#they found Aziraphale unconscious of course

[limeykaa]

I know the second Crowley will think Aziraphale is in trouble, he'll break into Heaven and get his husband back (and Muriel will help).

[edosianorchids901]

Face Facts

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "open your eyes"

Cw: blood, head injury

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screamed as Crowley flung through the air. He reached out, but he was too far away.

Crowley slammed into the hard trail with a sickening thud. His horse bucked a few more times, then raced off into the desert without him.

“Oh, good Lord.” Immediately, Aziraphale slid off his horse and raced down the trail. Crowley was sprawled across the edge, halfway in a bush. “Crowley? Oh, Crowley, are you all right?”

As carefully as possible, Aziraphale lifted Crowley out of the bush and laid him back on the packed dirt. Blood ran down one side of Crowley’s head, staining his red hair a darker shade.

“Dearest, can you hear me?” Aziraphale pushed the crumpled remains of Crowley’s black cowboy hat aside and patted his cheek. “Are you all right? Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t respond. He simply laid there, eyes closed. Was he even breathing?

“You really must answer me, please.” Hands quaking, Aziraphale smoothed back the bloody hair. There was a deep gash in Crowley’s brow, bleeding heavily enough to puddle on the ground beside him. “Oh, your poor head. That must be so painful. Is that why your eyes are closed, because of pain?”

There was still no answer. Worried, Aziraphale took his hand and patted that. That didn’t yield a response either. Crowley’s chest moved in short, shallow breaths at least, but that was all.  

“Crowley, you’re scaring me.” Aziraphale’s voice shook, and he couldn’t stop it from doing so. “Oh, is it too bright for you? Of course it is, your sunglasses have been knocked off. I-I’ll find them for you, and then everything will be okay.”

In the meantime, he drew his wings out and spread them above Crowley, sheltering him from the harsh sunlight. Must simply look around and find his sunglasses, that was it.

Keeping one wing over Crowley, Aziraphale moved around a bit until he found the crunched metal under the bush. He dusted Crowley’s sunglasses off and repaired them with a miracle.

“Here you are, my dear.” Aziraphale crawled back to him and held the sunglasses out. “I’ve found your sunglasses, so you can open your eyes now.”

Crowley didn’t open his eyes.

“Crowley? Crowley, did you hear me?” Aziraphale patted his cheek again. “Come on, now. Open your eyes. Crowley. Crowley, open your eyes!”

Crowley still didn’t open his eyes. Aziraphale stared at him, desperately patting his cheek. A whimper slipped out, and then a cry.

“Please wake up. Crowley, wake up!” Desperate, Aziraphale shook him, and then froze. No, that wouldn’t work. Because clearly, something was very wrong. And no matter how much Aziraphale wanted to deny that fact, he must face up to it instead.

Crowley had taken a severe blow to the head during that fall. Blows to the head could be very serious. Most likely, that was the cause of his unconsciousness.

Heart racing, Aziraphale bent over Crowley. He cupped the bloody cheek, drew a deep breath, and gazed deeper into the physical plane. Yes, this was the cause of Crowley’s unconsciousness. He’d been knocked out in the fall, and now his brain was swelling.

“It’s going to be okay,” Aziraphale said as confidently as he could manage. Doubt whispered through his mind, but he simply didn’t have time for that. He had to patch Crowley up, now. “I’m going to heal you. Here we go, no brain swelling, no contusions, no cuts…”

He didn’t dare try to heal everything wrong with Crowley just now. Even a mere glance into the structures of his corporation revealed many bruises and cuts. None of the other damage could discorporate him, though, and it would be best dealt with later.

The miracle left him shaky and dizzy. He rested one hand on Crowley’s chest, rubbing gently. “Crowley. I’ve healed you all up, now. Open your eyes. Please, please open your eyes.”

Slowly, Crowley’s eyes opened. He squinted up, then groaned and closed them again. “Ow. What happened?”

Breathless with relief, Aziraphale pressed a light kiss to Crowley’s brow. “I’m afraid you had rather bad luck with your horse, dear boy. It got frightened by a shadow and bucked you off.”

