#the day i shut up about ginger crowley is the day you find my body brutally mauled and left to rot in a dark basement

[fearandhatred]

can you believe this is david tennant. is anyone listening to me. can anyone fucking hear me

[castthy-nightedcolour]

One- Shot: A Different Side (written as part of my series ‘don’t worry about a thing’ on AO3, link can be found at the bottom of the post as it won’t let me embed it)

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: GN Reader, Crowley, a very annoying mouse

Warnings and Tags: snakes, animal death/ harm, swearing, uh oh we have a pest control problem, snake crowley, comfort , are they aren’t they

Summary: mouse traps, a skip full of rubbish and a broken down bus. not exactly your dream day, but your favourite demonic entity has a trick up his sleeve and behind his glasses to help you.

Word Count: 2778

Link to original: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31055930/chapters/81050182

If there was one word to describe your mood, that word would be vile. Tiny little irritants throughout the day had built to a simmering anger:

-Firstly, your bus into town had broken down about ten minutes away from your stop, meaning that you were forced to trek your way to the shops.

-Secondly, your trip to said shops wasn’t for any kind of retail therapy, but was instead to buy mouse traps. Your usually serene flat had been taken over by a little grey rodent who despite any humane efforts, was refusing to leave. You weren’t usually one for violence towards any living thing, but the little shit was out staying its welcome and had most recently been seen taking a bite out of a loaf of bread.

-When you did eventually get into town, it seemed to be the day for the world’s slowest walkers to take to the streets. Everyone was moving at about two steps per minute and you, being naturally speedy, were constantly waiting for gaps on the pavement to overtake. When you did manage to do this, there would be a whole new couple walking side by side, plodding along at a snail’s pace. You weren’t getting anywhere quick.

All in all, not your finest hour. This all came to a head on Oxford Street, or as you liked to call it, hell.

Your brain felt as though it were made of jelly, your temperature was rising, and someone stopped right in the middle of the street to check their phone. Slamming right into the back of them, you immediately let out something resembling a howl before running to your side off down Old Cavendish Street, somewhere slightly quieter. You leaned against the nearest wall, hot anger bubbling within you for what at the time, seemed like a life or death scenario of you getting out of town with the mousetraps, but in retrospect was just the culmination of various shitty things.

The last thing which you wanted to hear was any sign that you were being perceived, but a teenage boy riding past you on a bike shouting an obnoxious ‘WAHEYYYY’ at you was enough to tip you over the edge. You bashed your head back on the wall, feeling acid tears of anger falling, pedalled down your face by your short temper. Then, another shout came towards you from across the street.

‘Y/N? Is that you?’

You were ready to push yourself off the wall to lunge at this person until your brain caught up with recognition. Tilting your head forwards, your suspicions were confirmed when you saw floppy, ginger hair bouncing over the street atop a leather-clad frame. The sunglasses perched on his nose brought you a feeling somewhere between relief and fear.

You and Crowley had a relationship which can only be described as ‘are they? Aren’t they?’

You sure as hell couldn’t tell if he had any romantic feelings for you, and he gave off vibes so mixed that they were jumbled by this point. People always commented on the electricity between the two of you whenever you were together, but you tried not to get your hopes up and usually just put this down to his magnetising nature.

He’d told you about himself, and you thought that he must have trusted you somewhat to be able to disclose that he was a demon to you.

Then again, maybe he was just overly confident.

In the state you were currently in, you couldn’t decide whether to run into his arms to scream, or run as quickly away from him as was physically possible.

Your body chose neither and just stood there, open mouthed and gawking as the tears continued to fall with no effort from your eyelids. Crowley examined you, peering over the top of his sunglasses to try and decipher the scene before him.

‘Don’t tell me someone’s upset you, because I will find them for you, Y/N’ he started, rearing himself up as he spoke. You jumped in.

‘No, no. Not upset. I swear. Just… pissed off. Massively, massively pissed off. Short fuse today, y’see.’

‘Oh. Well, I know all about that. I’m quick to anger at any given moment but then again, ‘s in my nature. What exactly are you doing down here?’

You looked to your side at the gigantic skip full of building waste, then down to your feet where someone’s puke sat. You looked back up to the demon.

‘It was a quick escape, one that was made before I slapped someone in the face.’

Crowley looked slightly taken aback, not expecting any expression of violence from you considering your usually placid nature.

‘Ooookay. Well, I won’t ask for details but, here.’ He leaned over slightly and brushed away some of the tears which were still running down your face. You could swear that you both stopped breathing for a moment as he touched you but then again, you weren’t in a fit state for rational thinking.

‘Thank you,’ you breathed out. ‘I’m all good, I promise. Just need to breathe.’ You gave a reassuring smile to the demon and noticed him looking down to your hand, holding a flimsy plastic bag containing the mouse traps.

‘What you got there? Looks interesting.’ He said, tilting his head to try and get a closer look. You brought the bag up to your chest.

‘Oh, mouse traps. There’s a little shit thinking that he owns my flat who’s probably currently in my bread bin. Thought I’d stop the problem while I could, considering there’s that saying about seeing mice. Y’know, for every mouse you see, there’s always another one somewhere. Can’t wait to clean that up!’ Your words had somewhat of a bite, being spat like venom.

‘Woah. You really are pissed, aren’t you?’ Crowley responded, half smirking. For some reason, this set you off again.

‘Yes. Yes, actually I am. Because y’know what? This day has been fucking horrific! I genuinely don’t think that I’ve had two consecutive minutes of peace since the second I woke up. I can’t relax because of the mouse, then there was the bus, and the walking, and the pain in my feet, and the twat who decided to check his phone in the middle of Oxford Street. Sorry, who the hell does that? I just feel like I’ve been left out of any plans that the universe had to let people go about their day without a care in the world. So yes, I’m fuming.’ You gave a huff before realising that you were now crying again. Crowley stood slightly dumbstruck, shifting his weight between his feet. You glanced off to the side, watching the shoppers propel themselves down Oxford Street.

The demon then spoke, his voice low and sincere.

‘Can I give you a lift?’

—

After what felt like a windswept journey in the Bentley, Crowley screeched to a halt outside your flat. Jolting forwards slightly, the plastic bag containing the mouse traps crinkled between your legs.

You’d calmed down quite significantly, but now felt a combination of complete embarrassment that you’d had such an outburst in front of the being that you completely adored, and absolute excitement that he’d even offered you a lift. This wasn’t helped when you heard him say,

‘Let me walk you upstairs. Check that you’re okay.’

You felt fizzy, and as the two of you trudged up to your flat, you felt as though you could lift off any second. As you unlocked your front door, Crowley leaned on the doorframe, peering in to the hallway as you threw your bag on the floor. You suddenly regretted this as when the bag hit the floor, there was a scuttle from under your bedroom door, and the little mouse took one giant sprint off towards the kitchen. You screamed in shock as the little bastard took itself away, and Crowley grabbed onto your arm. This made you jump for a second time.

‘Woah woah there, calm down. It’s just a little mouse, we’ll sort this,’ Crowley sweetly spoke, lulling your heart back to a slightly normal rate. You looked down to his arm resting on yours and couldn’t help but smile slightly.

Crowley had a look on his face which would have read from ten miles away as one with a scheme brewing.

‘Look Y/N, I’m going to do something here which I don’t do very often, and all I’m asking is that you don’t freak out,’ the demon announced.

You couldn’t help but make a sarcastic joke.

‘What’s that then, the housework?’ Smirking, you looked up at Crowley who glared at you through his sunglasses.

‘Fine, you don’t need my help!’ He huffed, obviously taking the piss but you couldn’t help but tease him back into good spirits.

‘No no, sorry Crowley. What have you got for me?’

‘Snake.’

You stood there for a second, trying to make any sense of what he just said and burning up slightly as you wondered if this was perhaps his way of flirting.

‘A… a snake? You have a snake?’

‘Yes. Well, no. Well… yes. Look it’s complicated, can I just show you?’

Uh oh. Maybe this was him flirting.

You thought for a second before hearing an almighty crash from the kitchen, and from down the hallway you saw an entire loaf of bread fall to the ground, followed by a small army of mice. Again, you let out a scream as Crowley slammed the door shut behind the both of you.

‘How fucking many are there now?!’ You exclaimed, turning to face Crowley who was now quickly shifting between his feet. He suddenly grabbed your shoulders.

‘Look Y/N, tell me quick, do you have a phobia?’

‘Of mice? I think that’s pretty evident Crow-‘

‘No, of snakes. Are you scared of snakes?’

‘What is it with you and these snakes?’ You laughed. The demon then stood dead still and stared right at you.

‘Stay still. Don’t freak out please. I promise this will help.’

Before you knew it, Crowley’s hands had disappeared off your shoulders and he seemed to disappear entirely from before you. Confused, you looked down at the floor.

What you saw took your breath away for what felt like forever.

Rows and rows of black scales suddenly lined your hallway, flowing from side to side as the form made its way towards the kitchen. This didn’t take long, considering the snake’s body seemed to run on forever, there must have been at least 10 metres of the creature occupying your apartment.

You’d never really considered Crowley’s powers before. While you were aware that he was a demon, this thought didn’t control your every interaction with him. He was just Crowley- your friend Crowley- your possibly more than a friend Crowley- your Crowley. Shapeshifting had never been part of the picture.

But it was so, so beautiful.

Moving.

And snakes were never your favourite but this was just something else.

Squeals of mouse terror came from the kitchen as a massive shadow rose up throughout the whole apartment. Crowley was sitting up on his body, his head pointed towards any mouse that he could detect and a razor sharp stare in his luminescent eyes.

Your favourite part of this whole scenario was laying on the floor in front of you- Crowley’s sunglasses, sans Crowley for the first time ever. You smiled as you bent down to pick them up, your feet planted to the spot due to the inherently overwhelming nature of what was happening. You ran your fingers over the frames feeling the heat that was stored in them.

There was something so human about the lingering warmth to the metal, but that thing that made it so distinctively Crowley was the fact that the heat never seemed to fade.

The floor seemed to move as the scales once again shifted, with Crowley turning round to come back towards you. Cold fear seized your entire body, despite the oddly comforting and protective energy of this gigantic creature. His yellow eyes were right in front of your face before you’d even managed to properly react to him moving towards you.

You blinked and the Crowley that you knew and … ahem… was standing in front you, a live mouse swinging from his hand by the tail.

‘Consider those rodents dispatched.’

The mouse in his hand was thrashing wildly from side to side and while you hated the little shits, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for it. You went to protest but no words came out of your mouth.

You’d just witnessed something- something that couldn’t exactly be described as a miracle but to you- maybe?

Crowley noticed the panic in your eyes directed towards the mouse and realised what he needed to do. The mouse disappeared in another of your blinks.

There were so many pressing questions on your mind, but you only managed to actually articulate one of them.

‘Please tell me you didn’t eat those mice, Crowley?’ Your tone was somewhere between intrigue and massive concern.

The demon scoffed, ‘I prefer oysters normally, Y/N. No, I didn’t eat them. I can assure you though, they won’t be back any time soon.’

Palpable silence hung between the two of you. You naturally seemed to hold out Crowley’s sunglasses to him, staring directly into the eyes which served as a reminder of his other form as you did so.

Crowley went to slowly take the glasses off you, but in a snap decision, you snatched them back. Crowley wasn’t exactly thrilled by this.

‘Hey, don’t play games with those. They’re my-‘

He didn’t stand a chance of finishing his sentence before you jumped in, with your subconscious mind taking a grasp on your mouth. Maybe this was a trick of Crowley’s, but at least some of it came from your heart.

‘Do it again. Turn back.’

The two of you stared at each other as a smirk took over the demon’s face.

‘Really? It seemed to terrify you, dearest.’

The cockiness in his voice only persuaded you to carry on pushing.

‘Not at all! No no, it was just... well it was a shock at first. Obviously. Like who the hell else can do that? But no, not terror. It’s intrigue. I swear.’

You made sure to assert yourself in your voice as your brain convinced you that you would never rest again unless Crowley turned back into a snake. It was almost like the sheer shock had morphed into utter obsession in a matter of seconds.

And maybe you just adored every part of Crowley and him being vulnerable in showing a new side to you? Well...

