley remembered about his crepe loving and was willing to adapt for his visitor.

A visitor that might just be keeping an eye on him but was still to be treated with respect like any other guest.

Crowley's cheeks flushed a pink, well maybe they didn't Azirapahale was sure he imagined it "I will meet you both in the Bentley soon."

This was all very suspicious and exciting to Aziraphale, just how he had missed it.

Once they were all seated inside the car, Aziraphale took a deep breath preparing for the speed that was going to start any moment then. Crowley quickly glanced over to him and winked a sly wink. As usual, Queen was screaming through the speakers and the bolting down the road began.

"Are you sure I can't convince you to go ever slightly slower?" Aziraphale asked loudly over the music.

Crowley chuckled, "Me? Slower? Never."

"I annoyingly predicted that would be your answer." He said with an eye roll.

He uttered, "This demon is a demon who likes queen and speed."

Aziraphale turned to the back to see his guest's face stuck in a position of sheer panic.

When they arrived, or more when Crowley stopped the car Aziraphale was confused to discover they were at Crowley's flat.

"Right, your guest is going in my plant room to be supervised whilst we eat," Crowley informed.

Aziraphale nodded with a response of, "Ooohhh are we getting takeaway that's very fancy?"

Crowley just shook his head. Once inside the building and Gabriel their honoured guest had been shoved into the plant room Crowley lead the angel to his kitchen.

"Ooooohhh this is all very black, I think it's modern and in trend for the mortals," Azirpahale said with a laugh.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, " Do not compare me to a mortal."

"Sorry, did you purchase the crepes from a shop? That's very clever of you." The angel smiled.

The demon however shook his head again, "Stand there, look pretty and watch." he ordered.

Aziraphale froze as Crowley began spinning hectically around him collecting the most unusual of objects. Flour, Eggs, Milk and many more. What had not occurred to Aziraphale was that these were in fact the ingredients of how crepes were made.

Crowley started adding a little bit of everything into a bowl before whisking them together with a quick wave of his finger.

When the demon poured the mixture into a pan it occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley was, in fact, making him them from scratch. The angel grinned with honour before asking "Are you seriously making me crepes?"

"No, I am building you a boat. Of course, I am making you crepes." He said with a dumbfounded look on his face that was clearly intentional.

"How did you work out how?" The inquisitive angel inquired.

Crowley laughed "I was trying to make a potion but it made them instead, no silly I learnt how because I wanted to make you some."

The angel smiled, "Really?"

"Well I hope they live up to your standards." Crowley smiled.

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

Well, I am stopping here, I enjoyed writing it so far but I must stop as my laptop is running out of charge. Please let me know your thoughts and if I should continue it or not!!

[lady-divine-writes]

Teaser for “A Demon on his Knees”

So, I’ve decided to unleash the floodgates of all the BDSM fantasies I have yet to write for these two and focus on a vast array of scenes and situations. This is the first thousand words of one of them (not to be confused with A Dalton Boy on his Knees for anyone reading that. I hope to have this done and up soon ;)  )

***

Tell me about your dirtiest sexual fantasy.

Crowley reads the text message and laughs out loud.

Two months.

Aziraphale has only consented to using his new cell phone for two months. To top it off, it’s probably the hundredth phone Crowley has gotten him. But seeing as they’re on lockdown and his landline has been less than reliable (through no fault of Crowley’s, he assures him), Aziraphale finally relented when the latest iPhone popped up on his desk out of thin air, activated and ready for use.

Two months is how long it took Aziraphale to discover sexting.

Either that, or now that the Nope-ageddon is over and they have time to explore the 6,000-year-old friendship Aziraphale claimed they don’t have, Crowley has become a worse influence on him than ever.

Are you serious? Crowley texts. Why would you, a principality, want to know that?

Aren’t you the one always telling me to broaden my horizons? Get a little more daring? Besides, it’s just sex, Crowley. It’s not that big a deal.

Crowley’s eyes pop open wide at that, genuinely trying to remember when that conversation could have come up. Since he can’t, he can only conclude that yes, he is becoming a bad influence, without even realizing it.

How do you know I even have a dirty fantasy? Sex is a human indulgence. I may tempt them to it, but it’s not something I bother myself with.

Crowley presses send and waits - as in, he stands completely still in one spot and stares at the screen until he gets a response back. And when it does come through, he selects it so quickly, he nearly cracks his screen in the process.

Because I know you, my dear. You are an extremely curious demon. Even if you haven’t indulged in said fantasy, you probably have one.

Crowley grimaces at his phone. Smart ass angel. Fine. Maybe I do have one. Why do you want to know what it is?

Crowley waits again, a little longer this time. Gripping his phone in his hand, he feels a long, troubled sigh fill his body - Aziraphale’s sigh from miles away.

Because I’m a curious angel. And it’s been far too long since you and I have seen one another in the flesh.

In that instant, Crowley softens.

Alright, alright. Just … give me a second.

Take all the time you need, my dear. A warmth shoots up his arm - the warmth of Aziraphale’s smile, the one that comes with that fetching little wiggle he does when he gets his way.

Crowley crosses through rooms from his living room to his office and sits down on his throne. The bed would probably be more apropos for this conversation, but not conducive to coherent thought.

Not when his knees are already buckling and his face flushed.

I do have one fantasy, Crowley texts. But you have to swear that if I tell you, you promise not to judge me.

Why on Earth would I judge you?

Because that’s what angels do. And whether or not you want to admit it, I know you, too.

A substantial pause, and then - You have my word. Now, please. Go ahead.

Fine. Crowley clears his throat, even though he’s not actually speaking. I’m in a room somewhere …

Somewhere? Nowhere in specific?

No. Nowhere in specific. Crowley swallows hard. He makes a few mistakes typing the next few words, and it annoys him to realize his hands are shaking. Eyes closed, hands tied behind my back, and I’m waiting with the door cracked open. Someone walks in – I don’t know who (which is a huge and blatant lie because he does know. He’s known for thousands of years. There’s only one he trusts to do this … only one he wants to do this …) and frankly, I don’t care. I don’t have a relationship with him. I’m not paying him to be there, not tempting him either. But I am expecting him … or someone. Basically, I’m offering myself up for grabs to anyone walking by.

Crowley pauses a second, mouth dry, heart racing in his chest. It’s his biggest fantasy, but it would also be punishment. Punishment for things that he’s done in Hell’s name.

Punishment for not having the courage to go after the things he wants.

How horrible would it be to have some random human wreck him instead of the one he wants so much, he’s ready to claw his skin clean off his body?

And then?

Crowley grins, for a brief moment thrilled that he’s lured Aziraphale in to his secret erotic dream.

He fucks me, entirely unconcerned with who I am or what I want. I’m just there for his use, his pleasure.

And that doesn’t frighten you? Surrendering control? Being at his mercy?

Seeing those words makes Crowley’s heart beat faster. That’s exactly what he wants.

He wants to surrender control …

… but only to Aziraphale.

But how does he let that nugget of information slip without being too obvious?

Yes and no. I’d like to believe that whoever he is, he’s not interested in ending my existence, not showing up with a bucket of holy water to dunk on me. He’s just there to use me. He fucks me, he comes, he leaves, and that’s pretty much where the fantasy ends.

Crowley’s cock has gotten hard while he’s been texting. He squashes his erection with the palm of his hand, staring at the end of his last message, waiting for a reply.

And you’d give that kind of power to a human?

Crowley’s thumbs hover while he tries to find an answer to that question, one that won’t reveal his hand. I’m not saying that necessarily …

That seems rather reckless of you, my dear.

Crowley’s heart sinks as he types back - Yeah. Well, that’s part of the point.

And it’s not a temptation? Not to reap souls for Satan? Just something you want?

If I manage to kill two birds with one stone, I imagine that’s good for me in the end. But no. It’s just something I want. For me.

And you’ve never done this before?

No Crowley texts, holding his breath, wondering what Aziraphale is getting at. Not once.

The message he gets back speeds his heart into oblivion.

Do you feel like making that fantasy a reality?

Crowley raises an eyebrow. What do you mean?

I mean it’s been two months, Crowley. And I miss you terribly.

You would do that? Crowley asks, almost incredulous. You would come to my flat right now, after months of protesting that it would be setting a bad example, to engage in what you admit is reckless behaviour?

Crowley hits send before he has a chance to consider the tone of his message. It sounds cruel when he reads it back, unfair to berate Aziraphale when the realization of this fantasy is all he’s ever wanted. He expects Aziraphale’s next message will be him backpedaling with a Silly me. You’re right. I apologize. I’ll talk to you later. But the message Aziraphale sends is a single word that makes Crowley’s heart clench in his chest.

Please?

There are several auto-responses waiting in a row underneath Aziraphale’s plea, and without having to think (which he hasn’t been doing much of anyway) Crowley hits one.

It doesn’t even require him to hit send, ergo no second thoughts.

Yes.

[29-pieces]

Whumptober day 27 - Good Omens

Day 27: Extreme Weather Fandom/setting: Good Omens, Pompeii ca 79 AD Read on AO3 Read on FF.net

~*~

Crowley hacked and coughed, face covered with his arm in a pointless attempt to protect himself from the ash. Stones rained down all around him; it was the only sound now that most of the screams had gone silent. Tears dripped down Crowley's face, carving lines through the ash that had already settled on him. What was he even doing here? It was useless... any human still in Pompeii was dead by now, or long past his ability to heal. And he wasn't supposed to be healing anyone, anyway. In fact, Crowley didn't know what his assignment here even was, but the crippling horror he felt at the scene around him wouldn't have allowed for him to function anyway.

"Anybody!" Crowley croaked out, desperation driving his sandaled feet a little further into the city. "Hello! Is- is anyone left...?"

One person. One wretched person to save, that was all he asked, but he couldn't stay here much longer himself, not without succumbing to the volcano and discorporating. At this point, it didn't seem like a terrible idea. A huge rock glanced off his shoulder, knocking Crowley off balance so that he tripped into the rapidly growing layer of hot ash coating the streets. Even if fire wasn't likely to do much damage to a demon (did lava count? He'd never tested this and wasn't eager to) it still hurt. Another stone crashed down beside him, so Crowley growled and drew his wings out into the physical plane, hoping to shield his head.

It wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, the hot, cloying ash immediately starting to stick to his feathers. It weighed him down, cumbersome and unwieldy. Crowley tried to stand back up but this time a falling rock did knock him over the head. The demon toppled the rest of the way to the ground, almost totally immersing himself in a hot casing of the volcanic brume.

With a strangled cry, Crowley forced himself up onto one trembling arm and called again,

"H-hello! Anyone, is anyone left alive?"

Shouting made him cough and choke and there was no reply. It was time to go; he was doing no good- er, well, he never did good, but he wasn't any use here. Shuffling around in the ash, Crowley staggered to his feet and tried to point himself out of the city, away from the cruel fires of Vesuvius. He blinked, shielding his eyes, and glanced around. His heart pounded faster; which way was out? Everything was covered in a thick, dark cloud and he had no idea which direction he was pointed now...

Maybe he should just lay down and discorporate there after all, but it was a terrifying prospect to die there alone in the volcano's wrath.

Panic overcame him, making the demon start to hyperventilate, which—given the debris in the air—only made things worse. Crowley sat heavily back down, about to go into a full-blown panic attack when a sudden light permeated the gaseous cloud around him.

"Hello!" a voice shouted. "Is someone there?"

"Over here!" Crowley immediately choked back, forgetting for a second the point had been for him to find someone else to save, not to require rescuing himself. At the moment, he didn't even care, nor did it occur to him that his wings—which he couldn't put away now even if he wanted, thanks to the layer of ash and dust bogging them down—might be a bit of a shock to whoever it was.

But when the light got closer, Crowley nearly sagged with relief to see the someone was the angel Aziraphale. They hadn't crossed paths since that day at Golgotha, but so far all of their meetings had been more or less on friendly terms, or at least neutral ones. So even though now would be the ideal time for Aziraphale to finish him off if he wanted, Crowley didn't think twice before reaching out desperately for the angel.

He saw Aziraphale's eyes widen before he hurried forward to take Crowley's hand and haul him back up to his feet.

"Can you fly?" Aziraphale asked urgently.

Crowley, who could barely move his wings now, shook his head.

Without another word, Aziraphale turned them both in the direction he'd come from, starting to run, still gripping Crowley's hand tightly. As bogged down as Crowley was, he couldn't go quite as fast, gasping raggedly for breath.

"Hurry!" Aziraphale urged over his shoulder. "The flow is about to hit the city!"

Crowley didn't answer, saving his breath for running. He didn't know how long or far they ran, but finally they broke free of the heavy cloud. Ash still drifted down like snowflakes, but Aziraphale didn't stop or let go of his hand until they had outrun even that. Not until they had splashed across a stream and Pompeii was far behind them did the angel slow to a stop, leaning over and panting hard.

Crowley fell to his knees at the stream to greedily gulp the cool water. It mixed with the ash coating his mouth, making him hack and spit out gobs of gunk. Crowley had never felt so miserable.

"Took too long gloating, did you?" Aziraphale wheezed, shooting a glower at the demon.

The implication froze Crowley in his tracks. He stared at Aziraphale, the accusation burning into his heart. "You think- that wasn't me," he gasped. Crowley's frame shuddered as he slowly shook his head and looked back towards the volcano—hidden in the cloud of its own eruption—with pain filled eyes. "There- there were kids in there," he whispered, voice breaking. "I thought I could get them out, but... They're all dead. All of 'em. I- Just get out of here and leave me then, if that's what you think! Stupid angel! I didn't do this!" He crumpled again. "There were kids..."

Aziraphale didn't leave, kneeling down next to him with an expression of sorrow. "I'm sorry, Crowley," he said contritely. "That was foolish of me to assume- I'm sorry, dear boy, please forgive me."

Crowley hung his head and nodded wordlessly. The angel had saved his life, after all, even while assuming the whole thing had been Crowley's doing.

"Oh, your wings are in such a state," Aziraphale fussed then, looking over the normally black feathers that were now streaked grey and white from the ash. "Let me get you cleaned up a bit, alright? Penance for my ugly assumption. And because I don't believe you'd have much luck on your own."

Well, he was right about that. Too exhausted to refuse and wanting nothing more than to be clean, Crowley nodded again.

Permission given, Aziraphale miracled a clean cloth out of nowhere and wet it in the stream. Then he sat behind Crowley and started to gently wipe away the layer of grime. While he did that, Crowley tiredly splashed water over his face and neck, rinsing so much ash away between the two of them that the stream ran cloudy where they were sitting. He finished before Aziraphale did; Crowley closed his eyes and sank into the comfort of having his feathers carefully cleaned, all the way from the tip of his primaries to the joint where the wings met his back and then back down over the other one.

His hurt at Aziraphale's accusation melted away along with the debris on his wings. To Crowley's surprise, the angel didn't stop even once he'd gone through several rags and the feathers were pristine again.

"Close your eyes," Aziraphale warned him, miracling a bucket now and trickling the water over Crowley's head to rinse out his long hair. Somehow the water was soapy and warm as the angel massaged it diligently into Crowley's scalp. It nearly put the demon to sleep, his throat closing up a bit at the gentle touch. He couldn't remember the last time someone had washed his hair. Had anyone ever? He didn't say a word, not trusting himself to speak, as the angel continued his careful ministrations.

"There we are," Aziraphale murmured, tipping one last bucket of warm water through his hair to wash everything away. "Now one last miracle—I doubt anyone on my side will notice, after all there's plenty that needs doing here—and you should feel like a new demon."

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley's ashy, dirty tunic was suddenly clean and shining white. Apparently the angel forgot that Crowley wore black, but it had been nearly white from the ash so he could be forgiven the mistake. Crowley would fix it later. Maybe. At any rate, it left him fully clean and fresh at last. Aziraphale crouched down beside him, a warm hand on Crowley's shoulder and a worried light in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" the angel asked softly. "I imagine this has... not been a good day."

"To say the least," Crowley replied, trying for flippant but sounding more downtrodden than anything. He cleared his throat. "But, uh, I guess I should thank you."

"Nonsense, you would have done the same-" Aziraphale cut off, turning an interesting shade of pink as though he'd said something he shouldn't have and wanted to have not said it.

Crowley wanted to tease him for it, but honestly he was too tired, so he nodded instead with all seriousness. "Yeah. Still," he said, shrugging. "Thanks." It was true, of course, he would have saved the angel if necessary. Crowley hated to be in anyone's debt, so maybe they should just make some sort of standing Arrangement, when the other needed help, they'd give it. Then it wasn't a favor, it was just... what they did. He'd mention it to Aziraphale sometime, see what the angel made of it. An Arrangement could come in really handy, the more he thought about it.

But that, he decided, soaking in the feeling of being clean and safe at last, was a thought for another day.

[moveslikebucky]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Touch-Starved, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens)

Hello friends I am back at it again with the tutors - this time just a little soft hurt/comfort.  Full fic is under the cut, but can also be read on AO3 at the link!  Special thanks to the wonderful @writingelizabeth for the beta read <3 

---

If it had been any other day, Aziraphale could have ignored it. Could’ve thought of it as a trick of the light or a flight of fancy. Could’ve left well enough alone and not let his mind latch on to what he thought he saw.

Aziraphale is well-practiced at this; at making excuses for things. At not reading into the way yellow eyes linger a bit too long, on the meaning behind favors and gifts. He decidedly does not get caught up in the fleeting touch of long spindly fingers to his short and stout ones over a passed bottle of wine. Well, maybe just a little bit. Lets himself think of it in the wee hours of the night when no one is around to notice.

But the clock is ticking and the world keeps spinning, and nothing in all of creation is slowing it down. The End (capital E) is coming, all rather soon now; and Crowley, for whatever reason, is wearing tartan socks today.

They aren’t just any tartan, they’re Aziraphale’s tartan. And all the pomp and rules and meanings behind it. He’d often wondered, in the back of his mind, if Crowley had understood. They had been there when the tartans of the old clans were first made; when they were first passed down. They knew the rituals, the familial bonds required. The seriousness of the gift of tartan.

And one night in 1967, in an intricate ritual of his own devising, Aziraphale had passed Crowley a thermos of holy water, printed with his own tartan. He had hoped Crowley understood the significance, understood that this was Aziraphale reaching out in more ways than one. That he meant everything he said about “someday”, that he wanted Crowley safe, and, under all that with a beige pattern on a tin thermos, that he wanted Crowley by his side, under his mantle.