“Typical.” Wincing, Crowley raised a hand to his brow. “Gosh, that really hurts. Did I hit my head?”

“Rather badly, yes. You had…” Aziraphale’s voice cracked, and a shudder rushed through him. Shaky, he stroked Crowley’s hair. “You had some rather nasty swelling in your brain, but I’ve healed it.”

“Still a nasty headache.” Crowley had screwed his eyes shut against the light, his expression taught with pain. “I, er… Ow. S’ really hard to think.”

“Yes, I suspect you still have something similar to a concussion.” Azirapahle was tempted to push on, to take Crowley to the nearest town. He could carry Crowley if he couldn’t find their horses.

But that was a terrible idea. He could carry Crowley, yes, but it would likely incapacitate him. He’d already expended a great deal of energy mending Crowley’s brain, and it was likely far better for Crowley if they rested.

“We’ll camp here.” He put Crowley’s sunglasses on, then carefully lifted Crowley across his lap and cradled him close. “You just rest, hmm?”

“Right. Okay.” His eyes still closed behind the dark lenses, Crowley smiled. “Thanks, angel. Really don’t think I’m up to moving.”

“No, I don’t think so either.” This wouldn’t be the most comfortable campsite, but it was better than pushing either of them too hard. This way, they would both have time to recover, and everything really would be okay.

[hikarry]

So, while I was sick I was cooking up some ideas so let me throw this imagine at you. I won't be as nice as the others because jello brain, but follow me!

After Season 3, like, way way way after. 30 years after, perhaps. Let's pretend Crowley and Aziraphale didn't destroy Heaven and Hell or turned (argh) humans and that Gabriel is having his happily ever after with Beez, yes? Crowley and Aziraphale are living in the South Downs, Muriel is taking care of the bookshop and Michael is the new supreme archangel, yes? Fantastic. Let's go.

So, Aziraphale is in the workshop working on some book and Crowley is yelling at his plants outside the window when someone calls. Crowley quickly lifts his head and looks at Aziraphale through the window. The angel just waves his hand and goes to the living room where his old phone still is. It was Muriel, once again asking for help.

"Of course, dear. I'll be there in a jiffy." He answers, as per usual. "Crowley, my dear?"

"Yes, angel?" He yells from the garden.

"Can you take a quick break and take me to the bookshop?"

"Argh. You have a bloody license."

"...Do you...want me to drive her?"

"...Gimme a minute!"

It's just the time for Crowley to clean himself and fix his hair (took longer than he would ever admit. Aziraphale was expecting it), and off they went, back to Soho.

"Will you come in, dear?"

"Nah. With luck, it's the same problem as last time and it will take you both hours. I'll make a reservation at the Ritz, go to that bakery you like and-"

"Oh, yes! Please buy some-"

"Chocolate croissants, I know. Anyway, I might pass by the plant nursery and then I'll come back. It takes me a maximum of half an hour. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, love." He leans over and kisses Crowley on the cheek. "I believe Muriel has a lot of tea inside. Mind how you go."

Crowley nods and gives him a quick kiss before Aziraphale leaves the car.

Once inside, with Crowley gone, the bookshop was darker than he expected.

"Muriel?"

He took a couple more steps when the bookshop's doors closed with a burst of wind and the unforgettable smell of ozone invaded, right before Michael, Muriel, Uriel and Sandalphon appeared in front of him. Muriel looked terrorized. Aziraphale tried to move in their direction but found his hand hit against an invisible wall. A trap, really? He opened his mouth to talk, but after Uriel snapped her fingers he fell unconscious.

Aziraphale woke up in some sort of old building. He was laying on the floor and his head hurt considerably. He tried to move his hands to try and help himself to his feet, but felt a sharp pain on his wrists.

Right.

Demonic handcuffs.

Original.

By that logic, he couldn't touch any of his power or call for his wings.

Great. So stay on the floor he would.

Bellow him there was an angel trap, with his sigil on it. Which made this much more complicated indeed.

