#or if crowley has to bend his knees a bit

[amaranthdahlia]

ok for scientific reasons can we have like a full on body shot of them kissing next time (where they do it properly) we all need to know if aziraphale has to stand on his tippy toes

[starboyshoyo]

Wedding Bells

Characters: Riddle, Deuce, Epel, Silver x fem!reader (seperately)

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland

Genre: fluff, romance

Proposals and weddings with your beloved!

Riddle Rosehearts

Married life with Riddle comes in stages. It’s extremely difficult at times, especially in the beginning, and easier in others. You’d better be ready to take your vows seriously, because Riddle certainly will- even before you’re actually married. Especially the ‘for better or for worse’ part. He’ll outright refuse to hold a wedding until he can be financially and emotionally independent from his mother, refusing to subject you to her tyranny.

One way or another, Riddle will gain his freedom, either from gradually taking back control or from being disowned. Without the shadow of his mother hovering over him, he’ll decide to follow a path of higher education to law school. It’ll be a tough time period for you as a couple. Riddle is always busy studying and working hard, hoping to earn his degree early. He’ll attempt to help with house chores when you move in together, but he never learned practical home skills when he was younger. The combination of teaching him how to manage a household in addition to his school workload means that for a time, you will be doing most of the home duties.

The wedding discussion also has to be put on hold for a while. Your fiance is a perfectionist and refuses to hold anything but the perfect ceremony for you, with the most beautiful ring he can get his hands on. After graduating law school and landing a job, he’ll save up for the ring of your dreams.

He’ll propose after a romantic evening at home, under a full moon at midnight. Not everything went the way he thought it would- the ring was the wrong size (“What do you mean, fingers have sizes? I thought only shoes had that.”) and he burned the food at one point, but the two of you spent year waiting for this moment. Just seeing your eyes light up in disbelief and happiness when he finally gets down on one knee makes everything worth it.

Riddle will ask you to take the Rosehearts last name. He likes the idea of being joined, in life and in legal matters. Having his last name makes him feel like he’s truly your provider and protector. Plus, he’s just a hopeless romantic and wants to hear you being called Mrs. Rosehearts. He won’t complain if you don’t want to, though. Tradition is important to Riddle, but he respects your wishes much more.

The ceremony is small- held at an indoor venue in a courthouse, with just a few attendees. The Heartslabyul graduates will help set everything up, and catering is taken care of, courtesy of the Clover family. Riddle couldn’t be happier when he sees you walk down the aisle, escorted by Ace and Deuce. Deuce will give him a nod before stepping back, while Ace’s gaze will linger on Riddle’s a bit. The message is clear: take care of her, or else.

Deuce Spade

The moment Deuce realized he was in love with you was the moment he knew he wanted to marry you. You are Deuce’s first and only love, and the only person he’ll ever need. The two of you are engaged just after graduation- he proposed on the spot without being prepared. He just saw you running towards him in your cap, diploma in hand and gown fluttering in the wind behind you, and blurted out, Will you marry me?

This was not how he planned the proposal at all, and he apologizes profusely when he realized he didn’t even get down on one knee or give you a ring. In the last week or so of school, he’ll practically be living in NRC’s metal workshop, learning to bend and hammer out a ring for you. And with Crewel’s help and a bit of luck, he’ll even create a small gemstone himself, to add to the ring.

He’ll definitely marry you soon after the ring is done. Like Riddle, you and Deuce have a small, private ceremony. Crowley was generous enough to let you hold it on NRC’s campus, with Ramshackle as the venue. The run-down, homely dorm you stayed in during your high school days was also the place you spent the most time with your best friend, so it’s only fitting you’d marry him there too!

While Riddle, Cater, and Trey agree to be Deuce’s groomsmen, Ace actually requests to be a bridesman instead! He says it’s because “this is the last time he’ll ever get you to choose his side over Loosey Deucey.” He’ll definitely send pictures of your day out to Deuce, rubbing it in his face that Ace got to have a self-care day with you while Deuce didn’t. Deuce can’t be too mad, though. After all, it’s him you’re marrying, not Ace :)

Deuce would actually discuss name changes with you before the wedding. He actually likes the idea of taking your name. He would feel very close to you by being connected to you by name. But he also likes the idea of you being a Spade because it’s like he’s bringing you into the family!

You’ll most likely move in with your husband and his mother for a year before moving to a small house nearby. Ms. Spade absolutely loves you, and dotes on you when Deuce is out working for the day. She’ll try to help you with your own work as well, especially if you’re working remotely or working from home a lot.

When Deuce is home, he’ll spend as much time with you as possible. There’s a lot of sleepy cuddling and long naps in your shared room. Even if he’s busy, he’ll help you and his mother with chores. Grocery runs are his favorites, because it gives him time to go out on a pseudo-date with you.

When on the couch together, Deuce loves placing your hands side by side, looking at the rings on both of your hands and thinking about how lucky he is. He can’t believe that you’re with him now, forever.

Once you finally get your own place, Ace will try to ask for a key. Deuce will give him one, and then change the locks just to mess with him.

Epel Felmier

Epel didn’t even think about marrying you until the two of you moved back to Harveston. The townsfolk don’t have much news to talk about, so a lot of the gossip will be diverted to you and Epel. Every time you go out, expect to have at least three elderly residents asking when your wedding will be! Most of the time, you’ll laugh it off and assure them that you’re happy. But it’s happened so much that Epel begins thinking about it.

He brings it up to you one day in the orchard, lying in the grass with his legs propped up on a tree. This is the first time you’ve discussed marriage, and you come to an agreement- if your relationship in Harveston works out, in a year or two you’ll get married. It’s a simple plan, but people can’t help but notice Epel has a spring in his step now when he talks about his new fiancée.

With his degree in magical chemistry and background as a farmer in Harveston, Epel will always be financially stable. He is one of the few young people in the town and the older residents welcome the help with labor. With extra income from occasional jobs Vil will call in with, you guys are set! You have plenty of time to spend with Epel every day. It’s quite the pleasant life.

Your marriage to Epel will take place in the town hall. Every Harveston resident will attend, as well as many of your friends from your days at Night Raven College. The village elders insisted on doing everything themselves- making food, catering, helping with clothing and ceremony. It’s been decades since they were last able to prepare for a wedding party!

Originally, the gathering was planned to be relatively small, with just friends, family, and locals. But word got out that the Vil Schoenheit would be attending the event in place of the Bride’s father, and security had to be hired. Not only that, but the presence of nobles like Kalim, Leona, and Malleus garnered attention as well. Harveston’s economy got a big boost just from your wedding alone.

Much to Vil’s chagrin, you had hired Neige to be the live performance during your first dance with your new husband. He’ll complain about it for years, even if you reassure him that you would have asked him if he didn’t already have a part in the wedding party.

Epel is secretly smug that so many people are seeing you marry him. You’re his now! He’s yours! Take that, world! Everyone knows you’re Mrs. Felmier now. Speaking of that, Epel wants you to take his last name. He really wants you to be his in that way. He might pout a bit if you refuse but ultimately he accepts your decision. Either way, you’re his wife now! Nobody else’s!

Silver

Two matching silver bands on yours and Silver’s ring fingers are the only indicator to the outside world that you got married in secret, on a humid summer evening before your final year at NRC. Worried about Lilia getting on in years and not being able to see his son’s special day, Silver asked you to marry him in a quiet, extremely private ceremony. Only Lilia, Malleus, and Sebek were present but Silver tried so hard to make it romantic. He promises that once you’re older, you can do it again, properly.

The ring exchange was overseen by Malleus, who had power for every official duty in Briar Valley. For Silver’s own band, he requested the gem on his magical pen to be turned into the centerpiece for his wedding ring. That way, he’ll never be without you or his magic now.

As the only humans in Briar Valley, you and Silver still need protection. Silver would never leave his job as Malleus’s guard either, so you’ll be living in the Thorn Fairy’s Castle for now. As a wedding present, Malleus had a new wing of the castle built just for you and your new husband, complete with a tower. It’s spacious and supposed to provide more privacy for newlyweds, but Lilia has a bad habit of barging into the rooms anyways, gushing about how his little boy is all grown up. If you need a place for more private affairs, the cottage out back might be a better location.

When you return to NRC for your final year, the rings on yours and your husband’s hands aren’t hidden. No one seems to notice, though. Not even the observant ones like Azul and Jamil. If they do, they probably assume that the rings are promise rings. Silver doesn’t bother to correct them- he’s wary of telling people already, lest someone target you for it. Stolen kisses in empty corridors are good enough… for now.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[crowleys-hips]

Pietà

art by @crowleyholmes

In the final moments of the last battle to save Earth, Crowley deals the last blow and he watches triumphantly as the Metatron collapses before him. But he doesn't come out unscathed. With a holy weapon pierced into his abdomen and time slipping away from him, he makes peace with his doomed fate as he awaits death in his angel's arms. Aziraphale will -not- have it though, as he does everything in his power to save the being he loves the most, risking everything to keep him.

Crowley doesn't notice the holy weapon piercing his upper abdomen at first, too busy still holding up his own infernal weapon as he watches the body of the powerful entity before him slowly start to crumble, a triumphant, wicked smile painted across his lips, adrenaline and victorious exhilaration coursing through his veins after a long, hard-fought battle against Heaven's tyrant. Then it hits him like a freight train. Pain so poignant it makes the world seem to bend. He stumbles a few steps back, dropping his weapon as his mind catches up with the sensation. The pain throbs violently, rapidly spreading like poison from his abdomen down to his every limb. He stops breathing as a weak attempt to stop it, but it doesn't help much. He just stands there, limbs shaking until his wobbling legs collapse. He grunts at the shock of pain that shoots up his body as his knees hit the ground and he falls limply on his side, mouth gaping helplessly like a fish out of water. The pain courses through his entire body, and it’s worse than any torture he’s ever endured in hell or anywhere. He's been whipped, burned, shot, cut in half, dismembered, had his bones repetitively broken, and worst of all, been forced to write a five hundred page essay on why demons should never do good deeds. And of course, he's been stabbed before. Quite a common occurrence during his first centuries on Earth. But never has he ever come close to a holy weapon of this caliber before. Holiness so venomous it stings and burns right through his very soul, chafing at it, tearing it, corroding it bit by burning bit, slowly disintegrating the delicate fabric of his essence. He wants to scream, but finds himself voiceless, so he just lies there motionless, ichor oozing out of his wound, pooling around him, collecting in his mouth, and trickling down his cheek. 

It feels like hours -though it must've been just a couple minutes- before he is found. A familiar voice calls out to him in the distance, a voice he knows as well as his own. It sounds pained and desperate, and he wants nothing more than to run to it and soothe its owner’s woes until there's nothing left but gentleness in the world. The voice sounds way farther than it is, for in an instant, there are soft hands carefully scooping him up, cradling him close, surrounding him in warmth. His eyes try to focus on the blurry figure above him.

“...wley,” The echo of his voice reaches him. “Crowley, oh God Crowley answer me,” he pleads. 

A different kind of ache crushes his chest. It's fine, everything is fine. I took care of it, he wants to say. His mouth twitches, trying to form words, knowing they could very well be his last.

“Angel,” he manages to whisper. “My angel…”

Continue Reading on AO3

[save-slot-a]

Dust and smoke smothered his lungs with every gasp a certain 14 year old boy took between lunging strides. Debris toppled from above, the metal structural beams had already begun to lose their shape and bend under the heat and instability caused from the blasts. A stray explosion took the young man nearly off his feet, but his golden eyes, so full of fear and determination, stayed focused at the end of the hall. He just had to reach her. He just had to get there. The entirety of his body screamed as he continued his haggard sprint through the collapsing building, his footsteps drowned by the sounds of concrete and metal groaning a warning of their inevitable crashdown.

The teen slammed his shoulder into the doorway leading to the main stage of the theater, where he saw her standing in the middle of the chaos, squared up, facing away from him. Her black curls were dusted gray and her dress had been torn enough to be noticed from how far away he was, but that didn't matter. Not while she was still alive and standing. With one last monumental burst of energy, the young man darted towards his mother, calling out to her.

The last words out of her mouth as he snagged the back of her dress was his name shouted in disbelief and terror as the ceiling collapsed over the top of them.

“CROWLEY—”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The hero awoke with a start, flinging the covers off of himself in his rush to reach out and sit up. The images of the nightmare persisted, even as the coolness of the darkened bedroom settled down around him. He hadn't realized he'd been reaching out with his stump. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face, and he could feel it sticking uncomfortably to his shirt as he continued to huff and gasp.

Breathe. Just breathe. If you can't focus on anything else, just try to control your breathing— Advice that's easier said than done. Crowley shakily placed his hand onto his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he tried to slow down his PTSD induced panic. A part of him was grateful he was sleeping alone tonight so he wouldn't have woken one of his partners… But another piece of him wishes he wasn't the only one there to ground himself.

After a few more minutes of breathing exercises, the hero slips his face into his hand, closing his eyes and trying to connect with the quiet… Which was difficult when bits and pieces of his flashback kept darting across his mind, making him replay the memory over and over like when he was forced to sit and watch the news footage of the incident and report back what he did wrong in that crisis. You know. As part of hero training.

But that's a whole other can of worms to open at a different time… Because one detail of the attack still sticks out to him. Why in the world was June, his mother, standing there in the middle of the chaos like she was about to fight? Did she have her pistols drawn? Her fists up? The details blur every time he tries to think about it too hard…

“... Maybe… I should talk to my therapist about going into those memories again…” He muses out loud while pulling his knee up to his chest. Something has never felt right about the incident and maybe he's been repressing a key piece about it. If nothing else, seeking closure couldn't hurt right? And maybe with his therapist's magical recall, she can help him view the event from outside of his own experience in it. Besides, what's the worst that can happen? He has another breakdown in his office where he's inconsolable and it's really embarrassing for him later when he thinks about it in the shower? Pshhhh…

… Well… He won't know until his appointment on Thursday. Hopefully he doesn't chicken out over diving back into the day where his world was shattered.

[greeneyed-thestral]

"Say, what time is it? I wouldn't want to keep you up 'till late, y'know with your shop and everything. It's been rather a long day." said Crowley, after emptying the last glass of wine Aziraphale had poured him.

"Oh, it's no problem really. No one actually knows when the bookshop is meant to be open. And anyway I don't think I would be able to sleep yet. I still can't believe we pulled that off without our miracles-- and on the West End!" said Aziraphale, with a big smile that surely wouldn't have worn off for at least another while.

"Such a big success, maybe they are talking about it on the radio. Or maybe someone has noticed a couple of nazi zombies leaving the theatre and they're talking about that. Shall we check?" and Crowley got up from his chair, wobbling a little, to switch on the radio. "That certain night The night we met There was magic abroad in the air" Crowley didn't even have time to change station, because Aziraphale had already got up on his feet, swaying towards him, a full glass in one hand, the demon's hand in the other.

"What are you doing?" said Crowley, blushing for his friend's sudden choice to grab him, but not really pushing him away. He was very glad he was wearing glasses in that moment.

"I've never heard this song and yet...it seems so right, don't you feel so?" said a tipsy Aziraphale, and somehow his head was now on Crowley's chest, his puffy cheeks a lovely shade of pink.

"You are drunk, angel."

"We can sober up whenever we want, we can't always dance though!" The angel kept swaying gently, while Crowley took away the glass of wine from his hand, like a responsable grown-up that knows when the other has had enough.

Aziraphale tried to fight him a bit, and so gravity had the best on both of them. They were now on the floor, lying next to each other. "The whole darn world seemed upside down." They couldn't help but laugh as they tried to get up. But in truth, Aziraphale rolled closer to Crowley and found himself on top of him. He removed his glasses, as he often wanted to do, to see Crowley's pretty yellow eyes.

"It was such a romantic affair And when you turned and smiled at me..." Aziraphale leaned over, his warm hands on Crowley's cheeks. And then it just happened. A happy kiss, that started out as two smiles meeting. The kind that children give each other on the playground. "How strange it was How sweet and strange There was never a dream to compare" They opened their eyes, still laughing, unaware of what they had just done. Aziraphale sitting on Crowley's belly, his hands on his breathing chest. Crowley with his knees bended, supporting Azi's back, his fingers resting on the angel's thighs. "Ah, this heart of mine beat loud and fast Like a merry go round in a fair" "I-- I'm so sorry Crowley, I--I don't know, I wasn't thinking! It must have been the alcohol and the song and, y'know all the excitement from the night and--" said Aziraphale in panic, with tears, no longer of laughter, now streaming down his face. "Angel, don't overthink it, really. It was an accident, I understand." Crowley lied, trying to get up and hiding his face behind the glasses he managed to grab back. "Please, tell me I didn't ruin this night." said Aziraphale seriously, and he grabbed Crowley's hand as he tried to look through those black lenses. "Everything is fine, I mean it. Listen, here's what we're gonna do. Tomorrow I'm coming back, without saying anything; you can do your little apology dance, if it makes you feel better, and I'll just know. We won't ever have to talk about it again." And yet, they probably both wanted to say something more.

"Oh, thank you. ...Perhaps from now on that's the only dancing we should stick to."

"I do love seeing you do it. Maybe you should have to apologize more often." Crowley smirked and put his hat back on his head. "Was that a dream or was it true?"

[ingravinoveritas]

My initial thoughts of David from the football clips Georgia just posted and from his recent last leg appearance = Geeze that 51 year old man is still such a twink isn’t he.

Anon #1: He really, really is such a twink. I know there’s a specific definition of twink that some may argue David doesn’t meet (heh...almost typed “meat” by accident. Paging Dr. Freud...), but spiritually, he is every inch the twink in my opinion. 

I honestly cannot stop watching the video of him prancing around in front of the goal, though:

There are two things in particular about this that kill me: One, the way he’s holding his wrists. I have never seen someone play football while holding their wrists like they’re about to do Jazz Hands, but I know that’s just because David has no fucking clue what to do with his hands here, and it’s both dorky and ridiculously adorable.

The second thing is the hips. I am by no means an expert or even remotely knowledgeable about football/soccer, but from what I’ve seen, most people play with their legs--it’s the legs that are in front and leading the rest of their body. But our darling David seems to be playing with his hips instead, with the hips leading the rest of his body. And I can’t help but think this must be instinctive for him, going by his disco dancing as Crowley and especially this forever infamous comment from Michael:

And slinky they are, fully on display in the video Georgia posted as David prances about trying his very hardest to look athletic and not at all like an extra from an Olivia Newton-John music video (and failing spectacularly, though we love him for it).

The other part of today’s videos that nearly ended me was the bit where David was lying on all fours, for reasons I still don’t understand (but I don’t really care, because...David lying on all fours...)

So I have no doubt--at all, whatsoever--that Michael would be more than game to teach David how to play rugby. In fact, let’s say this is their first lesson and call this (along with whatever the fuck he is doing with his feet) David showing Michael his “technique” while Michael gets thoroughly turned on and tries not to laugh at the same time. Yes.

But as you said, David is indeed a twig, so Michael would certainly have to exercise caution with the tackling portion of rugby. Here would be his opportunity to stand with his legs on either side of David and wrap his arms around him from behind, then bend his knees and press his soft yet muscled torso into David, hips and thicc thighs flush against his, ever so gently thrusting forward and back as David grips the grass in his fingers--all in the name of teaching David how to properly tackle, of course.