Again, you blinked and he was gone for a moment, before the black reptile rose up to meet your gaze. He hadn’t continued to question you.

The presence was unexplainable, physically so big in the space but even just the idea of him just seemed to fill up every corner of the place. Moving the sunglasses into your right hand, you tentatively raised up your left.

‘Can... may I? Can I touch?’ You softly asked, mimicking a petting action in the air. Somehow, Crowley let you know that it was okay, pulling your hand towards him with some kind of magnetising energy.

Your fingers lightly brushed the scales on his head and you took a breath so deep you almost triggered hiccups. The texture was confusing, it almost seemed like it was shifting forms by the second- smooth then rough, hard then feather soft, but still always cool as marble. You fully rested your hand down as you glanced along the entire body, once again filling up the entire hallway.

‘Crowley, this is beautiful. I mean that.’ You whispered, transfixed on what you were seeing.

Then, the unimaginable happened. Your hand which had ended up resting on the snake’s head suddenly felt warm.

Was... was he blushing? You decided to test the water slightly more.

‘I didn’t even imagine that anything could be so magnificent but, well. Here you are. So gorgeous.’

Sure enough, another flush felt through your hand.

‘Crowley, are you blushing?’ You giggled. The heat on his face then took another rise, this time enough to hurt you slightly. You drew your hand away instinctually, but with a smile still on your face.

This was now a day worth noting. The day that started with a mouse in a bread bin and some unfortunately placed anger, and ended as the day that you made a snake blush.

And of course, he made you blush too.

A new side of Crowley. One that you couldn’t help but adore.

[astringofmadhousefloozies]

Ghost Wedding: The Remix

So, uh, here’s the first actual fanfic I’ve written, and the first full length piece I’ve written in literal years. I wrote it for my own amusement, after weeks of eating up various bits of TWST lore and scenes and going “But, how would the whole Ghost marriage story have gone with a Yuu who was more like me a goth bisexual disaster?

What follows is a series of vignnetes, starring a Yuu who’s the only girl in NRC, with deeply questionable taste, told in the second person. Please let me know if you enjoyed it, I crave positive feedback and like when other people enjoy the things I like.

Contend warnings for blood, body horror, emeto, coarse language and pretentious word choices.

You've been here a while. En-Arr-See wasn't precisely a safe place, what with your dorm being a condemned hellpit of tetanus and black mold, and powerful magicians having mutagenic psychotic breaks only curable by kicking their ass so hard it flies out their mouth. But certainly, it wasn't boring, and you'd made friends. You had your scrappy ginger Ace in the hole; your serious mamas-boy Deuce; your funny little not-a-cat Grim. Hell, you even have your Horned Boy, he of the poison-coloured eyes that never seem to leave your face when you talk about fun things like books and music and the moral imperative of dissolving the monarchy. And, you were on speaking terms with a good chunk of others. So, when your favourite little robot came up to Crowley, yelling something about ghosts kidnapping his brother, you took his hand and said, "Ortho, show me what's going on." After all, you won't let anything happen to Idia. You have plans for him yet.

~*~*~*~

Some beauties might launch a thousand ships, and in your (objectively correct) opinion, while Idia's beauty wouldn't lead to a ten year siege of Troy, he'd certainly convince everyone attending Whitby Goth Weekend to haul off into the sea with a beat of his lashes. The first time you'd seen him, you'd simply stared in slack-jawed awe. He was luminescent; even leaving behind the fiery hair that flashed and swelled behind him, his eyes were a bright clear amber, and his skin translucent, with his own blue veins serving as the detailing in the marble. Add in the deeply circled eyes and the bluish discolouration of the lips, and the figure he presented was arresting, astounding, more beautiful and unreal than anything you'd conjured up after staying up all night reading ghost stories. "Magnificent," you'd said to yourself, and if your friends gave you a strange look, well, fuck 'em. They have no sense of beauty or taste.

Unfortunately, the intensity of your gaze proved too much for him, and he'd fled. You'd had no time to pursue the object of your infatuation either, class would soon begin, and Grim was yelling. Later, then. There's all the time in the world to ask after the fine young man with the lamplight eyes.

~*~*~*~ "Oh no," you said when Ortho showed you the video. "She's really hot."

Grim gawked and Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you take from this?"

"You're the one with an all-boys school. What's a girl like me to do when a pretty girl pops up?"

"She's a ghost, Yuu."

"That's the best part."

"My brother-"

"I'll help you, dear." You set a hand on Ortho's shoulder. "He must be so frightened, right? I'll do what you need." 

Before anyone could say anything else, a racket started up outside, and things got a little busy.

~*~*~*~ "Do you mind if I sit?"

Idia looked up at you. starting at the intrusion. His face was awash in blue from the conjured screens around him, his lips gone black. "...Why?"

"Tables are full. I'd rather not eat standing." He didn't explicitly say no, so you settled across the table, a few chairs down. He made a fascinating tableau as you picked at your lunch, flicking through and typing at the screen. Lines of code, schematics for all sorts of tech, occasional comics all flit across the pane of light in a million shades of blue. Until...

"Could you pretend I'm a bug?"

You squinted. "What." What the actual hell did he mean by that.

"Pretend I'm not here. I'm beneath notice."

You stop for a moment and smile, faint enough that he can't see the devil in it. "You want me to treat you like an insect."

"Yes." Hard to see in the light, there was a small twitch by his temple, a barely perceptible shake in his long fingered hands.

"Alright." With that, you slide down the table to directly across from him, settle you chin in your hands, and stare at him unblinkingly.

"?!?!?" The squawk he made was undignified and deeply, deeply endearing. "What are you doing?"

"You asked me to treat you like an insect." You smile at him, full of mischief and good cheer. "So I'm looking at you very closely. I'm taking in every sweet action, and delighting that the day has conspired to put something so wonderful in front of me."

Oh, who would have thought that this blue boy could turn so pink! As he pulled his hood up, you chuckle and move back to your tray. "I'll let you be," you say, and did indeed, for the amount of time it took him to close up shop and flee back to the depths of Ignihyde. When you waved at him as he went by, he nearly tripped in his haste.

~*~*~*~ "Stop laughing."

The boys did not listen.

"May others show you the kindness you've shown Idia if you're in a bind."

"You're just mad because she's gonna kill your-"

"Grim? Shut the fuck up. Now; who's helping."

After a chorus of 'no's, you drag your fingers through your hair. "I hate all of you so fucking much right now... Ortho, your ideas?"

Ortho's idea was deeply enticing but Crowley would not have the school leveled, and thankfully, the two of them threatened and guilted the others into helping. You'd have to say thank you later, but god, then Crowley might think you actually liked him instead of just finding him funny, and who needed that in their life?

"Alright, so... A plan?"

~*~*~*~ As badly as he might've liked to have escaped, there was only one empty seat in the class, and it was by him. So, Idia threw his hood up, along with his headphones, and started blatantly ignoring you.

"Idia." Silence.

"Idia." A faint grunt and he turned away from you.

"Shroud," you intoned in the most sepulchral tone you could, setting you hand in his field of vision. He whipped his head at you, the fire in his eyes nothing compared to the changing colours on his head.

"WHAT."

You raise your hands in supplication, trying to still your racing heart. "I'm sorry dude. I wanted to ask where you got your screens?"

"My screens?" His eyes flicked back to his schoolwork, hovering in the air. "I made them myself."

Your face lit up in awe. "That's amazing dude, holy shit. How'd you do that? It's a damn miracle."

"Ah... well..." Two sides warred within him - pride that someone recognized his tech genius, and his deep seated anxiety that anyone trying to be nice was just fucking with him. Fortunately for both of you, pride won out. "It's certainly something complicated for a magicless normie like you to understand." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Do you really want to hear?"

You fixed him with a level look. "Never call me that again. Now, start like I'm five and go from there."

He stared back at you, and you stared right back. "Indulge me, Idia."

He gave you a smile full of sharp, crooked teeth, and while you tried to still the palpitations the sight of them gave you, he started with very basic theory, and went from there.

~*~*~*~ "You are not going to seduce the ghost bride, Yuu."

"Why the hell not?"

"You're a girl?"

"You're kinda plain."

"You're fat."

"She's probably straight?"

You point in turn at Leona, Azul, Vil, and Kalim. "So?, no I'm plenty hot actually, get fucked, and... Okay, That is a good point. But Kal, you have no idea how many straight girls I've managed to kiss."

"I think you'd die, Shrimpie," Floyd said as he flopped heavily over your shoulders, giggling as you attempted to untangle yourself. "And you're short."

"Yeah, but you have no idea how hot I am when I'm actually try- Shut up, Vil - Like, I clean up so good you guys. I even made a suit a couple weeks ago -"

"That's convenient? Weirdly so?"

"I found suiting that wasn't moth eaten and decided to have fun, at least-" You finally escape from the noodly arms of Leech the Wild One. "Let me suit up and show you? I can be so sexy, you guys. Come on."

In answer to the confused silence, you took your keys out of your pocket and chucked them at Deuce's confused face. "Adeuce! Grim! It's on the vanity in my room!"

"But ghosts?"

"Say you're clearing out things so that we won't bother... No, actually just go the balcony way."

"You can't unlock the balcony from the outside without a lockpick, it only locks from the inside."

A moment of silence. "Lilia, what the fuck?"

He shrugged. "I moved everything two inches to the left once to see if you noticed."

"I wasn't imagining things?!?"

This'll take a moment to sort out, and the clock is ticking...

~*~*~*~ You truly liked the woods! Green and quiet. Full of things that crawled and scurried, little friends that squeaked and croaked and hissed. The occasional precious treasure of a small bone or edible mushroom. So, you were quite surprised when you found Idia, miserable, crouched beside a fallen log.

"... Skipping gym?" Going by the uniform, the most likely answer. "Or did you finally realize that outside doesn't always bite?"

He scowled at you, and you stifled a giggle when you realized that yes, he was actually covered in bug bites. "They should replace this with a mall."

"You hate malls. Too many people." You reached out a hand, and pulled him to his feet. Idly, you wondered if he'd let you try and fit your hands around his waist, but thought better of asking.

"Game stores are alright. No one bothers you in one, or in arcades. And." He stopped, as he brushed the dirt from his legs, before continuing in a mumble you only got the gist of.

"Me and Ortho will be your big, scary guard dogs?"

"... Who'll notice me with both of you?"

"Everyone." Because he's the most beautiful person in the room, and they'd be mad not to look. "Because you show up so rarely. It makes it all the more noticeable when you are out, so everyone pays attention." You held out a hand. "I'll take you out the back way so you don't get in trouble."

No dice. He held his hands in close. "I'll just follow."

"Alright. Why'd you go out this far in the woods with no map, anyways?"

"There's no cell service..."

"Clearly, we need to turn your blood into a wi-fi signal, instead of liquid sugar."

He huffed, but he did follow you, and was actually approaching a good mood once you escorted him through the Ramshackle gates.

~*~*~*~ "Hey, what did I miss?" It took entirely too long to get a single lock of hair to to a perfect insouciant flip over your forehead, even with the eternally stylish Sam's help.

"She's slapped everyone who went to propose, and when she does you're paralyzed for 500 years."

"Christ," You say as you adjust a pin on your lapel. "We have to get Idia back, he'll get what? A week before he gets the hand."

"She's so fussy!" yelled Grim. "You have to sing and have a dog and she hates poison flowers."

"Clearly, she has no taste." Honestly,you thought her taste was just fine, what with thinking Idia was the finest of the bunch. He was very princely, if your tastes ran to exquisite corpses with the personality of a neurotic goblin. "Who wouldn't want poison blossoms?" Tie? No tie? Tie? No tie? No tie. And unbutton. Leona wishes he had this chest.

"We know she has no taste because she chose Idia."

You chose to ignore that, and clapped. "Okay, Round Two!"

~*~*~*~ The truest tragedy of this school was that it was all boys. Not that boys were bad by any means, you certainly enjoyed them, but... girls. Tall girls! Short girls! Busty girls! Petite girls! Butch girls! Femme girls! Fat girls! Girls!

So many kinds of girls, and you, in all of your plump and handsome glory, were the only girl in an entire high school. Welcome to hell.