And today Crowley had worn tartan socks. Aziraphale had noticed as he watched Crowley teaching Warlock maths (Crowley had always been regrettably good at maths; Warlock was shaping up to be much the same). Crowley had deigned to perch on top of the desk in the library they were using as a one-student classroom, crossing one leg up over his bony knee. The cuff of his trousers had ridden up just enough that the pattern was evident. A tiny peek of beige and tan crosshatch, unmistakable to Aziraphale, who’s been wearing that pattern for centuries. He’d spent the majority of his own lesson distracted by the thought of bony ankles, and the majority of the ride in the Bentley back to the shop distracted by further thoughts. Ones that involved interlaced fingers and gentle brushes of lips; thoughts he wasn’t allowed to entertain.

“Well, this is you,” Crowley says matter of factly when they pull up outside the old bookshop. Aziraphale finds he’s not really ready for the day to end, and he could use a drink.

“Would you like to come in, dear? Maybe go over next week’s lesson plans, possibly over a nice bottle of Château Latour?”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” Crowley says with a grin as he shuts off the engine, the both of them clambering out of the car to head inside. Aziraphale fumbles with his keys as Crowley drones on about how Warlock is doing in his schoolwork.

“Boy’s a natural, angel! Absolutely a wizard at algebra, who would have thought it?” Crowley says as they enter the shop, candles popping to life of their own accord and blinds drawing themselves. Far too late in the evening to be opening anyway.

“Quite a whiz at numbers, yes. By far his favorite subject.” Aziraphale heads to the back storage as Crowley makes himself comfortable, plopping himself down on the old Chesterfield that’s as much his as anything else in the world at this point. Like he belongs there; like it’s home. Aziraphale takes a moment in the wine storage. Just a bit, just to breathe. It would be unfair, now, to act on these feelings. There are only a few short years left until they learn if their methods have been successful.

It would be cruel, Aziraphale thinks, to give in now. To let the emotions and feelings and yearning finally overtake him, drag him into the undertow and pull him out to sea. He knows, of course, has known with great clarity since 1941 that Crowley loves him. Has known with an agonizing heartache of his own love since 1862. It had snuck up on him, wormed its way into his heart as a seed way back in the Garden. Blooming bright and brilliant on one of the worst days of his life.

No, none of that now. There isn’t enough time. He wipes away the scant few tears that have decided to track down his face, breathes in deeply, and grabs the wine, determined to, at the very least, have a nice evening in.

Crowley is still chattering from across the shop, going on about something to do with Atila the Hun’s grandmother. Aziraphale can hear the pride in Crowley’s voice, still amazed at how much he’s taken to his disguises. Ashtoreth was much softer than Crowley would like to admit, a caregiver and a nurturer. And now, as Mr. Harrison, Crowley is able to impart knowledge. One would think, with Aziraphale being the bookshop owner, that he would take to teaching much more readily than the demon. But, one would be wrong.

Crowley has spent his entire existence asking questions. Sometimes the wrong ones, and sometimes the right ones. But it is in his nature, down to the very core of him to be inquisitive, to wonder, and to learn. Is it any wonder he takes so readily to gifting that knowledge out?

He did give humanity the knowledge of good and evil, after all.

“What was that about Gandhi, dear?” Aziraphale asks as he rounds the corner. “I didn’t quite catch —“

Aziraphale is struck speechless, much to his chagrin. Crowley’s tweed jacket has been discarded over a nearby chair, and his trademark boneless sprawl is nothing new. But his feet are propped on the edge of the couch; and right there, wrapped around his ankles, is unmistakably and unequivocally his tartan.

“Didn’t quite catch what?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale locks eyes with him slowly, not sure what to say. Crowley, for his part, looks confused. He follows to where Aziraphale’s eyes had been, sees the cuff of his trousers has crept up just a tad. Aziraphale watches the realization dawn on those long-loved features. Watches the slow turn of Crowley’s eyes back to him.

“You’re wearing my tartan…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“And…how long?”

“Don’t ask me that, angel—“

“How long?” It’s more forceful the second time, just a bit of heavenly presence behind it. Enough to make Crowley sit up and take notice, swinging his feet to the floor and tapping his heels nervously. Aziraphale isn’t sure Crowley even understands what he’s asking; not sure that he knows either. It’s not some big cosmic secret; they both know. They don’t speak about it, don’t observe it closely. Keep your distance and keep him safe; the mantra that plays in Aziraphale’s head, late at night when the shop is quiet and his only company is the old and dusty books.

Crowley avoids his eyes, wrings his hands together as he stares at the floor. The air between them is thick and heavy, though with what, Aziraphale isn’t sure yet. Crowley’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly; Aziraphale balls his hands into fists at his sides. Well-manicured nails digging into his palms, grounding him into the moment. Crowley scratches his beard, runs that same hand up through his hair before sighing heavily.

“Don’t remember a time when I didn’t.” He finally says, his voice cracking, his eyes finally meeting Aziraphale’s.

The moment stretches between them, thick like treacle. Aziraphale can’t give in now; not when they have so much to lose, not when what’s at stake is everything. What would it gain them if they fail? A few happy years and a bit of distraction before their weapons are at each other’s throats? Just two unwilling soldiers on either side of a war they didn’t want, on the battlefield that was once their home.

But then, what if? What if, in this short stretch of time before everything potentially goes to Hell (literally), they could lean on each other? It wouldn’t be much, but it would be theirs. But what’s the point if it could be painful later?

Before Aziraphale can break his thoughts to respond, Crowley stands and crosses over to him, takes the wine bottle from his shaking grip, and sets it aside.

“Look, angel, we can forget this. I’ll go back to my flat, we’ll call it a night - pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”

Crowley is standing so close to him, less than a foot away even though it feels like miles and Aziraphale doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want to forget about this. He doesn’t want to run anymore and he realizes, with solid clarity and conviction, that the reason for anything — the reason they should stop running and be happy now — is precisely because things could be painful later.

“Don’t!” Aziraphale reaches out and grabs Crowley’s sleeve as he turns away, freezing the both of them in the moment. Amber eyes meet his, searching for answers that Aziraphale doesn’t have. He’s on the wrong foot, out of his element with no idea where to go next. There isn’t a precedence for any of this, there never has been. Not for an angel’s love —singular, not plural— pent up for centuries with nowhere to go. An angel’s love is meant to be all-encompassing, of everything that exists in all of the world, not like this. Not with a single focus point. Not with only one star pulling that love into an orbit that is nigh inescapable.

What even happens now? Aziraphale doesn’t know. But he lets his instincts take over, lets this far too human need that has consumed him since a cold and dreary day in a park in 1862 take the lead. Lets the sense of dread melt away from him, lets it be replaced by anticipation instead as he threads his fingers through Crowley’s. They fit together perfectly and his heart jumps into his throat.

“Aziraphale…” His name in Crowley’s mouth is a question, one that Crowley has been asking for longer than Aziraphale has ever wanted to admit.

“Don’t go, please, I…” Aziraphale’s words fail him. How does one say something that has been left unsaid for so long? How does one give voice to that? Tears sting at the corner of his eyes as he grips Crowley’s hand tighter.

There’s the soft caress of a thumb on his cheek, lightly brushing away those tears. A calming voice whispering comfort as he’s pulled into arms that are so familiar to him in every way except for this . They’ve never held hands before, never held one another like this, and yet it feels so right and so familiar. It feels like coming home.

Crowley holds him close, lets him cry; stays steadfast as Aziraphale crumbles, rubbing circles into his back. Comforting him, of all things. Shakily, Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s thin frame, finally knowing what it’s like to have the one he loves most in his arms. It starts his tears falling anew, knowing that he’ll never be able to go back. They’ve crossed a line, and neither of them can turn away from it any longer.

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley whispers softly on a cracked voice, “S’gonna be alright.” It’s only now that Aziraphale realizes Crowley is crying, too. He squeezes the demon tighter, nuzzles his face into his neck, marveling at how Crowley’s sharp angels compliment his own soft curves. How they fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle, two halves of one soul, like the old philosophers used to say.

They stay like this, for hours or minutes Aziraphale can’t say. All he can do is stand here, breathing in the faint hint of brimstone that lingers on Crowley’s skin, feeling the rise and fall of Crowley’s breathing. He’s never been held like this, never held anyone like this. He’s seen the humans do it, of course. Watched Adam wrap his arms around Eve to offer comfort in the unyielding wilderness, watched as Yeshua’s mother wept openly in Mary Magdalene’s arms. All through the millennia, he’s watched as humans have touched each other, have been vulnerable with each other in the hope of just some simple comfort in life. It’s different for them, when life is so fleeting and so short. Where love is not just something to want, it’s something needed from the moment they are born until the last breath that they take. When time is so short, so ephemeral, it’s impossible to face it alone.

Time has never been short or fleeting, not for him or for Crowley. The wide expanse of forever has always stretched out in front of them, just as the wide expanse of before stretches behind. Both of them older than the universe itself, architects in the crew of God’s creation. When you cannot truly be killed by mortal means, it’s easy to forget that an end is planned. There’s all the time in the world. Wait for me, go a little slower, we’ll get there.

There is no time now, four years at best if their plan doesn’t work, and Aziraphale can feel the crushing weight of mortality now. He wonders how the humans have ever survived underneath it.

But for now, there are thin fingers carding through Aziraphale’s pale curls, whispering words of comfort. There’s a warm hand on the small of his back, tracing circles with a thumb. The gentleness and softness of the actions make his chest hurt and he wonders if this is what the humans call “heartbreak”. He pulls back reluctantly, needing to see Crowley’s face, needing to read the emotions there.

He swipes a calloused thumb across Crowley’s cheek, collecting a stray tear that’s lingering there. Just this once, just for now, he lets himself get lost in Crowley’s eyes. Yellow like molten gold, glowing in the relative darkness, brighter than the candles. Aziraphale lets his hand rest on Crowley’s cheek, taking in the surprising softness of the beard he’s been sporting these last few months. Crowley leans into it, eyes searching Aziraphale’s own as he turns slowly —every so slowly—and places a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s palm.

Nothing has ever felt like this, so simple and gentle of a gesture, and yet the maelstrom it causes within Aziraphale could destroy an entire coastal city if he let it. This flood of love and acceptance and belonging, this overwhelming feeling of yes, you, you are the one I should be running to, that I should be going through this life with. It’s always been you how could I have ever pushed you away?

And so Aziraphale doesn’t push him away; resolves to never do so again. Instead, he lets his hand drift along Crowley’s jawline, around to the back of his head. Lets his fingers finally, after so long spent wondering, learn just how soft Crowley’s hair is. He pulls, Crowley comes willingly to meet him halfway, and for the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s almost anticlimactic in its simplicity. A gentle brush of lips, an intimate touch reserved for humans and not for them. The heavens don’t shake, lightning doesn’t strike them down, God herself does not descend in a glorious cacophony of trumpets to cast him into the pit. It’s just him and Crowley, standing in the bookshop, with their lips and hearts and souls pressed to one another. Content and calm in this human-bound method of affection, this gentleness.

They break apart slowly, as if moving through a fog. Aziraphale lets his eyes fall open, sees Crowley’s still closed, a small and quiet smile quirking up the corners of his lips. It’s unbearably tender, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to hold him until the sun burns out. Crowley opens his eyes slowly, meets Aziraphale’s gaze. The small and quiet smile spreads, breaking across his face like dawn light.

“I do hope that was alright, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers into the fading darkness of the room, afraid to speak too loudly, to break this spell that’s between them right now. Crowley still holds him tight, like he’s something precious or worthy.

“Angel, I…” Crowley’s voice trails off, no longer more than a string of consonants with no vowels to hold them together. Like too many things are trying to rush out of his mouth at the same time and none of them make sense. Aziraphale just waits, lets Crowley hold him, lets him find his words until he finally lands on three.

Three words, spoken softly and nervously on shaky breath. Spoken in such a way that hints a gearing for rejection; at waiting for the penny to drop. At an expectation of once again being let down, of being too much.

Aziraphale smiles at him, tangles his fingers through Crowley’s hair, feeling the short strands slide smoothly through them. He says three words back. Crowley leans in, and their lips meet again. More insistent this time, more sure of themselves. It feels right, kissing Crowley. Feels like they were meant to fit together this way, like his lips have been waiting countless lifetimes to know the shape of Crowley’s lips.

There will be time for talk later, time for confessions and promises. For apologies and what-ifs. But for now, they sink to the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, and just for a moment in time, they are able to hold one another. To forget about what’s coming and just exist and touch and kiss each other softly like the humans do.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 11 Part 1

Oof. Busy day at work today. Resume! The boys have something to talk about...

Discussion this chapter of magical injuries, and we get our first big swear.

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 11

Aziraphale’s upturned face was full of hope. He opened his mouth to speak.

Crowley held up a finger. Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut. Crowley had no idea what his own face must look like, but the sight of it caused the light in Aziraphale’s eyes to snuff right out. The angel swallowed and stared at him.

Crowley tried to collect himself while experiencing twenty-two emotions in the span of ten seconds.

In a cracked voice, he said, “What. The Hell. Are you doing here.”

Aziraphale’s hands wrung together. “I’m so sorry to drop in unannounced,” he said.

He sounded sincere. As if a lack of manners was the issue. Crowley made an undignified noise.

“It must have given you quite a shock. If there was some way to contact you beforehand -”

“I didn’t need another of your notes.”

There was a horrible pause.

“Qu-quite.” Aziraphale looked pale. “Um. Perhaps I should explain?”

An explanation. Crowley flashed back to the day he’d returned to the bookshop, shame-faced and heart-bruised, and found it dark and empty, summoning circle cold for hours, and that one sheet of paper on the bureau addressed to him. His stomach dropped away.

“I came back, because… because I had to see you. The thing is…”

Aziraphale’s lip wobbled. Then it burst out of him like a dam exploding.

“I couldn’t do it, Crowley! I couldn’t sit up there and smile while they all counted down to Armageddon like it was New Years’ bloody Eve. I want no part in any of it. They were going to give me a regiment and - Crowley, I can’t do it. Killing for them, seeing you killed. They’re looking forward to getting to melt the Earth down to a slag heap. I can’t even comprehend it. I’ve seen the world they’re so keen to duplicate down here, and it’s awful, Crowley. Seventy-eight years of Singalong Sound of Music, you have no idea. I can’t take an eternity of that. I thought I had no choice, I thought I had to stick it out, but it got to today and it was all too much and I just had to come and find you. I’ve been an idiot. We should have done this from the start, when Zadkiel wanted to. He was right all along, and I was wrong. We have to escape. This world is going to end, no matter what, but it doesn’t have to be the end for us.”

Nothing could have prepared Crowley for Aziraphale bursting up to him and suggesting they go on the lam.

He managed a croaky, “You what?”

Aziraphale took a step towards him. His eyes held a feverish glow.

“We can do it. I’ve thought it all through, and it’s possible. If we act now. Flee into space, live as a fusion. Heaven and Hell won’t be able to track us. Besides, they’re going to be busy with everything down here. We can have our pick of where to settle down. Er, where’s nice… Alpha Centauri, say? I’m sure I’ve heard you talking about it.”

Crowley said, “Nnng.” It was all he had left.

Aziraphale came closer. He took Crowley’s hand. Crowley stared down at it as if it wasn’t attached to him.

“Will you please come with me?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley forgot what breathing felt like.

Aziraphale noticed something. He glanced down at their joined hands.

“Crowley, why are you wearing one glove?”

Crowley remembered what breathing was. He sucked in a lungful of air. Aziraphale’s face dropped at his expression.

Crowley made a strained hissing sound. Tears leaked out of his eyes and streaked down his face, under his sunglasses. Shit. Shit.

He scrubbed his face. Aziraphale made a soft noise and reached for him.

“Get back. Don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale turned white and backed away.

Crowley shook, face hidden in his hand. Everything was upside down. He didn’t know how to even voice everything he’d felt over the past seventy-eight years. What it was like to cram all the love he had into a box and bury it and go back to work, and keep going back to work, every single day.

“How fucking dare you pull this. I never thought I’d see you again. You abandoned me. You got scared, and you fled and you left me alone. Ran right back to that supercilious lot without a word. I’m sorry you haven’t been enjoying their company these last few years, that must have been really hard for you. I’ve been down here with Hastur and Ligur and half of Hell. I’ll tell you something, I’d rather see them right now than you.”

“Oh, goodness. Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought I was saving your life.”

“Saving my -?” Crowley barked a laugh. More tears came. “What kind of -”

He had to pull his sunglasses off and wipe his face. What was the point in dignity when Aziraphale looked at him like that?

“What happened to your arm, Crowley?”

It hurt. Crowley didn’t know why, but his arm was in more pain than it had ever been since it first happened. He clutched it, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Can I see? Please?”

Why not. The glove felt as though it were compressing the wound, making it swell with pain. Crowley fumbled with it, forgetting he could just miracle it away. Maybe he didn’t want the dramatic reveal of baring it all at once. He peeled the glove down, ignoring the way Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

It looked appalling, he knew. His arm was withered from the elbow down, drained of colour and white as a corpse. Cracks in his skin ran all the way along his forearm; unnatural gaps, as though his arm was pieced together from shards of pottery. Gold shone through them, a strange effect that was not quite liquid and not quite light. It was the colour of angels.

Crowley didn’t understand why the pain had spiked. The injury was old. His jacket covered most of it, luckily. Aziraphale’s face was bad enough as it was.

“My poor Crowley.” Aziraphale reached for his other hand. Crowley let him. He let himself feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s thumb stroking the back of his hand.

“Turns out fusing had some extra perks,” he said, attempting levity.

“What do you mean?”

He might as well tell him. He cleared his throat.

“I was in SoHo. It was… I dunno, nineteen-sixty something. I planned a heist. Got a whole crew together. I knew it was dangerous, but I wanted insurance. Even with you gone, I was afraid Hell might poke around and find the last thousand years’ lunch receipts or something. Figure out I’d got a bit too chummy with an angel. So I hired a team, and we did the job. It was in a church. It went wrong.”

“What were you stealing?”

“Holy water.”

Aziraphale’s thumb stopped moving. His breath trembled out of him. Then he resumed stroking Crowley���s hand.