Oh, yes. That would be quite a sight to behold. We’ve seen Michael play football on TSAM, so here’s hoping David makes another appearance on the show in which there is a skit that involves Michael teaching him to play rugby. Fingers crossed...

[mlobsters]

supernatural s12e7 rock never dies (w. robert berens)

still kind of boggling that they went with rick springfield for this recurring incarnation of lucifer. funny getting closer to current times - like hey 2016/7 wasn't all that long ago. trying to shift brain to tech and references and such.

SAM So I've been trying to dig up info on the British Men of Letters, keeping an eye out for cases, and you've been goofing off with a game that went out of style five years ago?

LOL see i thought words with friends was popular then, but i never played it. guess we're just ignoring the very obvious lucifer letters in dean's letter tray thingy

DEAN You still living out an '80s buddy comedy with Crowley? CASTIEL Unfortunately.

that horrifying forced smile made me laugh so hard i choked

dear lord the cheesy 80s-esque sitcom music and the cliche montage of LA-ish things i am not optimistic about this -_- dean's ranting about LA but he had fun when they were there 10 years ago? he enjoyed being a PA, he banged the actress he liked on the way out. apparently grumpy old man now

also rolling my eyes per always about insisting dean has this really narrow taste in music with the added annoyance of him being an asshole about sam liking something else. they had the one episode (10x12) where dean admitted to liking taylor swift's shake it off after being de-aged and hearing it. i thought he had a little personal growth moment 😔

i'm glad they had sam push back on dean being an ass and in a way where it's not a fight, sammy just figures out a way to force dean to bend the knee and listen to the vince music with the unimpeachable logic that it's research. and he's so pleased with himself

DEAN Hey. You consider switching up your duds there? Bit stiff for this town. SAM He could be an agent or something. DEAN Yeah, maybe a third-tier agent. CASTIEL At least I don't look like a lumberjack.

okay that made me laugh. they're both so grumpy and cas really went in with a good snarky tone. and dean, doing the harsh but fair face

admire crowley's ability to find a way to have a good time regardless of the circumstances

s12e7 / a different world (1987-1993) kadeem hardison as dwayne wayne

my god another blast from the past, so many good actors on that show!

i'm making a slightly more distressed version of sam's face right now

well hey dean's drinking the vegetable water, maybe he'll be enjoying the vince music by the end too. you can do it, dean

CASTIEL Well, the only way you'll clear that crowd without drawing fire is if he's otherwise engaged. DEAN Engaged in what, Cass? Killing you? SAM Cass, you'll last...three minutes tops. CASTIEL Then I'll buy you three minutes. CROWLEY Make it four. What? I help.

wonder what he's up to

funny how the v-neck makes an otherwise not that far outside the realm of what dean might wear outfit very much outside the realm

LUCIFER!VINCE Because it's fun. Because I can. And because being Lucifer? So much Judeo-Christian baggage. But Vince? He's famous. Everybody loves him.

look at our sam being apparently stronger than lucifer's telekenesis on the doors which doesn't make much sense but it's a striking vaguely jesus-y visual so let's go i guess

DEAN Why are you doing this? LUCIFER!VINCE Why? SAM You and God made up. You forgave him. What would he think? LUCIFER!VINCE I'm not especially interested in his opinion. Dear old Dad, he finally apologized for abandoning me. And what's the very next thing he does? [Voice breaks] He ditches me. [Laughs] And you, too, by the way. And rides off into the sunset with Auntie Amara. He needed my help, and he'd say anything to get it. His words, your words, they mean nothing. Don't you get it? This is all meaningless. Heaven, Hell, this world. If it ever meant anything, that moment is past. Nothing down here but a bunch of hopeless distraction addicts, so filled with emptiness, so desperate to fill up the void… they don't mind being served another stale rerun of a rerun of a rerun. You know what my plan is? I don't have one. I'm just gonna keep on smashing Daddy's already broken toys and make you watch.

i am so confused. lucifer's upset over god abandoning him, and he's hurt by... sam and dean? what. have i already forgotten how they left things with him? there was never any chumminess, was there? i don't think this is the lucifer that i know

sam looks pretty with this backdrop but i started laughing when these horns came in to be some i dunno, rousing of spirits, call to arms on the lucifer hunt! "and we will stop him! we will. it's what we do, man" *sam stares off mournfully in the distance* cue the sad cellos

in the wiki

When Castiel calls Dean, his name appears on Dean's phone spelled as "Cass," thus re-igniting the age-old argument: is it Cas or Cass?.

i mean, in the script it's cass. when metatron was typing, it was cass. the captions say cass. the only people who use cas are fandom?? if we're talking english, cas would be pronounced more like kaz. anyway. i don't see how this is an argument. my personal (probably unpopular) opinion is fandom preference of not using the more feminine spelling (shortened cassandra etc)

well now that i read the linked cas or cass, looks like my points stand

(on twitter) Robbie Thompson: why is Castiel’s nickname spelled Cass not Cas? again: for science Eric Kripke: I think “Cass” just looks cooler on the page. And “Cas” might sound like “Caz.” But that’s just my opinion. Now get back to work.

thank you, eric, for the pronunciation note. somewhat vindicated 🤪

[snippity-snappity-snoot]

@tartppola this is for u ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “Crowley, this feels a bit unnecessary…” You offer, observing the headmaster of one of the most prestigious academies for young mages in the entirety of Twisted Wonderland as he lay completely prone on your couch, face-flat in one of your pillows and occasionally making garbled mutterings which could be words but were equally as likely to be just general wails of despair. Nothing about the position looked comfortable (his legs were awkwardly dangling off the side since he was slightly too tall to sprawl across your furniture) but you think he had already become victim of the sunk cost fallacy and was too deep in his dramatics to quit now. A small huff escapes you, sinking to your knees and leaning forward to rest your forearms on the upholstery. Crowley flinches when he feels the cushion bend under your weight but makes no move to acknowledge your presence. Rude. Just because he’s sulking doesn’t mean that he gets to snub you in your own home. 

You pinch his ear.

“U-u-uwarghhh!!! I give, I give! Have mercy…!” Crowley shrieks, shooting up so fast he almost bashes head into yours in a desperate attempt to stop the mild discomfort you were suddenly putting him through. In the midst of his floundering, one of his hands ends up grasping your wrist in an attempt to gain purchase. You take a moment to notice how, despite how his claws prickle against you, he still doesn’t scratch you. Even at his most ridiculous, Crowley’s care for you has a habit of shining through. 

You soften at that thought and let your hand fall down, ceasing both your gentle torment (you had not been pinching him that hard) and Crowley’s incessant squawking (once again: you had not been pinching him that hard) at the same time. But rather than return to your side, you let your fingertips slowly trace across the shell of his ear, down the curve of his jawline and ending up right at his lips. He shuts up. “There’s my silly bird,” You coo, “I know you’re upset that our plans got messed up because you got called into work.” Your other hand comes up to cradle his cheek. He promptly leans into it, soaking up the affection with a little sniffle.

“And I’ll admit! I was also a little depressed that things had to change on such short notice…” You continue. “But you wanna know something?”

Crowley looks at you, eyes somehow still looking watery despite being obscured by his mask. “...What is it?”

You grin and whisper to him.

“I’m the sort of person that celebrates their birthday all week. So you’ve got plenty of time to make it up to me.”

His face blankens for a second, before his eyes light up (quite literally in his case) and a prideful smirk crosses his face. “Nyohoho! That’s right! I am, of course, terribly kind and resourceful and would never let a little setback like ‘needing to fill in paperwork for building repairs because some members of the student body blew up a wall again’ stop me from celebrating such a special occasion! Now, I wonder if I can somehow salvage that previous booking-” 

At this point, he begins to ramble and you sorta lose track of what he’s saying. Honestly, his little declaration would’ve been more effective if his hat and clothing weren’t noticeably crumpled from his now forgotten temper tantrum…  and he weren’t noticeably nuzzling into your hand… but this was definitely more preferable than him moping around. 

You were sure that this birthday was going to be one of your most memorable yet. 

[goodomensblog]

Love Stories

Prompt:  what would happen if an absolutely hammered Aziraphale drunk-Summoned Crowley?

Crowley goes too slow, Aziraphale drinks copious amounts of alcohol, and a bookshop is (very nearly) set on fire. Again. 

Love Stories

In a book, a story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. When the last ink has spilled, and the page continues on white and blank, it is over. Finished. Done. All that remains is the closing of the book - when one, with a sense of finality, presses the hard front and back together, sealing words and ink within.

Life is not like stories, or books.

You might, perhaps, go on an adventure. Defeat your enemies. Maybe even fall in love. But unlike the stories, there is no neatly printed “happily ever after,” and the book does not close; rather, life simply...goes on. 

After the world had definitively not ended, and Aziraphale and Crowley had, against all odds, avoided destruction at the hands of their respective employers - they’d gone to lunch. There, they’d shared a lovely meal while talking and laughing, their hands resting on the table, a delicate two inches apart. 

They’d finished the meal and strolled out to the Bentley which waited, as if summoned, one tire carelessly perched on the curb. 

Crowley had driven Aziraphale home. 

Outside Aziraphale’s shop, a heavy, awkward silence had descended on the vehicle. Crowley’s fingers were drumming a nervous rhythm on the wheel; and Aziraphale, crushed beneath the impossible weight of six thousand years worth of unspoken sentiment, felt as though a vise was constricting his chest. Because after all that time, how did one even begin going about saying - saying -

At the time, he couldn’t think it, let alone say it.

The angel had stammered, filling the rigid silence with shallow, vague promises.

They’d talk on the phone. Really, they should do lunch again. When? Soon. Very soon. 

After, the silence had, impossibly, grown heavier. Aziraphale, manicured fingers curling over his knees, had looked to Crowley, wanting from the demon something he didn’t know how to begin to ask for.

Because Crowley had said it already - through actions, admittedly, more often than words. But perhaps - maybe that would be enough. It needn’t be anything grand. Something - anything that Aziraphale might use to drag himself out of these depths, to draw in just one single breath of air; enough to wrap-his mind around how to set about feeling out the shape of the words on his lips.

Crowley’s fingers squeezed the steering wheel, and Aziraphale had watched his knuckles pale in the dim light. 

Crowley had tilted his head, a carefree smile pasted crudely on his face and said, “Sure angel. Lunch sounds great.”

Aziraphale exited the car.

Crowley drove away.

And that was that.

The last period, black as a bullet, has marked the text. The rest of the page is white and blank.

It has been two week since Aziraphale got out of Crowley’s car. The story has ended, and yet, inexplicably, life goes on.

Crowley hasn’t visited. And he’s yet to call. Aziraphale sometimes worries, fear tickling the back of his mind as he painstakingly re-orders the bookshop Adam resurrected, that something could have happened to him. That Heaven or Hell have gone after him. 

After the initial spike of fear, the worry usually fades. 

Nothing has happened to Crowley. 

Aziraphale can’t explain how he knows. But he does. It’s a feeling as sure and solid as the leather-bound book in his palms. He would know if something had happened to Crowley. He’s sure of it.

And so what if Crowley simply doesn’t want to visit? 

They spent eleven years in each other’s near constant company. If anything, Crowley probably just needs some time to himself. Perhaps just a bit of...well, you know - a break.

A break. 

It’s not a nice word, and Aziraphale turns it over in his mind as he finishes up the reorganization of his carefully cared for Wilde first editions. 

He continues thinking about it as he selects a book for the evening and a bottle of wine to accompany it.

By the time he’s settled, it’s dark. A few candles burn, illuminating the shop in a soft, warm glow; and Aziraphale is curled on his old, lumpy couch, a glass of wine in one hand and a tragically neglected open book in the other.

Aziraphale’s glasses have slipped down his nose, and they pinch his skin as he stares contemplatively into the flickering candlelight. 

A break. Is that what Crowley wants? Time apart?

In the car, Aziraphale had given Crowley a chance to do - say something - anything. And it makes Aziraphale wonder, his stomach flipping uncomfortably at the thought, if it means there is actually nothing to say? Aziraphale has never been the most talented at reading between the lines which exist outside of books, and it’s possible he’s misunderstood.

Friendship, too, is a type of love.

And his friendship with Crowley, something that he can finally openly admit to, is precious to Aziraphale. A treasure more coveted than even his first edition Wildes - and that is saying something.

And if friendship is all that he can have? Well. He’ll take it. A million times over, he’ll take it. And he will cherish it, even long after time slows, and the universe gradually darkens.

Of this, Aziraphale is sure.

He’s always moved slowly, as the world around him, parting like a river around stone, hurtles, unceasing. 

It took the better part of three millennium to begin to even think of Crowley as a friend, nevermind actually saying it. And it took nearly a full six for Aziraphale to realize, as he stood in a ruined, blackened church, that friendship was alarmingly inadequate to describe the feeling blooming verdant and vibrant somewhere deep within his ribcage.

The book has slid onto the couch. Heaving a long, slow breath, Aziraphale closes his eyes. Tipping his head back, he takes an equally long, slow sip of wine.

Two weeks.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s a blip. Nothing.

Truly, the last eleven years were an aberration. For the better part of six thousand years, Aziraphale was lucky if he encountered Crowley a few times within the same decade. And though rare, it wasn’t unheard of for a century to pass without their meeting. 

And it’s not like Crowley is likely to disappear for a century now. He had agreed to lunch. Soon-ish. So really, it’s silly to feel so out of sorts after barely two weeks without Crowley’s company, Aziraphale thinks. 

And yet-

Sipping his wine isn’t good enough. Not for these series of thoughts. Tilting his head back, Aziraphale swallows down the rest of the glass. A glance at the bottle and the glass fills again.

He’s gotten used to having Crowley around. The last eleven years have rather spoiled him, he supposes.

Another glass of wine is emptied and refilled.

It’s just - 

After six thousand years of slowly built trust, of rescues and secret meetings, of -

Aziraphale swallows down another glass.

After six thousand years spent falling in love-

And there it is.

Another glass goes down.

When you’ve only just - only just - finally been able to admit to friendship. How on earth does one go about admitting to - no, asking for more?

The fifth glass goes down much easier than the fourth. And the sixth even easier still.

Aziraphale is not one to overindulge in alcohol.

Except for when the occasion really calls for it.

And this one does.

Because - because -

He wants Crowley. He wants his companionship. He wants him here, now. He wants Crowley - he wants. He wants-

Another glass of wine. By now he’s lost count.

Because Crowley is not here. Aziraphale could call him. He could, but - but. Aziraphale is in no state. Probably. And besides, Crowley cannot come. Not tonight, at least. Maybe never. Crowley drove off, after all. Maybe Aziraphale has waited too long. Maybe he’s gone too slow.

And this thought is painful enough to warrant another drink. Or three.

He’s drunk his way through a Chateau Pontet Bordeaux red blend, an Albert Mann pinot noir, the Monsanto Chianti Classico Riserva, and half of the crystal encased Glenglassaugh whiskey by this point, and he’s fine. He is. Really. Even if the room has begun to sway around him.

Aziraphale frowns at the undulating bookshelves. 

Awfully rude of them to move. 

He sets his drink aside - or, he tries to. It tips off the table, tumbling onto the carpeted floor. 

Aziraphale sits up, swaying. “S’rude of you, too,” he slurs, waggling an admonishing finger at the overturned glass. 

When it doesn’t reply, Aziraphale huffs a breath and stands. 

This time, the entire bookshop sways, and Aziraphale clutches at the couch. The candles on the table flicker.

He should sober up, he knows - but, well, it’s just that he doesn’t particularly want to. 

The shop is dark and quiet, and he is still very much alone. 

Holding the couch for support, Aziraphale shuffles toward the abandoned glass. If he were sober, he might think to use a miracle to draw the glass into his open palm. Sober, he would also be perfectly able to pick up the glass in the first place.

He is as far from sober as Pluto is from the sun.

Tongue between his lips, he bends, reaching. 

He misses.

Unbalanced, he stumbles. Fortunately, he catches himself on the coffee table. Unfortunately, the table is where Aziraphale arranged his candles set. And when he falls, his hand presses over hot flame.

His palm, covering the pale, wax laden candle, has doused the flame. It takes him a moment to register the pain.

Aziraphale yanks back with a gasp, and his elbow knocks the table as he moves. Another candle wobbles, and he’s far too drunk to even consider catching it before it drops to the floor. 

Even after three bottles of wine and a half bottle of whiskey, Aziraphale is cognizant enough to recognize that this is very much not good.

Pressing his throbbing palm against the table, he points an accusing finger at the flame curling up from his carpet. 

“No.”

In all fairness, if the angel weren’t, as they say - drunk out of his mind - this actually might have worked. The universe, like a certain red-headed demon, does generally speaking, have a hard time denying Aziraphale. 

But he is drunk, and as such, Aziraphale’s words carry considerably less weight. And as Aziraphale stands there, frowning and swaying, the fire carries stubbornly on.

Pursing his lips, Aziraphale blinks down at the fire, and wonders if he’s honestly going to have to sober up for this.

“Look,” he says, and hiccups. “M’too - I’ve had wine, you stupid fire. And the - the - precis…” he trails off, frowning. “The precis… the accuracy I’d need to put you out requires sobr- it needs less wine.”

Sitting down on the table, he folds a leg over his knee. “You see. I’m fine. I am, I am. But why’do I have to be sober right now? Dearest, I’m - I’m coping. So if you could just,” Aziraphale says, waving his burnt hand conversationally, “stop?”

The flame flickers, as if in consideration.

Aziraphale sways a bit where he’s sitting on the low coffee table and blinks, waiting.

The fire leaps to climb one leg of his mahogany end table. 

Aziraphale gasps, affronted. “I asked you nicely!” 

Rolling his shoulders, he shakes out his hands. “You’re - you - you will not like me sober.”

He’s just closing his eyes and sucking in a breath to force out the alcohol, when the distinct pop of forcibly displaced air interrupts his concentration. 

He nearly falls off the table when the bookshop door slams open. It ricochets off the wall with a terrible bang, and Crowley catches it as he strides purposefully into the bookshop. 

Aziraphale blinks, admittedly still very drunkenly, but - are the demon’s edges, well...a bit indistinct?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale stares, trying to force his wine laden thoughts into some semblance of order. Because it’s been two weeks. And now Crowley’s here - kicking in his door? And his edges are...fuzzy? Why is he fuzzy?

Crowley takes one look at the fire eating Aziraphale’s end table and rug, and lips curling, cuts the air with a snap. 

Aziraphale watches with smug satisfaction as the flames wither and snuff out.

“Got what you - what you deserved,” he sniffs, staring down his nose at the blackened remains.

“Aziraphale.”

At which point, Aziraphale realizes abruptly, and with no small amount of panic, that the very reason for his current inebriation is stalking into his shop, onto his blackened carpet.

“Uh, what the actual fuck?” And then Crowley is circling, grinding snake-skinned shoes over stubbornly flickering embers. “Are you trying to burn all this down? Again? Can’t imagine Adam will reset everything twice.”

“How’d you - I mean,” Aziraphale says, blinking slowly and trying to follow Crowley’s rapid movements. He always did move so quickly. 

The thought sobers him enough to ask, “Why are you here, Crowley?”