You accepted no gifts that came unvetted. You had friends ward the everloving bajeezus out of your dorm room. Grim was more than happy to test your food and drink for tampering, but it was exhausting. You at least knew that any food you ate at the Mostro Lounge was clear, but that was only because everyone was too damn scared of the eternally hovering Floyd to try anything while there.

 So, you eat a lot of vending machine snacks.

You've been standing there for fifteen minutes, trying to figure out the best combo with your limited funds, when someone coughed behind you.

"??? Oh, hey Idia." You stepped aside while he shuffled up to the glass and peered in. "Anything to recommend? I got this." You waved your bill in the air.

He only looked at you a moment before looking back at the machine. "That won't get you much."

"Ah, don't I know it. But it's all I got."

He still wasn't looking directly at you, but a smile started to creep across his face. "Get your bag."

"Wha-" He was already tapping out a beat with the keypad, blue sparks flying from his fingertips, the machine starting to groan and shiver. With a final note, the snack machine gave a final heaving shudder - and every single snack fell to the bottom of the machine.

He was so proud as he smiled at you, reaching down and pulling a single bag of gummies from the spilled mess. "You first."

And, as you stuffed your schoolbag and pockets full of thieved goods, praising his genius, his cleverness, his skills, he just glowed.

~*~*~*~ "I guess you were ahead of the game, Yuu. She hates that no one's dressed up properly. And..."

"And? You raised an eyebrow at Ace.

"You do look stylish. But you need backup."

"Of course. You'll all rescue people while I distract her!”

"But what if she slaps you?"

"You'll step in if that happens. But we have to dress you all up."

"Did you makes spares?"

"No." Tragic, everyone would look so cute in summerweight green wool. "Let's ask Sam, he's got everything."

~*~*~*~ "Okay, Ortho, you see?" You held his back to your chest, and raised your hand in front of his face, palm away from him. As you wiggled your fingers, you could see movement on the back of your hand. "Those are tendons. Those, and the muscles, are what move the bones, make your hands move. If you put your fingers here," you say as you place his fingertips over the moving lines, "you should be able to feel it."

"I do! They go up and down. What's the popping?"

"That's my faulty joints, we'll cover those another day. Now," you flipped your hand over, and moved his fingers to your wrist. "You feel that?"

"That is your pulse! It's not as string as it should be."

"I'm not always in the best of health. So, Ortho. My hand moves by muscles and tendons when I think of it. My blood moves through my body, one beat at a time, and you can feel it. Right?"

"Right."

"You," you say, as you take Ortho's other hand. "Your hand moves by motors and servos, when you think about it. Electricity and magic moves through your body, in beats so fast we can't perceive it, and it's as measurable as my pulse."

"... Because I am a robot."

"Because you are a bit different. But we're both alive, we're both real, just in different ways." You turn to look at Ortho directly, and he looks back at you with yellow eyes that are actual, real lamps. "Don't let anyone ever say you're not real, or alive, or good enough, just because you're different."

And though you can't see it, you can feel Idia smiling from the corner of his room.

~*~*~*~ Alright. No more time for memories, only the here and now. You've got a heart full of love, a pocket full of ring, and a head full of stupid. You're as prepared as anyone else who went in. Start on your left foot, and...

"Hello? Excuse me?" You make a cursory knock at the doorframe before stepping in. "I heard there was a wedding."

The bride - Eliza - whirled on you, and stopped. She was even more of a vision in person, airy translucence and fine, sweet features currently arranged in confusion. "Ah- Yes! I'm getting married to my darling Prince Idia! Right away, so-"

Not if I have my way about it, you thought to yourself as you arranged yourself in a perfect bow, one hand behind your back. You pretended not to notice Idia trussed up with rope, but you filed the sight away for later. "How wonderful. I wish you only happiness. But it must wait."

Before she could get her hand ready, you straightened and fixed her with your best smile. "My dearest princess, I cannot let this happen until I dance with the most beautiful person in this room. It would be improper to do so with a newlywed, and I cannot know peace until I dance. Would you be so kind, my fair princess?"

She was still baffled. "Aren't you a girl?"

You keyed up the brightness. "I am, and I dance very well. Would you indulge me, my dear?"

You could see her considering it. "You... are rather princely. Can you lead?"

"Of course. May I?" Again with the bow, and to your delight, she returned with a flawless curtsy. Hand in hand, you began.

~*~*~*~ It was delightful, to dance with this silly ghost girl. Everywhere your bodies touched, from her hand in yours to what would have been a fine chest, but was instead a clean and elegant ribcage festooned with pearls, heat seeped away and left only a chill as cold as clay. Her footwork was flawless, considering she no longer had feet, and she was so easy to chat with. She asked you about your dog (none currently, but you'd love to have one, and there was Grim in the meantime), your singing, (little voice to speak of, but that was what vocal coaches were for), and why you wanted to dance with her (because when would the chance ever come again? Unless fairest Eliza considered her for forever and a day.)

"But what of dear Idia?" She'd almost looked towards where Idia no longer was, having been unknotted long ago, but you drew her back in before she could notice the chaos around her.

" 'Dear Idia', though as beautiful as the moon in the sky, has cold feet, my love. He's afraid of dying. But I? I'd cherish you for all of eternity." You leaned in closer. "I am not afraid of dying, beloved. To journey with you through realms beyond mortal reach. I can think of nothing more exciting than to cross the barrier to the other side, hand in hand with you. In the words of a fine sir from my home, 'to die by your side/the pleasure, the privilege is mine'. Please, please consider me, please..."

Here's how it should have gone: She said yes, and you put the ring on her finger, and all was well. But you'd awakened such a sweet hunger in her, she could not wait for propriety. Instead, she grasped your face and kissed you with the passion of five hundred years search, found.

~*~*~*~ It was so pleasant at first, that you couldn't help but return it. When had anyone ever kissed you with such passion? But quickly, the chill began to overtake you. It could have been bearable, but after that was pain. You started to shake, uncontrollably, as every nerve in your body was scraped away with a rusty blade, and as you weakly tried to push away, as blood began to flow from your eyes, your mouth, every pore and orifice, she still would not let go. All you could think was it hurts it hurts it hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts and, as you slipped to a grey place beyond where pain could touch you, you barely noticed the cacophony around you, or something hurtling towards the two of you from the corner of your eye.

Something blue.

~*~*~*~ When you finally woke up, through a drugged and painful haze, you couldn't tell where you were. When you jolted up, the pain of it sending you into a nauseated fit of blood-flecked coughing, a familiar yelp sounded, and you turned to see Idia, little the worse for wear.

"You're up, uh..." He fumbled something onto the table, behind his back. "I."

You just looked. At him, at the surroundings. A hospital bed, with gifts and flowers (most filched from the wedding venue, but someone had stuck Jade's poison blossom into a vase and set it in the far corner). Idia was the only one present, seeing as it was the middle of the night.

"Ortho's getting things you might need. I... I hate hospital scenes..."

"Hurt's over.” You tried to settle yourself more comfortably, failing miserably. “Here comes the comfort." You reached out a hand, as he looked anywhere in the room but you.

"Idia." Silence.

"Idia." More silence.

"Shroud." He hesitantly placed his hand in yours, tinting pink as you pulled the sleeve up. The sight of it made you gasp. His fine wrist, so small even you could put your fingers around it, was mottled with deep bruising, blacks and purples set so deep into the skin that there was crusted blood on the surface, despite being unbroken. It was so, deeply, incredibly...

Beautiful. It was all you could do, not to press your lips to his wrist and taste his pulse as it flitted under his skin. To clean the blood away with your own tongue and cover the marks that your hungry ghost princess had made with your own teeth. Not hers. Yours.

Really, no wonder you'd been so enchanted with Eliza. You're cut of the same cloth.

"It must hurt."

He jerked his hand away, making you both wince. "What the hell is wrong with you? They only reason you're not dead is everyone pouring so much healing magic into you that it exhausted almost everyone. I." You could see flickers and flashes of orange sparking along the full length of his hair. "I'm not worth dying for. Why?"

What do you tell him? That it was the right thing to do? That you wanted to prove that you could woo a pretty girl? That you didn't want him dead? That you were a possessive bitch that couldn't stand the idea of someone else having him, even if unwilling on his part? All were true, but what do you say?

It proved a moot point, as when you opened your mouth to say something, anything, something shifted within you, and the only thing Idia received was a gout of blood square in his face.

~*~*~*~ After you'd slept, you reached for your phone in the thin morning light. Your friends where texting well wishes and condolences, and explanations of what happened after you went down (It seemed Idia had tackled Eliza clean off of you, and after some chaos she ran off with her retainer, rending this entire day moot). Even more interestingly, you found a text from an unknown number:

- I'm still mad at you.

You huffed to yourself, and after a bit of thought, start to text back.

- Dude I'm so sorry about the uh. blood puke. - I'll pay for cleaning - Also you know, you could have just asked for my number a long time ago? - Like a normal person? - Who doesn't break into phones to steal said numbers while I was unconscious next to you, what the fuck dude - That's not what this is about though. - You've got every right to be mad - That whole day was traumatizing, and you didn't deserve any of it - I'd rather sort this out in person but if text is easier for you right now we can do that - One last thing though

You stopped, and thought Do I actually do this? and went what the hell.

- I still need that dance I went in to get from you

[lineffability]

for whatever we lose

[In-Canon ‘Human’!A/C] based on this post words: 3.3k  setting: post tv show ending summary: With the Apocalypse averted and their respective sides tricked, Aziraphale and Crowley can finally be left to their own (de)vices--only, you can’t trick God, and she always has the last word. So they forget who they were. And they forget each other. It’s all ineffable from here on out. 

; For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)   it's always ourselves we find in the sea - e.e. cummings

PROLOGUE

Aziraphale was dreaming. This was odd, as he was not asleep.

Aziraphale. What have you done?

Had he possessed a body, in this dream, Aziraphale would have licked his lips and cleared his dry throat. Instead A Million Eyes were wide open, and he couldn’t tell if they were his or Hers, and he couldn’t Think either, because it was all drowned out. It had been a long, long time since She had spoken to him. Six thousand years to be exact, that day in Eden when she had inquired about his Sword and he had lied to Her face. Which, in retrospect, she had known. And forgiven.

But he had betrayed Her again. And this time, oh, he wasn’t sure--

You have to make it up to me, Aziraphale. You have to pay a price.

“Oh I-- I will! I will! I promise, I--”

Remember.

Then he woke up.

__________________________________________________

PART I // for whatever we lose

He woke up in his bed. It was half past eight, and he had to open the bookstore at nine (well, technically, anyways) which gave him just under half an hour to get up and ready and have breakfast. That did not leave him enough time for scrambled eggs and fresh orange juice, a realization that very much displeased him. Aziraphale whined and rolled out of bed.

Fading memories of a rather odd dream haunted him, but as he slipped out from under the covers they slid off him as water slides off ducks.

Barefoot, he trod into his kitchen, put on the kettle and got dressed as he waited for the water to boil. As he always did. He made scrambled eggs anyways, and fixed his bow tie and brushed his teeth and took the flight of stairs down into his shop half an hour late, opened the store half an hour later still, and sat and hoped no one would enter through the doors. He read a book, and started another one, made himself a cup of cocoa in the afternoon and glowered at the rare occasional customers until, unnerved, they left.

As he always did.

Until one day, an hour before (official) closing time, a tall, dark man entered his store.

“Oh, I am afraid that we will be closing in half an hour,” Aziraphale started, but did not continue as the man came towards him in big strides. He had a slightly odd way of walking, Aziraphale decided, as if he might slide off the face of the earth sideways if he wasn’t careful. Sashaying, one might call it.

“Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale did not immediately respond, as he was deep in thought, staring at the stranger’s face. His eyes were concealed behind sunglasses despite the cloudy weather, but the rest of his features were sharp: a thin nose, a pointy chin, pronounced cheekbones and spiky ginger hair. He was sure the man was a stranger, was sure he’d never seen him before in his life (because he would have remembered him, if he had), but there was something about his face and posture that reminded him of someone, nonetheless.

Who? He could not remember. It must have been a long time ago.