“Oh, Crowley. If I’d been there. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley had to look away. “Didn’t kill me though,” he said. “I think all the fusing must have made me immune. Slightly. It just… burned.” He winced. It was still burning. His arm and heart hurt in equal measures. “I went home and licked my wounds - figuratively, I don’t want a withered tongue - and I’ve been trying to hide it from the rest of my side ever since. Don’t have a very non-treasonous explanation for it.”

“That must have been so hard. All those years.”

“Well.” Crowley shrugged one shoulder. “What was one more secret?”

He felt exhausted. Whoever said confession was good for the soul hadn’t talked to demons.

“You’re probably immune to hellfire, too, a bit,” he said. “Don’t go testing it, obviously.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley fiddled with his sleeve. He hoped he could cover up soon. Looking at the gold seeping through the cracks in his skin for too long made his eyes go funny.

“I wish I could take all this back,” Aziraphale said.

The pain was subsiding a little. Rather than constant agony, it came and went in waves. Crowley still didn’t know why it had spiked. Looking at Aziraphale made it worse, a fact that hurt almost as much as the physical pain.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Aziraphale’s movements stilled. He sighed.

“I thought I needed to. It was the only way to keep us safe. We couldn’t trust ourselves around each other. Someone had to separate us, and I thought it should be me. I thought I was being noble. It was cruel. I’m sorry.”

Crowley was right. Hearing that didn’t make him feel any better. He didn’t feel worse, either. He’d settled on slightly numb. He wished he could say the same for his arm. It throbbed like poison.

The pain must have shown, because Aziraphale looked concerned. “Is it still bad?”

“Fnn.” Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.

“What’s causing it? It’s not…” Aziraphale sounded suddenly alarmed. “Is it reacting to me? Because I’m an angel? If the wound was inflicted by Heavenly means - oh dear -”

Crowley gritted his teeth. He forced himself to look at Aziraphale. The angel’s wretched expression stung his heart. Some mean, hurt part of him wanted to make Aziraphale feel worse.

“It’s not because you’re an angel, Aziraphale. It’s because I’m angry. At you. I haven’t forgiven you. Seeing you just. Hurts.”

Aziraphale flinched. Crowley felt a wave of vindication. Then he just felt sick.

For a while, no-one spoke.

Aziraphale muttered, “Psychosomatic.”

“Bless you,” Crowley said irritably, ignoring the burst of foul taste in his mouth.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Rolled his eyes -! Crowley was so outraged he temporarily forgot all the other things he was outraged about.

“It’s not just a physical injury. It’s emotional. You associate it with me… abandoning you. Well, I’ll tell you what, you old serpent. I will never abandon you, never. If you’ll let me, I will stay by your side, from now until the end of everything. Which I’m hoping won’t be today. I love you.”

Aziraphale moved closer. There was a determined, blazing look in his eye.

Crowley tried to splutter about demon and feelings and don’t pull faces at me, you bastard, but lost every word in his head the moment Aziraphale pressed closer and kissed him.

They never. Quite got around to doing that before.

A turbulent ocean fell suddenly calm.

Crowley’s arms had fallen to his sides (useless lumps, if they were house-plants, he’d put the fear of him in them). He realised, through the haze that had settled around him, that the pain in the right arm had soothed to a dull sting.

Aziraphale’s hands were on his face, holding him like something precious. Crowley whined. Then he blushed so hotly his head was in danger of melting. He rallied his mutinous arms and wound them around Aziraphale’s plump shoulders.

Time swum, deliciously.

Aziraphale shifted. He broke the kiss, but still leaned his cheek to Crowley’s. Crowley felt as if he lacked any say over his feet or tongue, but did his best to stay upright and form sentences.

“You - ah. Hn.” Going well. “You said you had a plan?”

The unangelic gleam in Aziraphale’s eye was mesmerising this close up. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Crowley wetted his lips and got distracted utterly by recent memory. “Alpha Centauri… ‘s pretty nice this time of year…”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. Crowley took in the love and joy beaming from it and tried to keep a lid on his emotions for both their sakes. He failed.

“Crowley… are you saying you’ll come with me?”

Crowley didn’t trust himself with words. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Why not? I like space.”

His happiness was such that he didn’t even kick himself over that line. He suspected he was grinning like an idiot. Might as well commit to the madness fully. He bent down and kissed Aziraphale first this time.

An unknowable amount of time passed.

From the doorway, someone coughed.

Crowley and Aziraphale froze. Their lips unstuck, with a noise that rather burst the bubble of romantic frenzy from moments ago.

Crowley’s eyes flicked past Aziraphale’s shoulder.

An unimpressed eleven-year-old Antichrist was watching them.

There were probably a few ways this could be a bigger fiasco. Probably. Crowley took a half-step back and tried to straighten his clothes out.

“You’re not dead,” Adam said, flatly.

Aziraphale turned and tried to smile. “Erm -”

“And you -”

Adam looked Crowley up and down. Crowley felt that he was being seen right through to his very demonic core. He resisted a panicked urge to fling himself out of the window.

“You’re normally a snake,” Adam declared.

Crowley cringed.

“And imaginary,” Adam added, accusatory.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Crowley said, pointlessly, because he wasn’t entirely sure what it did look like.

Adam gave them both a shrewd look. “It looks like you’re my imaginary friend and you’re a magician I murdered, and you’re planning on running away together into space.”

It was hard to dispute any of that. Crowley opened his mouth to try.

“Can I come?” Adam said.

“What? No.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Are you aliens?”

Crowley glared at Adam, trying to calculate a response. “Why…?”

“Space.” Adam gave him a look, as if it were self-evident. “Plus, you can shape-shift.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, insistently.

Crowley turned to him, hoping he had a brilliant suggestion.

“Is that the Antichrist?” Aziraphale stage-whispered.

Crowley rolled his eyes so hard they sprained. “Yes, that is the Antichrist,” he hissed back.

Adam scowled. “You sound like my mum.”

“Look, er.” Aziraphale tried another smile. “I’m terribly sorry about earlier, but this really isn’t… anything. We were just joking around, you know, and…”

“I know everything’s messed up,” said Adam.

There was a pause.

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked.

Adam shrugged. “Everything. I know… I know stuff isn’t normal. The stuff that goes on in this house isn’t… how things are supposed to be. I’ve had enough of it. I want to go with you. I’d rather live in space.”

Aziraphale shared an uncomfortable look with Crowley. Crowley decided this had gone on long enough.

“Go to your room,” he said, and snapped his fingers.

Adam stayed where he was. He folded his arms, implacable. He was a five-foot barricade, as impassable as a steel door.

“That won’t work, he’s immune to occult persuasion,” Aziraphale murmured to him.

“Oh, now you’re the expert?”

Adam took a step towards them. They leaned back.

“I want to see space.”

Crowley wanted to see space, too, and he could feel it slip from his grasp the more time they wasted arguing with an eleven-year-old.

“Fine, you can come,” he snapped.

A grin split Adam’s face in two. “Really?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped around. “Really?”

“We’ve got between here and Alpha Centauri to ditch him,” Crowley muttered to him.

“I am not kidnapping a child, Crowley!”

“How are you kidnapping him? He’s kidnapping us! Besides,” Crowley lowered his voice further. “Armageddon can’t happen without him. If the Antichrist isn’t on Earth…”

Aziraphale caught on. “Maybe it never happens.”

Crowley still had it. Temptation accomplished.

Aziraphale bustled up to Adam. “Welcome aboard, young man.” He shook Adam’s hand.

“Thanks,” Adam said. He’d forgotten about the whole manslaughter debacle already, by the look of things.

“Now, stay close.”

Aziraphale peered along the corridor. He beckoned Adam and Crowley to follow him. Crowley brought up the rear, wondering how all this had happened to him.

On the way out, they ran into the American cultural attaché. He waved vaguely to Adam as he passed.

“Merry Christmas, son,” he said, sounding a bit uncertain.

“Bye, dad,” Adam said, distractedly.

They left him behind and went out the front door, all three acting as though they were in very different spy films.

As they snuck across the lawn, with maximum drama and minimum stealth, Crowley remembered something.

“Hey,” he said to Adam. “Did a giant dog ever show up?”

Adam looked at him as if he was talking nonsense. “No. I haven’t wanted a dog in years.”

“Cool, cool. Just wondering.”

~*~

In the shrubbery, the enormous and poorly concealed Hellhound put its tail between its legs.

It didn’t understand. It was made for one purpose. If its master didn’t want it, why was it here?

It crept from the shrubbery, far less conspicuous than the three beings it was following, and stalked across the lawn towards the street. It would stay in its master’s shadow, out of sight, until he decided he wanted a dog after all.

---

Musical interlude x2! This chapter has a soundtrack. For Aziraphale’s perspective of the last seventy eight years, go here!

Then, the boys duet about their feelings here!

---

(Link to next part)

[eveningstarcatcher]

Ineffable Valentines - Day 2: Roses

The day was grey and dreary. Rain was drizzling down and Aziraphale left the bookshop sign flipped to “CLOSED”, choosing to spend the day with a mug of cocoa and a good book. 

Crowley was dozing on the couch, his steady breathing and the gentle patter of rain a soothing soundtrack for reading.

Aziraphale settled into his chair. He loved days like this. Days he could spend inside, with all of his favorite things. A nice mug of cocoa that will warm him from the inside, a book that he can get lost in, the cozy and familiar interior of the bookshop, and his dear Crowley napping just a few feet from him. Aziraphale’s heart felt full as he looked at Crowley’s sleeping form, all long, sleek lines, black fabric, and red hair.

“I’m so glad you feel comfortable here, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered,. “This may be my home, but it doesn’t feel complete without you here.” He looked a moment more, then kissed his hand and blew it towards Crowley. He giggled at himself, feeling a bit foolish for the act, but gave Crowley one more look, then opened his book.

They spent the next few hours this way. The only noises were the shuffle of a turning page, a small murmur of Crowley in his sleep, and the steady ticking of the Grandfather clock.

Aziraphale was surprised when he heard a knock at the door. It was so faint that at first he didn’t hear it, but the second time it managed to pull his attention out of the pages before him. He carefully placed a bookmark to hold his place, set the book on the desk, and hurried to the door.

He unlocked the bolt and opened the door to find a delivery man holding a clipboard in one hand and a pot in the other.

“Delivery for Mr. Fell,” the man said, dressed in shades of brown and tan, the company logo proudly displayed on his shirt and cap. “Please sign.”

“Thank you very much,” Aziraphale smiled, signing his name on the clipboard and taking the pot from him. “Have a nice day.”

“You too, sir. Thank you, sir.” The delivery man smiled before turning and striding back to his van.

Aziraphale took a look at the grey sky and saw that there was no sign of the rain stopping. That didn’t bother him, he was having a lovely day.

He closed and locked the door and returned to the backroom. He set the pot down on the floor to his right and swept the book up again. 

He was lost in the pages again, soaking up every word and feeling printed there. The handsome hero, who, despite the written descriptions was tall, thin, and redheaded, was sweeping the beautiful lady, blonde haired and blue eyed, off her feet. He brought her flowers, he spoke tender words, and he dashed in and saved her from the villain in the nick of time, earning her love and her hand in marriage! 

Aziraphale giggled to himself, remembering the Bastille. Crowley’s hair had been terribly dreadful, but he had been there to rescue him, had even agreed to have lunch with him. He remembered that night during the Blitz when Crowley had braved consecrated ground to find Aziraphale and save him from the Nazis. He had remembered to save Aziraphale’s beloved books from the bomb while Aziraphale was focused on saving their corporations.

He also remembered how cruel the words he had used with Crowley were. They echoed in his mind and created knots in his stomach.

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

We’re not having this conversation. Not another word!

Do you know what trouble I’d be in if they knew I’d been...fraternizing?

I don’t even like you.

There is no our side, Crowley. Not anymore. 

It’s over.

He wiped a tear from his eye at the memories of all the pain he had caused Crowley over the years. It could have been over so many times. Crowley could have simply walked away and never sauntered back into his life again. He was so patient with Aziraphale, so generous and kind.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley was sitting up, eyes barely open.

“Nothing, my dear. Go back to sleep,” Aziraphale set the book down on the desk.

“No, m’done sleeping. Why are you crying?” Crowley knelt down in front of Aziraphale, setting his hands on his thighs.

“I was thinking about us. About all the terrible, hurtful things I said to you and how you always came back even after I pushed you away,” Aziraphale placed his hands over Crowley’s and closed his eyes, fighting the tears that pooled there.

“I knew you didn’t mean it. I knew the grip Heaven had on you and I never blamed you. Not once,” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hands.

“I should have chosen you. You were the one who was always there for me, the one who cared for me when Heaven turned its back on me. I’m so sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale slumped forward, his head resting on top of Crowley’s.

“You want to know what I remember?” Crowley asked, his thumbs rubbing circles against Aziraphale’s thighs. He felt Aziraphale nod against his head. “I remember you protecting me from the rain in the garden, inviting me to lunch in Rome, agreeing to the Arrangement, giving me the holy water, despite your better judgement. I remember every time you were worried about Holy Water destroying me, each time you told me I was kind. I remember when you forgave me. Those are the things I remember. Yes, the other things you said hurt, but you always reminded me that you cared, that you didn’t mean what you said, that they were just words you used when you were afraid that Heaven would hurt you.”

“Or you,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s hair.

“But they can’t. They tried and failed and here we are,” Crowley shifted his head and cupped Aziraphale’s cheeks in his hands, wiping his tears away.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale gave a weak smile.

“You have forgiven me, Aziraphale. Please forgive yourself,” Crowley said softly.

At this, Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and slid down to the floor beside him. He held Crowley close, breathing in the earthy, smoky scent of him and feeling his heart beating against his chest.

“You’re quite right, dear,” he said after a few minutes. “If you’ve forgiven me, I should forgive myself. Release the fear and the guilt and start anew.”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley ran his fingers through his pale curls. “Never had to forgive you, though.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale sat back and gave Crowley a bright smile.

Crowley pressed a kiss to the angel’s forehead and moved to stand up, but something caught his eye.

“What’s that?” he asked, inclining his head to the floor behind Aziraphale.

“Oh! Well, I was planning to save it, but this seems like a good time!” Aziraphale shuffled on his knees to the pot and brought it over.

“It’s for you,” Aziraphale beamed and handed it to Crowley.

Crowley took the pot in his hands and smiled. It was a small bush of hybrid tea roses sporting deep red blossoms as well as white.

“I was sure to get the bush, so you can plant it. I thought you might not like the cut ones, since they’d die. This way you can cultivate it and be reminded of me every time you see it.” Aziraphale explained, running a finger lovingly over the soft petals of a red rose.

“It’s beautiful,” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and placed a gentle kiss to it, earning him a blush on his pale cheeks. “Thank you. Although, I don’t need flowers to make me think of you.”

“I should hope not, but I thought they were lovely and I wanted you to have them.”

“Too cold to plant it now. Where should I put it until the ground thaws?” Crowley asked, glancing around the room.

“I believe they like a lot of sun, so how about right here in the window?” Azirphale gestured to an empty spot on the sill. “Not much sun today, but I’ve heard the forecast is supposed to be nice this week.”

Crowley gently placed the pot in its place and stepped back, offering a hand to Aziraphale and pulling him to his feet.

“It’s perfect.” Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and held him tight as they smiled at the small roses.

For @mielpetite‘s @ineffable-valentines Also on A03

[mostfacinorous]

GO Whumptober Day 19: Broken Hearts [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18]

“I swear ‘snot for… reporting or anything.” Aziraphale began, a couple of bottles into the evening and feeling warm and comfortable. 

Crowley rolled his hand at the wrist, urging him to go on, get on with the question already. 

“‘S just-- I only ever see one of a handful of demons on Earth, an’ I know only some ‘f the folks in hell’re demons. You got all them other kinds, but-- well, how many demons’re there? Proper, old demons. The ones who, y’know, fell.”

Crowley considered not answering, or giving a half answer, but it seemed unfair. 

Aziraphale had been incredibly forthcoming all night-- as if their recent troubles had made him more trusting, more willing to be open with him, and it seemed like he deserved to know. He had been to hell, after all. Of course he was curious. 

“Thousands fell.” Crowley started with, then looked consideringly at the bottle he held loosely by the neck, and took a large pull of it. “About a third of all of all angels fell. Not all of us landed, though, if you get my meaning.” 

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, and Crowley could see him trying to work it through, his face contorting with strained concentration. 

Crowley sighed. 

“Some went to pieces in the fall. Turned into, I dunno, ash or stardust. I was a li’l... busy at the time. Distracted.” He paused and had another drink, trying not to remember. “Some fell into th’ lakes of burning sulphur and couldn’t or wouldn’t claw their way back up. They just… stayed down there. Maybe still down there now, I dunno. And some… some made it to hell, but couldn’t figure out how’ta go on. It was… it’s a big loss, y’know?” 

It was a somber conversation, and had him looking down the neck of the bottle and wondering how many more of these it’d take to forget the horror of so many millenia prior. It never seemed to fade, though, and the wounds were fresher than usual, what with his return to heaven and the literal holes in his spirit where-- he shuddered. If the Metatron tried to force grace into him now, he’d have no defense. 

“There’s not a lot’f us left. Dozens, maybe a couple hundred I’d say, yeah. An’ we’ve made some additions, familiars and imps n lil monsters n the like, but… heaven wants a war, I know. There’re gonna have a skirmish, a blood bath. ‘S not gonna be grand, or glorious. ‘S gonna be putting a lot of folks out of their misery, or fightin’ folks who have forgotten what misery is, what pain is. Gonna be a tough fight, believe you me, but it’s not gonna be an even match, jus the same.”

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“It was cruel.” He said simply, and Crowley felt his heart lurch in his chest. 

Was… was Aziraphale condemning God? He shook his head, silently telling him not to go on. So many of them had fallen for so much less.

“Shouldn’t’ve asked, sorry.” Aziraphale finished, and Crowley started breathing again.

“You’re not cruel.” He reassured him. “‘S just what happened. ‘S… not fair. Not what any’f us wanted. But…” He tried to shrug, but his limbs had gone a little liquid feeling with the drink. 

“Did you…” Aziraphale paused, and Crowley wondered what was so hard to ask. “D’you remember any of them? The ones who didn’t make it?” 

Crowley felt another pang, and sighed. 