Crowley whips around; his shoe is still grinding into the carpet. “Wha - why, why am I here? I am here because my ‘Aziraphale is being a dumbass’ senses were tingling. There I was, minding my own business all the way in bloody Rome, and they started going off like anything!”

Aziraphale, looking up at him, narrows his eyes and sways. “Rome? What were you - um no wait, hold on - your what?”

“You heard me,” Crowley hisses, circling around to stomp out another ember. “Stubborn gits - and yeah, it’s a real sense. Cultivated it myself a while ago because-” he stops and gestures pointedly at the carpet. 

“Had to partially sacrifice one of the other senses to manage it, mind you - and no I’m not telling you which one and -”

Aziraphale hiccups.

Glasses gleaming in the remaining candlelight, Crowley slowly turns his head. 

And here, Aziraphale is presented with a choice.

Choice 1: Remain drunk off his socks and use his masterful acting abilities to act as though he hasn’t just drunk his way through the better part of his good wines while pining after the demon who has just broken down his door.

Or -

Choice 2: Sober up. Immediately. And face down all that has gone unsaid between them without an ounce of alcohol in his system.

Carefully clutching at the table, Aziraphale lifts the fallen glass. By the time it’s at his lips, it’s full. 

Holding Crowley’s gaze, he takes a long sip. Sitting very steadily on the table, he tilts his head and blinks innocently up at the demon. 

“Can I help you?”

The glasses are off, and Crowley’s nostrils flare as he looks Aziraphale up and down, and then at the bottles scattered about the room.

“Angel,” Crowley says, and his lips are twitching, reluctantly shrugging off concern in favor of something intrigued, curving, and dangerous. “Are you sloshed?”

“What? No, no. ‘Course not,” Aziraphale says, and sips at the wine. As he lowers it, the glass wobbles; red wine splashes the carpet.

“Doing a good job wrecking your carpet.”

“M’getting a new one anyway,” Aziraphale answers, trying valiantly for nonchalance. “This one’s too burnt for my tastes.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Crowley mutters and viciously stomps out another rebellious ember on the blackened floor.

Aziraphale tips back the remainder of the wine. And then he’s pursuing his lips, peering speculatively up at the demon. 

He doesn’t look as though he’s been attacked by their enemies. Perhaps he simply did want space. A break. From him. 

Aziraphale frowns at the glass until it’s nearly overflowing with wine. After taking a leisurely sip, he smacks his lips, and turns a slow, measuring look on the demon. 

“You look well. Considering you disappeared. And left me. Again.”

Crowley, who is snarling something at the carpet as he stomps out a final stubborn spark of flame, glances sharply up. The skin creases between his brows as he steps over the charred portion of carpet.

And now he’s circling Aziraphale.

“Now hold on,” he hisses, tilting his head, and there’s an exposed tremble to his lips. “In the car, you said, you said -” 

Aziraphale twisting to follow Crowley, sways.

Crowley stops. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he grinds out, “sober up.”

“Nothing to sober-”

“There is, and I’m not having this conversation while you’re drunk.”

“M’not. Drunk.”

“Angel.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale smiles, and takes another sip.

“I’ll sober you myself,” Crowley threatens, and circles closer, glaring in a way that Aziraphale imagines is meant to be threatening.

“You’ll not,” Aziraphale says, clutching at his wine.

“Oh I will,” Crowley says, hand lifting, fingers already pressing together.

Aziraphale lifts a staying hand.

“Don’t-” 

Miraculously, Crowley doesn’t. 

His fingers are pressed together - ready to snap. But he’s stopped. His yellow gaze is focused on Aziraphale’s raised hand.

Stalking closer, his nostrils flare. And then he’s sinking down onto blackened carpet, kneeling before the angel.

Aziraphale clutches the wine against his chest. 

Crowley ignores it, instead reaching for Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. Running cool fingers over Aziraphale’s knuckles, he turns his palm up. The skin at the center glistens, dark red. Pockets of flesh have puckered, already beginning to blister. 

Crowley’s fingers, careful and gentle, brush a line around the burn.

When Aziraphale shivers, Crowley jerks back, as if he were the one burnt.

“Hurts?” Crowley asks, soft and tentative as the candles flickering in the dark.

It does hurt. But not terribly. 

Dizzy with wine, Aziraphale can think only of how he now he misses the touch. How he’s missed it. Between six thousand years of denial and self-restraint, and now the last two weeks’ separation, it’s almost too much.

When Aziraphale whispers, “it hurts,” he’s not speaking of his hand.

Crowley hears the pain in Aziraphale’s voice. Aziraphale sees it in the stiffening of his shoulders, the downturned corners of his lips. In a moment, Crowley is sliding his hand beneath Aziraphale’s, lifting it to his lips.

For an impossible second, Aziraphale thinks Crowley will kiss it.

Lashes brushing his cheeks, Crowley draws a slow breath. He exhales, and where his breath brushes Aziraphale’s skin, burned, reddened flesh cools, then begins healing over. 

“There,” Crowley murmurs. Dark lashes flutter and lift, and Aziraphale is wholly unprepared for the wide, golden eyes that are now upon him.

Beneath those eyes, he feels laid bare, and Aziraphale suddenly wishes he’d taken the earlier opportunity to sober himself. Now, with his face flushed, his hand in Crowley’s, and his open palm so close to those lips, he’s not entirely sure he could survive it sober. In fact, it’s doubtful he’ll survive it drunk. 

He’s stammering, overwhelmed by the touch and yet unwilling to remove himself from it; he says, voice too loud in the quiet shop, “Glad you’re not still fuzzy!”

A single dark brow arches.

“...fuzzy?”

He’s still holding Aziraphale’s hand.

“You were, you know - all around the edges. Fuzzy, I mean.” 

Aziraphale attempts to demonstrate with his non-Crowley-occupied hand, and wine sloshes over the rim of his glass. It lands on his rug with a splat.

Oh dear.

Crowley, whose gaze has followed the wine’s path from cup to carpet, huffs a breath. “Tell me. That time you found me in Spain. After the Inquisition. Was I as bad as this?”

Aziraphale makes a noise which might have been mistaken for the sound one makes when blowing raspberry - except angels, of course, don’t blow raspberries - so clearly this was something else.

“Worse,” Aziraphale says, and adds, “Don’t change the subject.” He sets the wine aside to wipe the spittle from his lips.

Crowley’s expression wavers, torn between mirth and something else that lingers, inexorable and far more somber. 

Aziraphale can’t look away from it.

“Well, you know,” Crowley says, and he seems to have forgotten that he is holding Aziraphale’s hand, because as he licks his lips and glances away, his thumb strikes up a fumbling dance over Aziraphale’s knuckles. “It’s just, miracling a jump from Rome to London in one go isn’t easy on the physical form. Body got a bit wobbly for a second there, but it’s alright now.”

Crowley’s throat bobs as he swallows and he adds, “Ideally would have done it in a few hops. But, you know, what with our recent business with above and below. Didn’t, uh, want to risk showing up late to the party.”

There’s something distinctly vulnerable in the trembling pitch of Crowley’s voice, the stiffened slant of his shoulders, the fumbling path his thumb is rubbing into Aziraphale’s hand.

It’s Aziraphale’s glance at their hands which draws Crowley’s attention to his unconscious act. The second the demon realizes what he’s doing, his hand snaps open, releasing Aziraphale’s.

He’s gone a bit pale; and as he rocks back, physically drawing away from Aziraphale, the stricken look on his face is all the motivation Aziraphale needs to miracle himself sober. 

Sparing himself from the more immediate pains of humiliation was one thing. Crowley’s suffering, however, is something else entirely; Aziraphale would go through infinite humiliations before numbing himself with drinks while Crowley suffers alone.

“-didn’t realize, angel. That jump took a lot out of me. Must be more tired than I thought-” 

The excuses spill from Crowley’s lips as he kneels on ruined carpet, like a criminal pleading before a judge.

Wincing at the taste of soured wine on his tongue, Aziraphale scoots to the edge of the table. He’s not sure if he should reach for Crowley, so he settles for a tentative touch to his arm.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and it’s more question than statement.

“Sobered up, did you?” Crowley says, dragging a wary hand down his face. 

“Crowley, what’s got you in this state?” Aziraphale asks, and leaning forward, runs his hands over each of Crowley’s arms to make sure they are all there. “Is it the jump? Is it still affecting you?”

Sober, the realization of the true magnitude of the feat that Crowley had performed is striking him anew. It is no simple task to transport oneself across a city. To jump across countries with a single miracle is, frankly, a herculean task.

Concerned about the strain such a feat might entail, Aziraphale presses a hand beneath Crowley’s chin. “Do you feel tired? Fatigued?”

Crowley, at the touch, sinks from his heels back to his knees. His lips part as he gazes up.

Beneath Aziraphale’s concerned gaze, Crowley seems to remember himself. Roughly clearing his throat, he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

Aziraphale draws his hand back. Pressing his lips together, he blinks, and he’s alarmed to find his eyes are uncommonly damp. “Crowley. That you - you sensed when I was in need of you? And jumped your way across several countries? And all to help me? It’s all just - well,” Aziraphale stops, trailing off.

Crowley is staring up at him, a crease like a frown between his brows. 

“M’yeah, well of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Aziraphale stares down at him, the impossible weight of six thousand years of almosts and maybes upon his shoulders. 

“Rome,” Aziraphale finally manages. “You left. Were gone for weeks. Why Rome?”

“The way you were acting after the Ritz. Thought you might want some breathing room.”

“Oh Crowley-”

“And,” Crowley presses on, “I was looking for something.”

“What?”

Crowley looks up. In the soft light of the candles, he looks washed out, pale. 

Aziraphale reaches out, brushing tentative fingers over his sleeve - and then Crowley is ducking his head. His shoulders rise and fall, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.

Wordlessly, Crowley reaches into a pocket within his blazer. When he draws out his hand, something small and golden dangles from his finger.

“Here,” he says, voice catching.

Crowley drops it in Aziraphale’s open palm, and he’s unwilling to meet the angel’s eyes.

Crowley is silent as Aziraphale turns it over with a finger. It’s gold - still warm from Crowley’s pocket. The ring is in the form of a snake - because of course it is, and the thought is a fond one. The golden snake’s long body wraps in a circle several times over, and eventually climbs over itself to swallow its own tail.

“Ouroboros,” Aziraphale says, inspecting it.

“M’yep,” Crowley answers, clearing his throat.

“It’s old. Ancient,” Aziraphale says, turning the jewelry over again in his palm. He can feel it’s age, a resonant pressure against his skin. “Ouroboros,” he muses, then adds, “used to signify the cyclical nature of life; wholeness; eternity.”

“That’s the one.”

Aziraphale glances up. “Why Rome? As opposed to Egypt, Greece, India?”

Crowley shrugs. “Saw one that I liked when I was there.”

“You saw this one,” Aziraphale clarifies.

This has Crowley shrugging again. “Yeah, I mean. It’s got a nice look to it.”

“And when was this?”

Crowley is muttering under his breath, but Aziraphale is sure he hears a forty in there somewhere.

“I’m sorry, did you say 40 A.D?” Aziraphale gapes. “All this time you’ve been in Rome trying to unearth a centuries old ring? It’s been weeks, Crowley! I’ve missed you!”

“Yeah, well I-” Crowley stops. “You missed me?” he asks, soft as a sigh.

The sound of it - Crowley’s disbelief; his quiet wonder - it actually makes something hurt in Aziraphale’s chest. That Crowley doesn’t even know how much Aziraphale has missed him, is evidence of how long Aziraphale has gone on saying far, far too little.

“Of course I missed you,” Aziraphale breathes, hardly more than a whisper.

“Oh,” Crowley says. And then he’s blinking, clearing his eyes. Pressing his lips together, he visibly steadies himself. “You like it then? The ring?”

“I do,” Aziraphale answers, slipping it onto his hand. “You’ve finally done it,” he jokes, “gotten me to give up my singularly winged aesthetic.”

“I, er - there’s a reason.”

Aziraphale looks up from adjusting the ring on his finger. 

“And what’s that?”

“It’s, uh, well-” Crowley says, his voice going nervous and high, “a bit of a symbol? You could say?”

“A symbol?”

“Yeah. You know, with the eternity bit and all that.”

Aziraphale has a moment to be glad he is no longer drunk, because even while perfectly sober, he seems to have lost control of some of his faculties; his mouth has fallen open.

“Oh?”

“No, no wait.” Crowley is straightening, scrambling to correct. “It’s not to pressure you, or anything of the like. In fact, the opposite.” And here, he takes a breath. 

“I wanted you to have it,” Crowley says, golden eyes bright as the candles around them. “So every time you look at it, you know. Well. I mean, you have me. You know that, right? Forever - or, er, so long as you want me,” Crowley says and swallows.

And I’ve got no expectations, angel. I would spend eternity doing nothing more than sharing the occasional lunch, if that’s what you wanted. What I’m trying to say is - go slow. Slow as you need. Anything you have to give is enough. I’ll take it. I’m thrilled to take it. It’s more than enough.”

Kneeling, Crowley looks up, head tilted back. His smooth neck is bared, and Aziraphale can see where the pulse he doesn’t strictly need, jumps, racing beneath his skin.

Aziraphale reaches for him. Fingers steadier than they have any right to be, caress the edges of Crowley’s blazer.

Hands dangling at his sides, Crowley watches him; But for the parting of his lips, the demon is still as stone.

His utter stillness nearly makes Aziraphale stop - until he realizes what Crowley is doing. He’s waiting; giving Aziraphale a chance to change his mind - to pull back.

Heart in his throat, Aziraphale slides off the coffee table’s edge. Kneeling on the floor, his legs bump Crowley’s, and the demon’s knees press against his, bony and warm.

His hands slide up Crowley’s blazer. He stops at the edge of the pointed lapels, hesitating a moment, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric.

Crowley’s voice is gentle, and Aziraphale’s name is on his lips, a benediction and a promise.

“Aziraphale- ” This is fine. This is enough.

It’s enough to make Aziraphale feel entirely foolish for having feared this step. After all, it’s not as though he’s doing any of this alone. Crowley is with him. And that will always be enough.

Aziraphale lifts his hands. Careful fingers cup beneath Crowley’s jaw. And when Aziraphale’s thumbs paint reverent lines along his skin, Crowley’s chest heaves and the breath leaves him in a rush.

“Alright?”

“Perfect,” and Crowley’s voice is a soft, wrecked thing. “But angel, you don’t - you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Aziraphale assures him, as he traces Crowley’s skin. He’s brushing the demon’s neck, and then his exploring fingers are tangling in Crowley’s hair.

“May I kiss you?” 

Crowley trembles at the question. Golden gaze half-lidded, he manages a hoarse, “Please.”

Aziraphale leans in, thumbs stroking his jaw. Their noses brush. 

The kiss is gentle, easy; the meeting of softly trembling lips.

Aziraphale pulls back for a breath, only to immediately think better of it; and presses their lips together again.

Crowley makes a soft, shuddering sound.

When Aziraphale pulls back, he notices Crowley’s hands. Fingers splayed and white knuckles stark against black fabric, he holds tight to his own legs, as though they are an anchor. 

“You can touch me, Crowley.”

“Are you-”

Interrupting him with a kiss, Aziraphale says, “please, darling,” and it’s a sigh against his lips.

Crowley doesn’t deny him.

First, it’s the gentle slide of fingers over Aziraphale’s hands. Then a trailing touch up his arms. And finally, warm palms cradle his face.

And there, for a long while, they stay. 

In the bookshop, illuminated by warm candlelight, they press together, each exploring the other with careful lips and a reverent touch. 

By the time they think to move off Aziraphale’s thrice ruined rug, the candles have burned low. Aziraphale stands first, holding a hand out for Crowley. 

They’ll move to the couch, or perhaps Aziraphale’s seldom used bedroom. It doesn’t matter, so long as they go together.

Before following Aziraphale, Crowley stoops to grab Aziraphale’s long forgotten book. Still open, it rests where, hours ago, it had fallen to the floor. Holding it up, he moves to snap it closed. 

Aziraphale stops him with a touch.

“Ah. Leave it open, dear. Please.”

“Right. Sure.”

The book is left open upon the table, ink marked pages free and waiting.

As Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, the demon bends, and with a breath, douses the candles’ soft glow.

- - - - - - - -

Thanks for reading!

p.s. Any guesses as to which sense Crowley sacrificed to help him better sense Aziraphale?

[verobatto]

Destiel Chronicles

Vol. XCII

It was a love story from the very beginning.

What Do I Do Now?

(12x23)

Hello my dear fellows! We reached the last meta from season 12! This is a sad one, my friends, I know. But we embrace the destiel angst, as good shippers, right?

So, let's cry again with Dean again at the end of this season.

Let's start...

The Promise

When the episode starts we have Kelly Kline dressed in light blue.

Gif credit @kingofthecrxssroads

The light blue and white color talks about purity and is related to divinity. Those are the colors weared by Virgen Mary, the mother of God, which is now very meaningful to see Kelly Kline, the mother of the future god, wearing the same colors.

After this beautiful detail in the visual Narrative, let's focus on that promise that changed Castiel's priorities for ever.

Gif credit @mad-as-a-box-of-frogs

This is gonna be the new mission for Castiel. His change of priorities, the cause of the future Destiel break up in season 14. This promise will lead Castiel into his decision that will en with his death, exchanging his life for Jack in Heaven, the deal with the Empty.

Then, in another scene, we have this dialogue:

KELLY: Tell me again. Tell me again what you saw.

CASTIEL: Right, I saw– I saw... I saw the future. I saw a world without pain or hunger or want. I saw the world that this child... that your child...

KELLY: Mm.

CASTIEL: ...will create.

KELLY: Mm.

CASTIEL: And it is a world without fear and without suffering and without hate.

KELLY: Mm.

CASTIEL: I saw paradise.

This is a reflection of episode 15x19, with Jack as the new God, defeating Chuck, creating a new Paradise, Heaven.

Another interesting visual Narrative was Jack's room.

Pic credit @fallenandinlovewithhumanity

The tree represents: FAMILY, each word of his name is colored in TFW colors BLUE, YELLOW AND RED. The meaning is all over that wall, Jack's family, Jack's parents will be Sam, Dean and Castiel. The family settled with strong roots, like a tree.

Noe the rainbow 🌈 in the Bible represents THE DEAL BETWEEN HUMANITY AND GOD, is a promise of no more harm. An example of it, was the rainbow that appeared after The Great Universal Flood.

I will talk here about a little and funny foreshadow... You'll pick it up quick!

MARY: All right, then. Kind of always wanted to punch the Devil in the face. So how do we find them?

Yes, my friends, this was an easy one, right? Is a Foreshadow of Mary Winchester punching the devil, not just once but twice, one in season 13.

Another beautiful and blatant parallel was this one...

Gif credit @godshipsit

Those are the same words Mary said to Dean when she was pregnant.

This marks the Jack as Dean's mirror. The kid will try to be like him, to follow his steps. Because just as Dean is a role model to CAS, he will be the same to Jack.

Another foreshadow of Castiel's dead, and example of those who takes bad decisions to have a win, was Crowley.

SAM: Crowley...why did you do it? Save Lucifer– What did you want?

CROWLEY: I wanted to win.