Aziraphale managed to get on his knees and finally saw a window on the other wall in front of him. From this perspective, he was surely not on the first floor. He started banging with his chains on the invisible wall in front of him. It wouldn't do anything, obviously, but he would be damned if he just stayed there doing nothing.

Putting demonic chains on him was a low low blow, even for them.

After a while he started getting tired and sat back on his legs, sighing

"Mr. Fell?" A whisper came from the closed door.

"Muriel?"

"Yes. It is me. I'm so so so so sorry I tricked you. I tried to say no but...the supreme archangel asked. Are you...alright?"

"It's alright, dear. I'm...fine, considering."

"The supreme archangel is infuriated. She yelled at everyone and said that she would punish you at nightfall. I'll try to get some help."

"No, don't do that! They will punish you if they find out! I can handle them!"

"After I let them take you like that? I can't. I'm sorry, Mr. Fell. I feel too guilty. I need to help you."

"...How long have I been gone from the bookshop?"

"...3 hours, I believe."

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

"Right. Crowley is probably panicking flying around like a blind eagle. If you can get to a phone, try to reach him. If not, run. Go to Nina and Maggie's or to our house, alright, dear? Don't let them catch you. Don't get in trouble."

It was less than 2 hours when the doors opened. The first to walk in was Michael, followed by her two minions.

"Very well, Aziraphale. Are you prepared to return to Heaven?" Michael said.

Aziraphale chuckled.

"You must have lost your mind, certainly. Crowley and I made sure you all would leave us alone. So-"

"That's because we didn't have other choice." Uriel interrupted. "Now we have the Programmer." Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in confusion. "We can reprogram other angels to their original position and manipulate their memories."

Aziraphale got to his feet and flinched back. Now, that wouldn't do.

"We have already lost Gabriel, Metraton. We need you back. Especially away from that demon pet of yours. You're too powerful together, as shown by the way you almost blasted the whole of Heaven."

"And the machine is running, ready for you-" Sandalphon entering the circle, and held him by the arm. "-my dear." A fist was raised, but before it could collapse into its target, there was a very loud screech outside.

The angels looked amongst themselves and Sandalphon left to check on all the noise with Michael.

They listened to multiple voices outside. They were speaking so loud none was really distinguishable.

"You are going, not even if I have to take you myself!"

Uriel crossed the circle, making the lil mistake of erasing a part of the circle with her shoe. Enough to let Aziraphale go. He stepped out of the circle, but Uriel followed him, grabbing him by the lapels and pushing him against the window, that broke against his elbows and back.

Now the voices were more clear, and one of them was, without mistake, Crowley. He took a quick peek outside and there he was, fighting both the archangels.

Right. He had to get a wiggle one.

"I'm sorry, dear girl." He swung the chains towards Uriel and she fell to the floor, sluggish.

Quickly, he turned around and looked down. He was on the third floor with two archangels and a demon blocking the exit.

"Crowley!" The demon's head snapped up in between the confusion that was him and the archangels.

Aziraphale climbed on the window and sat on it. He still couldn't use his wings so all he could hope for was Crowley's pristine timing. With his eyes closed, he took a final last breath and leapt out of the window. Within seconds he felt arms holding him and the unmistakable sounds of wings flapping.

"Are you insane?! You could have been discorporated! What would have happened if I didn't catch you, eh?! There's no other corporation, angel! You have to stop-" Aziraphale giggled, wrapping his arms around Crowley's neck, trying to get in a better position. "What?"

"Thank you for the timely rescue. Again."

"Why are you laughing? This isn't a laughing matter! I'm gonna kill those-"

"Crowley." The angel put his hands on his face, forcing him to slow down and face him. "Let's just go home, yes, my dear? There's a lot to discuss and I need a cup of tea for that." Crowley took a deep breath and smiled down at the angel. "Muriel found you?"

"Yes, they called. I told them to go to the cottage and stay put. I came as fast as I could but they literally dragged you to the middle of nowhere."

"Oh!" Aziraphale looked over Crowley's shoulder. "What about the Bentley?"

Crowley laughed, looking in front once again and picking up speed.