“I don’t even know who they all were, b’fore. Fallin’, it… it changes you, right? I know some of ‘em, who they were, who they are now, but… there was one. She grabbed onto me, when we were falling, held on, kept saying, I’ve got you, you got me, ‘n I was babbling yes, yeah, just trying to find a scrap of comfort...but she lost her grip partway down. I saw ‘er hit the sulfur pool. Then I went under, ‘n… she was just trying to climb out. She didn’t mean-- She grabbed back hold of me, but she… she pushed me down, back into it. That was when my eyes-- they were open when I went under. And I had to get out from under her, had to get away. Nex’ time I surfaced… she wasn’t anywhere. I don’t know who she was.”

Aziraphale was watching him, wide eyed, one hand pressed to his lips, as Crowley struggled his way through the story. It wasn’t the whole story-- he couldn’t find words for how scared he’d been, how hurt. How any touch had felt like a kindness, how falling with someone had given him hope he wouldn’t have to go through all of this alone. And then… 

He shook his head. He was too drunk to find the words, and too heartbroken to contemplate having this discussion sober. 

“It’s daft to say, but… there were times, early on, where I’d think, whoever she was, what would she be doing, if she made it out n not me? An-- how would things be diffr’nt if we both came out of it. If I had someone with me through all the--”

All the screaming, and the burns, the healing, the learning how to make bodies for themselves and crawling in the darkness, the burrowing upwards in search of God’s light and finding Earth instead, finding that the very light they were so missing hurt them now. 

“If I hadn’t been alone.” he finished instead. 

Aziraphale was crying now, silent and unwilling to interrupt, and Crowley realized with a start that he was crying too. 

He huffed, annoyed, and wiped at his face roughly with the back of his hand. 

He didn’t notice Aziraphale leaning forward until he touched him, and Crowley looked up, startled. 

“I hope you don’t always feel so alone, now.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could’ve kissed him, if that wouldn’t ruin everything. 

“No, not for a long time now.” He told him, and if his voice was rough, neither of them remarked on it.

[ineffablegoodhusbandsomens]

Hurts like Hell

I did a new thing! Been out of inspiration lately, but I got a little bit from an animation by Max Wayne on Youtube. It’s super angsty, and I loved the plot, so I asked if I could turn it into a fic, and told them I’d link their video with it, and they said, sure. So, here it is! And I’ll link the video on here too, if anyone wants to see it. It’s super angsty, but it’s really well done, and I love it a lot. You should go check it out! anyway, onto the fic! (Fair warning, this is hella angsty, I’m not gonna lie. There’s like, no happiness here)

They’d done it. They’d stopped the apocalypse, they’d saved the world, they’d convinced their sides to leave them alone. It had been over a year since then, and life had been good. So why now? 

   “Heaven and Hell working together, huh? That’s news to my ears” he’d said, trying to hide his fear behind his false confidence, when both Archangels and the Lords of Hell approached him in his flat. 

   “Don’t play coy, demon. We know about you and the Principality Aziraphale” Michael said, looking too smug for his liking. He felt fear rising in him, and tried to calm his nerves.

   “Bit slow on the uptake there, Mikey boy. Thought you lot knew about our ‘fraternizing’ back when we were still trying to stop the end of the world” he replied, putting on his best smirk, and hoping they couldn’t see through him. Beelzebub grinned at him, and his blood ran cold. 

   “Oh, we did. But thatzz not what we’re here to talk about today. We know how you to zzwitched bodiezzz to avoid exzzecution” they said, and Crowley’s heart dropped as fast as his smile did. They knew. They knew, and now both he and Aziraphale were going to die. They were going to kill him first, and then go after his angel.

   “Oh, that got him to drop the act. Yes, demon, we know. We know everything. How you two escaped execution, how you’ve been ‘fraternizing’, as you put it, since Eden. We know how you, a pathetic excuse for a demon fell in love with a pathetic excuse for an angel, even if we don’t know how. We could just kill you here and now” Gabriel said, his voice thick with triumph and smug. Crowley waited for the other shoe to drop, and for them to just kill him already.

   “But we won’t”

   Wait, what?

   “See, we thought about killing you both, and finally being rid of you traitors, but we thought better of that. Instead, we’ve decided to make you both suffer” Gabriel finished, an almost sadistic look in his eyes.

   “We know that you and that angel are in...love” Hastur spit out the word, almost as if it caused him physical pain to say it.

   “And Crawley, that just won’t do. Demons ain't even s’possed to feel love in the first place, much less for an angel. So, we’re gonna take that away from you” Hastur continued, a definite sadistic look covering his entire face. Crowley felt fear rising in his chest. They weren’t going to kill only Aziraphale, were they?

   “What do you mean?” he asked, willing his voice to be strong. He couldn’t show weakness, not now. Too much was at stake.

   “We have a proposition for you. Cut ties with Aziraphale, never talk to him again, or we’ll make it easy for you to stay away” Gabriel said, and held out his hand. An image of Aziraphale appeared hovering above his palm, and Crowley felt his heart quicken. It may have been a projection, but he could never stop his heart from beating faster at any thing that reminded him of his angel. But then, fire took over the image, and Aziraphale was lost to him. Crowley knew what this meant. Stay away from Aziraphale, or you’ll never see him alive again. Leave, or he dies. He couldn’t contain his shock, knowing the look on his face gave the beings around him the answer they were looking for. Crowley wanted to argue that they wouldn’t dare, but, seeing the look on Gabriels face, he knew the Archangel wanted nothing more than for a chance to kill Aziraphale.

   “What’s your answer, demon?” asked Uriel, who’d stayed silent this entire time.

   “I’ll leave him alone. I’ll never go near him again” Crowley said, and couldn’t stop his voice from cracking, and knew everyone around him could tell, they’d got him.

   “We’ll let you say your goodbye’s. Wouldn’t want him to think you’d abandoned him, do you?” Dagon asked, smiling dangerously, they’re sharp teeth shining menacingly at him. 

   “Of course, we can trust you won’t tell him about this little conversation we’ve had, right?” Gabriel said, grinning like the cat that finally caught the canary. Crowley couldn’t seem to force his voice to work, so he simply nodded his head. This was cruel, even for Heaven and Hell. Force him to break both his and his angels hearts, and then leave the angel forever.

   “Good. We’ll leave you to it. And don’t worry, we’ll be monitoring you, making sure you never go back after the goodbye” Gabriel said, and the Archangels and demons both disappeared, leaving Crowley in his already empty, cold flat, feeling colder than it had ever felt before. Crowley finally released the emotions he was keeping locked in his chest, and his knees gave out, forcing him to fall to the floor. And for the first time in over a year, the demon could do nothing but cry over his lost love.

Check out the rest on AO3, or press keep reading to continue!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551879

Crowley remembered this as he walked through the rain, unprotected, to the meeting spot. He’d cried on the floor of his flat until his eyes were dry of tears, then he stood up, and called Aziraphale, forcing his voice to be devoid of any emotions, as his angel answered, cheerily. Crowley didn’t say much, only that he needed to urgently meet with Aziraphale at St. James’s Park in an hour, and then hung up, before the angel could say, “I love you”.

   Crowley wrapped his arms around himself, to try and keep warm, as the cold rain drops seeped into his clothes. He looked up from the path, and saw Aziraphale, standing with his eyes shut, a cream colored umbrella protecting him from the rain. Even though Crowley had become used to seeing Aziraphale every day since the failure of Armageddon, he still found himself having to stop before getting to the angel. Aziraphale still took his breath away, even now. Especially now that he would never see him again. Crowley took a few seconds to memorize every detail of the being in front of him, to hold in his memory forever. It didn’t last long, before Aziraphale opened his eyes, and saw Crowley.

   “Crowley, my dear! There you are! What was it you wanted so urgently to tell me, that you needed to meet me in the rain? And you must be freezing! Come here, there’s space under the umbrella” Aziraphale said, sounding as joyful as always, and Crowley knew he had to be strong.

   Just do it. Rip it off like a band-aid, and go he thought to himself.

   “We can’t do this anymore. The Arrangement. It has to end” Crowley said, daring his voice to see what would happen to it, if it cracked under the weight of his emotions. His heart ached, as Aziraphales smile faded

   “Whatever do you mean, my dear? Are you feeling alright?” Aziraphale asked, sounding concerned for his partner. 

   “I mean, we can’t see each other anymore. I can’t do this anymore” Crowley replied, voice growing slightly louder. Maybe if he started yelling, he wouldn’t start crying.

   “Darling, that’s not an answer. Why can’t you do this anymore?” Aziraphale said, sounding more confused than anything. Crowley closed his eyes behind his glasses.

   “It wasn’t real. What we had between us. I’ve been tempting you for 6 millenia, to try and get you to fall from Heaven. It was going to be my greatest triumph as a demon, maybe even get me a seat next to Hastur, possibly even the Lords of Hell, if I was lucky. But you persisted. You continued believing in Her. So, I thought, maybe I can get you to fall, now that Heaven basically disowned you. But, didn’t work, so I’m giving up. That’s it for ‘us’” Crowley said, trying to make himself sound uncaring. But he knew it wasn’t working. 

   “Love, don’t be ridic-” Aziraphale began, but Crowley interrupted him. 

   “Didn’t you hear me?! It wasn’t real! I don’t, and never have loved you! It was all an act!” Crowley shouted, knowing he was going to break soon if he couldn’t get Aziraphale to understand. Breaking his heart was the only way to save his beloved angel.

   “Anthony J. Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, dropping his umbrella in anger and shock.

   “You and I both know that is a lie. I don’t know what has gotten into your head, or who put this thought in your mind, but remember, we’re on our side” Aziraphale said, trying to keep a brave face, but Crowley knew his tells. He was scared. He was hurting, and he was close to believing Crowley. 

   “THERE IS NO ‘OUR SIDE’! THERE NEVER WAS! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! IT’S OVER!” Crowley shouted, feeling tears prickle the corners of his eyes, and he saw the betrayal on his angels face. He couldn’t take it anymore. He turned and started to walk away.  He heard the angels footsteps following him softly.

   “Crowley, please. I love you” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could feel the angel reaching for his shoulder. One more action to hammer the nail into the coffin. He wordlessly put his hand up, silently telling the angel not to touch him. He heard the angel gasp softly, and then the sound of footsteps speeding away from him, and he was alone. For the first time in 6000 years, he felt truly, and utterly alone in the world. He didn’t dare look back, and tears fell from his eyes, knowing there would be nobody for him to look at. 

   He began sobbing, and knew he couldn’t do that in a rainy park. He began lowering himself to the ground, feeling his glasses fall from his face. When he finally reached the floor, he was back in his flat, his wings unfurled behind him. He sat himself on the ground, tucking his knees to his face, curling in on himself, brought his wings around to his front, sheltering him from the cruel world outside the feathery protection, and sobbed. He stayed that way for hours.

   He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t drink. Everything he did made him think of Aziraphale. Every thought he had twisted itself, and became a memory of Aziraphale. He stopped listening to music. Every song he heard made him weep for his angel. This continued on for weeks. He burned his Velvet Underground CD the first time he tried listening to it after the Park. He’d been fine through the first song, but then Pale Blue Eyes started playing, and he couldn’t take it. He never left his flat. He didn’t want to risk seeing Aziraphale on the streets, because he knew he’d be unable to stay away. He got drunk every night, hoping the alcohol would take away the pain. It never did.

   One night, 2 months after the last time he’d seen Aziraphale, he’d gotten incredibly drunk, and went around his flat in a drunken rage, destroying everything that reminded him of Aziraphale, everything he’d gotten for when his angel would choose to spend the night. He didn’t do it out of hatred or anger, he did it out of despair and suffering. He’d torn up pillows, he shattered classical records he’d bought for the angel. He burned the Heaven’s Dress tartan blanket he’d gotten commissioned for himself decades ago, when Aziraphale started wearing that blasted bow tie. 

   He’d gone room to room, ridding himself of anything that would ever make him think of Aziraphale. It hurt too much. He couldn’t take it, knowing his angel was out there, in the same city, and he could never see him again. He’d even almost destroyed the bird altar from the church he’d blown up to save Aziraphale in 1941, but he couldn’t bring himself to go through with it. He went into his room, and opened his bedside drawer. Inside was a small velvet box. He gingerly pulled it out, and opened it, as he sat down on his bed. 

   Inside was a beautiful gold ring, shaped like a snake. It’s back was studded with dozens of tiny onyx crystals, and its underside was studded with tiny rubies. It had yellow crystal eyes. It had cost Crowey a fortune, but money was no problem. He’d had it custom made to Aziraphale’s exact finger size. He was going to propose on the anniversary of the creation of The Arrangement, the day Aziraphale finally trusted him. He’d even had one made for himself, in the hopes that Aziraphale would say yes. It was shaped like 2 wings, studded in mother of pearl, wrapping around to meet, wing tip to wing tip in the front. Now neither would get the chance to wear the rings. 

   When he looked at the ring, he felt his drunken anger leave him, instead being replaced by grief and regret. His heart grew heavy, and tears fell from his eyes. He didn’t try to stop them. He closed the box, pressed it to his chest, and laid down on his bed, weeping until sleep took him. 

   When he woke up, it was still dark outside. His clock read 2:30 am, and he knew he wouldn’t fall back asleep. He took the velvet box, and gently placed it back in his dresser, before standing up, and walking out of his room. He saw the mess he’d made, and knew he couldn’t stay in his flat for the rest of the night. He felt dirty, unclean, disgusted at himself. He closed his eyes, and snapped his fingers, not caring where he ended up, as long as he could get clean. 

   Before he even opened them again, he felt the cool night air against his face, and heard the crashing of small waves to land. He opened his eyes, and found himself on a beach. He didn’t know where, and he didn’t care. He took off his glasses, and tossed them to the side, not caring where they landed. He started taking off his clothes, until he stood on the beach, wearing nothing, and he slowly walked into the water. 

   It was freezing. So cold, it hurt, but he didn’t care. The pain reminded him he was alive. He’d almost forgotten that, despite feeling empty and dead for 2 months, without his missing half, he was still alive, on Earth. He trudged on, walking until the freezing water passed his neck, and he started swimming. He swam for he didn’t know how long, until he couldn’t see the beach anymore, and he finally let go. He stopped swimming, and let himself sink into the sea, his head falling underneath the water, as he fell further into the sea. He curled in on himself, and held himself in the fetal position, as his mind raced, and he finally let everything out. 

   He unfurled his wings underwater, and used them to push his way to the surface and beyond, flying as high as he could, all his sorrow and grief finally being let go. Tears streamed from his eyes, as he flew higher and higher into the night sky. He pushed further and further, until he was level with the moon, and then he stopped pushing, and let himself fall. He fell and fell, only pushing out of the fall once his body was feet from the water below, and he flew himself back to shore. He knew what he needed to do.

    When he had dressed himself again, he miracled himself outside the closed bookshop of his beloved, not bothering to put his glasses back on. The lights were on, and he could see inside, to where his angel was sitting, back to the window, a book in his hands, a mug of cocoa sitting next to him. Crowley leaned against the stone of the building, and looked on in sadness, at the one creature he wanted to see more than anyone else, and the one creature he could never see again. He’d made up his mind. 

   He snapped his fingers, and a bouquet of flowers, and the small velvet box appeared on the doorstep of the shop. He quickly rushed to the door, and knocked on it, not knowing what the angel would do. 

   “We’re closed!” he heard Aziraphale call from outside, and wanted nothing more than to open the door, walk into the building, and wrap his arms around the angel he loved. Wanted nothing more than to press gente kisses to Aziraphale’s face, and hear the adorable noises of happiness he made whenever Crowley did that. But, he couldn’t. So, he knocked again, harder this time, and knew the angel would answer it. He heard Aziraphale stand, and walk to the door, and just before it opened, he miracled himself back to his flat.

   He knew Aziraphale would understand his message. The flowers he’d miracled were not randomly chosen. Both he and the angel had learned flower language in the 1800s, as proper gentlemen did. The bouquet consisted of purple hyacinth, amaranth, butterfly weed, striped carnation, everlasting, honeysuckle, monkshood, primrose, sweet pea, and apocynum. Together, they formed a message that read, “Please forgive me, I’ve deceived you. I love you, unfading. I can’t live without you, but I can’t be with you. I will always remember you. Be careful, danger is near. Farewell” And he’d left the angel the ring he was going to propose to him with, as a way for the angel to know that Crowley had never meant what he’d said at the Park, but he wasn’t taking it back. It was a piece of him the angel could keep, or get rid of. It was up to him.

   He walked into his room, and found the other velvet box, that held the ring he was going to wear, if Aziraphale had said yes. He took the ring out of the box, and put it on his left ring finger. He was still grieving, but he would always love Aziraphale, and he hoped the angel felt the same. After doing that, he snapped his fingers once, and his flat was empty. You’d never have known anyone lived there for decades. He couldn’t stay in England. He couldn’t stay anywhere in Europe. Not when his angel was so close, and yet, so far. Anywhere in Europe was too close to England, to Aziraphale. And, with another snap, he was gone, already halfway across the world, in an apartment in America, preparing for a new life without Aziraphale.

And, if you guys wanna check out the video by Max Wayne, here’s the link. Like I said, it’s really good, even if it’s nothing but angst, and if you want, you should totally check it out! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNwzTFk1NDU

[goodlucktai]

don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 2926 title borrowed from you are jeff by richard siken

read on ao3

x

Aziraphale wakes up, which is a distinctly disconcerting feeling when one doesn’t often sleep in the first place. Added to his discomfort is the fact that he’s on the floor, limbs sprawled every which way, with a pounding in his head that makes him think he forgot to sober up before falling asleep.

“Ugh, really, my dear,” he grumbles, pushing himself upright. “Just how much did we have to drink?”

He expects to open his eyes to the back room of the bookshop, but he doesn’t. There is no worn-thin carpet beneath his hands, no aged coffee table or yawning loveseat, and certainly no snake-eyed demon draped on a flat surface nearby to poke fun at Aziraphale for being a messy drunk.

In fact… Aziraphale doesn’t know where he is at all.

“Finally awake, are you?” a familiar voice snaps.

Aziraphale’s heart sinks. He turns around to find himself under the scornful scrutiny of the archangels Uriel and Sandalphon.

What on earth?

“What, um, are you doing here?” He pushes himself to his feet, looking around at the unfamiliar room they’re in. “What am I doing here?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to you to make you so different,” Uriel tells him shortly, “but if you haven’t Fallen yet, you can probably be rehabilitated.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, and Aziraphale doesn’t know where to begin.