“Mr. A. Z. Fell?”

“Oh! Yes, that would be me.” Aziraphale smiled a welcoming smile, which even surprised himself. Of course, he was warm and welcoming to everybody in general, but in the bookshop, somehow, he more closely resembled a dragon guarding his hoard.

The stranger slightly cocked his hand to one side. “What’s the A. Z. stand for?”

“Pardon? Oh, the sign, right. That’s my name. I mean, of course, the sign has been there for generations. It just happens to also fit my initials. Er.”

The man raised a brow, behind dark sunglasses that he still had not taken off, until he continued.

“Aziraphale Zachariah Fell. That’s my name.”

Right. That was his name. For a moment there, he had confused even himself. He wondered if he was getting old. Because for just a second, it truly had felt as if he had not known. Not known about the sign that his ancestors had fixed to the outside of the store, not known what the initials of his own name stood for. This weird feeling, the feeling he had not been able to shake off all week, took a hold of him yet again. He touched the bridge of his nose, but remembered he was not wearing his reading glasses. He must have misplaced them.

For a moment Aziraphale feared that the stranger would burst into laughter. But he contained himself, asking instead, not without mirth: “Aziraphale?”

“Oh, my parents were…very religious.” He gave him a crooked, apologetic grin.

A look spread across the lanky man’s face that Aziraphale could only describe as surprised delight; wrinkles appeared around his eyes and it almost made Aziraphale blush, though he wondered what had prompted this reaction--surely not his old-fashioned name. (It had been that, but much more so it had been the look on his face, a helpless sort of amusement that Crowley couldn’t help but find endearing.)

“I mostly go by Raphael, though. To friends, I mean,” he added after a moment, feeling awfully stupid. (Aziraphale, he’d decided a long time ago, didn’t quite suit him.)

“I see,” Crowley replied, a smile still playing around his lips. “Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to reply, but for the life of him could not think of any adequate reply. Who was this man, anyways? He had sauntered right into his shop and right up to him and somehow Aziraphale had told him about his parents’ religious beliefs without even knowing his name. Or anything else, really.

“So, you are…?”

“Ah.” As if he had been waiting for this moment, the man straightened and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. He might as well have been presenting to an entire audience. “Anthony J. Crowley, merchant of various goods, at your service.”

So this was what was going on, was it? Merchant. Aziraphale squinted imperceptibly. A book buyer. Nasty lot. Always after his pristine first editions, his life’s work--well, really, not just his. Most were inherited, though he had acquired the one or other treasure, in his lifetime… Feeling rather emboldened, Aziraphale decided to pay back what had been dealt to him. “So, what does the J stand for?”

“I’d rather hoped you’d ask about the ‘merchant of various goods’ part, honestly.” The man paused, but received no reaction. “No? Oh, alright. It’s really just ‘J’. Anthony Jay Crowley.”

“Well, now we’ve got that sorted out,” Aziraphale said with an amount of delight that seemed just a little too angelic to be entirely nice, “I am very afraid to inform you, my dear Mr. Crowley, that I don’t sell any books. If that is why you are here.”

Crowley stared at him behind his sunglasses, perplexed. “You own a bookstore.”

“Well. Yes. I mean--” He paused. I don’t like selling my books, he wanted to say. I love them too much. It feels like selling a part of myself. I’d much prefer to keep them all, if that were possible. Instead he said, “I prefer to sell them to individual buyers.” Because they only buy individual books. Singular.

“Why?”

“I just do.” He clasped his hands in front of his belly and sealed his lips tightly shut. Determined, he stood there, like a mother bear ready to protect her children.

Crowley, apparently, sensed that he was about to jog headfirst into a stone wall. His shoulders slumped. But he was not yet a man defeated. Aziraphale stayed on his toes. “Alright, alright. Cool stuff. No worries. But then, I assume...you buy them?”

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “Indeed!”

“You collect them?”

“You could say that.” Aziraphale’s chest grew various sizes, his aura positively shining. “I consider myself to be somewhat of an expert. My interest particularly lies with books of prophecy and, uh, Bibles with printing errors…oh, and Oscar Wilde!”

“Oscar Wilde,” Crowley repeated, pensively, before cocking his head. “Printing errors?”

“Oh, yes! For instance, there is the Adultery Bible, in which--”

Suddenly Crowley moved in closer, cutting him short. He lowered his voice as he spoke again, his face close enough that Aziraphale could make out the contours of his eyes through the shades. (Really, there was no need for that, they were alone in the store.)

“I might happen to be… in possession of one of those books you take such an interest in.”

“What? But, how-- Might I ask, who do you work for?”

“Oh, I work for myself.” Crowley straightened. “And if you want to ask where I get my goods from, you’d do better not to. Let’s call them Of Unknown Origin. Capiche?”

A moment of silence.

“So… are you interested?”

Another beat, during which Aziraphale tried to convince himself that he was not actually considering his offer. Of course he wasn’t. He gasped.

“Absolutely not! How-- Why-- I’m, I’m shocked!”

Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale was sure that, behind his sunglasses, he was rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine. I get it. You’re boring. Should’ve known the moment I walked in here. One of the Good Ones.” His tone turned mocking at the last words, upper lip curling.

“Now that’s just awfully rude; there is no need for such behaviour.”

“Whatever.” The man called Crowley lifted a hand, already turning. Then he stopped in his tracks, shoulders slumping, and a groan escaped his lips. For a second Aziraphale was confused, but then he registered the source of his newest discontentment: It was raining.

It had started to rain heavily, and water was splashing off the streets and running into the gutters. One step outside and you’d be soaking wet. Crowley cursed under his breath even as he began walking towards the door.

“Ciao.” He gave a little wave.

“Wait!”

“Oh?” Crowley turned, but was unprepared for what awaited him. There he stood, the round little man with hair as white as a cloud, and was extending his arm towards him--holding an umbrella. Crowley gaped at the thing.

“Take it. It’s raining.”

“I-- Yes, I can see that, it’s raining, yeah, wet stuff, seen it before,” he brambled, still incredulous. Haltingly, he took it. Wedged it under his arm. Opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. Closed it. Opened it again. “Well, thanks, see you around,” he mumbled, just above a whisper, and then he was out the door, under the umbrella, making for his car as if the devil was on his heels.

He drove through the pouring rain as Queen blasted from his speakers. Really, he wasn’t in the mood. Should’ve checked the CD beforehand. This strange encounter did not quite leave him alone, and he replayed it in his head countless times. The white umbrella lay discarded on the front seat. He took it with him, up into his flat, where he immediately turned on the TV and failed to pay even a minute of attention to the things happening on the screen.

Books weren’t even his usual trade. It had been a spontaneous thing, a thought he’d had ever since he’d found that book in his flat a few days ago. The Nice And Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. He could for the life of him not remember how he had come into its possession. It must have happened ages ago, some collateral damage from one job or the other, and he’d misplaced it, and only now stumbled upon it again. Either way, it looked like it was worth a good sum of money, so asking questions about its provenance seemed unwise, as long as he could sell it.

Just his luck that the bookshop he’d happened upon and decided to enter on a whim--it had looked promising, all antique and, well, booky--had turned out to be bad luck. And yet…

And yet, he couldn’t get that stupid face out of his mind. Those piercing blue eyes that had went from Soft to Fierce in a heartbeat, the hand that had offered up protection against the rain when he had done nothing to deserve it, nothing at all. Well--he’d have to return the umbrella, at least.

After all, the shop was promising. It was stuffed to the top with books that smelled of Age and Money, the kind of books without cover but with gold lettering. Sometimes a little temptation was all Good People needed to turn into Not Quite As Good People, after all.

With this thought in mind Crowley fell asleep, on his couch, with the TV still blaring in the background.

  He woke up where he had fallen asleep. Grimacing, he straightened his neck and stretched out his limbs. A glance at his phone told him he had fifteen minutes to get ready, which was all he needed. He got up, turned on his stereo (one clap), changed into fresh clothes while somehow simultaneously brushing his teeth, and was out the door--but not without mindfully turning off the music (two claps). As he always did.

Crowley had dreamt again, and he was sure it was a dream that he’d had before, just recently, but the only thing he could remember from it was the word Demon, and now that gave him no clue whatsoever.

By the time he got into his Bentley he was holding a steaming cup of coffee, which he managed to drink without spilling a drop while speeding through busy London streets. He’d forgotten the umbrella, so he could not go back to the bookshop. That’s what he told himself, anyways. He also ‘forgot’ it the day after. And on Friday. On Saturday, after having thoroughly watered and terrorized his plants, he finally grabbed the white umbrella and stormed out the door.

He almost kicked a lamp post when he arrived at the shop and saw the Closed sign on the door. He drew his head back and glared at the sky. Then he looked at the door again, at the handwritten sign with the office hours, and the sound that escaped him almost sounded like a hiss.

“You’re supposed to be open, bastard,” he growled to himself, wondering why he was so upset, and then the door suddenly opened and he found himself face to face with the enigmatic Mr. Fell.

“Mr. Crowley?” Surprise was written all over his face. He pointed to the sign on the door. “We’re closed.”

Crowley glowered. “You’re supposed to be open. Look.” Frantically, he pointed at the door, as if it was not the man’s very own shop door, with his very own sign in his very own handwriting.

“I do take my liberties,” Aziraphale simply said, lifting his chin. “I was just on my way to get scones.”

“Scones?”

“I was feeling awfully peckish. So I thought, what is one more hour of opening the shop against the promise of fresh scones?” He beamed, and his eyes dropped to the umbrella that Crowley was clenching so hard his knuckles were turning red. “Oh! My umbrella!”

“Came here to return it,” Crowley pressed out between his teeth.

“That is awfully kind of you, Mr. Crowley. Thank you.”

“It is yours, so…” Crowley shrugged. “You’re really closing the shop for scones? I’ve never gotten their appeal.”

“You must not have tried the scones of the nice little bakery down the street, then! They just opened, but I must say they really make the most lovely, buttery-- why, let me tempt you to one, then!”

Crowley almost fell backwards into the pavement. This man had to be the most trusting, naive and genuinely nice person he had ever met, and it was almost driving him insane. He stared at him, and couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I mean, well, not tempt, exactly.” Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh. “Invite?”

So they had scones, and coffee, and a glass of Chardonnay. It came so natural that they both wondered why they felt as if they had known each other for a long time, when in fact it had only been a few days since their first meeting.

Only when he was back home in his empty flat, feeding his pet snake, did he remember that his objective had been to tempt the shop owner with his shady book selling deal. Instead, he had somehow ended up being the tempted one. Crowley huffed. Well--he guessed he’d have to go back.

  There was no bell above Aziraphale’s door. This was because a bell alerted you to entering customers, and Aziraphale did not want to be alerted. In his best case scenario, the would-be-customers had already left the shop by the time he came round to the front. So as he rounded the corner to the front of his shop with a cup of tea in his hand he was not prepared for the person lounging (really, there was no better word for it) on his desk.

“Hi, A.Z. Fell.” Crowley grinned, hopping off the desk and circling round to him. “Fine morning to acquire some books, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Crowley, I’ve told you before, I am not--”

“Not even…” He produced a book, nicely bound in protective cloth. “The Nice And Accurate-- oi!”

Aziraphale had taken the book right out of Crowley’s hand, staring at it as if he’d discovered the Holy Grail. “I’ve seen this before,” he whispered to himself as he retrieved the book and lay a shaking hand on its cover. Then, “No, no, I haven’t. I can’t have. I must have…” His head shot up. “Where did you get this?!”

“I told you, I don’t disclose--”

“Crowley!” Surprised, Crowley lifted his hands. Aziraphale looked exasperated, and then, as he realized how he’d addressed him, scandalized. “Oh, I’m sorry! It’s just, this book, it’s... It’s rare.”

“I imagined.”

“No. You really don’t. When I say it’s rare, I mean it is… unique, possibly.”

“Shouldn’t tell me that, if I’m the one selling it, should you?”

Aziraphale froze. His eyes grew wide, and he was on the verge of swearing.

“Tell you what.” Crowley leaned in, voice soft. “The price stays the same--if I can interest you in acquiring more interesting books in the future. And in not asking too many questions. Trust me, don’t. That’s never worked out well for anyone.”