"She's on her way back home, obviously. She ran as soon as I caught you."

Of course she was. Why was he even surprised, he thought with a chuckle.

[trashboatprince]

Alrighty, here is something for this Reverse Omens au, with Aziraphale, the ex-musician, and Crowley, the plant shop owner, meeting after nearly twenty years since the first time they did. 

On with the fic!

--

It really was one of those wandering thoughts, you know the kind, where you let your mind drift and suddenly you become focused on something when you hadn’t meant to.

For Aziraphale, it had been the idea of his home having some greenery in it. He had read that plants can make a place seem more homey, welcoming, they can even be a stress reducer! If you manage to keep them alive after a month, of course. 

He thought about it for a while, then decided, yes, it was the right thing to do. While he loved his little shop of old objects and books, such things weren’t always so bright and colorful as a flowering plant or something with large, lush leaves. His shop was dusty, mainly shades of brown and tan, and smelled like old paper and something... off.

But it was his home, and had been for about twelve years now. Or, at least, twelve years since he finally came back from the states since his retirement in the music industry.

The shop had been a family business, but Aziraphale hadn’t really wanted to be involved in it when he was younger, more wild, and clearly doing things he shouldn’t be do. He really lived up to his nickname of the ‘Demon Bastard’ back in his youth, a complete change from the man he was now, who looked like he should be living in the mountains and had never once in his life wore studs or practically deep throated a mic on stage.

Which he had when he was very drunk and made a big, BIG mistake.

Aziraphale chuckled at the memory when it came to him as he grabbed for his jacket. There was no evidence in the shop of the days when he was Azrafel, lead singer and guitarist of the band The Fallen Few, a punk-rock band from the late 90s that disbanded in 2003 when... well...

Any evidence of his former persona lived in his flat above the shop, locked behind a door. Not to be forgotten, but mainly to be kept away from nosy people who were looking for the mysterious Azrafel since the break up. Like hell Aziraphale wanted that part of his life to be found, he was over it.

Even if he sometimes found himself writing new songs, or playing his guitar to get a tune out of his head and onto the strings.

He grumbled, grabbed for the cap he liked to wear nowadays, covered in little pins that he knew some would appreciate, and others would be very angry about. He smirked as he looked at the mirror near the door of his shop, seeing his reflection. Golden waves covered with his rude/cool hat, his beard was clean, his eyes were still hazel and blue as always. He looked fine, he was good.

There was a small glint of light near his neck and he looked at the source in the mirror. The little golden cross he wore had slipped out from under his shirt and he touched it. He wasn’t religious, had given that up years ago when his parents had thrown a fit over his interest in more than just girls, same with his love for ‘devil music’. No, the cross belonged to someone else.

To a young fan, the one that got away.

The cross, which had been damaged by what had to be teeth marks, was smoother now, from Aziraphale unconsciously touching it. One day, he’ll return it to the owner, if he can find them again.

But that would have to wait, he wanted some succulents for his shop. He put it back under his shirt and made his way out the door. 

--

There was a shop in Mayfield, a little plant and flower shop that was highly recommended, according to the internet, and all the photos on the shop’s official twitter account (which was the only social media they had), looked really nice. 

But then again, Aziraphale knew next to nothing about plants, so he was just going by how pretty the pictures were. 

He shoved his phone into his pocket and stepped into shop, hearing both a bell above his head, and what sounded like an ABBA song playing from a speaker on a shelf behind the counter. The shop was full of so many plants and flowers, a lot of variety, and Aziraphale felt a little intimidated. Maybe he should have looked up plants online before coming in without much to go off of.

“I’ll be with you in just a tock~!” Came a rather cheerful voice from the open doorway beyond the counter. 

“Take your time.” Aziraphale replied, going to take a look at a display of what looked like jars full of water with... balls of moss in them? What? Is this what the kids were into these days? 

Waterloo came up on the speaker, and he could hear the employee singing along with the lyrics and he nearly laughed, the employee sounded... like he wasn’t even trying to carry a tune.