“Ah, no thank you,” he decides to go with, straightening his waistcoat for something to do with his hands. He’s terribly uneasy, bordering on frightened, with having been summoned here by them in the first place. It’s safe to assume he won’t want any part of their plans to rehabilitate him, whatever that could mean. “I thought we had agreed I was best left to my own devices. I’m perfectly happy on Earth.”

Going on as if he hadn’t spoken, Uriel says, “You’re never going to be a proper angel while you’re running around with a demon, of all things.”

Aziraphale goes cold at the mention of Crowley. He finds himself listening more intently now, preparing himself for fight or flight.

“You’ll see,” his estranged sibling tells him, as if to reassure. “He can’t actually care about you, Aziraphale. He’s not capable of it. I’ll prove it to you, and then you’ll come home.”

“I don’t care about all that,” Sandalphon says with a cruel smile. “I’m only here for the show.”

Uriel waves a hand, and something appears in the middle of the floor. It’s Aziraphale, or a likeness of him, sprawled in a heap like a discarded puppet. Its eyes are vacant and staring. There’s a sword driven through its chest and the burned outline of wings outspread on either side of its body.

Aziraphale feels sick just looking at it.

“You’ll see,” Uriel tells him. “Just watch.”

Their horrible plan is beginning to take shape. Horrified, Aziraphale surges forward, beginning to say, “You mustn’t—” when he runs headlong into what feels like a brick wall.

The hard collision all but bounces him back, sending him staggering. Eyes stinging, Aziraphale looks down at where a binding circle lay at his feet. Dormant until he tested the lines, it’s glowing with holy white light now. The work of an archangel, and well beyond his power to break.

Aziraphale tries his luck against it anyway, gritting his teeth through the sharp recoil.

Uriel and Sandalphon watch him with a remote interest, like he’s a little animal doing something clever, and Aziraphale shouts, “Don’t do this! Let me out!”

“But it’s just getting good,” Sandalphon says gleefully, and that’s when Crowley’s bright presence appears on the scene.

Aziraphale feels him coming before the others do. He whips around just as the door flies open, his lovely demon flying through like a mad thing.

“I got your message, angel, could you have been anymore cryptic? And what are you doing way out here any… way…”

He stops dead when he sees the archangels, his face twisting into a snarl.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls, hoping against hope that Crowley might hear him.

Crowley doesn’t so much as twitch in his direction. Goddammit, Aziraphale thinks with a venom that should surprise him, and throws his metaphysical weight against the barrier once more.

“What have you done with Aziraphale?” he hisses, more serpent than man now, despite what his body may look like. They will certainly be having a talk later about his lack of self-preservation in face of two archangels, but for now Aziraphale can only watch in terror as Crowley begins to stalk. “You both think you’re hot shit. I know he’s here, I can feel him.”

“Or what’s left of him, anyway,” Uriel says flatly, and steps aside to show Crowley her creation.

The look on Crowley’s face breaks Aziraphale’s heart.

“No,” he mutters. “No no, angel, no.”

He’s across the room without moving, skipping through space-time like he’s forgotten how to do it the mortal way. He crashes to his knees in the ash around the corpse and his hands tremble as if they don’t know which direction to fly in first.

His yellow eyes are stark and wild. The sword impaled through the puppet’s chest is flung violently away by work of a crude miracle, and only then does Crowley touch him.

Human, so human, in the way his fingers fumble against Aziraphale’s wrist for a pulse. Searching out the familiar heartbeat, the reassuring sound of life.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screams it so loud it all but tears his throat. “Lord, spare him this! Let him hear me, please!”

The Almighty isn’t granting prayers today. Crowley is kneeling in what he thinks is the burnt-out remains of Aziraphale’s grace. His fingers are sooty and dark with feather dust.

Uriel and Sandalphon are watching the scene raptly, as if waiting for Crowley to break character, to stand up and dust his hands off and say “ah, well, so my evil plan turned out to be a wash.”

But he never does. He doesn’t even seem to remember they’re there. He might as well be alone in all the world, so possessed he is by grief. He hauls Aziraphale’s body up into his arms, bows his head, and begins to weep.

Aziraphale’s holy core burns within him, bursting at the seams and straining so ferociously against the archangel’s binding that it’s a wonder he doesn’t melt his human body clean away with the effort.

“It’s enough!” he cries. “You’ve seen enough! What more could you possibly want?”

“Disgusting,” Sandalphon says gleefully. “Whoever heard of a demon mourning?”

But demons were the first to mourn, Aziraphale thinks, dazed by such willful ignorance. They were the first to have lost.

“But it isn't real,” Uriel says slowly. “It can't be.”

Crowley goes abruptly, terribly still.

His shoulders freeze in the middle of a sob. He’s a creature of sudden stone, an anguished work of art. Aziraphale is pressed hard against the barrier between them, blinking wetness from his eyes, trying to see what’s happened, what changed.

Crowley’s lips part, the forked edge of his tongue darting out almost too quick for the eye to follow. He kneels there, his awful collapse of limbs and sorrow, his arms wound around the shape of Aziraphale, and scents the air again.

Then he lifts his head. There’s no chance for anyone to react before Crowley stops time. There are still the sounds of traffic outside, and rain, and Aziraphale himself is still present and aware; so it’s only the archangels that have been displaced from the steady onward drum of the universe.

It’s silent. Aziraphale’s heart is the loudest thing in the room, pounding against his chest.

Crowley lowers the body gently to the floor, his hands lingering, the curl of his fingers reluctant. When he finally lets go he does it with a painful yank, and he pushes himself to his feet as though gravity is somehow ten times heavier where he's standing.

His eyes are burning yellow, like sulfur, like the bright warning bands of a venomous reptile. He doesn’t move the way a human would, or even the way a snake would; he moves like he’s rearranging the fabric of space and time in tiny step-like increments, bearing him closer to where Uriel and Sandalphon are still standing like sculptures.

Aziraphale watches as Crowley draws right up to them. He studies Sandalphon’s face closely; the archangel’s mouth is twisted in a sneer, caught in the act of throwing Aziraphale a look of hateful triumph.

And then, following Sandalphon's line of sight with utmost deliberation, Crowley turns his head and looks directly at Aziraphale.

Their eyes lock, and Aziraphale’s next breath chokes him. Crowley’s expression puts Aziraphale in mind of natural disasters, of wars and kingdoms put to torch, floods and plagues and children drowning. The demon might as well be desolation itself, given blood and bone and a suit to wear, a bleak, yawning absence where there should be a wily, mischievous good nature.

Even the day the world was scheduled to end, when Crowley holed himself up in a little bar and wept himself sick among bottles and bottles of clear spirits, wasn’t as bad as this. Nothing could be as bad as a corpse.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sobs, pushing himself forward. The barrier is hot against his palms, on the cusp of burning, and still he pushes forward. “I’m right here, Crowley, I’m here! I haven’t left you, sweetheart.”

Crowley must not hear him. He certainly doesn’t see him, scanning the empty space with his eyes. But there’s a seed of something unquelled inside him, something rebellious. A tiny kernel of what might only be denial, what might just be hope— elbowing its way through all the despair, making room for maybe and what if because the alternative is too much to bear.

Crowley starts to walk, with his hands outstretched before him, fingers splayed and searching. Each step is deliberate and determined, and his eyes are off-focus now, an inch or two to Aziraphale’s left, but he’s headed in the right direction.

“That’s it, my darling,” Aziraphae whispers. His voice is a wreck. He hates to be trapped here, aches to meet Crowley halfway. He’s as close as he can get, clustered against the wall with all his might.

There’s only a moment where Crowley falters. When he steps into the dust of the archangels’ cruel trick, where the outermost tip of an angel’s wing is burned into the tile. His stride stutters, and his eyes dart away to the shape of his dead husband on the floor, and Aziraphale could scream.

He is terrified that Crowley’s burdened faith might desert him before he’s made it all the way. There is nothing he can do to give Crowley strength, no signal or sign he can provide that this painful march will be rewarded.

Please, he prays. He sends it outward this time, not upward.

It seems to reach. The demon’s mouth screws up. He staggers forward two quick steps, a third, stepping over the dust and moving— unknowingly, hopefully— in the right direction.

Aziraphale shuffles to the side so that Crowley is directly in front of him. He’s holding his breath when Crowley finally reaches him. His long fingers meet resistance in thin-air, and he chokes. He presses his palms to the invisible wall, and Aziraphale mirrors him.

“You’re there, angel?” Crowley whispers. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers back. “Of course I am. Of course I do.”

Crowley looks down. The circle is a lurid, vivid glow at Aziraphale’s feet. Crowley can’t possibly see it, but he’s always been far too clever for his own good. With a snap of his fingers, the floor begins to crack. The tiles bearing Uriel’s handwork rupture as if in a miniature, localized earthquake, and the second the lines are broken, the barrier disappears, and Aziraphale falls forward against Crowley’s chest.

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale blasphemes, gathering him up in shaking handfuls, hauling him close. “Crowley. I have you. I have you.”

It seems to take a moment for Crowley to process Aziraphale’s sudden appearance. His arms are slow in creeping around the angel, his embrace a trembling, tentative thing. But he takes a breath— breathing in deep, nose pressed into cloudy white curls of hair— and seems to come alive again.

When his fingers grow claws, and his broken halo burns the air around their faces brassy and hot, and the secret self of him threatens to push out of its tight mortal confines with every second, Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. What should probably rightly be horrifying is instead the sweetest comfort he knows.

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, swaying their bodies side to side. He thinks he could stand there holding Crowley until the next end of the world and Crowley would let him.

Over the demon’s shoulder, Aziraphale has full view of the archangels who tormented him. If Aziraphale were capable of hatred, they would know the full force of it. If he could bring himself to bring them harm, he would make them hurt.

“I can feel that,” Crowley mutters, muffled against Aziraphale’s neck. His voice is thick and wet. “Leave those unholy thoughts to me, angel.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the side Crowley’s face, right above the snake sigil. It’s the only spot he can reach without peeling his husband off him and he has no plans of that.

“How did you know? How could you tell?”

Crowley’s eyes give away how he’s hurting, despite how much practice he has had over the millennia in schooling his voice to perfect dispassion. He looks like he would like to tuck away out of sight again, but the cradle of Aziraphale’s hands keep him still.

He turns his face, pressing into one of Aziraphale’s palms. His lips part there against the salt and sweat of hands that have spent all of history keeping him still.

He says, “Didn’t smell like you.” And suddenly Aziraphale understands.

This body has carried him soundly since the Beginning. Even if his core had been burned away, the body left behind would have presumably smelt like his cologne, or his books, or whatever it was he’d eaten last. Of course, it’s something the archangels would overlook. It’s something they wouldn’t think to copy. It’s something intimate and human.

‘I know what you smell like,’ the demon had snapped at him not long ago.

Oh, to be so known, to be so loved. Aziraphale could cry for days if he let himself linger on the notion.

“Let me take you home, sweetheart,” he says, speaking the words into Crowley’s hair. “Where I can keep you close to me.”

Crowley hums what is probably an assent, but when Aziraphale glances into his eyes, he finds them turned away from his own and uncomfortably fixed; staring without blinking at the archangels who let him think Aziraphale was dead.

Aziraphale touches Crowley’s face with his free hand, a brush of his fingers against a sharp cheekbone. Love swells in his chest like pain.

“You’ll have to let them go sometime,” he says with a lightness he doesn’t feel.

“No I don’t.”

Truly, the remarkable creature might find it within the realm of his imagination to trap them as they are for eternity. But…

“I don’t want them on your mind, darling,” Aziraphale says, both gentle and unrelenting as he turns Crowley’s face back towards his, so that those slitted eyes have no choice but to follow. “I don’t want them in your thoughts. Let them go.”

Crowley bares his teeth, sharper and longer than usual, and snaps his fingers. A wall of hellfire appears at his whim, curving around Uriel and Sandalphon in a vicious mockery of the trap that had held Aziraphale, standing at easily ten feet high.

“They can puzzle their own way out,” he sneers, and only then does the time in the room reorient itself to the rest of the universe.

Aziraphale doesn’t wait a moment longer. With a thought, he brings them home to the flat above the shop. The bed has turned itself down for them, pillows plump, sheets smooth and cool.

He walks Crowley backwards, lays him down. Crowley's hair is a glorious spill of red against the pale pillows, but his eyes are still manic and afraid, his fingers clutching fistfuls of Aziraphale's clothes as if to keep him from disappearing again. “As long as you need, Crowley,” Aziraphale assures him, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll hold you just like this as long as you need. We can lay here until the end of the world if you like.” Crowley makes a watery sound that might have, an hour ago, counted as a chuckle. “Until you get peckish, you mean.”

Humor is always how they've dealt with a blow. Aziraphale smiles at him, thumbing a rogue piece of coppery hair back behind Crowley's ear.

“For you— and only for you, mind— I would be willing to go without.”

“Hah!” Crowley's death grip on Aziraphale's shirt has loosened. The hairline slits of his pupils have rounded out a bit to something less likely to panic. He's giving himself, ever so slowly, back into Aziraphale's hands. “Who are you, and what have you done with my angel?”

“It's me, love,” Aziraphale says. “I'm here.”

It ruins their little joke, but he has to say it, now that he can.

Crowley's eyes get very bright, the same way they did in the Garden, and Aziraphale is certain that Crowley heard him loud and clear this time.

[notbecauseofvictories]

Brontide - Aziraphale (because I agree, Good Omens fandom is too nice and does not appreciate how terrifying the idea of angels is)

brontide — the low rumbling of distant thunder.

Crowley did not often think about Aziraphale as an angel.

….of course he was an angel, and Crowley did derive a certain amount of pleasure in reminding him. Occasionally he even slipped into the Latin, angelus, but Latin was very In at the moment and particularly among the Oxfordshire set. The learnèd men were calling each other uxor and deliciae in those days, as they got up to naughty things under academic dress. So it was not very strange for the handsome lecturer, with his consumptive poet’s aspect and ill-favored coloring, to so lovingly address the Professor of Assyriology—especially when the Professor spoke of ancient Assyria with such  endearment and fond remembrance, as though recalling a particularly pleasant holiday. Such undue passion made him very attractive, all agreed.

“Crowley,” the Professor of Assyriology said in chastisement whenever the Lecturer dared such endearment, though the Professor was blushing as he said so. (‘Crowley’ was not the name the lecturer gave to his students, but they could forgive such a lapse with the excuse of fondness.) 

“Yes, angel?” the Lecturer always replied, with feigned innocence and a smile that had too many teeth in it. It put some in mind of a snake, the Lecturer’s smile. But the Professor would smile in return, an indulgent sort of smile that let this familiarity pass, unremarked-upon; and all the Professor’s students would sigh, for a not-insignificant number of them were violently in love with the Professor of Assyriology, and knew that so long as the Professor smiled at the Lecturer in that way, they had no hope of encroaching upon his affections. 

It made a great many of them distraught, pale with love and prone to quoting Catulus Caesar and Martial’s epigrams, but the Professor of Assyriology did not notice. When Aziraphale thought about his students, it was regarding their showing a knowledge of the Gospels in Greek, the Thirty-Nine Articles, and Joseph Butler’s Analogy of Religion; it was only Crowley who called him ‘angel’ and knew the truth of it, and that was all Aziraphale cared for.

Still and despite all this; Crowley did not think of Aziraphale as an angel. Not in the traditional sense of sparking beryl wheels and too many eyes, those heads of lions and goats and dragons and all quarreling amongst themselves. Of course that was what angels were, for Crowley remembered what had been in Heaven. But from the first (the First, there in Eden) Aziraphale had been a soft and pleasant fixture, fleshen and rounded and too much of the world to ever make Crowley think of his own origins. Aziraphale was not of that wellspring, nothing like what Crowley had left behind, with its strange and terrible inhabitants. An angel, as Crowley remembered the word, was not the stuff that made up Aziraphale.

In truth, he preferred this Oxfordshire understanding: Aziraphale as a man he wrote long letters to, maintained a certain kind of fondness for, and sometimes (when they were gin-drunk, smiling in the light of a streetlamp) thought very hard about kissing. it was an unasked-for, undeserved blessing, to be so in love in such a soft, human way. ‘Angel’ was then only an endearment, and Crowley clung to the reassurance of it, for to think of Aziraphale discorporate—huge and hard as light, fearsome as the dawn, cruel as justice—was beyond thinking.

He’d had a sword, once.

(Crowley didn’t like to think of it.)

This also meant that Crowley was ill-equipped when he met Aziraphale on the battlefield, as the angel was trying vainly to turn aside the BSAC and Crowley was in Johannesburg to sow general discord. Rhodes had been easy—a hunger for fame, a greed easily exploited and a harkening to power that did not need stoking. Crowley had barely got the words out, and then he was inducted into the British South Africa Company. A minimal amount of fuss, little tempting involved, just the way A.J. Crowley liked it. But Aziraphale had been… 

(Aziraphale had been there at Sodom and Gomorrah. Aziraphale had overseen the deaths of the firstborn in Egypt. Aziraphale had stood beside Raphael as Adam and Eve, then Seth, Cain, Abel, and all their children, were turned away from the gates to Eden; as they were told: no. Aziraphale had always been more pitiless than Crowley in these matters.)

When it came, Crowley wasn’t sure whether the humans in his party could even see it. All that vastness, static electricity and pressure gathering like an oncoming storm, but tinged with righteousness as pure and painful as holy water. Long before Aziraphale appeared, it was there in his advance guard. And though Crowley did not ordinarily think of Aziraphale as an angel, he came as one—crackling into sight like a shard of divine retribution. (At the gates of Eden he’d had a sword, and it had burned; Crowley remembered at last.)

“CROWLEY,” the storm that was Azirphale said before it struck, its voice tender enough that it only shattered his eardrums. The black blood of it slid down Crowley’s jaw, leaving him dizzied, cringing. “YOU SHOULD GO.”

“I…” Crowley breathed, and then he nodded. (It was a good thing, he thought suddenly, to be a demon; no one on his side questioned cowardice.) “All right, then,” he said, ducking his head. And with that Crowley ran, and hid, and the holiness of Aziraphale broke over that part of the world like rain.