“I…” Aziraphale hesitated. “No, I can’t. You’re.. you’re a criminal! Aren’t you?”

“Ehhh, definitions. It’s just a hobby, let’s say. Besides, what are you, an angel?” Crowley lifted his hands to his sides, waving them through the air as if mimicking a wing beat.

Aziraphale felt very torn, because, yes, a part of him did feel--well not like an angel, certainly, but still like a Good Person. On the other hand, this was not hurting anyone, was it? And this book--as well as any other rare books--they would be in good hands, with him. If he thought about it like that...

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.

“What, yes? You are an angel?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I will buy the book. I will agree to your condition.”

“What.” It sounded more like a squeezy little wot, the sound he made. Then Crowley smiled, widely, incredulously, almost thrilled. “I knew there was a spark in you, angel!” He took off his sunglasses, revealing startlingly bright eyes. (Like honey, Aziraphale briefly thought, averting his thoughts from the morally ambiguous deal he was about to strike. I like honey.) Crowley offered up a hand, and Aziraphale took it. They shook on their unspoken arrangement with a firm grip--lingering just a moment too long, averting their gaze just a second too late.

The wheels of fate, expertly jammed, began to grind down on the crow bar holding them in place.

[to be continued]

[elphenfan]

Bare My Heart to Your Sleeping Face (Good Omens) 2/?

I didn’t forget, I’ve just had a lot on my plate. Here it is, for all that cares

............................................................

The last part might seem like a very odd thing to say, except that it wasn’t really. It was Aziraphale wrestling a bit of control back from his run-away and traitorous mouth but more than that, it was a promise both to the sleeping demon and to himself.

A promise that despite, or perhaps because of, this momentary lapse in judgment, Aziraphale would never do anything that would jeopardise their current relationship, and especially not when it came to their respective upstairs.

His love wouldn’t waver, he knew that by this point. Too much had happened in the time they’d known each other, and even in the face of all of that, including the threat from both Heaven and Hell, it had never disappeared or even faded. But nor could he allow it to come between them.

That promise was the last thing he said, however, his mouth clamping quite audibly shut as he finally managed to regain control.

Anger and incredulity at what had just occurred and why it had was pushed into the background for the moment in the silent panic of watching out for any indication that Crowley was in actual fact awake despite everything that said he was still fast asleep or that he had heard any of it.

Green eyes scanned over the defined features, then did it again then once more.

There was nothing. Of course, snakes were known to be able to lie completely still for long periods of time, weren’t they? They didn’t need to be asleep for that to happen, either.

But he’s not entirely a snake, is he? He’s a fallen angel, first of all, then a snake demon. So, it doesn’t have to follow that what they can do, he can as well, and he does look as though he’s fast asleep. God knows that I’ve seen him drunk and consequently asleep enough times to know his face when he’s out like a light.

Even so, the stakes were significantly higher here than they’d ever been, at least between the two of them, weren’t they? This could cause severe and permanent damage between them, after all.

The anger was slowly seeping its way back in between the cracks of the panic, aided by the alcohol forcefully leaving his body now, though it was almost purely anger towards himself.

Why had he started to touch the ginger? Never mind that, really, at least in the face of why on earth he had suddenly started to talk about this? Why would he ever bare his heart like that? It made absolutely no sense and he couldn’t blame it on the alcohol, not entirely, as much as he wanted to.

His eyes scanned over the other’s face again, and yet again saw no indication that he was aware of where he was, much less that something had been said or what that something was.

Please let that be the case. Please, just let him be as deeply asleep as he appears to be. Let me not have ruined it all in one fell swoop. Please.

“Crowley,” he called again, softly, as one final attempt. He considered removing the sunglasses for a better look, to be sure one way or the other. But that wouldn’t necessarily give him a clearer answer and it’d run the risk of consequently waking the other up.

So, as there was still nothing, except perhaps for a slight further opening of his mouth, Aziraphale let out the softest, most unobtrusive yet longest of sighs. For all its smallness, however, it was heavily laced with relief.

Now all he had to do was somehow manoeuvre himself out from underneath the lanky body and lay him out on the sofa as though he’d been sleeping on that all along. But that shouldn’t be much of a problem. He’d done that before, after all, and the residual heat of his body on the seat would help convince the demon’s body that it’d been lying on that all along.

It took a bit more effort than usual, mostly because he was even more hyperaware of everything he did and how it might give the whole thing away.

Eventually, though, he managed to do it and clear his normal seat without sending any book tumbling to the floor, which he was rather proud of. With the way the evening had gone, it would just figure that he’d sent them crashing – and they were quite rare and precious books, too. But no, there was no papery carnage to be had this time.

He even found a blanket to drape over the sleeping figure and had managed to settle himself down in his own armchair with a book in one hand and a careful cup of tea, as he hadn’t been able to face a cup of hot cocoa right then, in the other.

In fact, so long passed before Crowley began to stir that Aziraphale had managed to not just pretend to read but actually become engrossed in what he was reading. That wasn’t to say he’d managed to push the whole incident out of his mind, because he was absolutely certain that the day that he managed that would be the same day he actually got hold of “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter”.

Crowley woke with a serious of small noises that might’ve been annoying to others but which Aziraphale normally found rather endearing. This time, however, he didn’t hear them and didn’t otherwise notice the motions the snake went through as he woke up.

He did clock the somewhat mussy-sounding, searching call of his name, though, and couldn’t help the small extra beat of his heart at the thought that the first thing out of Crowley’s mouth when he woke was his name, even if it was probably merely because he’d fallen asleep in his bookshop and didn’t know where the other was.

“Take your glasses off, you’ll be able to see everything much better,” he said, not looking up from the page. Studiously so, one might say. He didn’t need to see the lanky body slowly wake up and not just because he knew well enough what it looked like.

“Don’t want to. Far too bright as is,” answered Crowley, a slight hiss to his voice. However, he didn’t sound quite as drunk or even as hung-over as one would expect with the amount of alcohol he’d downed. Or perhaps it was more that he didn’t sound as tired as he ought to, given the fact that he’d only just woken up.

Aziraphale didn’t notice that.

“Well, if you will drink that much…” he chided as he turned a page. He conveniently forgot to say anything about how much they normally drank or how much he himself had consumed.

The ginger, however, didn’t.

“You drank more than I did!” Crowley said and whether that was protest, accusation or indignation wasn’t at all clear. “And you had booze in your dessert!”

That last part definitely was accusation. He’d sat himself up at that, the blond could tell by the creak of the sofa and the soft noise of the blanket shifting.

“That hardly counts. You’re supposed to have alcohol in a trifle, it really isn’t a proper trifle without it.”

Aziraphale still didn’t look up from where he was reading his book. At least, ostensibly he was reading it. In reality, he’d stopped being engrossed in its plot and not purely because he had to carry on a conversation with Crowley at the same time. He could multitask in such matters rather well after so much practice. That he chose to block out the rest of the world to focus on his reading was another matter entirely.

Just because he was no longer engrossed didn’t mean he was going to look up, however. He was quite content where he was, thank you ever so much. Ahem.

“But you picked one that had kirsch in the trifle and the cherries on top were soaked in it, too.”

That he was almost entirely coherent now Aziraphale wasn’t surprised by. He’d undoubtedly pushed both tiredness and hangover out with a small miracle or whatever was the demonic equivalent.

But it was nice to fall into something as ordinary as their normal chat, even in its good-natured quibbling form, and he grabbed at it gratefully, in the hope that if he worked hard and kept things bottled up and under mental lock and key far better than he had – preferably, he never got drunk around Crowley again, either – then things could continue like this between them forever. Which would be all that he could wish for, really.

“And as I recall, you stole most of those cherries, one of them off my very fork.”

The smirk the demon had had when he’d done it, too – and the fact that it was a small smirk hadn’t diminished it in the slightest, either.

At long last, he managed to turn a page. Now just to remember what the last paragraph on the previous page had been about. Something about…about…

His view of the page was suddenly obscured by locks of shoulder length red hair. Then the rest of his vision was filled up with the visage of Crowley who was rather too close for comfort. Especially as he was at the perfect closeness for a kiss.

Aziraphale immediately reared his head back a fair bit and did it quickly.

In the back of his mind was the thought that it was good his panic to keep from overstepping – and why was it suddenly so constantly difficult to refrain from that when it wasn’t even as though it was a recent development, even by their standards? – could look as though he was just shocked at Crowley disrespecting personal space.

“You still drank more than me,” drawled Crowley, as though that somehow concluded the argument.

“Well, then I guess what we can conclude from that is that I hold my alcohol far better than you do,” Aziraphale replied, a tad sniffilly, trying hard to ignore the desire to…well, so much, really, it was hard to keep track of.

But Crowley only grinned.

“Hah! As if. You forget that I know you, angel, and I remember…” He paused, at first just frowning. Then it became his whole face that scrunched up for a beat, two.

“Excuse me,” he said around a noise that might’ve been a suppressed burp.

“Really,” Aziraphale said, sounding for all the world like a mildly scandalised housewife from the fifties. But then, Crowley did excuse himself, that was, well, something.

“Your blessed cherries,” Crowley said, stifling another one. “Trying to make a run for it. Oh, Satan…”

He pulled away, looking genuinely uncomfortable, one hand finding the lower half of his abdomen – calling it a stomach or belly seemed almost wrong when it was rarely anything but concave – while the other stayed in the vicinity of his mouth.

Concerned, Aziraphale closed his book and put it away.

Then he handed Crowley a glass.

The demon stared at him for moment but took the glass without comment and downed its contents.

Without question, either, Aziraphale realised a little belatedly. He could’ve filled that to the brim with holy water – not that he ever would, mind! Just the thought of it was abominable and made his insides churn and writhe. What had been in the glass was water and something to calm the stomach whatever ailed it. But the point was that he could have done it, and Crowley would’ve drunk it, without hesitation or question.

His heart was beating painfully in his chest as he watched Crowley let out a sigh of relief, the pain not entirely bad.

This. This right here, the trust in him, the inclusion, the care and all the rest. Wasn’t this worth the heartache, the troubles and the pining?

What an absolutely silly question.

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

It wasn’t long after that, about a year or so, that Crowley got his assignment to deliver the Antichrist to his foster parents and the countdown to Armageddon officially began.

Well, technically, of course, that countdown had begun the moment Earth had been created, really, but the home straight, as it were, had arrived and as always in such circumstances where you’re mainly sure you didn’t want to reach what lay at the end of the countdown, time seemed to pass just a bit faster.

At the same time, though, the fact that it all ticked down to an endpoint, the endpoint, you might say, made things take on a new importance along with the urgency, and thus it felt slower, somehow. As if the world was being run at eight-tenth of its normal speed. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

The fact that they were trying to prevent it from happening at all didn’t make much of a difference in that scenario, unfortunately.

What it did do, however, was push Aziraphale’s fears about what he’d done and whether he’d made a complete mess of everything into at least a modicum of background.

Having the demon somewhere in the world, safe and sound even if Aziraphale would never see him again because of what he’d revealed, however inadvertently, was preferable to have him discorporated or outright destroyed through Heavenly means when the battle, the war finally arrived.

Even in the scenario where it was Hell who won the war – and Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling awful and terribly guilty for even contemplating that possibility, because he shouldn’t – there was no guarantee he’d be safe or even come out of it alive.

No, preventing Armageddon had…further benefits than making sure the Earth and its inhabitants didn’t perish in the struggle between Heaven and Hell to see who was, ultimately, the deserved victor.

But the fact that it’d been pushed into the background in favour, if such it could be called, of more worldly concerns did not equal that they were gone or even that they would stay in the background. Of course not.

The first time they surfaced was while they were both ‘employed’ by the Dowlings to look after little Warlock.

He had feared that it would happen sooner, to be perfectly honest.

When they had, in their attempt to cope with the fact that the End of the World had gone from some nebulous future point to an actual, concrete time of roughly eleven years from then, begun to drink, Aziraphale had a few extra issues to deal with. Such as the panic over drinking with Crowley again and the determination that nothing would pass his lips, never mind allow either of them to fall asleep. The fear that being drunk would loosen their tongues, too, and that either would let something slip that they shouldn’t.