He heard some movement and he looked over, seeing someone in the ugliest, brightest pink skinny pants he had ever seen walk out into the shop, their torso and face were obscured by a massive bouquet inside a large vase that looked very expensive. They seemed to be struggling and Aziraphale moved quickly.

“Here, let me.” He said, putting his hands on the vase, gently taking it from the employee.

“Oh! T-thank you! Sorry, it’s a really heavy order!” The guy said as Aziraphale turned to place it on the counter, making sure it didn’t topple over. “I shouldn’t gossip, but, like, a really important... person, of a level of government, specifically asked for it for his wife so she wouldn’t be upset about something he did. But you didn’t hear that from me!”

Aziraphale smirked, about to ask for a hint about who it could be, but he felt his breath catch in his throat.

There, standing in those ugly pants and an even more eye-searing yellow top, was them. The fan from the concert.

The owner of the cross.

It’s been, fuck... nearly twenty... twenty-four years? Probably? But how could he ever forget that face? Those red locks, that were much longer now, braided over one shoulder. Fuck, the glasses they were wearing were even the same, red and blue lenses in a cheap, plastic purple frame. They were taller, older, but it was them, that fan that stole Azrafel’s heart.

“Thank you so much for helping me, I wouldn’ve dropped it, and that’d be a disaster. That’s real crystal!” They were saying as they approached the counter, leaning on their folded arms. Aziraphale then noticed a name tag, it read ‘OWNER OF EDEN’S WALL, CROWLEY’.

“Uhh, y-yeah, would’ve sucked.” Aziraphale found himself saying, wanting to slap himself, that sounded terrible.

They, Crowley, blinked at him, biting their lip, almost to hide a smile as they looked down. “Well, we’re both lucky that I had a little help from an angel, eh?”

“Angel?”

Crowley gestured at their head, and it took Aziraphale a moment to realize that they meant his hat, where he knew there was a rainbow pride pin that looked like angel wings. He snorted, smirking. “Oh, please, I’m anythin’ but an angel. Used to be a real devil back in my youth, a fiendish li’l punk. A real bastard, some would say.”

He wondered if Crowley would pick up on his hints, did they remember him too? Or had too much time passed?

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true!” Crowley replied. “You were quite helpful, I don’t think a devil would have done so.”

Ah, yeah, probably didn���t remember him. Fuck. Still though... Aziraphale wasn’t going to let this slip from his fingers, not like before. He grinned, wagging a finger. “Ah, but he would, if he knew he could get something out of it!”

Crowley, gosh, the beautiful angel, glanced up at him, looking confused. “You... want something from me?” He glanced towards the till, but Aziraphale shook his head. 

“No, not in that sense. Think you can help a black-thumbed guy with the brains of a cat with finding the right kind of succulents for his shop?”

Crowley smiled brightly at this and oh, even after so long, Aziraphale felt his heart leap like it did all those years ago when they were alone together backstage.

--

If you guys like this, I might write more. Sorry if it’s a bit wonky, but it’s a basic establishing one-shot, not like I’m writing a fully fleshed out fic.

Maybe.

[once-upon-the-earth]

*sighs* alright, ill write another one

(Im doing this completely out of my own volition why am i being bitchy)

A house well-lived in oftentimes becomes a sort of sentient being on its own. This tends to happen over the course of many years, of course, with periods of un-sentience when the owner thinks about moving somewhere else, but its a natural and mostly linear process and the reason why old houses like to creak and craw and trickle water from the tap, drawing attention to themselves. It stems from the human inhabitants becoming so used to their home being an extension of themselves that they unconsciously transfer some of their own sentience over to the house.

It tends to happen faster, when there's a supernatural being living in the house. It tends to happen a lot faster when there are two very powerful supernatural beings living in the house. For the cottage in the South Downs, owned by an angel and a demon, one of which an Ex-Supreme Archangel and one of which the Serpent of Eden, it had taken around one year total.