When Crowley came out again, most of the humans were all gone and dead, but Aziraphale was sitting there in the canteen, picking at the food with a little moue of disappointment. “Such abysmal cookery!” Aziraphale cried, as though this was the worst of the day, that the Transvaal cook could not do a proper fry up without his third and fifth fingers, which he had lost in the fighting. “Crowley, look at this, is it not a crime?”

Crowley picked his way over the corpses, their hands and legs splayed over all that needless, pooling blood. He looked down at Aziraphale’s plate and thought to himself that it did look a dog’s mess, but so were the bodies lying in the street, where actual dogs, thin street-mongrels, had taken to tearing them apart. “Sure,” Crowley said absently. “Yes.”

Aziraphale eyed him—Crowley could feel him looking—but he did not say anything. Instead, Aziraphale pushed the plate of mash towards Crowley, who collapsed into the seat across from him. They both of them picked at it silently, until the sounds of the shelling, the fighting and dying, died away. Even then, they ate burst, oversweet tomatoes; they talked of the music they missed, of London, of the time before. It was all very awful, especially the food. Every bite Crowley swallowed tasted of static electricity, ozone, and cupric.

He swallowed each mouthful deliberately, and Aziraphale’s eyes—all of them, the others not quite having faded from his wrists, his throat—watched him. Aziraphale’s smile was painful, taut. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said, though Crowley had watched him rain down righteousness and would venture to guess he wasn’t.

“’s all right,” Crowley mumbled.

“I am,” Aziraphale said again, more insistently.

It felt strange, to be on the other end of a desperate desire for forgiveness. Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not in any place to judge.”

But Aziraphale did not look mollified at this. Instead, he pushed the plate towards Crowley. “Have some more,” he said, and in his voice were the harmonics of the celestial spheres, like Crowley needed to be bribed into it—as though Aziraphale looking at him, with his many, many eyes gradually fading and the roundness and redness returning to his cheeks, was not enough.

Crowley ate. After, he was sick into the dust beside a grave—mostly because he felt he ought to be after so much grief, such rich foods. Aziraphale, to his credit, stood beside Crowley as he retched, absently rubbing his back.

[new-endings]

The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

Ch. 1; ao3 

Chapter summary: in which Crowley learns and yearns. 

“And in reality, it was probably here where Crowley fully and undeniably faced the ill-tuned music that he fell treacherously and helplessly in love with the Principality Aziraphale— who wanted nothing more than peace and was willing to marry off the prince to one unlucky and unhappy Archangel to achieve it.” 

Step 2: Gather Intel:  

The castle wing generously bestowed to Crowley and the rest of his Legion was lavish in its towering ceilings and ornate tapestries; pristine in its Heavenly whites and creams and the dutiful servants keeping offending grime away; and above all—it was spacious­. Wide and echoing. Fit for royalty, one might say. So, it was quite understandable how it really chafed away at Crowley’s (remaining) patience (and sanity) to find Hastur and Ligur squirreled away in his quarters.

Again.

Yes, he understood that they may be his footmen, but this was also precisely why Crowley tended to “disappear” for hours (even days at a time) in his own abode in Hell’s Kingdom.

Crowley paid little heed to Ligur’s scrutinizing gaze as he approached the attached study; to do so would show weakness before his subordinates and that was a decidedly unwise thing to do given his current position.

The position being smuggling another one of Hell’s scarce literary publications for his Guide’s reading pleasure.

But it was Hastur that broke the silence with a sly grin and a meaningful look as he eyed what was in Crowley’s hands. “Another tome, Prince Crawly?”

Well. Some greeting to your Prince. Crowley shot him a scowl. “Another remark out of you and you’ll crawling back to Hell.” Nevertheless, Hastur looked nonplussed as always so Crowley shrugged; he’ll get back at him later for that. “Besides, this is payment,” he protested. More so for the Angel’s delightful company than any real progress in his princely responsibilities, but they needn’t know that bit.

“Payment to the Guide assigned to you by the Queen herself?” Ligur added with a derisive snort. “Ah yes, what a great boon to have this queer Bird in our midst.”

“A Bird in hand is worth two in a bush,” Crowley assured. Not that he would even entertain the absurd notion of replacing Aziraphale as his Guide. “Nothing wrong with a little encouragement.”

Ligur was decidedly unconvinced. “You two spent the last week traipsing about every fine eatery in this God-be-damned Kingdom. I think he’s plenty encouraged.”

“Ah, but perhaps not in the manner the Prince would like?” Hastur said with gleaming eyes.

Crowley didn’t outwardly flinch. Of course he didn’t. “He’s—” lovely to be around. “More than entertaining—”

“But not quite like the rest of your toy soldiers, eh Your Highness?” Ligur remarked with a sneering curl of his lips.

“Certainly treats him better than his own lot!” Hastur supplied with a chortle, sneaking a conspiratory smirk at the other. “Looking to nest with this particular Bird before gettin’ shackled to the old ball and chain?”

And that’s when Crowley decided he’d had enough. “Bah. No need to be so crass.” He waved the insinuation off, wishing he could do the same to the twin annoyances holding in snickers and rude gestures at his expense.

It really wouldn’t do to have them meddling in his personal affairs.

And yes, his blooming—whatever it was he had with Aziraphale—was most definitely personal.

Crowley cleared his throat. “His company aids in getting accustomed to being flocked by other Birds.” A bit of a lie, but what’s the harm in that?

Aziraphale was hardly like the others. He was an oddity, certainly, but a rarity with his unabashed enthusiasm towards his indulgences, his general love for his comforts and all matter of life around, the soft glow about him, such a stark contrast from the lurid light and air of sterility the others exuded.

But that was why Crowley liked him so much. He gave a brief hum. “Though I suppose I am curious.” And a grain of truth to really throw them off— “Why, indeed, send such a queer Bird to sort me through this whole mess.” He’d meant the question to come out—detached. Perhaps just a bit pensive. But it didn’t. “Out of literally anyone else.” It came off rather hopeful, wishful.

Apprehensive. It’s not so often that my luck happens to turn out all right. Makes a Demon all sorts of anxious, Crowley thought.

Thankfully, it seemed neither of the two picked up on it. “If he can put up with the likes of your company, why not? Besides…” Ligur eyed the tome in Crowley’s hands. “He’s certainly got you on your best behavior.”

There were several responses Crowley could have chosen. He could have denied it of course, playing deeper into the Demons’ hands at his own expense. He could prove them wrong—which in all intents and purposes would have been the more entertaining option, especially if he could pin the ensuing trouble he’d been itching to cause on to them. Or he could have played the Royal Card—remind them of exactly who they were serving: rotten branch of the Royal tree or not, Crowley was their Prince—at the cost of letting them know deep down, that perhaps yes, maybe Crowley did care a bit more for his Guide than what was probably, Demonly, comfortable.

Instead, he opted for a scoff, a one-worded rebuttal, and a suave saunter as he exited the room. “Nonsense.”

He had no remark, however, for why he took the tome with him as he headed off.

He was already late in meeting Aziraphale as it was.

.

Why was it that whenever one was late, it couldn’t be for a few seconds—or even a few minutes?

Some impassable obstacle just has to miraculously (or cursedly, really) manifest to snowball a small hindrance to an entire ordeal.

And that entire ordeal came in the form of a balding Bird with an insincere smile, just outside his quarters. “Prince Crowley, if I could have a moment of your time?” Crowley frowned all the while and didn’t relent his pace. “I couldn’t help but overhear, Your Grace—”

Right. The halls echoed, after all.

Crowley did his best to pay it no mind, already picking up his pace, legs widening their stride. A scan to his side and—yep. It*** was following him. Fuck. After a tick or two of silence, Crowley sighed. “Our people have long lost Her Grace—no need to address me as such.”

“Right. Of course,” it replied easily. “Sandalphon, Prince Crowley,” it greeted, though it did not offer its hand as customary for other Birds. “You have questions, I’m to understand? About the Principality Aziraphale.”

That gave Crowley pause. “Principality, you say?” His Guide? The book-hoarding, sweets-loving, sunshine-smile Aziraphale— a warrior?

Birds often didn’t give Crowley a good feeling—save Aziraphale, of course—but this one was particularly unpleasant. “Indeed, but by title alone.” Crowley didn’t like the way it seemed far too excited to share whatever it had to say: “His ranking—is…In a dubious state.”

And there it was.  

Crowley gave it an unimpressed look. “Is it now.”

Unfortunately, the Bird was simply undeterred. “Oh, yes.” It nodded, almost somber. “He was an absolutely adequate warrior. Lead his own platoons during the wars past—”

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley knew he made a fatal error from the wide grin spreading across its face. It leaned in, whispering low. “He even served as Archangel Gabriel’s subordinate.”

It all suddenly clicked into place. So that’s why he’s so familiar with the Archangels.

This was…indeed quite valuable information. But even then—Crowley couldn’t see it. Aziraphale obviously didn’t want war—seemed to be wholly devoted to the cause of keeping peace between their kingdoms—at least, when Crowley wasn’t purposefully distracting him with little gifts payments and banter. He had thought that perhaps the Angel had been too soft for war; he never considered the possibility that perhaps he was softened by it instead. Still, it wouldn’t do well to have a little chinwag with someone so eager to defame his Guide. Especially with a being that knew full well his relationship with Aziraphale.

The professional one, anyways.

And Crowley had to remember to keep playing that part. “Well, it seems they brought the right person for the job, then,” Crowley responded, almost testily. He knew what the Bird was baiting him for, but Crowley wouldn’t comment on the status of Aziraphale’s title. To do so felt like a betrayal to his Guide—and to do such an incredibly thoughtless sort of thing that would no doubt place Crowley far from Aziraphale’s good graces.

Not that Sandalphon needed encouragement in the first place. “Oh agreed, Prince Crowley. It’s certainly a mutually beneficial little arrangement. Well of course, Aziraphale has everything to gain from it anyways.” This Bird was more than content to sing like a canary. It gave a wheezy chuckle. “Probably begged the Queen herself to allow him some task to prove his worth to her again.”

Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes and heaving an exasperated breath. “Are you content to prattle on about another Angel’s business to anyone who pays you mind?”

It backed off, raising its palms in an inoffensive manner. “I’m merely giving you some insight!” It gave another slimy grin. “You asked a question, after all.”

And damnit all questions were always Crowley’s favorite weakness. He gave one, hard look at the Bird before relenting, carefully keeping the uninterested façade. “All right. I’m listening.”

“Rumor has it—” It gave a cruel smile. “—that he was dishonored and stripped of his flaming sword. And no one knows why—save for the Queen and Aziraphale himself.”

There was a beat of silence before Crowley’s resolve further buckled. “A flaming sword, you say?” he asked evenly.

And how Crowley detested that wicked sheen in its eyes. “Yes. It flamed like anything.”

Again—quite a bit to take in. There were several methods and modalities available at Crowley’s disposal to respond to this influx of information. He could very well give a curt nod and leave it as is—allow the Bird to believe he ruminated the information for a moment—just a moment—before tossing it away as just a fanciful fact. He could very well thank the Bird for the interesting intel, perhaps even bait the being into telling him more—but honestly, even the offhanded thought made Crowley’s stomach churn in a way that wasn’t even remotely pleasant, so that was obviously off the table.

So, wisely, Crowley settled for a derisive snort. “Ah. Must have been impressive, especially to give such a dangerous weapon to a pacifist,” tone disbelieving, uncaring. “But if he no longer has it, then this information really serves no purpose to me. I’d be more concerned were it the case that he possessed such a weapon and used it in an untoward way against myself or my Legion.”

“Err…I suppose…” It responded cautiously, perhaps unknowing of whether or not to be affronted by the utter disregard for what it had known to be reality-shattering knowledge.

And perhaps—in a way, this information was.

But it would take a lot more than hearsay to change how Crowley felt about Aziraphale. “And you say these are—” He gave it a scrutinizing look. “Rumors, is that right?”

Sandalphon startled. “Well, they may be rumors, but—”  

“All baseless drivel when it comes down to it.” Crowley huffed.

It must have known Aziraphale cared more for peace than winning an expensive, horrendous disagreement for power. It didn’t matter that in times past that the Angel was out there in the bastions and fortresses, armed and ready to lay down his life for this useless struggle.

To add a bit of insult to injury, for his Guide’s honor, Crowley added, “Is that everything you wanted to say?”

Who he is now is all that matters.

The Prince made a show of rolling his eyes when he was met with a beat of silence. “And to think I believed you to have something useful to tell me.”

And right now his Angel—his Guide—is waiting for him, waiting for Crowley. And damn it all, Crowley was really late!

“I—” it stammered.

Crowley turned, continuing his way as he gave the Bird a wave of dismissal. “That is all.”

.

It was quite easy to turn tail and head away from that blathering Bird and its rather rude insinuations towards Aziraphale—

But it was quite different to get away from what he’d learned. Rather, it was impossible to unlearn and unlisten to the implications. Not particularly aimed at Aziraphale, and not even the insinuation aimed at their…well.

Work relations, as it were.

Besides, it normally wouldn’t bother Crowley to hear that he was just an assignment—a woefully accepted obligation—he’s been used to that all his life. But what did bother him was that this didn’t seem like Aziraphale at all.

Granted, he’d only known his Guide for a little over a week—but Crowley prides himself in being an excellent judge of character.

Which was precisely why it seemed like this Angel was the only being he’d ever truly felt drawn to.

He didn’t know everything about the Angel, but he felt like he had one of the most important basics down: the Angel loved his comforts. He loved his fine wines and lazy afternoons, cozy reading nooks and buttery pastries. He hardly seems like the type who’d thirst for blood for his scorching, battle-ready blade. It was quite like a adding a tomato to a fruit salad: you know it’s a bloody fruit, but it doesn’t quite fit the description, nor fill the role.

The thing about these niggling thoughts, however, is that the harder one concentrates on not thinking about it, the harder it becomes to ignore. And it’s hardly Crowley’s fault—that stupid Bird brought it up—and even now, with Aziraphale regaling to him of the Archangel Gabriel’s penchant for fine clothes—the question burned at the back of his tongue. So, Crowley did the only thing a Demon could do in a conundrum such as this:

Yield to temptation.

“Say,” Crowley interjected. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

Aziraphale sputtered to a pause, a fragment of Fraisier slipping off his fork. “I—I’m sorry?”

“Yeah,” Crowley ventured, carefully casually. “Heard it flamed like anything.”

Aziraphale blinked, absorbing the words but not quite extrapolating its meaning quite yet. It’s fine. Crowley can wait.

He was prepared for the awkward silence and unrelenting tension that would no doubt follow. He was prepared for the Angel to deny it, lie with a flushed face and a nervous titter, and attempt to redirect the conversation. He was prepared for the Angel to sigh, soulful and deep, and ask who told Crowley. But Crowley, in his careless preparation to the consequences of opening this particular can of worms, forgot one, vital thing:

This was Aziraphale he was talking to. “I—I, well—uhm!” Prone to flustering. “That is…” And prone to being thrown into a prickly, nervous frenzy. “It’s—it’s hardly any of your business now!”

And prone to vehemently reprimanding Crowley about what should and should not be said in a public restaurant.

Crowley took a wary glance about them; most of the patrons and staff scurried from the Prince’s glare. He really ought to have chosen a better place to spring a question like this. “Angel—”

But it looked like Aziraphale was getting ready to leave—to flee.

And that was not something Crowley was prepared for at all.

“Angel—Angel, wait!”

But in a heartbeat or two, he’d vanished— strawberries and cream left unfinished.

.

Crowley supposed Aziraphale couldn’t be that mad. He didn’t fly off into the sunset leaving Crowley as just a sulking mote of dust behind him, after all. No, instead he simply chose to ignore Crowley as the prince helplessly, and hopelessly, trailed after him like an offending lover, ready to swallow his pride after a tiff gone awry while the Angel stomped all the way back to the castle.

“Slow down, you bloody Bird,” Crowley groaned and miraculously—

He did. He stopped right in his tracks and sat down on the stone bench overlooking the pond.

Crowley sagged against the garden bench, finding that while he was content to call out after the Guide, he wasn’t quite ready to lay out everything he felt like he should say just yet.

The prince cast his gaze to the scenery instead. The pond before them mirrored the vibrant pinks and indigos painting across the sky; the bustle of the castle and its inhabitants sounded so far away from behind the towering walls, encasing the sliver of paradise with silence and solitude.

Aziraphale had led them there, Crowley realized with a start, with the intention of talking without interruption and witnesses.

Beside him Aziraphale scoffed. “Really, Prince Crowley, to approach someone with such a personal inquiry in such a public area—”

“For the last time, Angel. Just call me Crowley.” He looked over to Aziraphale, seeing the mounting trepidation on his face and stiffness on his shoulders. But he was trying to keep the conversation open and he wasn’t running—that was better than what Crowley could hope for. “And better my asking than the other Birds,” Crowley countered. “Squawking behind your back, telling tall tales and spreading rumors—”

A pause. There went that nervous habit again. “Oh. So, you’ve heard from—one of them.” Soft, plump hands, tugging and straightening the whites and creams of his robes; delicate fingers and manicured nails, not meant to brandish swords and spill blood.

Hands Crowley wanted to take in his own, hold them still and feel those fingers curl and intertwine with his instead. “Not by my choice, mind you.” But Crowley didn’t. “The balding one—bit of a slimy fellow—”

“Sandalphon.”

“Yes, that one.” Aziraphale was avoiding his gaze, resolutely staring off into the still waters before them. Crowley swallowed and thought that at the very least—the Angel deserved to hear the truth. “Started raving about your title, or well lack thereof, and—” Quietly, gently, though it was easy enough for Crowley to say. “I didn’t believe it.” Because it was true. “Not the important bits anyways.”

There was a quick, darting look towards him and Crowley uneasily shuffled closer, facing the Angel fully.

“I know you’re a Principality—that seems to be common knowledge amongst the other Birds. But I don’t think you were stripped of your honor like that.” That response garnered him a questioning look. “At least—not for the reasons anyone else could think of.”

“What…what makes you so say that?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley hated them all for making is Guide sound so unsure.

He gave a chagrined smile. “Do I really have to say it?” He blew a noisy sigh, hoping to ease the ascending tension with petulant humor. “You’re an Angel.” No, not like them. You’re better than the others. “I don’t think it’s actually possible for you to do the wrong thing.”

Whatever reaction Crowley was hoping for with a response like that, he certainly wasn’t prepared for the heartbreaking disbelief and awe in those Angel eyes.