Even so, the drink was very much needed in light of what he’d learned, and he couldn’t help the almost copious amount that he downed.

Thankfully, though their talk was decidedly drunken and just a bit silly despite the seriousness of the situation, there was no mention or even hint of Aziraphale’s confession. As for the risk of falling asleep drunk, that was thankfully taken care of by his need to sober up in order to cope with what they were talking about. And Crowley following suit, of course. Most definitely.

In the intervening five years, until Warlock was, they felt, old enough to have a nanny that could also function as a governess and could teach him thoroughly, they saw each other, yes, to find out whether there were any more murmurings from below or above and keep notes on how the ambassador and his wife was handling their little hell-spawn.

Granted, they did also go out to purely enjoy themselves sometimes. Aziraphale wasn’t quite able to enjoy it all as he normally did, at least not for the first two or three years, but after nothing seemed to come of it, he began to relax just a little.

And they were busy with other stuff, too. Impending Armageddon ought really to either speed every activity on earth up as things needed to be wrapped up and everything made ready for the rush or come to a grinding halt as there was no longer much point to try and enact anything. It would be like ordering a buffet option five minutes before closing.

But looking after the Antichrist, balancing out the influences, that brought them into closer…not exactly contact, as there wasn’t too much reason for a nanny and a gardener to interact, but certainly proximity and for a longer period than they ever had. They even did interact from time to time. Of course, they were careful to keep their talk strictly professional, well, mainly, and most certainly didn’t discuss the nature of their little charge while either Warlock or his parents could overhear.

Sometimes, however, Aziraphale thought there was an odd cadence to Crowley’s voice when they talked that was new. It was only occasionally but it happened while in-character as Ashtoreth and Brother Francis – and well, he would have to admit that the slight burr in the softened nanny-voice was…quite lovely – as well as when they otherwise met up and regardless of the circumstance, Aziraphale was still able to detect it.

The oddity mainly came from it seeming to be, of all things, something like optimism, like hope. It wasn’t exactly beaming but it was there, a soupçon infused in many other expressions and tones. Which would make sense if it related to how things seemed to be working, that the heavenly influences really were balancing out the hellish ones, which seemed to the blessed case, rendering the child wonderfully normal.

Crowley had voiced the thought that perhaps he was too normal a few times already but Aziraphale had resolutely pushed the idea aside.

Though he could admit he was hardly an expert, Aziraphale didn’t think the optimism and hope was to do with their apparent success. It felt unrelated to it, among other things because it appeared at occasions and in conversations that had nothing to do with the little boy they were looking after.

It wasn’t only that, either. If it had been purely that, Aziraphale might’ve been able to write it off. As what exactly, he wasn’t sure and didn’t dare examine, in case that it crumbled before him, when he thought that it was in fact solely that.

What was in addition was the occasional long stare from equally long distances that seemed incredibly thoughtful for the demon’s normal range, visible through the sunglasses, and didn’t stop when the blond caught it. Not immediately, anyway, as if Crowley didn’t mind being caught watching. Once or twice there was even just the hint of a smile, highlighted by bright lipstick when nannying, that hadn’t even a hint of a smirk in it.

There was also the fact that he sat himself closer than he’d done before or moved so that he was almost, almost touching the blond without quite getting there and even that sometimes, very rarely, Crowley would open his mouth when there’d been silence between them, and start to ask a question, only to seemingly think the better of it and shut his mouth, then often enough start talking about something else entirely. Sometimes he wouldn’t get further than a noise before he clammed up.

That last part was in itself not really odd but in conjunction with the other things and the fact that they were all rather new additions…

Whatever the actual reason for it, it made the angel’s fear that something must’ve gotten through to the demon of that confession while he slept despite everything, and he was telling him that he knew ratchet right back up.

Aziraphale���s hands bunched into fists against his thighs as he sat in his chair in the bookshop one evening and contemplated it. He wasn’t exactly keen on doing it, but he’d put it off for a long while by that point and it was starting to affect him.

But no. No, that didn’t make any sense. Why would he wait this long to start giving him hints if he’d remembered all along? Or perhaps a better question, if he’d only just remembered or pieced something together, was why he was hinting at it in the first place? Why not confront him outright? It wasn’t as though Crowley could ever be termed as ‘shy’, was it?

It was simply Aziraphale’s paranoia doing the talking and nothing more. Yes, that was it.

However, that left the question of why he’d then been doing all of those things. What other possible explanation could there be? It was hard, to say the least, to think of any that would fit the criteria.

You could always ask Crowley, an inner voice suggested. Be the one who confronts him.

Oh, yes, and how would that look? ‘Crowley, I believe you keep doing this and that and so on, little things that add up to something else, I feel. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I cannot help but be worried and slightly unsettled.’

Yes, that’d just work outright marvellously, wouldn’t it?

Especially seeing as ‘unsettled’ only worked as something not completely horrible, coming from an angel to a demon, when it was used in the context of Aziraphale’s fears and worries. Which was exactly what he was trying to hide.

Using other words wouldn’t work much better either, he felt, because he was, implicitly or explicitly, saying that he was keeping Crowley under observation and monitoring their conversations and for what?

No, there was a number of reasons why that could be construed wrongly. Nor was it as though he was likely to get a good explanation or even an explanation at all out of it. Even if that was the case, the risk to reward was quite disproportionate.

What should he do instead, then?

Oh, he didn’t know!

His closed hands slid down his thighs then back up in frustrated fear and apprehension.

Why had he done it? No amount of alcohol or even the combination of Crowley’s presence in his lap and copious amounts of alcohol should be capable of sending his guard down so fully as that. He should have known better. Should’ve been able to stop his mouth – and his hand!

That was another issue.

In comparison to six millennia, five years was, well, the blink of an eye, really, if even that much. Add to that that Aziraphale had, when the circumstances were right – whether that was by his choice or not was another matter – quite the crystal, almost eidetic memory, and you ended up in a situation where certain moments still felt as though they had only just happened.

Perhaps it was also the fact that it hadn’t been some random person he’d touched. It was Crowley.

Yes. That most certainly made a lot of, if not all the difference.

But he could still feel at least a phantom of that cheek underneath his fingers, the thick, red hair between them and it made him ache, in more ways than one.

That brought him back to the question of why he’d done it. He’d known that it was a bad idea from the off, had always managed to curtail any inclinations to take it where he so wanted but couldn’t take back.

The worst part was…he had no answer. Not a one.

Even after spending what felt like hours on it, he was getting nowhere except feeling further sense of misery about it all.

Then he sighed deeply and got up from his chair.

He would have to be back at the Dowling house in just a few hours, in full smiling buck-toothed ensemble and with a disposition to match as he nudged the actual hell-spawn towards something more…divine, and he did have some actual work to do before then.

Right. Slip back into who he was meant to play – and that wasn’t purely the gardener persona, either.

[alysmarylin]

The war that just started (Good Omens fanfic)

Aziraphale’s nice beige coat was covered in soot and ashes, as were his face and his hair, and all his body. He was standing on ruins of church, blown up couple of seconds before that, and the only things left untouched by the explosion were Aziraphale himself, his demon friend Crowley and a bag with Aziraphale’s books.

-          Lift home?, -  Crowley asked, without even looking at him, wearing his dark glasses underneath a black hat, in the dead of the night, as he was slowly moving away from the mess, back to the street.

But Aziraphale couldn’t move for another few seconds, and those seconds seemed to be the longest in his almost-6000-year earthly life.

It all happened so sudden – he was deceived and betrayed by his agent (a double agent, as it turned out), then nearly killed, and then he was saved by someone he didn’t expect to ever see again.

Crowley.

-          You’re coming of what? You plan to stay there all night until another bomb drops?

Crowley was all in black – of course he was! – and he was standing near a posh black car, and all that blackness made it hard to distinguish him from the darkness of a London night. But every now and then, pale artificial light flashed somewhere far away, and Crowley’s tall slim figure became as clear and distinct as it was cut out of paper.

Something was aching inside  Aziraphale’s chest as he looked at this figure. Black suit, elegant hat – why, everything about Crowley was elegant.

“How handsome he is, how exquisite... Have I ever seen that? Have I always known that he’s good as well? I thought he forgot me long ago, and look at us now…”

-          Is that your car, Crowley?  - Aziraphale asked while carefully moving away from the ruins.

-          Yep. You like it? I got it in 1929, and not a scratch since then. I plan to keep it that way. – Crowley opened the door for Aziraphale with a courteous gesture.

-          Thank you.

Aziraphale got in, too embarrassed to say he was still a bit wary of using cars, 20 years after they became common.

-          I like it. This car is very lovely. Suits you well.

-          As if you’d know what suits me or not, angel. Where to?

“Angel”. He hadn’t heard this nickname in 80 years, and yet it seemed like he’d just heard it the other day. Aziraphale didn’t want to go home, but it was no time to mumble and drive around London with no purpose. They were in a middle of a great war, after all.

-          John Lock’s 49, please. Do you know where it is?

-          No. Will you show me?

-          Uhm, yes.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, and for half an hour or so they drove in silence, only breaking it to discuss directions. Crowley seemed calm and reserved. Before long, they came to a place currently occupied by Aziraphale. The silence made air too thich to breathe.

-          So… May I stay here, for a while? – Aziraphale felt like a complete idiot, asking to stay in a car on a street during a bombing raid, but he couldn’t make himself leave just yet. – I haven’t seen you in a while, you know.

-          Quite a while, yeah. – Crowley smiled. – Such a mental time, this century. Airplanes, zeppelins, all those killing machines. I’m a bit worn out already, to be frank.

-          Well, at least fashion is good. You look great in this suit, I must tell you. – Aziraphale was afraid his voiced trembled a bit too much.

-          Thanks. I like it too. My shoes, though… I think I ruined them. – Crowley looked down on his feet, slightly concerned.  – My best pair, they were. Pity.

Aziraphale remembered how Crowley was shifting on consecrated ground and the aching in his chest felt sharper and stronger.

-          I didn’t expect to see you there. Or anywhere. I thought it was over. Our…

-          Fraternizing? – Crowley turned his face to him, smiling with a mocking smile that suddenly looked so familiar and unpretentious that Aziraphale finally felt he could relax just a bit.

-          I’m sorry about that, alright? I meant to say “our friendship”. You are my friend, of that I’m sure. Now. What you did was very kind. But I… I don’t understand -  how did you find me?

-          As much as you’d think I’m a Nazi, angel, it just so happens that I’m not…

-          … I’m sorry about that, too!

-          … Shut up. As much as you’d think I’m a Nazi, I’m not. I used to spend some time with British intelligence, learned a thing or two. And one day I heard of some bugger named Andrew Zira Fell.

That was, in retrospect, indeed a bit obvious.

-          … Anyway, it wasn’t long before I learned you were going to be… How did you put it? Played for a sucker, yes.  – Crowley laughed. – Then I knew it just had to be you, mr. Fell.

-          I’m such an idiot.  – Aziraphale’s face turned red. - It seems so obvious now, the way I got fooled…

-          Come on, you’re not an idiot. – Crowley put a hand on his shoulder. – But you’re too naïve and way too trusting. You’ll get yourself in much more trouble if you won’t start testing people before trusting them, and I won’t be always there to get you out.

“How I wish you were…”

-          I guess it’s not a good time for lunches and leisurely strolls in parks. I don’t know what to suggest, but I… - Aziraphale didn’t know how to put it in words. – I don’t want to lose sight of you for another 80 years.

-          Provided there will be another 80 years, angel. I’m not so sure of that anymore. Things I hear, the nuclear bombs… Those people make things that make Hell shiver.

-          You told me once “Animals don’t kill each other will clever machines, only humans do that”. It was back in 1790s. Now I see what you meant, how right you were. – “And how bright and clever, much brighter than me” – Aziraphale thought.

-          Wish I wasn’t. Anyway, I’m leaving in the morning. Overseas, got business to do. I don’t know when I’ll be back in England, but I hope…

“Does he hope to see me here?!...”

-          … I hope there’s still be England to come back to. – Crowley finished with a sigh.

“Well, that makes sense too”.