The desire of a win is remarked as the precursor of bad decision. First we will have Crowley explaining why he let the devil out, which will end in his death, and then we will have Castiel at the end of this episode dying after taking a collection of bad decisions. But for Dean it will mean to get Castiel back in 13x06.

Dean and Cas

The reuniom between Cas and Dean was full of dramatism, jealousy and sassy looks, just to exalt their relationship as romantic.

We all recall the scene in which Case opens the door, and everyone is there: Sam, Mary and Dean, but CAS just calls DEAN hahaahaha. Is just Dean for his eyes, well, that's love.

We have Dean and Sam giving a discourse about loyalty and family and work together... Very dramatic.

DEAN: Look, Sam's right, okay? We'll work through our crap. We always do. But right now, we are here to get you, get Kelly, and get gone.

They heard Kelly, and Mary goes to assist her. But then Dean keeps scolding and talking to Cas, but Castiel replies with his sassy self:

DEAN: Hey, if he shows, can you flame on again? Can you torch Lucifer like you did Dagon?

CASTIEL: I don't know. No, that wasn't me. That was the child. And in case you haven't noticed, he's a little busy.

After this Dean will show himself in pain, just to caught CAS attention, like a annoyed boyfriend that doesn't want to ask for help to his boyfriend, because they're fighting, but whining and moving his harmed knee to his boyfriend, is a great method to get away from the fight they're having, showing Castiel 'look how i was hurt when you weren't there, you weren't there so I had to carry with this pain in my knee.' Believe me, i know this method very well. Hehehehe. So, it works, because Castiel goes immediately to heal him.

DEAN: [bends and grasps his injured knee] Aah. Son of a bitch.

CASTIEL: Here, Dean.

DEAN: Mm.

CASTIEL: Let me.

Gif set credit @shirtlesssammy

So, this is the beginning of jealousy Dean has Because Castiel will put Jack first on his list, just like now, Because is the arriving of a son, and that's a crisis for couples.

Look how Dean accepts his healing, and then smiles shyly, happily, goofily, avoiding Castiel's eyes. He is happy because he got the attention he wanted from his angel. Because even after fighting for the bad decisions CAS had taken, he is still his Cas, and he'ss still caring about him. After feeling Cas was acting odd, this healing is like getting him back.

Another scene full of jealousy, coming from Dean feeling Cas was staying away from him, doing his own life, is this scene:

SAM: Whoa. Cas, what is this?

CASTIEL: As I said, it's– it's Earth. But this Earth is locked in eternal war between Heaven and Hell. There are armies of angels fighting hoards of demons, and the few humans that remain are caught in between.

SAM: How do you know that?

CASTIEL: A friend told me.

DEAN: Oh, good. Now you're makin' friends? That's...

Dean is jealous that Cas is making friends out of his sight.

CASTIEL: You don't have to worry. The child, he opened this door. He'll close it.

DEAN: You sure about that?

CASTIEL: I have faith.

DEAN: Really? In your unborn baby-God?

CASTIEL: Yes.

DEAN: Well, then, you're a dumbass.

Jealousy again, reflected in how Castiel is having faith in Jack, and how he used to have faith in Dean. So Dean is feeling maybe, he is replaced slowly by this child.

After this Castiel explains to Sam and Dean that this Apocalyptic World is a world in which they never born. Trying to remark that Dean and Sam are important to our world.

Then, AU!Bobby mentions bullets that kill angels and Dean goes...

DEAN: Wait, angel-killing bullets? Awesome.

And sassy married look from Castiel...

As I said, everything is so dramatic, because they're so married.

Another important scene was Lucifer appearing in front of them, and saying the following words...

LUCIFER: You're right. What should I do? Oh, God! Don't strike me dead! Come on, Sam. You sound like a virgin in Jesus camp. "We can't. God is watching." No. Chuck "walked." He's gone.

When Lucifer mentions this, Castiel turns around to see Dean. It was filmed that way toake us see that was a thought in Castiel's POV, this is something that will be developed to in episode 14x15 and 14x17. In the first one, Peace of Mind we will have a Castiel's POV, with pink color everywhere (representing happiness) and green all over (representing Dean) as something forbidden, something HE CAN'T HAVE, the second episode, we will have a girl and a boy making out inside a car, and the girl is afraid of her dad finding out their relationship, HE COULD SEE US. As if they were doing something prohibited. Both examples are linked to this scene, and Castiel's Sacred Oath.

Crowley's redemption arc was him sacrificing for the boys. As a prelude of this.

Gif credit @inacatastrophicmind

Castiel sacrificing himself for Sam and Dean, and dying after this...

Pic set credit @akitescoldstrings-blog1

The dead that had been foreshadowed for two seasons is here. Stabbed by the back, the bright light showing he is dying, Dean's desperate shout, and his worst nightmare becoming truth.

Gif credit @they-stare-i-ship

The burnt wings on the ground is another sign that Cas is gone for real. Dean's facial expression is the most sad we an see, defeated, he will bend down on his knees.

Sam will run to the cabin, because Jack is coming, even with Mary falling with Lucifer into the AU, even with Castiel dead, Sam is focused on the mission. But Dean can't. He can't react, because he had just seen the love of his life dying in front of his eyes. And nothing will be normal again for him.

To Conclude:

This episode is linked to with season 15 final episodes. Talking about the new Paradise the New God will bring.

It shows too the role Cas, Sam and Dean will have in Jack's life.

It talks about sacrifice for love, and how Castiel will change his priorities, leaving Dean feeling a little jealous about it.

And this episode ends with Castiel's dead, in front of his lover.

Hope you like this meta. See you in the next one in season 13!

Tagging @magnificent-winged-beast @emblue-sparks @weird-dorky-little-d @michyribeiro @whyjm @legendary-destiel @a-bit-of-influence @thatwitchydestielfan @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @lykanyouko @evvvissticante @savannadarkbaby @dea-stiel @poorreputation @bre95611 @thewolfathedoor @charlottemanchmal @neii3n @deathswaywardson @followyourenergy @dean-is-bi-till-i-die @hekatelilith-blog @avidbkwrm @anarchiana @dickpuncher365 @vampyrosa @authorsararayne @mybonsai1976 @love-neve-dies @dustythewind @wayward-winchester67 @angelwithashotgunandtrenchcoat @trashblackrainbow @deeutdutdutdoh @destiel-shipper-11 @larrem88 @charmedbycastiel @ran-savant @little-crazy-misha-minion @samoosetheshipper

@shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @mishtho @dancingtuesdaymorning @nerditoutwithbooks @mikennacac73 @justmeand-myinsight @idontwantpeopletoknowmyname @teddybeardoctor @pepevons @helevetica @isthisdestiel @dizzypinwheel @jawnlockwinchester @horsez2 @qanelyytha

@destielle @spnsmile @shippsblog @robot-feels @superlock-in-the-tardis @superduckbatrebel @2musiclover2 @madronasky @anon-non2 @cea1996 @lisafu02 @asphodelesauvage @destiels-canonahhhhhhhhhh

If you want to be added or removed from this list, just let me know.

Of you wanna read the previous metas from season 12, here you have the links:

Vol. LXXV, LXXVI, LXXVII, LXXVIII, LXXIX, LXXX, LXXXI, LXXXII, LXXXIII, LXXXIV, LXXXV, LXXXVI, LXXXVII, LXXXVIII, LXXXIX, XC, XCI.

Buenos Aires, December 13th 2020 9:07 PM

[yourpaceangel]

divine by loving

[Read on AO3]

It begins, on some sunny morning just weeks after the world was supposed to end, with a vase of flowers and a note. The lilacs are stunning, surrounded by baby’s breath and something green Aziraphale doesn’t remember the name of but looks lovely nonetheless. They’re the one bright spot amongst the dust motes and lazy spill of sunlight through half slotted blinds. A folded piece of paper, sealed with wax, sits beneath the vase and Aziraphale opens it as carefully as he can. Inside Crowley’s sprawling, carefully messy handwriting takes up only a small portion of the thick paper. 

“My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you--“

He’s smudged the ink over the word ‘love’ like he couldn’t resist running a thumb over the word before the ink had dried. Aziraphale’s finger brushes over it and his lips pull into a smile. He puts the note down and has the phone cradled in his hand before he’s thought about what he’s doing.

Crowley, remarkably, picks up on the second ring.

“Hello dear,” Aziraphale says, looking at the lilacs, “I was wondering if you might want to get some lunch?”

*

Summer nudges its way into fall the way it has a tendency to do. The mornings grow crisp, sun coming into the sky later and leaving it earlier. The trees in St. James’ Park turn a multitude of spectacular colors. Vibrant purples, striking orange, muted gold. Aziraphale likes taking their walks in the early evening, before the sun has had time to set, after the heat of the day has already been bundled off and sent to bed. They walk, hand clasped in hand, down set paths with no real intention of going anywhere.

It’s nice. To finally be allowed this, to finally have the time.

“Robin,” Aziraphale says, pointing up at the sweet little redbreast hiding amongst the leaves. He’s always liked bird watching, and Crowley does too, though he sometimes complains that it leaves him feeling a little hungry afterward.

“Goldfinch,” Crowley echoes, gesturing with his head toward a bush.

They wind around the duck pond, stopping momentarily so Aziraphale can toss a handful of birdseed in their direction before starting off again. Overhead the sky turns a brilliant orange, clouds a cotton candy sugar pink spun thin and high above the trees. A bird arcs overhead, striking dark against the light. 

“Blackbird.” Aziraphale says and Crowley looks up.

“Wonder if there are enough to make a pie.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley’s thumb dances over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, rubbing absently at the skin there. “Dove,” Crowley says after a long silence.

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley’s thumb stops rubbing and he pauses, thrown for a moment, before bursting into laughter. He points up into a tree at two doves, pressed close together. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, feeling his cheeks heat.

Crowley tugs him toward a bench, under the nearby tree. “Would you like that?” He asks, “Names like that?”

“Crowley, don’t make fun--”

“I’m not!” He sits down, taking up half of the bench by himself. “I’m not, angel, I swear.” He takes both of Aziraphale’s hands with his own. “I just...I didn’t know you’d go for that, really.”

“I wouldn’t normally,” Aziraphale says, shuffling his feet, still standing, “it’s different when it’s you.”

Crowley’s lips form a little ‘o’, his eyebrows scrunching together like he’s thinking. “Angel,” He says, and this time it sounds deliberate. “Dove.” He kisses the back of one hand-- “Sunshine.” --and then the other. “My everything.” He tugs, so Aziraphale will bend down to kiss him and Aziraphale does, their noses bumping together briefly. He tugs again and Aziraphale falls willingly, resting his weight on Crowley’s lap, hands entwined. Crowley’s mouth tastes faintly like a burnt match might, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind it in the slightest. He opens his lips to let Crowley’s tongue touch his, a spark of heat at his core. “My one,” Crowley says against his mouth, breathless, “my only, my l--” He makes a sound like it hurts, like he’s bitten the inside of his mouth.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, “dearest, starshine, my heart, my love.”

“Oh,” Crowley says and squeezes his hands, “Yes. Yes.”

They’re pressed so close now, cheek to cheek and chest to chest. It takes an age to separate themselves from one another. Long after the moon makes its way warm and full over the treeline, long after the stars began to show themselves, hazy balls of light so very far away.

*

Crowley makes himself comfy in Aziraphale’s reading chair, long limbs sprawled in odd directions in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable and certainly doesn’t look to be. He holds a glass of wine delicately in one hand, cradling the bottom of it like one would a newborn child. He looks good, pleasantly buzzed already, the tips of his ears a charming pink and his cheeks flushed. “I’m just saying,” Crowley says, gesturing with his other hand, his foot bouncing in the air, “I’m just-- what was I saying?”

Aziraphale laughs. He’s pleasantly drunk himself, his cheeks and the tip of his nose hot. “Roses?”

Crowley snaps his fingers and points at him. “Roses!” He declares, “Rotten for romance. Smell atrocious, all covered in thorns. Now the orchid, that’s-- that’s a fine flower.”

“Mm.”

“No bloody thorns on--” he takes a sip of his wine, nearly spilling it over his chin in his haste to continue talking, “No thorns on a good orchid. That’s all I’m saying.” 

Aziraphale is tickled just watching him. The over exaggerated swing of his leg, the slump of his shoulders, the gentle flush of his face. Crowley puts down his wine glass, like he’s made a statement, crossing his arms over his lithe chest. Aziraphale doesn’t try to fight the smile that blooms across his mouth. “So you wouldn’t get me any?”

“Any what?”

“Roses,” Aziraphale says, teasing, “You wouldn’t get me any roses? Even if I asked?” 

Crowley’s wild foot smashes into the end table and nearly sends his glasses and wine glass flying in his haste to sit up straight. “If you asked?” His eyes go wide, luminous. “Angel, I would get you the moon if you asked. Don’t you know?”

“Hm?”

Crowley opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He furrows his brows, looking bewildered. He opens his mouth again and then shuts it. “Come here,” He growls, reaching out a hand. 

Aziraphale sets down his wine and goes.

The next morning there are orchids on his vanity, pale blue, like they’ve always been there.

*

Crowley opens the door of the Bentley for him. He looks dashing in a smart black suit, deep blood red shirt and black tie. His boots are so red they almost look black and Aziraphale wonders for a moment if they just look like snake skin or if Crowley has just taken to forming his feet to look like shoes. “Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley’s cheek as he gets into the car. He smooths a hand over his own grey suit, fiddling with the snake eye cufflinks as Crowley slides on the other side.

The Bentley roars to life, music spilling from its speakers almost immediately. Something soft and so sweet it makes Aziraphale rest his hand on Crowley’s knee and squeeze. “But touch my tears with your lips, touch my world with your fingertips, and we can have forever, and we can love forever.” Crowley peels out, cutting off two cars and scaring a flock of pigeons into flight, but his hand when he rests it atop Aziraphale’s is gentle.

“You have the tickets, of course?” Aziraphale asks, closing his eyes when Crowley drives over a curb to skip a roundabout and several cars blare their horns in fear and confusion.

“Course I do,” Crowley says happily, swinging wildly around a curve.

Aziraphale inhales sharply, digging his nails into Crowley’s knee, hearing Crowley’s answering laugh. “You could at least pretend to care about traffic laws.”

“What would I want to do that for?”

“Crowley--” 

The Bentley slows considerably and Aziraphale feels Crowley pat the top of his hand. “You can open your eyes.” He sounds too amused for his own good. 

Aziraphale peels one eye open and then the other, breathing out a relieved sigh. “Really, my love, it’s like you enjoy nearly giving me a heart attack every time we go somewhere.” 

“Now you’re getting it,” Crowley says brightly. He pulls up outside the Royal Opera House. Cars aren’t meant to be parked here, but Aziraphale knows when they leave later there won’t be a parking ticket in sight. Crowley gives his hand a little squeeze and gets out first to open the door for him, offering his hand.

Aziraphale finds himself a little short of breath, if he’s honest. The light flashes off of Crowley’s feather cufflinks and Aziraphale smiles, taking his hand, letting himself be pulled up. Crowley guides him inside with a steady hand at the small of his back. He takes their tickets from his suit jacket, and Aziraphale barely makes out Orph…& Eur… from under Crowley’s thumb.

“Orpheus & Eurydice?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley hums the affirmative. “Something new,” He explains and then frowns, “Unless you’d prefer--?”

“No, no. New is-- new can be good.”

“It’s not too late,” Crowley stops, letting people walk around them, “There’s a showing of Carmen tonight as well, and there’s always Tosca.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches up to cup his face, fingers tracing briefly over the edge of his glasses, “It will be lovely, I’m sure.”

Crowley leans into him, blowing out a breath. “Just want to treat you right, angel.”

“You spoil me darling,” Aziraphale assures, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of his mouth, his heart swelling in his chest, “You really do.”

“Deserve to be spoiled,” Crowley mumbles, clearing his throat and straightening back up, “Well, shall we?”

Aziraphale links their arms together, patting Crowley’s bicep. “After you.”

*

It’s a bad day. Winter has creeped its way into the bones of the bookshop and the little flat upstairs, shiny blades of ice clinging to the streets and windows. The cold makes Aziraphale’s leg ache, an ancient wound that shouldn’t bother him in his corporeal form but does nonetheless when the wind outside turns biting and brittle and brutal in it’s coldness. He lights the fireplace and leaves the space heater on but nothing seems to be able to chase the chill from the rooms. 

Crowley is insufferable like this. He whines, he snaps, he sneers. He’s a snake through and through and nothing Aziraphale does is good enough.

“Let’s go away,” Crowley mutters, stomping around the bedroom in his silk pajamas and bundled in a thick wool blanket. “Let’s just go away.”

“Where?” Aziraphale snaps. He’s cold enough, sore enough, irritated enough that he can’t stop himself. “Alpha Centauri?” The way he says it does not come out nice.

Crowley freezes, shooting him a withering look. It’s enough of a sore spot that he goes back to bed, pulling the blankets back over himself. 

“Really now,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley is blessedly, dreadfully silent.

“You’re being childish, Crowley.”

The blanket lump does not move.

“I’m going down to the shop,” Aziraphale sniffs. He does not slam the door shut behind himself, but only just barely. 

The shop is colder than the flat and if anything it worsens his mood. He makes himself tea from the electric kettle in the back room and then promptly forgets about it, finding stacks of books to straighten and reshelve. He opens the blinds in the shop and then closes them again upon seeing the dismal, dreary gray streaked streets outside. He flops into his reading chair and massages his leg.

Upstairs he can hear the bump and thump of Crowley moving around, and then the shuffle of his feet on the stairs as he comes down into the shop. He’s still bundled in that blanket, cranky eyed and frowning, but he makes his way over to Aziraphale and settles himself into his lap.

Aziraphale starts at the feeling of ice cold fingers dipping under his jumper and he grabs them, bringing the hands up to his face. He breathes warm air over cool skin, rubs life into the fingers with his palms. Crowley sags against him, the fight draining out of the both of them at once. Crowley wiggles his hands free so he can knead Aziraphale’s leg, gently working the muscles around the sore spot. Aziraphale sighs against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, hands digging into the blanket around Crowley’s shoulders to wrap around them both. “I’m having a bad day.”

“Me too.” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s face in his hands, brushing his nose over his temple before kissing his forehead.

Crowley’s hands dig a little harder into his leg. “Angel, I--” He takes a shaking breath and then shakes his head a little, “Nothing.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, his eyes a little wet, “that.”

*

“ I couldn’t utter my love when it counted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now. And I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now.”

Aziraphale follows the music to his kitchen. Crowley humming along in the early morning light filtering in through gossamer white curtains, his hands steady and sure as he chops vegetables and moves them into the pan. He’s bare except for a pair of boxers slung low on his hips. Aziraphale almost wants to lecture him on the dangers of cooking without proper clothes but instead has to  lean against the doorframe to steady himself. There’s a gathering of scales at the small of Crowley’s back that glimmer like an oil slick in the soft sunlight, another little patch trailing up his neck and behind his ear. Aziraphale knows if he got a good look at the soles of Crowley’s feet he would have a delightful little patch of scales there as well. He’s enamored with the edges where pale skin meets smooth dark scale and has to hold onto his own hands to stop himself from touching.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley starts, turning around. “I didn’t know you were up,” He says, cheeks pink, scratching at the back of his head. “I was going to bring you breakfast.”