Aziraphale and Crowley knew this and mostly ignored it, except for Aziraphale throwing in the occasional thanks whenever he found a book he had previously mislaid in another room. It wasn't helpful to imagine the house as an only semi-willing voyeur to everything they got up to when they were still trying to shake the feeling of being under constant surveillance. But they were slowly getting better with their freedom.

This afternoon, Aziraphale was alone in the cottage. Not for long, obviously. The house knew exactly where Crowley was. There was a certain understanding that had transpired between the cottage and the Bentley, which stated that one would let the other know what their owners were doing at almost all times and currently, the Bentley was letting it know that Crowley was done with the small errand he'd been keeping hidden from his angel and aimlessly driving around the village, waiting for the agreed-upon quarter of an hour to pass so he could pull up in front of the cottage again.

Aziraphale was using the quarter of an hour to fiddle with his bowtie in front of a mirror. It was one of his more elegant bowties. He'd considered wearing one that Crowley had given to him for Christmas or other occasions but those ones were all joke-articles. Aziraphale liked reindeer well enough but certainly not on his bowties.

There was a knock on the door. Crowley had returned five minutes earlier than agreed but Aziraphale was done anyways. He opened the door and was greeted with the sight of Crowley, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a bouquet of yellow tulips.

"Hi, angel," said Crowley, as though they hadn't only been apart for ten minutes. "You ready?"

"Of course, dear."

"Got you something," Crowley said, holding out the flowers. Aziraphale took them carefully. "They're beautiful", he said. "They have the most perfect colour, don't you think?"

"Nyeah", made Crowley. "You like yellow."

Aziraphale smiled at him. "We should give them some water", he said. "Before they start wilting while we're gone."

"They would never", said Crowley and glared at the flowers. The flowers, however, had watched him pick them out, pay for them and drive them to the cottage all with the same dopey smile, and they weren't very intimidated.

Aziraphale went back inside to fill a slender vase with water, Crowley trailing after him to watch and secretively perform a miracle so the flowers would last a bit longer. When he was done putting the flowers into the vase, Aziraphale took the demon by his lapels to kiss him, despite Crowley's protests. "We're not even on the date yet, angel," he complained, and then very quickly gave in and contributed to the kissing.

They got out of the house five minutes late, despite Crowley being five too early. When he locked the cottage, Crowley looked to the door wreath. "You'll have him home by midnight", he promised solemnly and went to hold the door open for Aziraphale, who had been watching the display with amusement.

They took the Bentley to the theatre in the nearest city. The cottage was informed some hours later, when the play ended, of the two of them extensively discussing the performance of the lead actor, a certain Michael. Crowley seemed to have liked him a lot - Aziraphale was more critical. They were both sure he reminded them of someone, though neither knew of whom.

The discussion continued merrily until the Bentley pulled up in front of a restaurant. The time inched towards midnight while Aziraphale ate and Crowley drank but when they returned from their dinner, they left the car where it was standing to have a walk around the city. Crowley, despite being tipsy, had his arm slung around Aziraphale's middle, while the angel was rambling about the play still. In the middle of the street, Crowley said something and Aziraphale stopped talking to turn his head to the demon and give him a kiss. They stood like that for a while, under a lantern, before they wandered down the street.

It was nearly three when they returned to the Bentley to drive home. The cottage greeted them with the sternest atmosphere it could muster and tried to keep it up until Crowley made an apologetic face but it dissolved long before that. There was such an overwhelming sense of warmth radiating off the two of them - and the cottage was a product of their conciousness after all.

(michael sheen cameo, what do you think did they watch?)

Today Aziraphale and Crowley went on a good old-fashioned date. Crowley even took the Bentley for a spin around the block before pulling up to the house and knocking on the door to collect his angel. He even presented Aziraphale with a bouquet, and promised the cottage he'd have him home by midnight.

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

31 + 23 with Will and Phileas?

31: Lost in the middle of nowhere

23: “Hey, at least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?”

Ooooh, time for some island content! :D

On with the fic!

--

"Are you sure you can keep an eye on him?" Phileas asked, looking at Abigail.