-          What did you plan to do before leaving? I suppose there’s not much entertainment here…

-          Can’t argue that. Nothing, really. Save you, drop you home, sit in my car. Quite a plan, is it?

Aziraphale thought that it may have been the last time he saw him before he got discorporated from another bomb. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not after so little time with him…

-          Would you like some company here? I don’t really need to sleep, you know. And it could very well be the last time before either of us gets hit by another bomb, so…

-          I don’t mind you here, angel. But stop that nonsense about “last time”, will you? - Crowley sounded irritated. - Neither of us can die, you do remember that, I hope?

-          I do. But I’m scared.   – Aziraphale confessed shyly. – I never thought it could come to things like that. Things they do on continent. Or in Russia. Or…

-          We’re all scared, angel. But the world will end anyway, in fire and flames, and we’ll be on opposite sides when it does. – Crowley seemed calm but somewhat sad. – So better not to dwell on it for far too long.

They stayed in the car until the first light of dawn – two immortal beings, bound by almost-6000-year friendship, they had much to discuss. But the night was over too soon for Aziraphale, and before he was ready to let go of Crowley, blood-red light of sunrise treacherously covered them both.

“Not now, not yet…”

-          It’s time for me to leave, angel. It was nice seeing you. I hope this city will still be there when I return.

-          Crowley, could you… Take your glasses off, for a moment? A-and your hat, too.

He knew he sounded pathetic, but he longed to see his eyes one last time, if it truly was the last time.

-          Whatever. Why? – Crowley took both off. – I prefer keeping hat on, not my best haircut as of now.

Aziraphale looked at him, seated so close, shined by crimson rising sun – yellow snake eyes, ginger curly hair, aquiline nose - same as he was in Eden and yet so different, and a thought crossed angel’s mind, sharp as a knife and as deadly as it:

“I love him”

Crowley looked so beautiful in that moment that the bliss of simply looking at him almost overweighed pain and regret that filled Aziraphale’s heart.

-          I have to go now, I really do. I’ll find you when I come back, just don’t get yourself shot or exploded, angel. A’right? – Crowley suddenly grinned. – I tell you, we’ll win. The Allies will win, I mean. No way I’m gonna let those bastards take our London.

Such an optimist. As always. And he said “our London”…

-          Now I feel safe. See you, Crowley.

Black Bentley disappeared at the crossroads a minute after Aziraphale left it, but he stood silently and watched the sun rise for at lest a few minutes after that. Sirens kept wailing. The war went on.

And for the first time in almost 6000 years, time went so slow it was almost impossible to bear it.

[mordellestories]

Bless the Fallen

[our-smooty]

Flowerbeds and Fertile Soil: Chapter 5

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens, )Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer

Tags:  Kidfic, Mpreg kind of, they can choose to present however so idk, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Vulva (Good Omens), OCs Galor, parenting, using your snake form to avoid confrontation, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pregnancy, if I missed a tag lemme know

Summary: They could do anything, go anywhere, all without the worry of Above or Bellow making a fuss. Even so, they mostly kept to their little patch of Eden, their cottage and garden and the simple life they’d carved out among the locals. Aziraphale opened a book shop in town, where he only occasionally sold any books (and the ones he did sell, were all modern and stocked specifically for that purpose). Crowley focused his attentions on the garden, and if he occasionally helped their elderly neighbour with her disobedient willow tree, then that was a secret no one needed to know. Lately, however, they had both been feeling rather restless, unbeknownst to each other. Aziraphale tried reorganizing his store, changing the way he tied his bowtie and even ate pizza –something he considered to be far too messy for him personally. Crowley had branched out into birdwatching, and then car maintenance (the human way), and even reading. Nothing scratched the itch for either of them.

Ao3 Link

My Ko-Fi

3 days later, they finally wore each other out. By the end of the last day Crowley was practically incapable of speaking and Aziraphale was a jittering mass of sensation. They stopped when the mutual shaking of their bodies made it nearly impossible to continue. Shortly thereafter, they both fell asleep after a very half-hearted miracle from the demon to clean things up. Crowley couldn’t have cared less himself but knew the angel would be very uncomfortable and upset when the woke up if they didn’t get clean. It was the least he could do, after innumerable orgasms. 

Crowley’s sleep was deep and dreamless which was rare for him. Even all those times when he napped away months and decades there had been frequent strange--sometimes upsetting--dreams that forced him awake. It was probably one of the reasons those naps lasted so long; it was hard to feel rested if you can’t actually rest. But this time Crowley was out like one of Aziraphale’s Heavenly lights for just two days, practically a catnap, and when he woke he felt hazy, but rejuvenated. 

With a satisfied sigh and a great big stretch, Crowley burrowed under to covers, a stupid smile on his face. He felt fantastic, especially since his sleep had let him skip any muscle soreness. All that was left was the pleasant buzzing of a very satisfied libido. Again he reached down to touch his lower belly, something akin to giddy nervousness. Would he know right away? Or would he have to wait like any old human? It wasn’t like there was a president. 

In the end he didn’t spend too much time luxuriating in their bed. Mostly because he could hear Aziraphale downstairs and the idea of getting some morning snuggles--even if it was nearly noon--appealed to him greatly. The getting up and getting dressed part was only a little tricky; even after three days his legs still felt a little wobbly, but in the end he managed it without using a miracle. Comfy clothes in place Crowley made a quick pit stop in the bathroom to brush his teeth, then meandered down the stairs into the living room where he knew Aziraphale would be curled up with a book and a cuppa. 

“Hello dearest,” Aziraphale greeted, setting his book aside to pat the couch beside him. Crowley folded himself into the space and over the angel’s lap. “Did you have a good rest?”

Crowley nodded making a grabbing gesture for Aziraphale’s cup of tea, which he was passed very without complaint. Contrary to his taste in coffee, Crowley liked his tea very sweet and milky, which luckily lined up with his lover’s tastes exactly. He handed the cup back to Aziraphale and nuzzled further into the angel’s shoulder. “Lunch?”

Aziraphale wiggled happily, setting the tea aside with his book and drawing Crowley in closer. “I heard that the pub in town has been getting very fresh produce this summer and have been using it to make the most delicious tea sandwiches.”

“Sounds good angel, they have that cider too, yeah? The kind with ginger in it?” The sandwiches he could take or leave, and usually he’d give his portion to Aziraphale just to watch him enjoy them. Alcohol though was always something he enjoyed. 

“Yes, but I think we should be avoiding that now, shouldn't we?” Crowley frowned in confusion for a few seconds before he groaned. 

“Aziraphale… We don’t even know if its--If I’m--” He was really going to have to get over this inability to talk about it. 

“Still, it’s good to get into the habit, and I’m sure they have some lovely non-alcoholic drinks we can enjoy.”

“We? S’not like you can’t drink,” he groused, fiddling with the buttons on Aziraphale’s waistcoat, thoroughly prepared to throw himself into an epic sulk. 

Aziraphale made a considering noise. “It wouldn’t be fair though, would it? I don’t think I’d feel right, indulging while you can’t.” That made him feel… something. Grateful maybe? Or embarrassed. Either way it calmed him down enough to avert a really moody disaster. Curse Aziraphale for being so attentive and sweet and not giving Crowley any reason to have a really good brood. 

“Fine. But I’m ordering the most expensive, most complicated drink they have. And I might even send it back,” Crowley grumped. Aziraphale giggled and pressed a kiss to the demon’s sleep-mussed hair, which was entirely too pleasant for the simple gesture it was. It made Crowley want to turn into a snake and curl up in the angel’s lap and forget about going for lunch. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything else, my dear. Shall we get ready to go? I’m sure you don’t want to go out in your loungewear.” It was Crowley’s turn to laugh and plant a kiss on the angel’s cheek with an exasperated eye-roll.

“They’re trackies angel, not loungewear. You’re such an old man.” He still didn’t get off the sofa though. “No idea why I want to have your k-kid, to be honest.”

“Love probably has something to do with it,” Aziraphale teased lightly. Crowley grumbled but didn’t deny anything. Not like he could have, with how badly he was blushing. Damn these human corporations and their vascular systems. 

“Shut up,” he groused, snuggling further into the warmth and softness of his lover’s well-worn jacket. “When do you want to leave?” Crowley knew it was best to let the angel set the pace, lest Aziraphale get himself into a tizzy.

Aziraphale considered briefly before nodding decisively. “I think I’d like to remain here for a little while, if that’s alright. I’m enjoying just sitting here with you.”

“Mmm, fine with me. You’re warm.” His snakey nature shone through in moments like this, and Crowley had the secret suspicion that Aziraphale had been gradually increasing his natural body temperature since they had begun living together to cater to his reptilian side. He couldn’t find the will to complain about it. 

“Splendid. We’ll head out in a little bit.” Aziraphale used the hand not around Crowley’s shoulders to reclaim his tea and they took turns sipping. If the tea lasted longer than it really should have between them, Crowley was willing to let it slide because it gave him more time to cuddle up to his angel. Miraculously, the pub would have a large number of tea sandwiches still ready and fresh when they got there, despite the fact they regularly sold out. 

The next 2 months were a flurry of sex, cuddling, and preparation for Pulcifer-Device child number three. They were eventually forced to stop their near-constant state of being in bed or recovering from being in bed to watch Lottie and Annabella while Anathema and Newt made final preparations--and got as much sleep as possible before--their newest addition. Luckily their South Downs cottage was already equipped with a room specially made for the girls and they were both more than prepared to watch them for at least a week at a time. Though they still paniced occasionally becuause raising the Anti-Christ was one thing, especially since they really hadn’t been raising him so much as influence. Taking care of and watching over two little girls who they were invested in was entirely another. 

In the final week before Anathema was due Aziraphale had offered to have Lottie and Bella stay over at the cottage until the baby arrived. Anathema had readily agreed--probably desperate to get some rest before the big day--and Newt had brought them and all of their supplies over. As far as they knew, this was just another fun trip to spend some time with their uncles, and not a brief respite for their parents. Crowley did not envy Anathema and Newt having to deal with two children under 5 all the time.

“Crowley, why are the girls eating ice cream for breakfast?” Aziraphale asked as he strolled into the kitchen on the second day. Both Annabella and Charlotte had heaping servings of chocolate ice cream in front of them, and on them, and on the table. It was an impressive mess. Crowley glanced up from where he’d been scrolling through his phone and shrugged. 

“They asked for it. Figured after the tummy aches set in they’ll never ask again, or this’ll be one of those “fantastic childhood memories” humans like so much.” Aziraphale tutted and snapped, changing the bowls of ice cream to whole wheat pancakes and fruit. Lottie sighed dramatically but didn’t complain too much because the angel had made sure to stack her plate high with strawberries, which were her favourite. Bella on the other hand was only three and did not appreciate her sugary feast being replaced. Crowley saw the subtle chin wobble and furrowing of her tiny brow and immediately glared at Aziraphale. 

“Big mistake angel,” he drawled just as she took in a  deep breath. Aziraphale gave him a confused look before the situation seemed to strike him all at once. It was too late though, because in the next second she let out an ear-piercing screech that could have rivalled Beezlebub on a bad day. “At least the ice cream was keeping them quiet.”

“You can't give children pure sugar for breakfast, Crowley! It’s not good for them and I would expect you to know better!” Aziraphale near-shouted, wringing his hands this way and that as he hovered around his youngest god-daughter. Lottie was still calmly eating her strawberries and making a mess out the pancakes by squishing them up and pushing them off the plate. It was a far cry from the peace Crowley had created with the ice cream.

“You think I didn’t miracle away most of the sugar and other gunk before giving it to them? I’m not an amateur Aziraphale.” Crowley rolled his eyes and stood, procuring a can of whipped cream from thin air and dolloping a fair-sized amount on each girl's portion. Almost immediately Bella began to quiet, but Crowley wasn’t finished. “Use your words, Bella. What do you say to Uncle Aziraphale and your sister?”

She squirmed and pouted before relenting. “Sorry for yelling.”

“Good, now finish your breakfast and then we can go to the park yeah?” She nodded happily and began to dig into her food. “And Charlotte for Somebody's sake stop making a mess and just eat your food. You aren’t a baby and you don’t need to mush it up, do you?”