“I heard music,” Aziraphale smiles, “I heard you singing.”

“Ah,” Crowley’s cheeks darken and he clears his throat, turning back around to add eggs to the pan. “That.”

Aziraphale can’t stand not touching him. He presses his chest to Crowley’s back and hugs his waist, tucking his chin over his shoulder. “Yes,” he agrees, kissing Crowley’s shoulder, “that.”

Crowley is quiet for a time. The kind of peaceful, relaxed quiet that means he’s just enjoying being in the moment. Aziraphale kisses those glittering scales behind his ears and smiles when Crowley shivers. “Pest,” Crowley hisses with no real bite. He smacks Aziraphale’s hand with his spatula. “If you’re going to be in here you might as well be useful. Set the table?”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale squeezes his waist, places a kiss to his bare shoulder, and goes.

*

The moonlight dripping in from the frost covered windows is gossamer soft, kissing sweetly over pale skin and dark scales, whispering across dark hair and eyelashes. Aziraphale watches him from across the room, propped against the doorframe as he is, reading glasses slipping down his nose and book in hand. Crowley sleeps rather a lot in the winter, and Aziraphale likes to watch him sleep. 

There’s something vulnerable about Crowley in sleep. Awake he’s all coiled muscle and perpetual movement. Drumming fingers, thumping foot, taps of pens against the table. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. He is confident and cocky, headstrong, headsure, steadfast. He’s a barely concealed grin, a bubble of laughter, the wink of an eye. Asleep he is none of those things. Crowley asleep is something heartbreaking, heartbroken; fragile like the hollow bones of his wings. And trusting. Aziraphale knows he’s the only being alive that’s ever seen Crowley like this, fidgety hands finally still against the pillowcase, face unlined and unworried. 

Aziraphale crosses the room and sits by him, smoothes the fringe back from his forehead with a gentle touch. Crowley rouses beneath him, just a little. “‘Ziraphale?” He mumbles, barely opens his eyes before he’s closing them again. Trusting and so very sweet.

“Yes, starshine,” Aziraphale says, “Just me. You can stay there.”

Crowley curves toward him like he’s magnetized, the way he has done every night since their first together. He feels a barely there kiss to his hip, Crowley’s face pressed against his leg and arm sliding up over his lap. “Like it here.” He mumbles, “Warm.”

Aziraphale hums and scratches at his scalp, drawing a hoarse groan from his love’s throat. Smiling, forgetting his book temporarily, he slips down until their nose to nose, sharing breath. Crowley cracks an eye at him. Smothers his own fond smile by pressing his mouth against Aziraphale’s.

Privately, Aziraphale thinks Crowley’s sleep soaked kisses are the sweetest ones. Not that he’d ever tell him that. 

“Darling?” Aziraphale asks, breaking away. 

Crowley hums in question, nosing along his jaw, his neck, finding where his pulse beats a wild rabbit pace against his skin and applies his lips and tongue. 

Aziraphale shudders and tightens his hand in Crowley’s hair. “Focus, please.”

Crowley makes a rather fetching noise at that but obeys, picking his head back up to look at Aziraphale. He’s lovely like this too. Cheeks pink, eyes hazy with sleep and a little something more, lips red from kissing and sucking and biting. 

“I brought a book with me,” Aziraphale says, “thought you might like to read it?”

“To you?” Crowley asks, sleepy soft and kiss dazed. “Give it here.”

Aziraphale passes him the book and they curl together, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s chest. 

Voice soft, honey soaked with warmth and grand affection, Crowley began to read. “The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden...”

*

Spring comes in a bloom of flowers and sun scented air. There’s a carpet of wildflowers rolling past as Crowley drives them further into the countryside. They have no real destination planned, just the two of them and all the time in the world. The radio plays soft and sweet in the background. “You’ve captured my love, stolen my heart…” Aziraphale turns his head to watch Crowley. His face is relaxed, lax, a gentle smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley looks good like this, soft in the mid-morning light streaming in through the window as they pass fields of rolling green. Crowley brings their combined hands up and kisses the back of Aziraphale’s, his lips soft and warm against the back of his hand. 

Aziraphale scoots as close as his safety belt will allow. 

“We should stop to see Anathema and Newton,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley hums in acknowledgement, kissing Aziraphale’s hand once more before setting it back down. They’d already been heading in the direction of  Lower Tadsfield. Crowley points the Bentley in the direction of Anathema’s cottage.

“It might be nice to bring them something, as well,” Aziraphale says, “that’s the thing to do, isn’t it? Bring someone a gift when you visit.”

“There’s a bottle of wine in the backseat.” 

“Oh! Yes, that will be lovely.”

Crowley nods, his thumb rubbing circles against Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale leans over to kiss his shoulder, lips against dark linen. “Then maybe we can go see the children. Wouldn’t that be nice, Crowley?” 

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley says, a little strained, a little breathless, “We can do whatever you want.” 

*

Sunlight filters through the new leaves of young spring trees, breaking across the red tartan blanket that Crowley had rolled his eyes at but packed fondly along with the tan wicker basket. Aziraphale isn’t ashamed to admit he took his time planning this picnic. Deviled eggs, finger sandwiches, a lovely little charcuterie board from the darling Italian deli in Soho, fresh bread from Flor, jam from the market in Tadfield, scotch eggs and wine and tea in a thermos that matched the blanket. And lastly a beautiful angel food cake that Crowley had made a cheery noise at and tried to keep for himself. 

Crowley is spread out flat in the grass just a little bit away, soaking up the sun like, well, something cold blooded basking upon a rock. Music drifts between the two of them from Crowley’s phone, something smooth and slow and earthy. It’s all a bit romantic really. Aziraphale pops the last deviled egg in his mouth and hums, sucking the remains off his thumb. 

“Crowley?”

Crowley turns toward him, smiles. 

Two days ago Crowley had left a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in butcher paper on the counter of his bookshop and a scribbled note about how beautiful the weather was to be over the weekend and they really ought to travel to the country more. Crowley frankly had all the subtlety of a fox in a hen house. 

“Need something, angel?” Crowley asks. 

An errant ant makes away with a crumb left over from the cake, empty plate glinting in the late afternoon sun. The wind curls along the grass and through Crowley’s hair like fingers. Aziraphale almost loathes to ask it, Crowley looks so comfortable; but he is weak and a little selfish. 

“Come here?” 

Crowley’s smile shifts into something soft, softer. “‘Course.” He falls into Aziraphale’s waiting arms and tugs him in close until Aziraphale is half laying on him on top of the picnic blanket. “Close enough?”

No, Aziraphale thinks, lips pressed to Crowley’s throat, never. If they shared a body maybe, maybe, but maybe not even then. “Yes,” Aziraphale says instead, “thank you, dear.”

“Don’t have to thank me,” Crowley mumbles, face buried in Aziraphale’s hair, “not for this.”

The wind ripples past, tickling the edge of his trousers, the edge of his coat catching and flapping. The grassy hill smells sweet but Crowley’s skin is sweeter pressed as it is under Aziraphale’s nose. He tangles his hand in Crowley’s waistcoat, just holding. 

Crowley hums, boneless and lax beneath him, hands skimming and skipping over clothed skin and nothing at all. Wandering, wondering. Aziraphale catches a hand as it flies past and brings it to his mouth, pressing fleeting kisses to lily white knuckles and a calloused palm. 

Music drifts over them sweetly, soft and cosy as a blanket. Aziraphale can’t remember the artists name but he likes it, ethereal and earthy and heady. Crowley makes a soft noise and nudges at him. 

“Dance with me, I like this song.” 

Hardly a request Aziraphale could ever turn down. Aziraphale pulls them both up to standing, Crowley keeping their hands tangled as they sway together. 

“Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley shivers against him. “Yeah,” he mumbles, and tilts his head down for a kiss. 

*

There’s a note stuck to the mirror of his vanity, as there has been every morning since Crowley started staying the night. 

Manila yellow with a painstakingly inaccurate little rose on the bottom it reads “But here we are and something about it doesn’t feel like an accident. /  We’re all looking for something to adore / and how to survive the bending and breaking.” 

Aziraphale takes it down with dove-light fingers, mouth a wobbly thing as he cradles the note in his hands. 

In the top drawer of his vanity sits a box, an engraved silver case older than even his bookshop. Aziraphale opens it and places the note inside, atop the other notes, the many dried flowers, his ring from the sixteenth century, the pearls from the necklace he’d worn to Queen Elizabeth I’s coronation. A box much bigger on the inside than it seemed from the outside. 

He runs his finger over a molted black feather before shutting the case and locking the drawer, his heart too big for his chest. 

*

Aziraphale wakes up in his reading chair to Crowley tugging gently at his ear. “You’re getting old,” Crowley teases, grinning. 

“‘M not.” Aziraphale grumbles, batting Crowley’s hand away. 

“You are.” Crowley’s hand brushes his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “Sleeping in your reading chair like an old man.”

“Quiet, you.” Aziraphale says. He grabs Crowley’s dancing hands out of the air and tugs until he has the demon fully seated in his lap. Aziraphale noses at Crowley’s exposed neck, pressing a line of sharp kisses along the skin from jaw to collar bone. Crowley really does have lovely collar bones. 

Crowley squirms. “No, angel, come on I have a surprise.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale bites down on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Ah- angel.” Crowley protests, trying and failing to sound cross. 

“Oh alright,” Aziraphale says, soothing the bite with a kiss, “show me your surprise then.”

Crowley clambers out of Aziraphale’s lap and tugs until they’re both standing. He leads him upstairs, hands tangled, nudging open the door to Aziraphale’s flat with his foot. In the middle of the room is a claw foot tub, steam curling up in ribbons from the water. A low table nearby has a glass and bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. Sinatra is playing from the record table in the corner, “Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more. You are all I long for all I worship and adore. In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, his eyes wide. 

“Surprise,” Crowley teases, squeezing his hand. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, “This is- you-“ 

There are times when Crowley smiles that Aziraphale thinks ‘I could not love you any more than I do now or I would overflow with it.’ This is one of those times. Crowley, smiling, soft and fond and teasing. The kind of smile you give someone you’ve loved your whole life. The kind of smile that comes from knowing and being known. 

Aziraphale blinks, a little misty eyed, and draws Crowley against him for a kiss. Tastes all the love curled up there at the corners of Crowley’s mouth greedily, his hands caressing and touching where he can. He doesn’t pull away until Crowley is sufficiently weak kneed and pink cheeked, and even then he only draws back enough to knock their foreheads together. 

“Marry me,” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley breathes in sharply, eyes impossibly wide, and Aziraphale fears for a moment he might have made a mistake. Then Crowley clings to him,  hands digging sharply into his waistcoat, and says, “Yes.” He sounds hoarse, like the thought has robbed him of all his air. “Yes.”

And that smile. There is nothing, not in Heaven or Hell or on Earth, as dear to Aziraphale as that smile. And he falls in love all over again.

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Soft

(((i've wanted to write something like this for awhile. and i ranted to a friend (@tinyboop thanks lovely!!!) and finally did. My depression has been acting a fool the last week or so, so i may revisit this concept and like... flesh it out, and add more things and just... i dont know. do more with it. but for now, have this. enjoy lovelies i hope you like it! <3 thanks for reading as always!)))

Ao3

The sun shining on him through the windows of the bookshop was warm, verging on hot really, for how long he’d been laying in it. It was perfect. He had his arm draped over his eyes, listening to Aziraphale rattling around the shop. He heard cups clinking in the kitchen and smiled to himself, he could see the angel, washing all his forgotten cocoa mugs that had been gathering around the shop. Crowley rubbed his eyes, shifted deeper into the couch, and the sun, and threw his arm back over his face. Settling into his sunspot with a wiggle and a sigh.

He hears the angel’s footsteps and nearly smiles again. But the footsteps are coming toward him and he doesn’t want to risk it. He listens to him pace. A frown creases his brow under his arm. Aziraphale pacing never bodes well. He keeps still, listening, waiting to see if he’ll stop. Or say something. It’s usually one or the other.

“Am I –“ Aziraphale starts and then pauses.

“What angel?” Crowley asks, encouraging him.

“Am I soft?” Aziraphale asks, standing still now. Crowley snorts into his elbow.

“Of course you’re soft angel.” He says it like it’s obvious. Because it is.

Silence.

He moves his arm off his eyes the smallest amount.

More silence. And then a small tinkling sound.

Crowley sits up quickly, looking around at the, now empty, bookshop.

“Angel?” his voice is quiet. He shoves himself to his feet, peeks into the next room.

Empty.

“Angel?” a little louder.

“Where in the…” he sways in a circle, his arms flailing and then falling to his side. His stomach sinks as he checks the other rooms. No angel. He sighs, grabs his sunglasses, shoves them onto his face, and walks out the door, flipping the sign to closed as he goes, locking the doors with a snap as he crosses the street to the Bentley. He watches the bookshop for two hours. The sun drops behind the horizon and the windows stay dark. He sighs again and drives away.

Two weeks.

Two weeks and nothing.

All of Crowley’s calls go unanswered. There are several calls. More than Crowley would ever admit to. The windows of the bookshop stay dark. Crowley swears, one day, he’d seen the lights blink out just as he’d rounded the corner, he’d sat outside that day. Waiting. He didn’t know for what.

He pulls up to the bookshop, the sun long gone down, the streets long empty, and the lights. The lights in the bookshop are shining. He climbs out of the Bentley and walks to the door nervously. He shouldn’t be nervous. This was ridiculous. It was Aziraphale. He didn’t need to be nervous. He was pretty sure he didn’t need to be nervous. But things were different now. After everything that had happened, maybe he should be nervous. He looked down at the fancy French chocolates in his hand, rolled his eyes at himself, and stepped through the door silently.

He blinked slowly, not sure exactly what he was seeing. Aziraphale was there. But he was wearing… was that a track suit? A bright, white, track suit with baby blue pinstripes up and down the sides. He was doing some kind of stretching, facing away from Crowley. His neck was red, flushed, and Crowley could see the sweat dripping off him. He was suddenly very hot. His fingers drummed quietly against the box of chocolates as he watched Aziraphale bend down, touching his toes and then back up again. Crowley bit his lip and watched the angel rest his hands on his hips. He could hear him breathing heavily, he licked his lips as he watched his shoulders rise and fall heavily.

“What in heaven are you doing angel?” he can hear how off his voice is, all high and squeaky. He clears his throat, opens his mouth to say more but something isn’t right. Aziraphale is looking at him, all red faced, and sweaty, and… beautiful. But there’s… something else. Crowley cocks his head to the side. He looks… sad. And tired, dark circles coloring the skin under his eyes.

“Angel…?”

Aziraphale is silent. His hands clasped together in front of him as he looks at the floor. Crowley clears his throat again.

“I erm… Listen I’m not… sure. What I did to upset you. But I know that you are upset, and I’m sorry.” He walks toward the angel slowly, holding out the chocolates at arm’s length. Aziraphale looks up at him, takes the chocolates gently, and then seems to deflate.

“Oh Crowley.” He sighs, and collapses onto the couch. His track suit replaced by his normal threads between the moment his knees begin to bend and when his thighs hit the cushion. And Crowley, like they’re magnetized, follows him. Knee pressing against Aziraphale’s thigh, and he notes the way he pulls away slightly, tries to make himself smaller. And it clicks.

He'd asked if he was soft. And Crowley remembered the way Gabriel had talked to him. The way he'd looked at him. All hard judgment and sharp edges. And his chest aches. He reaches out. He can’t help it. He always wants to touch him. Needs to. His hand falls gently on Aziraphale's thigh, closer to his knee really. And he feels him move away again. He squeezes his fingers, pressing them into Aziraphale with a purpose.

"Angel." and Aziraphale won’t look at him. His cheeks still red. Almost the color of cherries now.

"Aziraphale. Look at me." and he does. Because it's Crowley. And no matter how upset he is, he'll listen to Crowley.

"You're soft."

Aziraphale frowns, his hands wringing in his lap.

"Hey. Soft is good."

Aziraphale snorts.

"No it is!" Crowley argues, his fingers pressing harder into the meat of Aziraphale's thigh. He notes the way Aziraphale squirms, doesn’t stop.

"I like you soft. Softness fits you. You're... you're comfortable. Like a... eh... em.. uh... like ..." he stammers.... words failing him as they often do. He pulls his sunglasses off and rubs at his eyes with his free hand, trying to find the right words.

"Like your favorite comfy reading chair!" He pulls out of nowhere, shouting it a bit too loud. But Aziraphale looks at him for a moment and then smiles. So it doesn't matter.

"I'm a reading chair?" He asks, and Crowley can hear him suppressing amusement. He nods, moves his hand up a bit higher, making Aziraphale’s eyes lock onto it, his throat making a little sound as he tries to swallow.

"My favorite reading chair." He says with a smirk. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

"You don’t even read." He dismisses.

"I don’t read books." Crowley corrects. Aziraphale looks him, puzzled now. Crowley sighs, swallows down his nerves. He moves closer. His hand moving to rest on Aziraphale's soft stomach, Aziraphale tenses under the touch, Crowley presses closer still, crowding into his angel’s space.

"I don’t read books." He repeats, his voice low.

"But I've been reading you for almost 6000 years." Aziraphale's breath catches.

"Crowley-" 

"I've been reading you since we met and I can tell when somethings wrong. I can feel it angel. And I promise you." He moves his hand to Aziraphale's side, his thumb moving in slow circles.

"There is nothing wrong, with you being soft. It's not a bad thing to be. You being soft is perfect. You're supposed to be soft. It’s part of who you are. It's part of why I -" he cuts himself off and Aziraphale stares at him, eyes moving over Crowley’s face, stopping at his mouth more than once and Crowley swallows hard again.

"Part of why you what?" Aziraphale whispers, his hand moving to Crowley’s shoulder, finally moving toward him instead of away.

"I um... well.... it's uh..." he sighs and drops his head on Aziraphale's shoulder suddenly. He can feel Aziraphale press closer, feels him smile into his hair.

"Oh go on, you've said so many nice things already. Might as well finish your thought dear." His hand moves up over Crowley’s neck and into his hair, Crowley shivers and hums, a strange sounding rumble in his chest that makes Aziraphale smile again.

"Stop fishing for compliments. It doesn't look good on you" Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale chuckles, moves his fingers over Crowley’s scalp slowly.

"I think we both know you think most things look good on me." His voice low now, deeper than usual. Crowley’s head shoots up and he stares at the angel, he can feel his eyes changing, can feel the yellow in them bleeding out.

"I-"

Aziraphale smirks at him.

"You?" And he's positively insufferable now, nearly wiggling with delight in Crowley’s grasp.

"I... I love you." He breathes, a sigh, like a breath of air he's been dying to let out and finally can. Aziraphale's cheeks tint, just the smallest amount. And then he's smiling, grinning at Crowley, and he can feel his own cheeks heating up, he goes to drop his head again but Aziraphale catches him. His hand on Crowley’s cheek.

"I love you too. You must know that." Aziraphale's eyes are so wide, so honest. Crowley swallows again.

"I- I hoped. I didn't- I wasn't-"

"I do. I do very much." Aziraphale reassures, not letting him finish. Crowley nods. He doesn't know what else to do. Aziraphale does though. Because he always does.