“Crowley…” Neither was he prepared for that something in the quiet, tender way Aziraphale gasped his name—

—that made Crowley want to dive straight into the lake to douse the turbulent flood of warmth that sank its fangs straight into his chest, squeezing the bleeding organ with its lovely thorns.

Crowley coughed, suddenly finding his throat dry and chest pounding. “Well, my theory was that you probably didn’t even want a war in the first place—and there’s really nothing wrong with that.” Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit oh FUCK THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING— “After all this war business is utter rubbish, I tell you. About damn time we made actual efforts in forming a proper treaty. Not that I completely agree with the modality they’ve chosen to enact in the name of armistice, but—”

“I GAVE IT AWAY!”

The thorns squeezed tighter. Crowley could barely let out a wheezing, “You…what?”

Aziraphale looked absolutely wretched.

And Crowley wanted to kiss that expression right off his beautiful face.

“The sword. The one given to me by the Queen.” The Angel raised his arm to gesticulate something before giving up halfway, letting his hand fall to his lap. “Oh, what was I supposed to do? Our platoon did our best to minimize the damage, but even then, that battle absolutely decimated that village! There could have been all sorts of terrifying beasts out there, not to mention marauders and the like with their defenses gone!”

“…What?” was Crowley’s ever-intelligent reply.

Aziraphale fortunately took that as a Please, do go on, I’m ever-so-intrigued by this turn of conversation and not at all finding myself at the brink of despair at the horrific realization of my own stupid emotions.

“So I thought, ‘Well, they need it a lot more than I do right now’ and I told the village leader Take it, don’t bother to thank me!” He rubbed his hands distractedly, frantic anxiety bleeding into his voice. “And—and, the magic on it should only protect them, it shouldn’t be used to start any—”

“You…gave your sword away. The sword given to you by Her.” Crowley’s heart was hammering now, driving the pinprick points deeper, yet it did little to calm the stone-drop of cold dread at the pit of his stomach. “To protect some vulnerable people? Angel…” That’s wonderful. You’re wonderful, you foolish, lovely git. “Well, where is it now?”

“In…” The Angel floundered, gaze darting to his lap again. “In a quaint village. Hopefully nicely repaired and thriving by now.”

“Well, go get it then!” Yes, please, let’s go—run, run far, far away— “Put an end to the rumors—stick it to Sandalphon’s grubby little face—”

 --far enough that maybe then these feelings won’t reach you.

“It’s…not so easy,” Aziraphale answered apprehensively.

“Come now, Angel. I’ll even come with you—like one of our day trips!” Crowley himself was already warming to the idea. It was like a little adventure. Like seeking a lost treasure—a real one! Clearing the Angel’s name, off to conquer the Nosy Gossips of Heaven’s domains, to slay the evils of shit-talking— Prince Crowley and Principality Aziraphale—

Crowley and Aziraphale--

And maybe Crowley did want that. Maybe he did want to go off with Aziraphale, forget this Prince and Guide rubbish for just a while, escape to a small pocket in time where titles and responsibilities didn’t exist. Just them two, and a grand, old adventure laid out for them both. There were surely lots of places to see. It’s a great big world out there, just out or reach from the two borders of their respective kingdoms. The Other Side, where the maps ended but the skies continued on.

And where other lines blurred completely.

But. Baby steps. Crowley reigned himself in again, despite the frenzied beating in his chest. “I mean, you’ve been wanting to show off Heaven’s charming little towns—”

“Erm…” Aziraphale was starting to look panicked again. “That’s the thing.” He gave an anxious little smile. “It’s…not in Heaven.”

Normally, Crowley possessed a fine and rich vocabulary borne of years under strict tutelage all because his mum shacked up with the King of Hell and spawned him in the process. “What?” Today, all those lessons flew out his brain—

“It’s…a bit farther than that.” Aziraphale held his gaze to Crowley’s. “A bit further South, rather.”

—missed the pond completely and smacked straight into the white stones of the garden walls. “Angel…”

“Yes, okay?” Somehow, Aziraphale managed to look even more miserable—and dramatic, by far. “The village—my sword—It’s in Hell’s domain.” He gave an imploring and helpless look to the stone-frozen Crowley. “But shhh please, promise you’ll keep this a secret?” And just like that, he took Crowley’s hands in his own, asking, beseeching, “Just between us?”

Crowley would have confessed to all the Divines in the High Heavens that this was the moment Crowley fell—horrifically, dreadfully, disastrously, and absolutely— in love with Aziraphale. There, underneath the peaking moon and glitter of stars. In a garden, after Aziraphale shared with him his greatest burden—that this Angel had sacrificed his loyalty for love and protection for a people he did not know or understand, for a belief he didn’t know he had in himself.

“Yeah…” Crowley squea—no, no, that was not a squeak damn you. He hastily cleared his throat, covering those soft hands with his own. “Yeah, no worries there.” He met Aziraphale worried eyes evenly and vowed: “I promise. You have my word, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale slipped his hand out of from Crowley’s and Crowley’s stupid brain had the fucking audacity to think the appropriate response to that was to instinctively whine at the loss of contact.

Aziraphale, luckily, did not take heed of this offense. “Thank you…” he breathed, shoulders sagging, as he held his hand to his chest. Crowley wondered if the Angel’s heart was beating just as obnoxiously as his. “And…thank you, for. Well...” If the Angel’s heart mirrored his own. “It’s nice to finally get that off my conscience, really.” The Angel gave a tired laugh, one that didn’t really meet his eyes, one that sank and fell flat on itself. “I always did worry if that was the best course.”

“Like I said, Angel.” His hand came forward, floundering before finding its way to the slope of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m not sure if it’s actually possible for you to the wrong thing.” You’re too good for that.

Too good for me, a dark, traitorous thought echoed back.

Crowley would decree that it was here, beneath starlight and Aziraphale’s sunbeam smile that Crowley would embark on the path of rewriting his own stars for a change. He knew that he was endangering his entire Kingdom and the Kingdom of Heaven by choosing Aziraphale, despite his royal obligations— but he’s a risk-taker with a lot of imagination. He doesn’t know how to persuade two kingdoms to accepting his choice—if that could even become a possibility at all.

And if not…

Maybe running off wouldn’t be such a bad option.

Running off—together.

But—baby steps. Firstly, he must start with getting Aziraphale to accept his courtship.

Speaking of which… “Oh! This is for—you.” He reached into his pocket, wriggling the tome out from where it had been jabbing him while he ran after the flighty Bird. “I brought you a little something.”

There was that smile again. “Crowley, this is—oh my…” The one that likely damned him from the start. “It’s lovely—”

Crowley attempted a scoff, though it likely sounded like a sputter. “It’s a rather sad and dreary one, written over a millennium ago by a rather sad and dreary fellow. I thought it’d be right up your alley.” He watched carefully from the corner of his eye, seeking any discomfort from Aziraphale, any sign that the gift was not to his liking, not to his standards, not up to par with what he deserved. “Always preferred the funny ones myself.”

“I’m honored.” But he could find none. Only an excited smile and eyes of far-off skies poring over the text; just the look of an Angel utterly enamored at the prospect of reading a new tale, exploring another world within the confines of word and mind.  

And in reality, it was probably here where Crowley fully and undeniably faced the ill-tuned music that he fell treacherously and helplessly in love—this moment where the evidence stared back at him so boldly in his face, that he realized the extent of these rather inconvenient feelings he had towards the Principality Aziraphale—the Principality who wanted nothing more than peace and was willing to marry off the prince to one unlucky and unhappy Archangel to achieve it.

Because damn it he wanted Aziraphale to look at him like that.

And upon accepting that foolish thought as truth, it all came crashing down in that very instant.

Fuck. I love him.

 ------------------

Fun fact: Sandalphon’s pronouns in the book and script are “it/its.”

Thank you for reading~ 

[acedesigns]

Trust [Good Omens: Crowley X Demon!Reader]

Warnings: Some cussing, physical assault

Request: Yes! Thank you for donating!

“ Well I was thinking maybe y/n could start off having a cold personality since their fallen. When in the middle of doing a bad thing (whatever you want to happen) their interrupted by Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley instantly got curious about the girl cause he didn’t think there were any other demons on earth. And maybe at some point in the story she could have been taken into Aziraphale’s bookshop by him and Crowley to be lectured by aziraphale and Crowley asks her questions about why another demon in here. Crowley sadly but secretly tries to flirt/tempt y/n but it fails. They let her go eventually and after that Crowley starts appearing around her more often. Then rearing the middle end she warms up to him and so on. This is quite lot sorry again “

Word Count: 2716

--

You didn’t know of many demons that had purposely fallen. Most of them were hurt by the sharp sting of betrayal that God would send you hurtling off of the pearly gates of Heaven to a pool of sulfuric acid. A lot of them felt that they had done nothing wrong, that they just didn’t blindly obey God’s every command. After they fell, their undying love for God actually died. They lost faith.

You were one of them. When you felt the acid eating away at your flesh and ripping out your feathers to be replaced with demonic wings, you lost your love and faith for God. It hurt so much. You couldn’t love someone that subject you to so much pain just for asking questions, being with the wrong angels, or challenging an idea. You’d zone out in the cramped spaces of Hell remembering the pain. There were times where you’d struggle to find a place of solitude just so you could have a breakdown. Though, it was rare to find an empty space in Hell. So you started to spend more time on Earth. Earth was a place where you could safely breakdown and cry and scream at the horror your memories brought you.

When you spent more time on Earth, you came more bitter that the humans would worship such a cruel and unjust God. Satan, Lucifer, the devil, whatever wasn’t much better. So you wanted the humans to lose their faith, to question things, to realize just how horrible this world could be.

You were the one that was responsible for The Great Papal Schism in 1378 to 1410. It was so easy to tempt those men to claim the power of pope. If the humans didn’t figure out what a waste organized religion was worshiping the horrible God was, then you weren’t quite sure what was. You were hoping there would be a mass exodus from the Catholic church and would lead more souls to Hell. Of course, it only really worked with the more elite people. Though, the rich and powerful almost always went to Hell anyway.

But there were times where even the more devious of temptations you’ve done couldn’t block the pain you were in from falling. At times, tempted to just jump into the pool of holy water. Then, you wouldn’t have to feel the pain any longer. You’d just cease to exist. The one time you were going to do it, where you were going to run into the church and throw yourself in, a man with curly blond hair stopped you. Well, at first you thought he was a man. Then, after your moment of hopelessness, you realized he was an angel.

He stared at you with shock. In his hands was a thermos. You could sense the radiation of holy water coming from it. The angel’s blue eyes darted back and forth between the thermos and yourself. For a moment, you thought, with a tinge of fear, that he was going to use it on you. It was that fear that made you realize you didn’t actually want to die.

You fled, leaving the angel in a state of confusion.

Then, there was Brexit. That was kind of your idea. You knew that it would never be worked out in a timely manner, leaving everyone just frustrated and wrathful towards one another. You were certain it’d get a ton of people to go to Hell, but then they made the Trump baby balloon. That equaled out their sins of wanting to kill each other over Brexit and the virtue of wanting to take down someone truly vile. So that was all nullified, much to both your amusement and dismay.

There was one temptation you were ordered to carry out. It was a stupid one, really. It would take years before Hell could claim the soul. Just one measly soul. It wasn’t really worth your time, but the Lords of Hell demanded it, so who were you to argue?

There was a church you were waiting just outside of. A slight burning sensation just managed to graze your feet, but it wasn’t too bad at this distance. All you had to do was wait for a priest to come outside and tempt him into having a sexual affair with someone. Honestly, this temptation was so overdone that you were surprised that Hell even considered it a sin.

“That’s them!” You glanced up and saw a blond person pointing at you. You narrowed your eyes; they were awfully familiar. Then it struck you, it was the angel from several decades back.

"You’ve got to be kidding me,” you growled.

The angel ran over to your direction followed by a redhead behind him. “You! What are you doing by a church again? Don’t tell me you’re planning on trying to get to holy water again.”

“Uh,” you weren’t entirely sure what to say at him having read you so easily from that day. “No. I’m doing a temptation. Now piss off, alright?” You pulled out your phone in an attempt to look busy and shrug the guy off.

“You know how to use a phone?” Glancing up, you saw the red-head, who you could now tell was another demon, stare at you in awe.

"I’ve spent enough time on Earth to learn a thing or two.”

“Right, and what’s another demon doing here on Earth for that long?”

“Avoiding Hell.” The demon shrugged and nodded ever so slightly as though he couldn’t blame you.

The angel looked back and forth between you and with a huff of air said, “Well, we can’t just leave you here to do a temptation! Come now, we’re going back to my shop!”

“But I have orders!” you protested as the angel grabbed your arm and started to drag away.

“You had to tempt a priest, right? Trust me, the human’ll just do it themselves,” the demon said with a smirk as he watched you struggle against the angel.

“Why are you even with an angel?” you yelled back at him, growing frustrated that the demon was complicit in your abduction.

“We’re on our own side,” the demon said simply while opening the door to an old, but looks like new, Bentley.

“Wait, you’re Crowley!” you hissed and struggled more, but Aziraphale’s grip on you remained like an iron trap. “Let me go! You’re going to get me killed for even being near you!”

“Not until you get a talking to!” the angel spoke and guided you into the car. He slid into the front after you were secured in the back.

“’Sides, if you really wanted to escape, you could have,” Crowley stated before turning the car on and speeding off down the streets of London.

You puffed a hot breath of air and rolled your eyes before staring out the window. You were just bored, you told yourself. Though, you weren’t too sure why you were more willing to go with them. Maybe you were just hoping you’d get killed.

The car came to a halt. The Angel opened the door and guided you out of the Bentley before leading you to a used bookstore. It felt far homier and more welcoming than it should of with it belonging to an angel. There were books everywhere that you could see. Some you could identify what time period they were from just by the binding and general scent that they carried.

“So are you going to kill me?” you rolled your eyes over towards the angel. “Where’s that thermos you had?”

“Used it to kill Ligur,” Crowley stated with a matter of fact tone. “’Fraid I’m all out of holy water. Though, I’m sure Aziraphale could create some more if you want some.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with a face of horror. “I’d never! You know I’ve never killed anyone!”

Crowley smirked and sauntered over towards the back of the bookshop. He lazily waved a hand for you to follow him. With a glance at Aziraphale, you cautiously followed the ex-demon. He was lounging on the couch, taking most of the room with his legs spread apart and his arm draped over the back. Aziraphale took a seat in a chair near a desk and miracle some hot cocoa. You glanced around and stiffly sat on another chair.

“Now,” Aziraphale started and took a sip. “You shouldn’t just go around tempting priests!”

“It’s my job.”

“Yes, but it’s still not the right thing to do.”

“My job is to do the wrong thing.”

“Why are you even listening to Hell?” Crowley asked.

“Because God’s a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, but Hell’s not that much better.”

“I’m not going to become a traitor twice, unlike you,” you hissed through clenched teeth.

Crowley shook his head back and forth as if he was mocking you. “Look, what I’m saying is that if you want, you could join Aziraphale and myself and you could get away from it.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley with a quirked eyebrow. “Think ‘bout it, two demons that know how technology works! An angel that kind of knows how technology works. We could have a lot of fun.”

You could feel the similar sensation of a temptation trying to be placed on you. Abruptly, you stood up with a fierce glare. “No. I’m leaving.” With that, you stormed out of the bookshop.

“At least they didn’t tempt the priest,” Aziraphale piped up just before you slammed the door shut.

--

It seemed as though everywhere you went to do a temptation; Crowley was there to mess it up. You wanted to tempt a whole stock market to put stocks before employees? Crowley was there to make sure that they actually put their employees first – for the first time in decades!

“Amazing you actually know how computers work,” Crowley said when he saw you staring at the stocks on a computer in a library. You turned to glare at him and give him a piece of your mind, but you froze when you saw how close he was to you. His body was leaning over your shoulder to look at the computer screen. “You must have read the stack of papers I left in Hell.”

You swallowed down your shock and with an icy glare deadpanned, “Oh, that? It got used as training pads for one of the Hell Hounds.”

--

Then, you tried to tempt a CEO to forgo giving his employees an annual bonus and buy a yacht. Crowley was there and made sure the CEO to a pay cut and gave everyone a pay raise. Crowley was leaning against a wall as you stormed by with that same smirk. You gave him the finger as you passed him.

--

It finally got to the point where you had enough. “Why are you doing this?” you screamed at him.

“Doing what, Love?” Crowley smirked at you. It was always that damn smirk! And he had picked up a nasty happy of calling you Love.

“Stopping my temptations! If this keeps happening Hell’s going to go after me. You know how they are.”

“Then, leave them,” he said simply.

“Why would I do that?”

“You said you’re mad at God for casting you out. Hell’s not that much better. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but God cast the humans out for nothing. Shouldn’t you be on the human’s side? They’re a Hell of a lot more like you than you know.”

Your entire body tensed and your blood froze. There were laughing children playing in a park nearby that had no idea what Heaven and Hell really were. They didn’t know about good or evil, not yet. They hadn’t been on this Earth long enough to have even sinned.

“Me and Aziraphale, we’re not on Heaven’s or Hell’s side. We’re on the human’s side. Wherever they decide to go,” Crowley said. “That means, we protect them from whatever plans Heaven or Hell have in store for them. Because really, they just want all of these people dead.”

“So you’re just saying I should ditch Hell and I’ll get off with no consequences,” you huffed. “You really are stupid.”

“If I was so stupid, I wouldn’t be standing here alive,” Crowley sneered.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “What do you mean?”

Crowley simply smirked and held his hand out. “Not telling unless you let me take you out on a date first. And ditch Hell.”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks. Shaking your head, you brushed past him. “No.” Though, you felt a sharp ping in your heart as you left him standing there.

--

You were standing in front of the same church where you first met Crowley at. Though, you weren’t there to do a temptation. Instead, you wanted to pray to God. It would be the first time in thousands of years that you decided you’d at least try. You were confused and didn’t know what to do.

There were cuts all along your body that stung as you walked into the church. Hell had really beaten you when you went back to report that none of your temptations went as planned. It wasn’t your fault, but they didn’t care. They all jumped on you and attacked you.