Aziraphale watched with wide eyes as Crowley completely diffuse the situation he had created. The demon could feel his nervous, unsure energy from across the room. He vanished the whipped cream--because he knew his god-daughters well enough not to trust them around it without close supervision--and gave the angel a pat on the shoulder. “S’not good to spring stuff on them like that angel. Besides, it’s gonna be confusing enough for them when the baby shows up, might as well let them have some fun.”

“I didn’t think--I’m sorry dear.” Aziraphale physically deflated. “I’m rubbish with children, aren’t I?”

Crowley sighed and pulled Aziraphale into his side, not trapping him in a hug just in case Bella’s screaming earlier had been too overwhelming. “You just need some practise angel. We can work on it.”

“No more sugary stuff for breakfast though, alright dear? Even if you do make it healthier, I don’t want them going back homing and demanding sweets.” Crowley supposed that was fair, though he might still sneak the girls a little something when Aziraphale wasn’t looking. It was only right, especially with how busy Anathema and Newt would be with the new baby over the next few months. 

“Sure. Are you coming to the park with us?” Crowley asked, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s jawline and taking in a big whiff of that familiar sunlight and book glue smell. Normally Crowley could do this for hours, basking in the fact that he was allowed to do something as absurd as sniff his angel now, but this time there was something wrong. Aziraphale smelled off and bad and Crowley jerked back, automatically throwing a hand over his mouth while sprinting to the sink. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, voice dripping with concern. “Crowley, what’s wrong?”

At the table, Charlotte and Annabella looked up from their breakfasts with wide eyes. “Uncle Azi is Uncle Crowley alrigh--ahh!” Bella screamed as Crowley heaved over the kitchen sink and threw up the coffee he’d had for breakfast. And then the remnants of the chips he’d stolen from Aziraphale’s plate the night before. And then, when there was nothing left, he kept retching and retching until he could taste the bitter-poison taste of bile coat his tongue.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said again, rushing over and holding back the demon’s hair to prevent any more sick getting stuck in it. “Oh goodness, what happened? Are you ill; can demons even get sick? Tell me what to do!”

“Ngk--shhhh” Crowley hissed, spitting the last of the sick in his mouth out into the sink and gagging at the smell. “M’fine, need water.” Immediately there was a glass of ice cold water being thrust into his hand and fluttering hands combing through his hair. The water helped with the bad taste and with the strange, unexpected nausea, but I didn't do anything for the sudden dizziness he felt. “Think I’m… I’m gonna pass out..”

The edges of his vision began to fade out as his ears began to ring. Faintly he could hear Bella and Lottie’s upset little voices talking over Aziraphale’s equally panicked one, followed by a firm grip keeping him mostly upright and the shattering of glass. Angel’s could be strong, when they needed to be. Crowley sagged into Aziraphale’s arms bonelessly and completely out of it. He wasn’t sure if seconds or minutes had passed but eventually things began to calm down and right themselves. His vision came back--when everything had gone fully black and reddish he wasn’t sure--and he could distinctly hear the sound of Aziraphale asking Lottie to get him Crowley’s cell phone from the table. It sounded like the angel was about to call someone, but who? 999 wasn’t exactly equipped to deal with occult beings passing out in their kitchens. 

“Zzzzira?” he slurred, wondering when they had gotten on the floor. “Wha’happened?”

“I’m not sure dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was shaking, clearly terrified. “You were throwing up and then you just… you just fainted. How are you feeling now?”

It was still difficult to string thoughts together, but Crowley knew he needed to for Aziraphale and the girls. “Hot, kinda sick. You smelled… wrong. Who’re you calling?”

“I-I’m not sure. I thought maybe one of our friends, Madame Tracy is a bit of a Jack of All Trades, she might know what to do…”

“Absolutely not. She’ll bring Shadwell and I don’t think I can deal with him right now,” he groaned, wiggling into a sitting position. “I’m already feeling better angel, I’m OK.”

“Uncle Crowley?” a tiny voice to his left called out. Both girls stood back a few feet, clutching at each other and looking entirely too worried. If Crowley thought worrying Aziraphale was bad, he was entirely unprepared for the way those scared faces made him feel. 

“Come’ere,” he said, opening his arms so they could each bury themselves in one of his shoulders. Aziraphale leaned in too, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulling him close to his chest. “I’m alright, sorry I scared you.”

“You threw up and passed out Crowley, I wouldn’t call that alright in any sense of the word,” Aziraphale murmured into his hair. “Can you tell me what happened, at least?”

Crowley thought for a bit, idly twisting and playing with the girls’ hair. “I was OK and then I smelled you and it made me feel sick, and then I was on the floor,” he explained, starting a more complicated braid in Lottie’s hair. “You didn’t smell any different than normal but it was just… not good.”

Behind him Aziraphale hummed. “I still think we should call someone.” Crowley grunted and refused to respond, hoping that if he didn’t acknowledge it that Aziraphale would drop the idea. Besides, he felt fine now, maybe a little weak, but in general ok. In front of him Bella squirmed out of his grip, wrinkling her nose at the smell from the sink. 

“It’s like mummy,” she said, pinching her nose. Both Crowley and Aziraphale’s head snapped towards her. 

“What do you mean, sweety?” 

Bella made a face and stuck her tongue out in disgust. “Mummy got sick, when the baby was starting to grow in her tummy.” Suddenly, everything clicked into place and Crowley’s stomach dropped and fluttered at the same time. Aziraphale went inhumanly still at his back; no breathing, no heartbeat.

“Morning sickness…” Crowley wheezed, the plait he was working on slipping from his fingers. “Makes sense, the sensitivity to smells, the sick, the dizziness.”

“Does it?” Aziraphale squeaked. Crowley laughed a little, surprised at how out-of-depth the angel sounded. 

“Didn’t you watch over Eve in the Garden?”

“Yes but--!” Aziraphale blustered. “I didn’t ask about those things Crowley, that would have been rude!”

“Oh of course,” Crowley intoned. The only reason he didn’t roll his eyes was because he was worried it might make him dizzy again. “Wouldn’t want to ask anything inappropriate.”

“Quite.” They fell silent again outside of Bella’s continued complaints about the smell. “Wait does this mean you’re--?”

“Yup,” Crowley answered his voice wobbling up and down in a distinctly freaked-out way. “Also, I need you to get a bucket, cause I’m pretty sure I’m about to get sick everywhere again in about 10 seconds.”

[writingfromkitchenator]

Stuck

Prompt 1 of @sdavid09 Daily Writing Challenge (Sorry it’s taken so long, I’ve been sick the last few days)

Crowley is stuck in a room with someone he hates…

Crowley wasn’t impressed, swearing that this would be the last time that he helps the Winchester’s with anything, as he was now stuck in a rather empty and boring room, in a devil’s trap.  How he ended up here, wasn’t entirely clear, but he remembered being hit by something and then winding up here.

It’d been a few hours now and to say that he was bored out of his mind was an understatement, he couldn’t even hear anything outside and there was only so many times that he could think of something creative to do.

He sighed again, the devil’s trap stopping just before he could reach the door.  Whatever they’d been hunting, clearly had a sense of humour.

When the door opened, Crowley was about to come out with a comment when Rowena was shoved into the room, the door slamming shut once again.

Crowley’s stomach dropped. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Rowena straightened out, brushing her dress down before seeming to realise that Crowley was standing there.  “Fergus? What are you doing in here?”

“I could ask you the same thing Mother,” Crowley said, grimacing.  “Last I checked you weren’t even on this little escapade.”

She rolls her eyes.  “Yes, well, it appears that my luck is as good as your dear and I ran into the Winchester’s.”

Crowley sighed.  “Well, I don’t suppose that you would be kind enough to get me out of here.”

Rowena was looking around the room.  “Oh?  A little stuck are we?”

He didn’t have the time or the patience to be playing games.  “Look Mother, the sooner you get me out of this, the sooner I can get us both out of here and then torture whatever bastard put me in here in the first place.”

“While that’s sweet dear,” Rowena taps on the door.  “That is iron, meaning that I cannot do much, so it would appear that we are stuck.”

This was not what he wanted to hear.  “Are you telling me that this god forsaken room is perfectly planned to hold both of us?”

Rowena shrugs.  “That I cannot answer dear, but we are here together, so shall we make the best of it?”

Crowley growled.  “Make the best of it?  Would that include you apologising for trying to kill me so many times?”

“Only if you apologise to me for the same Fergus.”  Rowena said, sitting by the door with a smile.  “Perhaps we can start again?”

“Yes, and I can start being unnecessarily nice.”  Crowley said bitterly.  “You could at least break the damn trap for me and then I could get us out of here.”

Rowena was looking at her nails.  “Fergus, considering you’ve probably been in here for a while, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed that there is more than just that little devil’s trap in here.”

Crowley had noticed but right now, he just wanted to free of the damned trap.  “I’ll deal with it when I get to it, just break this bloody thing first.”

For a moment, Rowena sits silent, still looking at her nails before she slowly looks up at him.  “No.”

“No?”

“You heard me Fergus, no.” She rests back, closing her eyes. “I have no guarantee that you won’t try to kill me should I let you out, and seeing how defenceless I am, I can’t risk it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Nope.”

“Mother-”

“It doesn’t matter how much you beg me dear, I am not going to do it.”

“I don’t beg.” Crowley snapped.

“Keep telling yourself that dear.”  Rowena smiles, still having not opened her eyes.  “But that sounds an awful lot like begging to me.”

He tuts and buries his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels for a moment as he tries to think, knowing that she was baiting him.

There was the sound of gun shots, making them both look at the door.

Crowley let out a slow breath.  “Do you really want Dumb and Dumber to find us like this?”

Rowena looked at him. “Really?  You’re worried what they think?”

“Of course not, I’m simply considering the option of your embarrassment at being caught out like this.”

She scoffs.  “And you are not worried about your own?  You’ve been here longer than I have.”

“I’ve been in worse,” He shrugged.  “And can manage any nonsense that they throw my way, however you, with your…frailer visage might-”

“Frailer visage?”  Rowena asked.  “Are you suggesting that because I am a woman, I cannot handle being embarrassed?”

“Of course not,” Crowley rolled his eyes.  “Simply that you are not used to failing.”

Rowena huffs.  “I raised you didn’t I?”

“If you can call almost trading me for pigs, putting me to sleep with alcohol and then abandoning me when I was eight as raising a child, then sure.”  Crowley stood as close as he could to her, looking down.  “Are you seriously telling me you have no desire to get out of here?”

She stands, looking defiant. “Of course I do, but what do you expect me to do without my magic?”

“Improvise, you are good at the right?”

Rowena huffs.  “You are impossible.”  She toes the devil’s trap.  “It’s engraved into the floor dear, not much I can do about that.”  She turns and faces the door.  “As for the door-”

There was a sharp gasp from Rowena, Crowley having buried an angel blade between her ribs.

He tugs the knife free, spinning it in his hand.  “This has been fun, however, if you are intending on keeping me here, I don’t recommend using someone as awful as my mother to do so.”

Rowena struggles to the wall, collapsing against it, turning to look at him.

“What?”  Crowley asked.  “Didn’t think I could see through it?  I can’t believe after all this effort you actually thought you had me enough to turn your back on me.”

With that, there was a screech, and Rowena vanished, flickering into the form of another woman, who collapsed almost instantly.  Crowley waited, staring at the walls which slowly began to fade away.

He lets out slow breath, looking around before staring the body.  “Honestly, no creativity.”

The door bursts open and Sam and Dean come in, guns raised.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Bit slow today are we boys?”

“How the hell did you get here Crowley?”  Dean asked, his gun lowering as they looked down at the body of the woman.

“No idea,” Crowley shrugs.  “However, she now regrets it.”  He shakes his head at their questioning looks.  “Impersonating my Mother, that’s signing a death warrant.”

“That’s the only reason you stabbed her?”  Sam asked.

“Of course not,” Crowley snapped, putting his blade away.  “It doesn’t much to see through an illusion like that.”  He starts to walk past them before an odd smile comes to me.  “That was very therapeutic though.  Perhaps I’ll have to find the Ginger Whore just to tell her.”

Crowley leaves, chuckling, Sam looking concerned even as Dean sighs and shakes his head.