"Let’s make a deal." Crowley’s eyebrow jumps, curious.

"I'll stop this working out and worrying nonsense, no more thinking I’m not- not good enough." Crowley’s nodding already, Aziraphale smirks at him.

"If you, stop wearing those retched sunglasses." Crowley frowns, his stomach drops, he tries to pull away, doesn’t want to talk about that, not right now, Aziraphale holds him still.

"Not always. Just here. Just with me. When it's us. Here. Together.” He moves his thumb against Crowley’s cheek.

“I do so love your eyes you know." He moves his hand to Crowley’s face, finger tips trailing gently under Crowley’s eye, and then up along his cheekbone.

"You do?" He sounds skeptical, and Aziraphale frowns at him.

"Of course I do. They're part of who you are." He smiles, a soft thing. And Crowley can’t help himself, he needs to taste that softness.

He presses forward. Aziraphale sighs into him, holding him close. Their lips move together for a moment. Or maybe several moments. Or maybe no time at all. Crowley doesn't know. Doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. They move apart at the same time, together. Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s, trying to level his breathing. He can hear Aziraphale trying to steady himself as well. He opens his eyes and finds his angel matching his smile. He moves his hand to Aziraphale's hip, fingers pressing in again, Aziraphale moves into the touch with a sigh.

"Deal." Crowley sighs, and pressed forward again, already needing more. Always more.

[zrtranscripts]

Home Front, Mission 30: Daddy Lessons

Necromancy

~

SAM YAO: Okay Five, you're outside Thurman's bunker. There's a... there's a lovely occult sigil of uh... a bleeding eye on the door. And we don't know what's inside, so warm up just in case. Stretch, jog on the spot, whatever you need. I want you ready for anything. [sighs] I wish I could say I'm not scared, but I know we're both scared. It doesn't feel like three days since you got out of the underground village, does it? It-it sort of like feels like-like a couple of hours and also about two years.

Okay, briefing Janine-style always seems to help me focus. I have carefully checked every single camera in Spectrum Mall, but there's been no sign of Thurman since he left you in the dumbwaiter. Zombies don't notice him, so maybe he went out into the horde? The point is this might be our only chance to find out more about him. Specifically, how he can be in two places at once. Oh, and oh yeah, the bunker's locked with a code. The tape you took from the longevity research lab says where it is. Give it another play.

DR. MCBRIDE: April 9th, 1991. Dr. McBride. I've heard keeping a diary can help one make sense of things, and I refuse to lose my mind. Seven months ago, Artemus Thurman fired me for excessive altruism. Weeks later, I watched on my sofa as he attempted the highest ski jump ever built. I was willing him to fail, but only so he'd embarrass himself. I still see his neck snap when I close my eyes. I saw his funeral on the BBC News. It felt like I’d killed him, somehow.

Except two weeks ago, Thurman turned up at my door in the middle of the night and forced me at gunpoint to come with him back to my old lab. It's deserted. He won't explain how he survived, only says, “Prepare the bunker for my son. He'll be here once the dust's cleared, and there are things inside that explain everything.” The gossip pages say his son hates him. He wasn't at the funeral. Maybe he knew it was fake, but I can't say that to Thurman. If I disagree with him on anything, it's like he doesn't even hear me. I'm too afraid to argue.

He's different now to how he was before, some sort of monomania, and he keeps talking about the occult, secret knowledge that will help the chosen to survive. He asked me more than once if I would participate in the ritual with him, and I'm too afraid to answer. There's something else I'm afraid of. Thurman left tins of food, but they're running low. If he doesn't bring some more soon, I'm opening the bunker myself. He told me often enough the code for the bunker is engraved on the frame of Brandon's portrait in the Thurmanville labs.

SAM YAO: Stop the tape, Five. It gets a bit grim once McBride realizes Thurman's locked her in the lab and all he's sending her is plastic fruit. Okay, I'm looking for a portrait. Mmm... Ah! Yeah, I can see it. Boy in a suit, but uh, the actual face has been cut out. That's creepy. Still, I've got the bunker code on cams. It's um, 1875. Oh, that didn't work. I'm missing something. Keep warming up, and I'll figure out how to get you in.

~

SAM YAO: Okay Five, I've worked it out. The bunker lock’s electronic and the power's down, but the door's hooked up to the generator, so you just need to crank it up with some bicep curls. So press your elbows into your sides, forearms down, palms facing forwards. Grab the bar with both hands. Now it looks heavy, about the weight of a couple of tin cans? Now bend your elbows to lift the crank to your shoulders, then lower it back down. Careful, don't hurt yourself. It should take a minute.

Janine's been looking into some occult stuff since McBride mentioned it. She says Thurman was probably using fear of the supernatural as a way to control and manipulate his employees. She also says 1875 is the year that occultist Aleister Crowley was born. The occult sigil on the door, I wonder if it was from one of Crowley's books. Apparently, Crowley wrote about being in two places at once via astral travel, but the occult isn't real. Janine says, "There will be a rational explanation, Mr. Yao," and she's right, obviously. But there's something seriously weird going on.

Okay, you've got the generator working, Five. Try the code again. 1875. Yes, the bunker's open, but you might want to crank the generator a little longer. Don't want the power going out while you're inside.

~

SAM YAO: All right, Five, time to enter Thurman's bunker.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Brandon! Here at last.

SAM YAO: That's a recording, Five. Brandon was Thurman's son. He obviously thought only Brandon would make it in here.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: I trust your journey to post-apocalyptic England wasn't too arduous. I'm serious. If it's still a nuclear wasteland, go to the decontamination suite for three weeks and reread my autobiography. You've got a lot to live up to. You can't just rely on your Thurman genes. They're diluted by your mother’s. Penelope raised you to be a sissy, mommy's boy.

You were almost six when I last saw you, and you didn't even know how to box. I hope that black eye taught you a lesson, and the wasteland has hardened you. Regardless, I've prepared tests so you can prove you're worthy of meeting me. If you fail, you'll die, and good riddance. I'd rather have a dead son than a weak one.

SAM YAO: Five, a dart just flew past your face! Another by your knees! Uh, quick, do some jumping jacks to avoid them. Uh, feet together, arms by your sides. Now jump, spreading your arms and legs in the air so you land in a star shape. That dart almost clipped your ear! Jump back to the starting position. Keep doing those and the darts will miss you.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Still alive, Brandon? These darts are tipped with poison, you know. Ever see The Running Man? Contestants fighting to the death on television, a marvelous idea! The weak are punished and their deaths set an example. Televised combat is just what this country needs. Gladiatorial battles for children, now that's an idea! Get rid of the weak early and stop them growing into giant wastes of resources.

SAM YAO: [sighs] It's over. What was wrong with Thurman? He's treating this like some kind of joke! I mean, it's one thing to prepare for the future, but this... ! [sighs] I hope wherever he is, Brandon never gives his dad a moment's thought. Head to the next chamber, Five. If any more darts fly at you, just keep jumping.

~

SAM YAO: There's an arcade cabinet in this chamber. Must be another test from Thurman for his son.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: With discipline, strength of mind, and secret knowledge, one can live forever. If you prove worthy, Brandon, I'll tell you about it.

SAM YAO: Oh, I hate to send you further into that... that bastard's lair, but we have to know what he knows, Five. He's too dangerous, and he's fixated on you. We've got to find out how to stop him.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Ever heard of The Grimoire of the Empyrean Oracle, Crowley's lost manuscript? Explains how to harness occult forces to make reality bend to your will. I bought it for millions, memorized it, then burned it. Couldn't have anyone else reading it. Sharing is for commies. Besides, they say the book is cursed. Everyone who owned it before me died horribly. Starving, thirsty, trapped and alone. You know why? Because they were unworthy!

You must prove you have the right values. Approach the arcade cabinets. Behold, a computer rendering of Karl Marx. Before you are two buttons, Hero and Parasite. Press the one you think describes Marx. Get it wrong, and the room fills with poison gas.

SAM YAO: [laughs] I'm pretty sure Thurman thinks Marx is a parasite, Five, but the buttons have corroded. The levers on the floor are all that's left. You can't stop looking at the screen, I need your head cam, so um... Okay, yep. Lunge and hit the lever with your knee instead. Stand with your feet together. Now step forward with your right leg and lower your back knee so that it almost touches the ground. And raise back up.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: That's right, Marx was a parasite, and you've exterminated him! Here's Ayn Rand.

SAM YAO: Ugh! Um, yeah, I think Rand wrote a book called The Virtue of Selfishness. Hit the hero button. Lunge with your left foot this time.

ARTEMUS THURMAN Keep going, Brandon! Here's Robin Hood.

SAM YAO: Looks like Thurman's alternating heroes and parasites, so keep lunging with alternate feet. Go!

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Ah, Henry Ford. Tore down 5,000 square miles of rainforest to build a private rubber production colony. Excellent man. Yes, Brandon, exterminate those parasites! Halfway there. Oh, Dickens. Reagan. If you become half the man he is, you'll almost be worth the time I've spent on you. You've done it, Brandon! If you'd made a single mistake, I'd have gassed you like a rodent.

SAM YAO: A door just opened, Five! If anyone else pops up on that screen, keep lunging. Otherwise, press on.

~

SAM YAO: Oh, there's an altar in this chamber, Five. I wonder what that's for.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: The Grimoire of the Empyrean Oracle explains how to harness animal spirits through ritual sacrifice.

SAM YAO: Of course. Yeah.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Your mother disapproved, Brandon. Called it torture. Well, now's your chance to prove you don't hold with the stupid ideas about animal rights. Release the hounds!

SAM YAO: Oh, well surely there aren’t live dogs here. Oh crap, Five, robotic dog heading right for you, glowing red eyes and razor blade teeth! Quick, punch it! Stand with your feet shoulder width apart, left foot back, fists up. Now punch with your right fist. Nice shot, Five! Keep hitting it with your right fist.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: "Save the whales!" Penelope used to say. Hogwash. What have the whales ever done for us? Ever wondered what happened to your gerbil? Rat poison. Taught you a lesson about wasting resources on useless creatures.

SAM YAO: You've taken down that robo-dog, Five, but there's another one! Right, switch stance so your right leg is behind and punch with your left fist. Go!

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Prove you have the stomach to continue Crowley's work. Show no mercy, Brandon!

SAM YAO: Five, I hope your knuckles are okay after that. Keep going, we've got to know what this grimoire actually did. And if you see any more robo-dogs, you know what to do.

~

SAM YAO: Right, I just searched for Brandon Thurman on ROFFLEnet, but nothing came up, not even gossip like McBride mentioned. It's like he never existed. Everything about this family is so... just twisted and wrong.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Getting my hands on that grimoire was no picnic, Brandon. Had to hold my nose and venture east of the Iron Curtain, spend a week in a basement in Bucharest getting a man who refused to eat or drink to tell me what he knew. There wasn't much I could threaten him with, but I found his weak spot in the end. [laughs] After he told me what he knew, I followed Crowley's trail to India. There are carvings under a temple in Hyderabad, tied all my research together.

Immortality is there for the taking, Brandon, you just have to work for it. You can exist in two places at once. Think about it, working twice as hard, making twice the money! I bulldozed the temple, of course. Full of stupid warnings. The grimoire states that to conquer death, you must overcome an attempt on your life, value strength over weakness, and sacrifice those less valuable than yourself. And at last, you have to be willing to kill.

You're nearly there, Brandon. I'm almost proud of you. I've been testing you all your life. Never sent your mother a penny. Wanted to see if you'd grow up self-reliant. And when I saw that article about you in the FT, “Teenager establishes paper route pyramid scheme,” I knew I'd been successful. There's only one thing left, Brandon.

The staircase ahead bears blood sigils. It is a shrine to the god Moloch. He demands the sacrifice of love, so as you ascend, you must renounce all that you love, as I have renounced you. Only then will you be granted power over death. Speak the words carved on the stairs as you ascend.

SAM YAO: “I vow to sacrifice to Moloch that which I love. To starve, kill and...” What the...? Don't say any of that stuff, Five. Don't even look at it. Just climb the stairs.

~

SAM YAO: Okay, you're outside the last chamber, Five. Almost there. And yeah, your way back is clear. You can get away if anything's... bad. There's a glass coffin inside.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Well, Brandon, you've found me. I'll be taken here after my death. Of course, since I followed the grimoire's instructions, I won't really be dead, just sleeping.

SAM YAO: The coffin’s bristling with tubes leading to the machines beside it. Dr. McBride worked in longevity research. Maybe this equipment has been keeping Thurman alive all this time. Yeah, maybe he's um... uh, you know, zombie immune because he died, or-or something. Take a closer look.

There's a desiccated body in the coffin. It's uh... Yeah, I'm not imagining it, am I, Five? It's Thurman, but dead. Really, really dead. Oh Five, look at the machine. Every switch has been flipped to off. And is that a note? “See you in hell, dad. B.” Did Brandon come here to turn his dad off? Not that I... [sighs] not that I blame him, really, but... ugh. For his sake, I wish he hadn't cared this much.

Nothing makes sense, Five! If Thurman's really dead, then who's been chasing you? What was that noise? The whole bunker’s shaking!

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Oh Brandon, I've installed monitoring systems. If my state deteriorates too far for me to be revived, I have a contingency plan. See you soon, boy.

~

[impishnature]

Acolyte

Another quite big one! But more I’ve just been too busy, sorry! Will get another session of writing in this weekend c:

Imptober Prompts so far

AO3 Fandom: Good Omens Rating: T+ (Warning for blood, maybe some body horror?) Prompt: Forced to knees Summary: Set in @sightkeeper‘s Chosen Faces AU. (Because I have no self-control and love sandboxes and seeing if I can make them happy) An unwelcome visitor to the shop makes Aziraphale rip off his mask and show everyone just what he truly is. Crowley will not stand for this. 

.

"Tea?"

"How could I refuse?"

Crowley, busying himself with cups and drinks, preened as lips brushed his cheek, a grateful warm peck that he gladly took and leaned into. But before he could reciprocate, the other backed away from him, setting up the small kitchen table for their impromptu lunch date behind him. He could hear the clack of crockery and cutlery, the soft hum drum of domesticity that he drank in greedily, happily addicted to the shift their world had taken. He tried not to smile too widely at the small trills of joy from behind him as Aziraphale opened the bakery boxes one by one, finding all the spoils of Crowley's foray into the bustling London café that Aziraphale loved so much.

"Oh. You do spoil me, dear."

"Nah." Crowley threw back over his shoulder at the chastising tone, cheeky grin well and truly glued to his face. It was obvious when there was no sincerity in Aziraphale's words, as much as he tried to scold him, and he refused to let him play this game. "I give you exactly what you deserve, Angel." 

"Is that so? Well-" 

Whatever Aziraphale had been about to quip back to him was cut off by the sudden chime of the front door opening.

Crowley turned to him again, ever so slightly, just enough to catch his eye. His eyebrow raised slowly as he looked over his glasses at him to convey every ounce of exasperated disbelief he had in him.

"...I was sure I flipped the closed sign."

"Uh huh?"

Aziraphale huffed, looking for all the world like his feathers had been ruffled as he smoothed down his jacket. "I did! Blasted customers and ignoring signs-"

"I, for one, think you just got distracted by the thought of lunch and forgot."

Crowley chuckled as Aziraphale walked away, deigning him with a withering look as an answer before scowling deeply and shuffling into the public space of the book shop. He rolled his eyes, turning back to the kettle, sure that the poor person who had interrupted them was about to have a rather stern lesson about etiquette.

If he wasn't entirely convinced that it was Aziraphale's fault and the sign wasn't set to closed like he so obviously thought it was then he'd have had half a mind to go do it himself. But then again- he was completely sure that whoever it was out there was about to be completely blindsided by the fire that was his irrational angel.

So instead, he minded his own business- just this once- and pottered along with his own task, safe in the knowledge that a bashful Aziraphale would slink back in a few moments and he'd be able to playfully tease him with the faux pas for at least a little bit before their date. He found himself sighing happily at the scent of his favourite coffee, one that Aziraphale always made sure to have well stocked for him, as he waited for the other's inevitable shamefaced return.

He should have realised something was wrong when he didn't hear an immediate and startled apology from the shocked patron.

He blinked, a fizzle of energy sparking at the hairs on the back of his neck, pulling him from his languid thoughts and making him stand up straight. It was a strange energy, moving in odd stilted motions across his flesh like it had a mind of its own, and his tongue unconsciously slipped out to taste the air in response. It wasn't a familiar tang at the back of his throat; nothing like the mess of sulphur that accompanied demons, nor the sharp clear ozone that preceded an angelic intervention. 

This felt... older. 

Less definable. 

It didn't sit in a clear cut box and refused to stay still long enough- morphing and twisting, breaking and bending- for him to really catch hold of it.

And sure this wasn't entirely new- he'd come to terms with the fact that technically his angel wasn't what he had made himself out to be.  That maybe 'angel' wasn't a term that he should be called but suited him nonetheless. He'd worked harder than any of them to become one, to exist peacefully among them, never being caught out, so who was he to deny him that moniker? Especially when, in reality, all of them in their lofty ivory towers could never compare to Aziraphale?

Regardless though, Aziraphale's miracles were familiar to him. They were laced with everything he wished for, propped up with love and hope, and wrapped up so tightly that they were almost indistinguishable from any other miracle any of them might choose to perform. 

So Angelic or not- this was not Aziraphale. 

His pupils contracted, vision sharpening to points as his hackles raised. 

There was a threat in the bookshop. One fuelled with energy that tasted of soil and stardust, and smelt of something archaic that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It stretched back, eons and eons, barely definable even to his long time walking the earth, and filled him with a dread that seemed to seep in from outside rather than inwards, ringing through his ears as if he was hearing something he was never meant to hear.

Whatever this was, it meant to cause fear, meant to latch on and linger, cold and cloying so that fighting back was futile. 

It sharpened like a lightning bolt, a crackle of energy that caused goose bumps to dance across his skin.

And just as quickly, the energy abated, a loud yelp and a sudden thud from the adjoining room cutting the strings that it had held him by.

"Angel." He spun wildly, limbs moving faster than his brain really allowed, as gnawing, aching fear bit into his chest and ignited his nerves.

Whatever it was, it wasn't after him.

He propelled himself into the bookshop, refusing to let his brain stop him and try to persuade him to take a better route; no thoughts on safety or ambush able to coalesce when Aziraphale was in dire danger. He didn't care how much noise he was making, nor what he was walking into, only that he got there in time to help. 

Actions which promptly had him skidding to a halt as he took in the scene before him with utter perplexity.

They were just... humans.

Though at this moment, he knew better than to underestimate them, even if none of this made any sense at all.

They might not be Angels or Demons, but in this instant, they were humans who had somehow managed to bring Aziraphale to his knees. Without a struggle, without an injury to themselves. Three humans standing over his Angel, who had his arms curled around his waist in obvious pain, legs useless and splayed beneath him. He was breathing heavily, listing forward so that he could only stare down at the ground. He looked on the verge of collapsing, swaying ever so slightly with each exhale. Crowley swallowed painfully at the sight, not sure what to do or how to help, especially when the humans seemed to have frozen at the sight of him as well.

"What's... going on?"