“What do I do?” you asked once you were at the altar. She didn’t answer. She never did. You felt tears build up in your eyes at the silence. “You never cared about any of us!” you stood up and screamed. “What did we do that was so wrong? Why did I deserve to fall? You never told me why I fell! I wasn’t a part of their rebellion! I simply asked why couldn’t we try to hear them out and see what was going wrong! I wanted all of us to improve and you cast me out! You fucking…!” A sob ripped through you and you collapsed to your knees. The pain was near unbearable. But the silence was worse.

“Ah!” a gasp sounded from behind you. “I really hate walking in these places!” You looked over your shoulder while trying desperately to breathe, though your lungs felt like they were on fire. Crowley was shuffling towards you in a weird gait. “There you are, [Y/N]. I thought you were going to do a temptation, but I saw you walk in here.” He danced in a circle for a moment or two before he stopped by you. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Nodding, you accepted his hand. His arm wrapped around your waist. You leaned into him and allowed him to guide you out of the church and to a place that was safer for the pair of you. Once the burning ended, Crowley took you to the edge of the sidewalk and sat you on the ground. He looked at your exposed skin and cringed at all of the lacerations.

“Shit,” he hissed. Slowly, he worked on miracling it away. You looked at awe at how everything was healing itself up.

“How are you doing this?” you asked. “Demons can’t perform miracles.”

Crowley looked up at your face and back at your wounds. “Yeah, Hell likes to tell you that. Demons and angels are basically the same. Aziraphale actually possessed some people.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmhmm.”

You remained silent until all of your wounds were healed. Though, there were still tears on your face. It only became apparent when Crowley reached up and wiped one away with his thumb. You flinched away from his touch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Crowley soothed.

“How can I trust you? Demons can’t trust demons?”

“Humans can trust humans,” Crowley spoke.

“But we’re not--.”

“We’re on their side. That’s enough to make us human.” Hesitantly, you nodded your head. Crowley didn’t smirk at you. Instead, he smiled. It looked foreign on his face, but it looked nice. “What do you say about that date now, Love?”

With a light blush you nodded your head and whispered a small, “Okay.”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead before helping you up and leading you to his Bentley. “Good. I was worried I’d have to wait a few thousand years before you finally said yes.”

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

When Love Must Die (chapter 3)

Tagging @armaggedidnt @oh-hamlet @foxyfoe-reblog @s3dgy @butttteeerrrrrr @swanheart69

Link to chapter 1 (masterlist)

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

Chapter 3

 He sits quietly on the edge of the couch, cradling Aziraphale’s limp hand in his own, clinging to it while he still can.  Watches as the Witch Girl (Anathema, comes unbidden a begrudging correction from the depths of his exhausted mind) carefully places thick candles on intricate sigils drawn at various strategic points on the magic circle she had just finished tracing around the couch: one for Body, one for Soul, one for Poison, one for Cure, one for Dark, one for Light, and the last one in the very center by Crowley and Aziraphale’s joint hands – for Life.  Finishing touches for the ritual that is meant to save Aziraphale’s life while ending his own.

 “I have a… a favor to ask,” he says, voice hoarse from prolonged silence and the tension that fills the room, “of both of you.”

 He sees her falter slightly in her movements, feels the other human (Toad? Salamander? Oh, right, Newt!) tense behind him in anticipation. He scoffs, lips twisting into a bitter smirk.  

 “Nothing demonic,” he reassures them, just this side of sarcastic, “don’t worry.”

 The human girl looks uncomfortable now; fiddles nervously with the book of spells she had dug out earlier from under a pile of dust-coated occult tools and rubbish magazines. “That’s not what I…” She throws an awkward glance at the other human, as if asking for his support.  “I wasn’t…”

 Crowley raises his free hand, forestalling her further pitiful attempts at clarification.  Curls the fingers of his other hand tighter around Aziraphale’s.

 “If the ritual works…” He looks down at their joint hands, at the candle standing on the Life sigil beside them.  “Whoever did this to him, whoever’s behind this, they’re still gonna be out there, and I… I won’t be here to…”

 He trails off, tamping down on a wave of all-too-real fear that threatens to choke him.  Because there it is, isn’t it – the rub as the angel’s favorite bard called it.  If the ritual works, Aziraphale will live, but the threat to his life will still remain.  And the next time Crowley won’t be there to stop it.

 “We’ll look after him.”

 His head snaps up at Anathema’s unexpected pledge, wide eyes watching her with a mixture of shocked surprise and timid, disbelieving hope.

 “We will,” she asserts in response to his silent question, quiet but firm.  “Between a Witch and a Witchfinder,” she winks at the Newt guy over Crowley’s head, “I think we can handle it.  And if not…” She shrugs, giving him a small smile that is a bit too tight to be reassuring, although Crowley appreciates the effort nonetheless.  “If not, we’ve got a veritable Antichrist living next door, so…”

 “Lucky thing, that,” Crowley intones with an amused twitch of his lips. Then grows somber once more, adds, low and sincere, “Thank you.”

 She nods, lips pursed in sympathetic concern.  Lays the spells book open on a one-legged side table next to the couch; pulls out a small athame.  Looks back at him, hesitant. “Is there anything you want us to tell him for you or…?”

  “What, like my last will and testament?” He raises a mocking eyebrow at her, trying to keep his tone light despite the fact his heart twists sharply at the cruel reminder that this is it for him – no more quiet evenings at the bookshop, no more companionable strolls through the park, no more dinners at the Ritz.

 The girl, Anathema, just stares at him with that expression of unbearable knowing sympathy that makes Crowley’s skin itch.

He grits his teeth sharply, forcing down the urge to snarl at her.  Looks back at his angel’s face, almost translucently pale now. There is… so much he still wanted to say to him, so much of his thoughts, his feelings he still wanted, no needed to voice.  

 He can do none of that now.  Not here, not to these virtual strangers, not under these circumstances.  It’s too late.

 But there is one thing he could say, one message he could relay to his angel that would, perhaps, leave Zira with some fond memories of him, perhaps even make the angel smile when he thinks of him.

 “My plants,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing an unconscious line along the angel’s brow.  He stills as he realizes what he’s doing, pulls his hand away. Coughs sharply to clear his suddenly too tight throat.  “I have plants,” he tries again, voice inexplicably rough, “lots of plants. It…uh… it would be a shame if they all went to waste. Plus they get lonely without company, so… so if he wouldn’t mind stopping by to… to water them every once in a while…”

 He chances a glance at Anathema; cringes at the too-soft expression on the human’s face.  It makes him feel too open somehow, too vulnerable, too raw, and he bristles with sudden defensive anger.  “Make sure to tell him not to even think about being nice to them!” he snarls with exaggerated hostility, giving her his best glare.  “If I find out he’s been paying them compliments, I’m gonna come back and throttle him myself.”

 “Got it.” Her response comes with a soft, understanding smile, and Crowley has to stifle another urge to snap at her.

 “Let’s get this over with, shall we,” he growls out instead, forcing himself to relinquish his hold on Aziraphale’s hand, and holds out his hand to her as she steps closer.

 “Do you remember what I told you?” she asks as she gently grasps his proffered hand, the athame poised above his open palm.

 “Don’t let go, no matter what,” he repeats dutifully and manages not to hiss as she runs the blade across his palm, long and deep.

 She lets go of his hand, picks up Aziraphale’s.  “It’s important not to break the connection until the transfer is complete,” she reiterates, cutting an identical line across the angel’s palm.  “If even a little bit of the poison remains behind…”

 “The thing regrows and we’re back to square one.”

 “Precisely,” she nods and holds Aziraphale’s hand for Crowley to take.

 He does, wraps his fingers tightly around the unresponsive palm, their cuts pressing against one another, dark ichor mixing with gold.  “Don’t worry, Witch Girl,” he assures her with feigned lightheartedness, “I got this.”

 It turns out to be a much harder promise to keep than he realized.

 ***

Nothing happens at first, not until Anathema finishes reciting the last of the spell.  And even then all he feels is a slight tingle at the site of the cut, a tingle that slowly begins to intensify – a ribbon of liquid fire that lances up his arm with all the fluidity and speed of a black mamba, swiftly, instantly spreading across his entire body.  And then all he’s aware of is pain – searing, all-encompassing, roaring inferno of pain that tears through every particle of his being, rending, scorching, obliterating.

 Falling was a bit like that, he thinks dimly, as he struggles to maintain his ever-weakening hold on consciousness, to keep his weak traitorous burning fingers from unclasping from around the angel’s hand. Except with Falling he was only too happy to give in to the overwhelming, excruciating pain, to surrender to the darkness, to let go. He can’t do that now.  Not when Aziraphale’s life is at stake.

 So he grinds his teeth together, clamping down on a useless scream, imagines his fingers clench tightly into Aziraphale’s skin, and he hangs on.

 And when his consciousness splinters apart, tiny fragments swallowed up by the unforgiving darkness, and his tortured, broken body sinks to the floor with one final shuddered breath, his desperate grip lingers, sustained by the fading power of his demonic essence.

Until that, too, flickers out.

TBC

[amuseoffyre]

October Prompts - 29th

Prompt - Meet your maker

Crowley hummed as he riffled through the drawers.

Technically, he was doing a much-needed spring clean, but what he was also trying to do was make some space for Aziraphale. It was a very human thing, to move in together, but it was the first time either of them had done anything of the kind, and now, they had all the logistics to deal with.

Surreptitiously, he had expanded the interior of the chapter house a bit, a couple of extra windows popping into the walls as he did so. He’d also added a broad wardrobe beneath the stairs on one side of the main door. The extra circumference meant a little more wall space, which he left blank for Aziraphale to decorate.

One of the only things that had gone untouched was his trunk, wedged under one of the deep shelves – once window seats – beneath the windows. It was almost a century old and he’d only bought it when he got the Bentley as somewhere to keep his more fragile possessions. Not that he’d had many until he took ownership of the community centre. But the items contained in it were the only ones that would never been considered for scrap or the bin.

He peered over the back of the couch when the door opened, smiling in greeting to Aziraphale. “Got your first instalment?”

Aziraphale held up a wooden crate, an idiotic dopey smile on his face. “I have a few pieces for down here,” he agreed. He stooped to set the box on the table and Crowley scrambled up, trotting around the end of the couch, curious. “Here.”

Crowley took the small brass knocker from him, frowning. “What’s this?”

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “Allegorical.” He leaned closer, then took it from the angel and turned it around. “There. Right way up. I thought we could put it on the front door. I mean, if you like.”

Crowley stared at it, then laughed. “A serpent wrapped around a scroll?”

“Mm.” The demon sighed. “Technically, yes, it should be the other way around, but then it would just look rather like a toilet roll with a novelty head.”

Crowley laughed, running his thumb across it. The metal was far from modern perfection, bobbled in places. He raised his eyebrows. “How long have you had this?”

Aziraphale waved an overly-casual hand. “Oh. A while. Long enough.” There was enough pink in his cheeks to suggest it was far longer than he would ever admit. He gave Crowley a hopeful smile. “Do you like it?”

Instead of replying, Crowley walked straight over to the door, opening it wide, and with a deftly-placed miracle, attached the knocker to the door. He turned back to Aziraphale with a smile.

“It’s lop-sided, darling,” the demon said, beaming.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley laughed, closing the door. “I’ve cleared out some of the drawers for you and there’s the wardrobe and some wall space. Where do you want to start?”

Aziraphale glanced around, then frowned. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but is this place a little… larger than before?”

Crowley shrugged innocently. “Maybe a little.”

The demon laughed, catching him around the waist and pulling him closer to hug him. “Always cheating, aren’t you, my dear? Creating more space so you don’t have to give up any of your little treasures?”

“Oh, shush,” Crowley replied, smushing his hand into Aziraphale’s face and pushing him back a step. “I could make it smaller too, you know. Small enough for one.”

Wide, astonished eyes stared at him, wounded. “But darling…”

“I could,” Crowley repeated, lips twitching. “Won’t, but could.”

Aziraphale sniffed, but returned to his crate, poking through it. “Is there room upstairs?”

A creak from overhead made him glance up and Crowley smiled. “There is now. Drawers under the bed and shelves beside the head of the bed.”

“Marvellous!” Aziraphale produced the ugliest monstrosity of a mug Crowley had ever seen, pure white with completely impractical wings in place of a handle. It was hideous. Crowley loved it at once. “I was thinking we could have these by the bed, so we don’t have to get up at once. A leisurely start to the morning with coffee, yes?”

“These?” Crowley said, reaching out for the cup. It was sturdy and solidly made and Lord, it was hilarious.

“Mm.” A second mug emerged from the crate, this one with horns jutting off the sides and a tail for a handle and Crowley laughed so hard that Aziraphale snatched the angel mug off him. “Careful! You’ll drop it!”

“They’re awful!” Crowley said between helpless laughs. “I love them!”

Aziraphale looked delighted. “Upstairs, then?”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed happily. “Come on.” He bounded up the stairs, wanting to get a quick look at his newest additions before Aziraphale came up.

The bedframe was organic-looking. It almost seemed as if it had grown out of the curling wooden lattice that served as the only wall of the upper level. Naturally, the bedside tables had sprouted out as off-shots, coils of wood rising from the floor like stretched springs, with interlacing vine-like branches forming shelves on the lower parts and beautifully smoothed surface on the top.

“You really are quite the artist, my love,” Aziraphale said appreciatively.

“It’s just nature,” Crowley said dismissively, skirting around to his side of the bed. He reached for his small piece of security blanket that hung over the lattice above the headboard. “I should’ve thought of it before. Can’t have too many shelves.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale agreed, setting the angel mug on his side of the bed and holding out the devil one to Crowley.

“Hey!”

Aziraphale batted his eyelashes innocently. “What? Don’t think you’re fooling anyone, my dear.”

Crowley stuck out his tongue and sat down on the edge of the bed to reach over and take the black and red cup. “You’re not as clever as you think you are,” he said, setting the blanket down in his lap and turning the cup between his hands. “Mind you, this one has the better handle.” He gave Aziraphale a thoughtful look. “Never saw your tail, demon.”

“Of course you did,” Aziraphale said, settling down on the other side of the bed. “It was attached to the rest of my considerably longer body.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Snake-tail doesn’t count.”

Aziraphale huffed. “You and your semantics.” He sat back against the headboard, folding his hands comfortably in his lap. “We can change if you like.”

Crowley pointedly set his new mug down on his bedside table, then resumed folding the blanket. There was so little left of it now that it was the work of a couple of folds, then he smoothed it with his hand, adding another layer of miracle to keep it together.

“You’re very fond of that, aren’t you, darling?”

Crowley glanced over at him, cheeks flushing. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

Aziraphale gave him a puzzled look. “Why would I laugh? I only wondered why it was something you treasure so much.”

“You’re… you’re joking, aren’t you?” Crowley said, eyeing him warily.

Aziraphale shook his head. “You have so many pieces of cloth all about your house, but that’s the only one I’ve seen you keep so close all the time. I always wondered why. I mean you called it your security blanket. Is it… enchanted or blessed or something?”

Crowley stared down at the piece of fabric in his lap.

Years – millennia – ago, Aziraphale had found him drunk and miserable and had taken care of him. There was food and there was warmth and, of course, there was the blanket he had left Crowley wrapped in when he slipped away in the morning.  True, the colour had faded, and the pattern was barely visible anymore, but…

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Take a look.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows pulled down in bemusement, but he leaned forward and took the blanket and the moment his fingers touched it, Crowley could see that he felt the origins of it. Of course he would. He’d made the damned thing himself.

A small, sharp, almost pained sound caught in the demon’s throat, his eyes wide and shocked, his hand shaking so much that the blanket slipped from his fingers.

Oh.

Oh shit.

He really didn’t know.

Crowley scrambled across the bed, pushing the blanket aside and grabbing his hand. “’Ziraphale?”

The demon stared at him, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly. Hot, fat tears were spilling down his face.

“Oh sod.” Crowley swung one leg over to sit on the demon’s lap and pulled him into a tight hug. He wasn’t surprised when Aziraphale latched onto him, arms almost unbearably tight around him, and he was shaking. “I thought you knew,” Crowley whispered apologetically. “I thought you were just playing silly buggers.”

Aziraphale’s fingers dug into his back in silent reproach.

Crowley nuzzled at his hair, stroking his hands in sweeping strokes down Aziraphale’s back, and when even that wasn’t enough, he unfurled his black wings, curling them around them both, shutting out everything else until there was only the sound of Aziraphale’s shivering breaths in the dark.

It took a long time for him to speak and when he did, there was a frailty in his voice Crowley had never heard before.

“You kept it.”

“Yeah.” Crowley rested his hand, warm and heavy, on the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. It helped, he remembered, when he was having nightmares.

“But why?”

Crowley drew a circle on his skin with his thumb. Why indeed? “You were kind to me,” he said after several minutes of thought. “Everything felt so… bad then. Sharp and hard and cold and cruel. And then you…” He laughed, his own voice more than a little shaky. “You were the first person who noticed. Who cared. Who did something. Kept me warm. Kept me safe. Kept the nightmares away.” He took an unsteady breath against Aziraphale’s throat. “The blanket… it was a little bit of that. A little bit of warm and safe and keeping the nightmares away.”

Aziraphale was so still and so silent that the words seemed to drop into a void.

“Aziraphale?”

“Should’ve hated me.”

Crowley kissed his cold, damp cheek. “I know.”

“Should’ve been afraid.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Aziraphale’s chest rose and fell against his in a gust of a sigh. “Did it help?” His voice was little more than a whisper. “The blanket?”

Crowley’s own throat felt rebelliously tight. “Yeah,” he replied. “A lot.” He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek again, then followed the curve of it to find his lips in their dark cocoon. “Not as much as you,” he whispered against them. “Real thing is better.”

Aziraphale’s chuckle was a little stronger. “Soft,” he breathed against Crowley’s lips.

“As pudding,” Crowley agreed. He kissed the demon again. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Crowley opened his wing a crack, letting in enough to light to show the incredulous look on his face. “For the blanket, idiot.”

Aziraphale’s damp, flushed face lit in a smile. “You,” he said, hugging Crowley warmly, “are entirely welcome.” He nudged the tip of Crowley’s nose with his own. “And if your children ever stop inflicting patchwork quilts on you, I’ll be first in line to make you another.”

Crowley tightened his arms around him. “Just stay like this and that’ll be enough.”

In the half-light cutting between Crowley’s wings, Aziraphale was radiant. “As you wish, my love.”