"Of course, he's feeling a bit warmer than he had earlier." She nodded, sitting next to an unconscious Passepartout, who was sleeping soundly next to the fire. He was covered in their coats, still shivering a little from the fever he was suffering from.

Phileas sighed, nodding. "I'll see what I can gather for firewood. Will should be back soon with something for us to eat, hopefully more of those lobsters, or crabs, maybe?"

"Yes." Abigail nodded again. Phileas turned, walking down the beach to find anymore driftwood or even some fallen branches from the trees.

They had already broken off a lot of the raft, which was... a shame, but it was for the best. Though he had been upset with Passepartout, he had come to understand what the man had done, why he had done it, and then for him to do something out of the goodness of his heart, Phileas had to try and return the favor.

He walked along the shore, picking up branches, even though it wasn't exactly easy, with it being a bit dark out, the light of the moon at least helped.

Then he noticed Will up ahead, carrying things in his hands. Ah, looks like he found some crabs for them to eat for dinner, good, Phileas was tired of that nasty fruit that felt like eating custard but eating... rot.

"Good evening, seems you found a good catch." He greeted the man who, just yesterday, had been kissing him, holding him close. Hopefully the red on Phileas' face could not be seen in the moonlight.

"Yeah, found some big ones. We might be able to get Passepartout to eat a bit, it would be wise for him to in this state, he'll need the energy."

Phileas nodded, knowing that Will and Aziraphale had made him eat when he had been feverish from the injury on his back. It still hurt, but not as bad as before. "Good, yes, I'm sure we can wake him up enough for a few bites. Right now I'm trying to get us some more firewood, best to keep the fire going for him, and for a signal."

Will nodded, then stepped up to him. He set his catch on the ground, clearly they were not going to run away, before he put his hands on Phileas' face. "You're worried."

"More than that, William."

"Talk to me, angel."

Oh, that little name, it kept catching him off-guard. He certainly didn't feel like one, especially now. He sighed. "What's there to talk about? My overreaction to everything lately, me throwing a fit and abandoning my friends, it's now caused Passepartout to fall ill when he was helping me, when he had no reason to..!"

Phileas felt a dryness in his throat, and he nervously laughed. "Hey, at least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?"

Will was still holding his face and he rubbed his thumb across a cheek, that was when Phileas realized he was crying. "I'm sorry." He whispered to the younger man.

"It's alright, Phileas. If you need to let it out, let it out with me, no one else will see."

Phileas dropped the sticks he had been holding and pressed his face into Will's shoulder, sniffling. "I feel miserable..."

"I know, but you're doing the right thing, you're helping to keep him alive."

"He wouldn't be like this if it wasn't for me."

"We don't control what happens in our lives sometimes, Phileas, things just happen." Will sighed, rubbing his back. "But he's doing better, thank to you, you're doing the best you can for him and will continue to do so, yes?"

"... Yes, I don't want him to suffer."

Will held him close. "And that's good. No need to feel guilty, Phileas, everything will work out."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive, I have a feeling tomorrow will be a much better day."

"Oh, I do hope you're right." Phileas nodded, slipping back. He placed a sweet kiss to the man's mouth. "We should head back, Abigail might be worried."

"Yeah." Will smiled, grabbing the crabs as Phileas picked up his dropped sticks. The two walked back, side by side.

Well, at least the stars were lovely tonight, he had been right about that.

[one-with-the-floor]

Despite all indications to the contrary, Crowley does sometimes wake up before Aziraphale.

Crowley likes the act of sleeping: the dark, the quiet, the blessed rest of unconsciousness. Crowley indulges in sleep like he does alcohol, with great enthusiasm and an immortal lack of caution.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, has come to enjoy the routine of it. He has found he likes going through all the pre-sleep tasks, and falls asleep more because that is the final step of the routine than for the rest itself. He puts on his nightshirt, brushes his teeth, kisses Crowley goodnight, and then tucks himself up in bed with a book and two mugs of cocoa, despite Crowley’s protests that it negates the point of brushing his teeth. It’s the principle of it, Aziraphale always huffs, and Crowley rolls his eyes and climbs in next to him, where he enjoys the cocoa behind his scowl.