Aziraphale groaned, one hand dropping to the floor to keep him from crumbling entirely. "The book." The words came out garbled, pained hisses through gritted teeth, but there was also something else there, something Crowley had never heard before. It was like a reverb, a tight distortion, like his mask was slipping and his human vocal chords couldn't keep up with the manifestation that might soon follow.

And as much as Crowley wouldn't care about him shucking those restraints, he refused for it to be forced by anyone.

His eyes snapped to the central figure, the book open in his hands. He hadn't even noticed it, body too focused on checking on Aziraphale, but now he knew what was causing him pain, he wouldn't be taking his eyes off of it or the one holding it anytime soon.

The man glared back at him disdainfully, grunting to the other men behind him. "Great, it has an acolyte. Should have guessed it wouldn't be alone. One of you make sure he doesn't get in the way, while I finish the ritual."

He was so... nonchalant, so calm, as if the fight had already been won. As if Crowley wasn't a threat at all and he'd already broken Aziraphale to the point of no return.

Crowley wanted to sink his fangs into him. 

How dare he.

Quick as a flash he was in front of the man, the book crashing to the floor in shock as he backed him up against a bookcase. His forearm locked against his throat, pinning him tightly as he bared his teeth.

"Who do you think you're calling an acolyte?"

The words came out as a harsh hiss, forked tongue lashing out to punctuate the words. His adversary- prey- paled, the colour leeching from him as his jaw slackened.

"Shit! It's another one! Grab the book!" 

He felt more than saw as one of the others launched for it. He snapped his fingers quickly, the book vanishing from sight with a soft puff of air, and the man who had pounced for it smacked painfully into the wooden floor. Crowley made sure to kick him for good measure to drive home the point that it would be best for him to stay down and instead turned his gaze to the last remaining enemy, one eyebrow raised, practically begging him to try something. Fortunately for him, though rather disappointing for Crowley's vicious urges, he seemed intelligent enough to know that they weren't winning this round. 

Not intelligent enough to have not come on this foolhardy mission in the first place, but that wasn't something Crowley really cared about.

He let his head roll forward again to stare at his still held victim. He wanted answers, but before he had a chance to ask for them the man seemed to shake himself, stuttering out a mantra through his constricted throat.

The ringing returned to his ears, the loamy breeze of power fluttering on the edge of his senses as it brushed ineffectually past him and dissipated into nothing. 

He pushed forward further, watching the fear cross the other's face as his words did nothing and his throat closed all the more. Crowley's grin turned vicious, his free hand slowly removing his glasses to give the man the full force of his sharp slitted gaze.

"Oh, you really have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?"

Brimstone simmered around his sharp edges, bubbling out of his very core and seeping into reality. His anger hissed out of him with every breath, smoke and ash billowing between sharp fangs, and igniting the air around him. It was hard to contain when he could still hear the pained gasps and stuttered breaths behind him. It would be so easy to be done with this, to tear them to pieces for what they had done and rush to Aziraphale's side. But he wasn't sure that would be the end of it. He needed to know what they had done. Needed to know if killing them would break whatever spell it was that coiled through his lover's bloodstream. 

But even as he tried to think clearly, to pull back, he could feel his teeth baring, the points growing thicker and sharper as scales erupted down his spine, ready to snap and lash out, his body poised to spring into action at the smallest hint of movement. 

The man in his grasp choked, the sound a diminutive wheeze as he thrashed half-heartedly at his arm. 

The sound seemed to grab someone else's attention.

"Cr-Crowley, stop."

Crowley tried to swallow the viscous anger lodged in his throat, the constricting mass that wanted him to snarl and hiss instead of vocalise his thoughts cohesively. "Why should I?"

"Because I-I need-"

And just like that the anger broke.

Nothing mattered more than what Aziraphale needed. 

Crowley took a step back, letting the man drop, panting and heaving, to the floor in a heap. "Don't move." His head snapped to the only one still standing, who flinched, cowering at the sudden movement. "That goes for you too."

And with that warning given, he ignored them all, rushing to Aziraphale's side, the desperate need to do so finally winning out now that he'd been called for. He knelt before him, pulled him up to prop against his arms from his curled position, and stared deeply into his eyes, willing him to let him help. "What do you need, love?" His gaze shifted from place to place, swallowing down the burn of fury that wished to take hold of him again. He took in the pallid complexion, the sheen of sweat across his brow- the white glow of barely restrained power illuminating his eyes. He combed his hand through his hair, slipping an out of place curl back behind his ear even as it vibrated against his fingers. "I'm here, what do you need?"

"I need-" Aziraphale swallowed, closing his eyes as another spasm of pain swept through him. He cursed. "They've set off a chain reaction. I can't- I need to heal." He said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, like the mere suggestion was disgusting, too disturbing to even think about.

"That's good. Healing is good." The words came out of him fast, pouring out in a thick wave of comfort as he ran a hand up and down Aziraphale's twitching arm. "So what do we need to do, to do that?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath in, steeling himself as he locked eyes with Crowley, determined and commanding. "You need to leave." The moment broke just as quickly as he looked away from him, face guilty and pained. "B-But make-" He winced, eyes screwed shut. "Make sure they can't."

That... wasn't what he had been expecting.

"I'm not leaving you alone with them."

There was no debate in his assertion. It was as simple as needing air to breathe. Aziraphale was not dealing with this alone, plain and simple.

Aziraphale's shaking hand found his, where it had dropped to the floor, and gave it a soft squeeze. "I... I don't want you to see me- not... not like that." 

Oh.

Of course.

As much as Crowley knew, Aziraphale still only ever showed him the face that he had chosen. 

But right now, he wasn't sure whose benefit that was for.

Crowley turned his hand so that their palms were together, giving a tighter, reassuring squeeze in return.

"Whatever you need to do, I'm not going to judge you. They attacked you."

Aziraphale growled, a deep reverberating sound that vibrated through Crowley's teeth and made his jaw ache, echoing with the power of all the eons that he had kept it in check. His bright glimmering eyes locked with Crowley's, a sudden surge of power breaking through the pain as he tried to desperately convey everything that he was trying to, with as little words as he could stand to force through gritted teeth.

"Crowley. I need- I need to feed."

Crowley stared right back at him, feeling the energy in the room shift and bend ever so slightly. There was a spike of fear behind him, but the pair just continued to stare at one another, ignoring them as they silently questioned each other. Aziraphale seemed to be waiting for his permission, some kind of sign, his eyes glowing brighter and his aura stretching further and further around them, tendrils slipping unseen through the air to slink and shuffle towards his meal. But it was obvious from the hesitance, the slowly permeating atmosphere, that he would go no further than this until either Crowley left or approved.

So Crowley gave him exactly what he needed.

The locks to the doors and windows clicked loudly one by one, snapping to attention as the curtains closed and the room descending into an unnatural darkness.

Crowley's eyes gleamed gold in the light that Aziraphale cast off, the moon reflecting the suns rays, locked in their own miniature universe. 

"Then feed."

It was like a switch flicked with his words.

The room hushed, a cold dampness filling up the empty spaces. The white light took on a strange unnatural hue, a shift that made Crowley's eyes burn ever so slightly like he was seeing something he shouldn't; colours that he had no right to perceive. It was an intangible thing, like they had slipped to the bottom of the ocean and it was clogging up his senses, his lungs filling with water, the taste of salt sticking to the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat with every uncomfortable suffocating breath. 

And before him Aziraphale was an angler fish, eyes bioluminescent as they grounded him in place, humbled him as he powerlessly knelt against the wooden floor.

But he didn't feel afraid, not like he was sure that he was supposed to.

Aziraphale watched him intently, eyes flicking ever so as if drinking it all in. He felt seen, in a way he never had before, so very vulnerable if it weren't Aziraphale that was reading every inch of his psyche. But instead he just saw his Aziraphale, not a monster, not something wishing to tear him down piece by piece. This wasn't some horrifying realisation or proof, it was just- Aziraphale. So, he stared back at him defiantly, his heartbeat thudding in his chest and willed him to see deeper, to know that no matter what happened here, nothing between them would change. He would still see him as he was, he accepted all of him, angel or not. 

And with that acceptance bleeding out of every pore, Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss, far more biting than he ever had before.

"Please try not to look, my dear."

 And with that, Aziraphale stood. It was a disjointed affair, like his body was a puppet that he was haphazardly forcing along strings he was unfamiliar with. Crowley found it hard to look at him, though still tried, regardless of Aziraphale's soft plea. The image doubled, tripled, conjoined, overlapping versions of him that snapped back to one solid piece only to melt apart all over again in strange erratic bursts. There was a buzzing at the base of his skull, growing louder and louder the more he stared even as the other walked past him without looking back. 

He could still see his Angel, at the centre of the haze of power, but it was hard to keep track of him amongst all the sweeping swirls of that same strange power that he had felt from the book before. It was still inherently Aziraphale however. The sharp smell of ozone still slipped through the air at intervals to mix with the scent of earth and that same solid tang of archaic power that reminded him of the darkness before the stars.

And even though he knew he should be horrified, should be fearful of all that Aziraphale was, he couldn't help but notice the hints that made this power so him. Where the book had smelt of dirt and decay, this felt like life. Soil after the rain, cut grass- 

The mingling energy of an eldritch being that so desperately wanted to choose to be good-

An angel that had earned his place-

Crowley couldn't ignore all of that, just because of what he was underneath his mask, when you peeled back the layers to his core. 

Because underneath all those layers, he was still just Aziraphale- plain and simple.

And these people had hurt him.

What kind of demon would he be, if he didn't encourage him to defend himself? To punish them for their sins?

A sharp cry brought him back to reality.

He didn't really know what was happening, only seeing Aziraphale's back, moving in and out of focus, but whatever he was showing to the humans was making quick work of their mental states. They seemed to be contorting, doing everything they could to move away from the view before them but with nowhere to go.

More fool them for trying to hurt him.

The buzzing in his ears came back the longer he stared, stretching around his skull in a band of vibrating discomfort. Perhaps it wasn't what they saw so much as the aura that he was producing, the energy pouring out of him in waves that hit him the longer he tried not to blink. One by one, the men crumpled without so much as being touched and he heard the breath in that Aziraphale took, the one that seemed to suck the life in with it and pulled at his essence in an uncomfortable manner.

The atmosphere slowly dissipated, as if the plug had been pulled out and it was spiralling inwards, withdrawing back into Aziraphale's frame as he took another unsteady step and started to collect himself. Crowley felt something warm run down his neck, shivering at the sensation as he rubbed at it in disgusted confusion. 

"I told you not to look, dear."

Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly before looking at him with concern and slight worry.

"You told me to try." Crowley gave him a toothy grin, before glancing down at the red, viscous liquid he was smearing around his fingertips. "Didn't expect to bleed from it."

"Well, I wasn't quite sure what I would do to a demon." Aziraphale was in front of him in an instant, eyebrows furrowed as he produced a handkerchief and began to run it over Crowley's neck and up towards his ears. "As you can see, I drive humans quite mad. Not that I make that a habit." 

"Angel." Crowley's hand found his, making him look him in the eye for the first time. "I know that. You wouldn't have done this if you didn't need to."

Aziraphale's hand shook beneath his, the handkerchief dropping to the floor before he leant forward resting their foreheads together. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to- whatever they did to me hurt. I've never felt like that before, so close to actually- and I couldn't just heal like I normally would, I needed to give in to-"

"Shh." Crowley pulled him in closer. "Shh, It's OK." 

"It's not but thank you." Aziraphale pulled back, still shaking. "We need to deal with them-"

"Not right now." 

Aziraphale huffed. "At least let me seal that book up."

"Can't. It's already burning." 

"Crowley." Aziraphale gave him a disappointed glare. "You can't just burn a book like that. It's probably one of a kind, rarer than most books I have in here."

"Yeah, well, I let you do what you had to do, so-" Crowley punctuated his sentence, drawing the word out petulantly, before looking back up at him. "-you'll have to let me do what I have to do too." His face softened, concern filtering through as he cupped Aziraphale's cheek. "I don't want anyone to be able to hurt you like that ever again."

Aziraphale melted against his palm, Crowley inwardly crowing at the victory. "Alright, you do have a point. Perhaps I should let you dispose of similar parchments I have hidden away throughout the years." 

"Sounds like a plan, but one for later. For now-" Crowley gave him a grin as Aziraphale tiredly looked back up at him. 

"How about we have that lunch we were meant to be having?"

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 3/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Read on AO3.

January 15th –

He opened his eyes!

He opened his eyes and looked at me!

After hours of waiting in the dark and in the cold, despairing every second and wishing I was dead myself, he opened his eyes.

But it came close to being all for naught because I almost died myself right then and there.

It was good to see him with his eyes wide open, but the golden eyes I loved so much are gone. 

These new eyes are white on white, the pupils infinitely dark, the irises torn. They stare without blinking. They look into me, into my soul, it seems. They connect to the love that runs deep within me, to every touch he has ever left on my skin, to every promise we both made. 

But they do not recognize me. 

Am I, at all, familiar to him?

I don’t want to reject him, whether he knows me or not. But those eyes unnerve me.

There’s so much about them that’s innocent and frightened.

So much about them that’s desolate and dead.

We literally spent the morning just looking at one another.

I would give anything to know what’s going on in his mind. 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m afraid. I know it won’t be the same. He won’t be warm, won't be comforting. What could be worse than a dead copy of a once alive and loving creature? I don’t know. 

But whatever this is, it might be. 

He won’t smell like Crowley. He won’t have his cheek, won't have his soothing voice. It’s almost as if I adopted some wild animal and decided to make it my husband.

What have I done?

***

January 16th –

All day long, he tried to move, grunting with the effort of struggling to stand up and get out of bed. He didn’t speak words; he just groaned. I wanted to help him. I wanted to pretend that he was simply convalescing after a horrible illness. I wanted to bathe him and dress him. I wanted to sit him down in front of the television, prop up his feet, and feed him brandy and ice-cream. I wanted to put this chapter behind us and get on with our lives.

I wanted to make believe him dying had never happened.

But I’m not that good an actor.

He behaves exactly the way the old woman warned me he would. He reminds me of a child.

I never wanted children.

This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the marriage package, which I agreed to without hesitation.

Never mind the ‘till death do us part’ portion.

This comes with my vows, and I will honor them.

My love will help him. I know it will.

…

Can I really do this, or am I fooling myself?

***

January 17th –

I’m trying my best to take the bad with the good.

I managed to get him to the living room sofa. His legs were stiff, and he couldn’t seem to bend his knees.

He had been declared dead-on-arrival because of the injury to his neck. But I wonder if anything else is broken. I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctor when he went over the extent of Crowley’s injuries. After I heard the word dead, I tuned out.

I should get a copy of Crowley’s hospital records.

But if his legs are broken, how will I deal with that? Will the potion magically fix everything? It brought him back to life. Could fixing broken legs be more difficult than reanimating a corpse? What is the extent of the potion's effects? Do I need a secondary potion of some kind to repair internal injuries?

Maybe I should call the shopkeeper back and ask.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

He stumbled numerous times and fell on me. I did my best not to cringe at his touch or accidentally drop him. But those eyes, so close to mine, were like looking into a nightmare. I could see through them to the veins and arteries behind, the blood inside them black and unhealthy.

The fourth time he stumbled, though, I got the feeling that maybe he was falling on purpose so that I would be forced to catch him.

I even thought I saw the shadow of a smile cross his lips.

I watched him as he sat in front of the TV and renewed his passion for The Golden Girls. That show had been one of his favorites since he was a small boy.

He sat so still. 

He didn’t swallow. 

He didn’t appear to breathe.

The only time he moved was when he looked over to where I sat, I think, to make sure I was still there.

He sat for hours and watched TV. 

There was nothing else for him to do.

I fed him salad for dinner, let him stay in front of the television instead of making him go to the dining room table. I didn’t see any reason to move him. He leaned down and sniffed the cold lettuce leaves, but he did not eat.

Neither did I.

***

January 19th –

After a full day of limping him around the house, Crowley is surprisingly steady on his feet. He can make it from the bedroom to the living room sofa by himself. It takes him a while, but he can do it.

His body is still in rigor, but he seems to be getting more comfortable with it.

I should be jumping for joy at his progress. The more mobile he becomes, the less dependent he will be on me. Every day that he improves, even a little, he is closer to becoming the man he was.

But I don’t know how comfortable I am with that anymore.

***

January 21st -

He doesn’t sleep. And now that he doesn’t rely on me to get around the house, neither do I. I know he sees me as a parent-figure, so he won’t hurt me. But he’s such an alien creature. Not like the old Crowley at all.

It’s strange having this version of him around the house.

When Crowley was

Before the accident, Crowley was so independent. He didn’t need me, didn’t need my help with anything.

But now, he needs to be near me all the time.

I understood there would be a change in our dynamic, but it’s such a striking change that it’s difficult to get used to.

I took a shower for the first time in days. I left him in the living room watching TV, but when I finished and opened the curtain, there he was, standing there … staring.

I fell asleep for about an hour afterward, and when I woke up, he was kneeling beside me, again staring at me.

He’s always staring.

What does he think about doing when he stares at me?

***

January 22nd –

I finally broke down and gave Crowley a shower. He didn’t stink, but there was something about him, something that smelled … well, I can't seem to find the words to describe it. 

I just wanted it gone.

I’ve seen the injuries to his chest numerous times, but I haven't paid much attention to his back.

When I saw them, I almost threw up.

And he noticed. 

He heard me gag. 

I gasped, held in my urge to be sick.

He turned to face me, and for the first time, he had an expression on his face different from his blank one … but also different from that smile I thought I saw when I was helping him walk around the house.

He looked hurt.

***

January 27th -

Each day that he improves, I debate telling our friends that he's here. I know they miss us terribly. But in the end, it would be too cruel. He’s not himself anymore. He never will be. Most days, I curse myself for doing this to him. My motives were selfish. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself when I made the decision to bring him back. 

I wasn’t even thinking of him.

Our lives are unrecognizable. We’ll never travel the world like we'd planned. Who knows if I’ll make it back to my bookshop? Should probably shut it down and have my books transported here. The way things look, the rest of our days will be spent in this cottage. 

I have to be okay with that.

But what about Crowley?

If you asked rational me if I think he wants to live this half-life, with no potential to be anything other than a human puppet, who only barely resembles the man that was Anthony J Crowley, I would have to say no. Absolutely not.

But I can’t turn back now.

What am I expected to do? Poison his tea? Smother him in his sleep?

Would attempting to kill him even work?

And what about his soul? 

If there is a Heaven, I surely pulled him out of it with my cock-eyed plan. What if there is no going back for him? 

I can only hope that my love for him is enough to keep him from hating me when he’s able to comprehend what I’ve done to him.

***

February 1st –

I’ve finally gotten him to eat – bits and pieces mostly, bites of vegetables and corners of bread. It doesn’t seem like he likes it, but he eats it, and that’s good. He eats because I tell him to. It shows that he trusts me.

He’s more self-sufficient now. 

He showers and brushes his teeth on his own. He picks out his pajamas and dresses himself. Sometimes he tries his hand at making the bed. He is attempting to be more vocal, but he has yet to say a single thing that isn’t a grunt or a moan.

I’ve been looking up the subject of speech delay on the Internet, trying to find ways to help him learn. I came across one website in particular with fun, creative ideas. I started making flashcards of consonant blends and one-syllable words. I felt so accomplished, so hopeful, like I was actually doing something positive toward the goal of moving us forward. I felt confident that after a little work with them, everything would be all right. I was so excited to show them to him, but then I realized …

… I have no idea if he can read.

***

February 3rd –

I tried calling the old woman at the antique shop in Soho to ask about the effects of the potion, but the phone has been disconnected.

I guess they went out of business after all.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing appears to be broken. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t feel pain.

I was teaching him how to cook, hoping it would bring a bit of the old Crowley back. We used to cook together all the time. Honestly, we weren't all that good at it, but that didn't stop us from trying. We had just gotten the hang of a decent souffle before ...

Anyway ...

I started him small. 

I had him grating cheese. 

Seemed simple enough. The grater stands on its own, so not much to juggle. But he pressed too hard, ran the grater over the backs of his fingers, scraped off skin. He didn’t so much as flinch. I think it bothered me more than it bothered him. I bandaged it up and, without thinking, I kissed the wound. I looked at him in utter shock …

… and he smiled.

My heart leapt.

It’s so nice to see him smile again. 

I never thought I would.

***

February 4th –

I took off Crowley’s bandage, and his wound from the cheese grater is gone! There’s not a trace of it left!

I guess that answers that question.

I should be relieved, but it bothers me, and I don’t know why.

***

February 21st –

Today was the most unexpectedly intense, depressing, and wonderful day all at once.

It started when Crowley woke this morning. He got up before me and tried to make me crepes. I had no idea why. He hadn't tried to cook by himself before, didn't even show an interest in cooking without me. He burned them, himself, and the stove all in one go. The fire alarm woke me, blaring in my ears. I managed to get to the extinguisher in time, but poor Crowley looked heartbroken over his ruined pan of blackened food.

Then, before lunch, he wanted to go outside. I think he was trying to sneak out, but I caught him jiggling the front doorknob (he has yet to master the bolt - thank God). When I caught him, he slammed his hand on the door in frustration and sprinted for the back one. I followed him, knowing it was locked and that he wouldn’t be able to open it. When I reached him, he was trying to wedge his way out of the old cat flap. (Note to self - board up the cat flaps! I don’t know why we kept them. We’ve never owned a cat.) 

I patted him gently on the shoulder and asked him what he needed. He stood up and groaned, moving his mouth and wiggling his tongue, making nonsensical sounds. When he couldn’t say what he needed to, he pointed out the window to the garden. I assumed he wanted to check on his dahlias. I’m a disaster with flowers, and, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to keep them up the way he could. 

Of course, it's one degree outside. The poor things are frozen solid. They're not even flowers any longer, I don't think, but the frigid remains of what they once were.

But he’d had yet to show any interest in them, either, before today. 

I shrugged, repeated that I didn’t understand. He pointed more forcefully, jabbing at the window with his index finger.

“I don’t know what you're trying to tell me, my dear,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk?” 

I've taken him walking around Soho a few times. I've been trying to tie up loose ends, decide if selling the bookshop is the road to take. I wrapped him up in a full-length coat and scarf with just his eyes peeking out. I guess he enjoyed it, but he’d never asked to go outside. He shook his head and pointed again, this time at the dying rose bushes that I hadn’t had time to deadhead. I didn’t get it. I shook my head, and he stormed off to the bedroom.

I followed him there, but he blocked the door.

I could hear him inside, moaning. It was horrible. It sounded like pain and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together. And I couldn’t help him.

He wouldn’t let me.

I tried to lure him out several times, but he didn’t come out till dinner time.

And when he did, he was dressed in a black Bergdorf suit.

Crowley has dozens of expensive black suits, and he looks stunning in all of them.

But this suit.

This suit in particular.

This suit had been hanging front and center in his closet.

Because it was the suit I had planned on burying him in.

It threw me for a loop, dragging me kicking and screaming back to that day I found out he had died, before I’d decided to try bringing him back, before I knew that I could. I took out the suit to air it. I guess I hadn’t put it back with the others because there it was, standing before me with the living corpse of my husband inside.

The sight took all the air out of my lungs.

“Take it off,” I said quietly, trying not to alarm him, but how was I supposed to explain to my somewhat dead husband that I didn’t want to see him dressed in the suit I had planned on putting him in the ground in?

He looked confused and shook his head, opening his mouth and groaning.

“Please, Crowley,” I begged, hoping he would hear my anguish and understand, “take it off.”

He stomped his foot and shook his head, the way a petulant child would. It should have been cute, but I couldn’t handle it. I've had issues getting used to his looks lo these many weeks, but for the first time since he came back to me, he looked dead.

“Take it off!” I screamed. I ran at him, grabbed the lapels, trying to tear it off his body. He held me, pinned my arms, and I could feel his renewed strength. I hadn’t really let him touch me before, but now I knew that if he wanted to, he could probably hurt me.

I stared up at him, realizing that he was hovering above me, and I was lying on my back on the floor. My heart stopped. He had never looked menacing before. Even in death, he seemed so innocent. But now, he looked like a monster. He had a piece of paper balled in his grasp, and he tried to make me look at it, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from his face – pale and cold and lifeless, regardless of the fact that he was my Crowley.

He stared at me, trying to speak.

It hit me like a pile of bricks.

Speak.

That’s exactly what he was doing. 

His lips were moving in exaggerated, grotesque ways that shouldn’t be able to turn sound into words, but they were.

“A … Az … Azi …”

Crowley blinked and shook his head.

“Azir …”

“Aziraphale?” I asked in awe that he was trying to say my name.

Crowley laughed. It was a glorious, hollow, frankly frightening sound, but I couldn’t help smiling when I heard it. He put his fingers to my lips. 

I guess he didn’t want me to steal his thunder.

“Azzzir-uh-phale,” he said, smacking his lips. “I … lo … I lov …” Crowley swallowed again, closing his eyes, trying to make the words in his head match the movement of his lips. “I … love … you … Azzzir-uh-phale.”

Crowley tapped again at the paper on the floor. This time I did what he wanted and looked. He had torn off the current page from the calendar and was poking at a box circled shakily in red. I peered down at it.

I could have cried.

“Our ... our anniversary?” I asked, looking into his broken eyes. He sighed, nodding.

It was our anniversary.

He’d wanted to make me breakfast in bed … for our anniversary.

He’d wanted to get me roses … for our anniversary.

My husband had wanted to do something nice for me … for our anniversary.

My husband had spent all day teaching himself how to say, “I love you, Aziraphale,” because there was nothing else he could do for me.

My husband remembered our anniversary ...

... even when I had not.

***

June 4th -

Five months-ish later…

I can’t believe it! 

I cannot believe it!

Five months later and we’ve made it! Despite the odds. Despite the difficulties and the heartaches. Despite every time I thought about giving up, here we are.

Happy.

Together.

We spend our days wrapped in each other’s arms. We watch TV. I read books out loud - he sits and listens. Crowley is re-learning how to drive, and I’m on the hunt for a new Bentley. Our lives might not be what they were before, but they’re perfect for us.

We’ve managed to go to the city more, spent a few glorious nights at our flat in Mayfair. We've even interacted with one or two of our old friends. It's a wonder what some foundation and blusher can accomplish! I told them it was a medical miracle, and they believed me.

Because that's what Crowley is.

A miracle!

Okay, maybe I am tempting fate. But maybe fate needs to be tempted from time to time! 

His vocabulary has expanded immensely, and a hint of his old suave confidence has come back, along with the muddy accent I so often teased him about.

I am finally at a point where I am optimistic about the future.

Because I’m beginning to think that there might actually be one for us.

***

August 13th –

I woke this morning to a strange squealing noise. At first, I thought it might be the smoke alarm again - odd since we got the cooking situation sorted, I thought. The longer I listened to it, the more I realized it wasn’t the smoke alarm. It didn’t sound familiar at all, so I didn’t worry too much about it. As long as an errant sheep didn’t get hit by a car, there was really no reason to jump out of bed and investigate. After a few minutes of listening to the goings-on outside, I determined that wasn’t the case, so I considered going back to sleep.

But then I noticed that Crowley wasn’t laying beside me in bed.

That isn’t too unusual. He’s normally the first one up on any given day. I just curl back into a ball holding his pillow to my chest until he returns.

He always returns.

The squealing wasn’t really that weird. I’ve thought for the last few months that we might have rats. Or squirrels. Or possums. I’ve heard that same squealing a few times before. But seeing as I can’t find any evidence of rodent-caused destruction anywhere in the house, I haven’t been too aggressive about hunting it down.

My stomach began to growl. I guessed I had been asleep for longer than I thought. Instead of returning to bed, I decided to make some waffles for breakfast. So I got up and went out into the kitchen.

That’s where I found Crowley.

He was crouching on the floor …

… covered in blood …

… biting into the spine of what used to be a raggedy old Maine coon …

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

He grinned his old, sly grin, licked his bloody lips, and said, "Hello, Aziraphale. Can I get you a cuppa tea? I know just how you like it."

He winked at me, and my heart stuttered.

…

I may have a problem.

***

Those are the last words on the page.

A page where the ink is smeared from tears, and the edges crusted in blood.

I haven’t seen Aziraphale or Crowley in decades. They used to send the occasional letter, but those stopped a while ago, and they never call. But something tells me neither of them ever left this house alive.

I’m afraid my time, too, has run out. I came to this house alone. But huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, I hear footsteps coming closer, a sour voice on the wind calling my name …

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

KA-THUNK!!

***

“Warlock Dowling!” Crowley calls, barging into the attic, footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. “Are you recording another one of those Clip-Clop thingies again?”

“It’s TikTok, Nanny,” Warlock replies, rolling his eyes, “and no. I’m reading a story for my YouTube channel.”

“Well … you done getting a costume together or wot?” Crowley asks, changing the subject, saving face that he actually understands anything Warlock just said. “Adam and his hooligans are gonna be here in a minute. Aziraphale is gonna have kittens if you’re not ready to go Tricks or Treats!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Warlock says, gathering up his camera. He loves Halloween with a passion, but he’d been eyeing this one journal in Aziraphale’s bookshop for some time now. This video he’s been putting together promises to be epic - the crowning achievement of his burgeoning story channel. Most horror story channels get their material from the Creepypasta Reddit, but he has a unique source of original material … when he can get out to Soho, that is. “I’m coming.” He pulls the lapels of the leather jacket he’s borrowing for the evening together in front to tighten it up. 

It’s slim fit as it used to be Crowley’s from back in the day, but thirteen-year-old Warlock still swims in it. 

Warlock marches to the door under Crowley’s watchful eye. Before he can make his way through, Crowley stops him, slipping a hand underneath the jacket and rescuing an extraneous prop - an antique journal.

“Have you been snoopin’ through Angel’s old manuscripts again?” Crowley asks, wiping the cover clean. “You know how he feels bout that.”

“I know,” Warlock admits sheepishly, “but my audience loves them! I get thousands of hits off his stories! Besides, I put my own twist on them, freshen them up a bit.”

“Do you now?” Crowley asks with an unamused eyebrow notched.

“Why didn't he get them published?” Warlock shifts gears before the lecturing can start. “He’s an amazing writer!”

“He had his reasons,” Crowley mumbles, flipping through the pages. After skimming a passage or two, he puts it down on a pile of similar journals, a shiver sliding down his snakey spine. “Oof! Those things’ll give you nightmares.”

“They should terrify you. He’s murdered you in every single one!”

“Ah, but he does it with love.” Crowley grins wide enough to swallow his whole face. “It’s an honor.” 

[wintersilentdinners]

Day 17: Blanket Fort

Welcome to Fluffytown

Summary: Simon and Baz are spending the holidays at Pitch Manor. Simon just wanted to take a nap, but Mordelia has other plans...

Word Count: 1545

This was heavily inspired by the blanket fort episode of the tv show Community. If you want to see their epic blanket fort in all its glory, watch this clip.

Read on AO3

I take a deep breath, appreciating the fresh forest air. I love going on runs when I’m at home for the holidays. The scenery is gorgeous, and it reminds me of playing football, which I dearly miss. 

As I approach the manor, I can’t help but smile when I remember who’s inside. My family is, sure. It’s been great to see them, even though Mordelia can be a pain in my arse, and Fiona makes suggestive faces whenever Simon and I walk into a room. 

Simon. It’s him I’m more excited about. He said he was taking a nap when I left for my run. I think he ate too much at lunch and needed to sleep it off. Typical. Disgustingly, my heart swells just thinking about him. This is our first real Christmas here together, and it’s been wonderful. Simon fits in with my family surprisingly well, and I love watching him play with my siblings.

Taking a huge swig of my water bottle, I let myself in the house. It’s strangely quiet, so the kids might be down for naps. “The kids” includes my boyfriend, apparently. 

I walk up the steps to my room, panting. My hair is slick with sweat and has somehow fallen in my face in spite of my headband. I recognize that I probably reek, but I want to kiss Simon before I shower.

Smiling, I open the door to my room, prepared to creep over to the bed and softly wake him up. Instead, I’m greeted by an angry Mordelia.

“Baz! You are not allowed in here!” She guards a pile of blankets with folded arms.

“What have you done with Simon?” I grumble.

I hold back a laugh as Simon pops his head out beneath the blankets. I need to maintain my anger for Mordelia’s sake. If she knew I found this even slightly funny, she’d hijack Simon more often.

“How did she wake you up for this?” I ask.

“Never had the chance to sleep,” Simon shrugs.

“I think we’ve answered enough of your questions,” Mordelia says, turning to Simon. She points down, and he immediately sinks back into the fort.

“I’m showering, and then you’re cleaning this up,” I say, turning away from the door.

“Did you hear something, Simon?” I hear Mordelia ask.

“Nope!” Comes a voice muffled by blankets.

I roll my eyes, but a smile creeps its way onto my lips. I love that the two of them get on so well. I take a long shower, trying to warm my bones from the chilly December air, and then head downstairs for some tea. Might as well indulge them a little longer.

In actuality, I end up indulging them for a few hours. I take my book to the study and get so warm and content by the fire that I have no intention of moving. If Simon needed me, he would come find me. He knows I end up here, reading by the fire, at least once a day. 

We’re three days into our stay at the manor, and Simon and I have gotten into a nice routine. It always involves me reading for a bit while he goes and plays with my siblings or watches a movie. It’s nice, almost domestic.

Finally, I snap out of my reading trance as Mordelia marches into the study.

“Basilton. You’ve been summoned to your quarters. The builders have finished the renovations,” she says, then promptly walks away.

How much have they done? I don’t have much time to think, because I realize I’m meant to be following her. As Mordelia opens the door to my room, I can’t help but gasp. They’ve basically turned my entire room into a blanket fort. 

The blankets are strewn together so that it almost looks like one big quilt. Upon closer inspection, I realize the fort is a quilted mess of sheets, blankets, and shower curtains. I’m sure Daphne will be happy about that. From here I can see that they’ve strung Christmas lights through the whole thing, which sort of gives it a nice atmosphere. The pillows they’ve added to cushion the floor and serve as seating make it feel cosy. Crowley, I can’t believe I’m saying all this about a blanket fort.

Simon emerges from the entrance, and I have no idea how he fit in there with his wings. “Welcome to Fluffytown!” He exclaims, looking proud of himself.

“This is amazing,” I say, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

“Shut up, Baz. I know you love it,” Mordelia rolls her eyes. She’s gotten quite good at doing that since we last visited. 

“Can I give you the tour?” Simon waves his arm to the entrance ceremoniously.

I follow behind him reluctantly, both of us crawling on our hands and knees. I have to be careful not to trip over Simon’s tail, but it seems like they’ve made the sides extra wide and tall for him. It’s sweet, really. The fort is mostly one long tunnel, but occasionally another tunnel intersects it. Simon keeps saying ridiculous things like down that hall is the teddy bear room, and over there is the Turkish district.

“Over here,” Simon points to a small alcove to our left, “is the Belgian chocolate tasting room.”

“I’m not engaging in this make believe, Simon,” I mumble.

He turns around to face me, incredulous. “It’s not make believe, Baz. It’s literally the Belgian chocolate room.” Apparently my face still shows my disbelief, because he drags me in.

Somehow, it really is a Belgian chocolate room. They’ve taken our stash from the kitchen and put it on the makeshift table.

“Care to try our dark chocolate with nuts?” Simon wriggles his eyebrows at me.

I settle on the cushions next to him, resting my head on his shoulder. “Fine,” I say. “You win. I believe in the magic of the blanket fort.”

“I knew you would!” Simon smiles. “You’re a romantic at heart, Basilton.”

I roll my eyes at him, but press a kiss to his cheek. “What chocolate were you trying to woo me with earlier?”

“Oh nevermind that,” Simon says. “We’re saving the rest for Mordelia.”

“The rest?” I raise my eyebrows.

Simon’s cheeks flush. 

“He ate a lot,” a voice in the doorway answers.

We both jump. Mordelia snuck up on us like the little spy she is. 

Her eyes look from me to Simon, then back to me. “You two are gross. I’m going to the teddy bear room.”

“She’s a great kid,” Simon says, his voice low.

“Only for you. She’s fascinated by you.” I’m surprised at how soft my voice has gotten.

Simon nods. “I’m quite special.”

“Mm.” I kiss the triangle of moles on his neck.

Simon smiles, bending down to kiss me. I hate to admit it, but this whole thing is perfect. The blankets make this place really comfortable, and I’m sitting next to my favorite heater. I smile into the kiss, which just makes Simon lean in deeper. 

“I love this pillow fort thing, but where are we going to sleep tonight?” I ask when we pull apart.

“Don’t worry, there’s a tunnel that leads to the bed,” Simon says absentmindedly, his hands running through my hair. “Also, it’s a blanket fort, dear.”

“Is Mordelia sleeping in here tonight?”

Simon laughs, moving to see me better. “Oh, yeah. She built herself a little room and is planning on sleeping on cushions.”

“Little devil,” I mutter. 

“I heard that!” Mordelia shouts from the teddy bear room.

“We didn’t have the budget for sound-proofing the place,” Simon says sheepishly.

I scoff. “She just proved my point.”

“I think what I have to show you will make you forget about Mordelia,” he smiles. 

I follow him further into the maze of blankets. We pass the entrance to the bed (hallelujah!) and a library, Simon narrating all the way.

“Here we are!” Simon announces, “The music wing!”

My record player is set carefully atop a table, tiny fairy lights wrapped around it. This room has more cushions than any of the others so far. It feels like laying on a cloud. I settle in as Simon puts on music.

A wave of calm washes over me, and I close my eyes to soak it in.

It's that time of year When the world falls in love Every song you hear seems to say Merry Christmas

I love “The Christmas Waltz,” which is a secret I keep locked deep in my heart. I realize that I may have mentioned it to Simon once, against my better judgement.

“Who’s singing this?” I ask as Simon lays down next to me. He flops down on his stomach, propping himself up with his arms.

“She & Him,” he explains. “It’s one of Mordelia’s records.”

“Of course,” I laugh. 

Apparently already tired of holding himself up, Simon moves over to rest his head on my chest, wrapping his arms around me. Even his tail curls around my ankle. I sigh, content.

We stay like that for what feels like forever, just listening. I’m surprised at how much I enjoy this version. I’m warm and happy, and my heart is full of love. 

“I’m happy you came this year,” I breathe.

“Me too.”