So when Crowley’s ungoverned sleeping habits lead him to wake up before Aziraphale’s strict eight a.m. alarm, he gets the house to himself for a while. There is weak pre-dawn sunlight filtering through the window shade, just enough to see by. Aziraphale won’t be up for a quarter of an hour yet. Crowley kisses him on the forehead, and quietly pads downstairs in search of coffee.

The third stair from the top squeaks. The fifth groans, and the eight has a stain on the carpet, a dull grey spot where Aziraphale sloshed tea on his way up only three days after they moved in. They haven’t touched it. Or talked about it. They both navigate their way around the mark without a word. They still intend to paint the kitchen, and Aziraphale’s office; maybe their bedroom, as well, if they can ever find an interesting color that will match both Crowley’s black duvet and Aziraphale’s ancient, tartan-upholstered armchair, which lives in the corner by the window. But they haven’t gotten around to any of that yet, which means that the stain on the stairs was the first mark either of them had made on the house. It seemed important, that, in the ineffable way things sometimes mattered simply because they did.

At the bottom of the stairs he runs his fingers over the potted ivy that is starting to grow up the banister. He coaxes the vines away from the wood. He’s going to need to find it another place soon, but he doesn’t want to plant it outside until the spring. As hardy as ivies are, he won’t risk the first plant Aziraphale bought him for the cottage. It can stay on the railing for now, he decides.

Once in the kitchen he goes right to the coffee maker and gets it started. It’s inhumanly fast, of course, but still takes long enough for him to go lean against the French door to the back garden. And that’s when he realizes that it’s snowing.

A fine layer of powder dusts the lawn, layered up on each twig of the apple tree and making the little holly bush in the corner look like it’s frosted in icing. The fairy lights they had struggled so much to hang up in time for a housewarming party that summer are glazed over, and Crowley curiously flips the switch that sends power to the outlet on the porch. They glow warm against the blue sunlight off the snow.

The coffee maker hisses as the last drops settle in the mug. It beeps a complaint for more water, but Crowley is mesmerized by the snow still falling. He watches one flake, loses it, catches his eye on another, sees a robin alight on the holly bush, and—oh, and there, just past the tree, where their garden fades into the woods, a doe.

“Crowley?”

“Shh, shh.” Crowley puts a finger to his lips, then points out the deer.

“Oh, how lovely,” Aziraphale sighs, approaching the glass and looking over Crowley’s shoulder. He slips his arms around his waist, and Crowley leans back with a hum. Aziraphale is wearing his  warm dressing gown this morning, the thick soft one Crowley gave him last Christmas, when they were still puttering around the drafty old bookshop.

“’S our first snow here,” Crowley points out.

“So it is. Your garden looks beautiful like this.”

“Just wait ‘til spring. I’ve got plans for all those perennials sitting in pots upstairs.”

“It’s going to be breathtaking, I’m sure.” Aziraphale leans forward against Crowley’s back, presses a good morning kiss to his cheek. The warmth fades as Aziraphale turns away to flick the kettle on and rummage in the tea cupboard.

“Do you want anything special in your coffee?” he asks. “I could melt some chocolate into it. It’s a cocoa sort of morning, I think.”

“Just milk’s fine. Thank you, angel.”

The doe noses at the holly bush. Then she hears a noise, somewhere off past the cottage, and runs into the trees with a flick of her tail. Down towards the village, the gong of a church bell begins to ring.

“We should go for a walk,” Crowley says. “See what the place looks like in the snow.”

Aziraphale makes a pleased noise. Crowley takes the re-heated coffee he is handed, and relishes its warmth against the chill from standing at the window. Aziraphale continues to putter around, moving happily through his morning routine. Then the sun comes up and hits the snow, and the cottage garden turns to gold.

[Day 10 of my Star of Wonder advent calendar, inspired by The Roches album We Three Kings.  Today’s song: “The Holly and the Ivy.”  AO3]

[sushiandstarlight]

Lockdown Voicemails

Read this story on AO3

There was an extremely annoying sound blaring outside his cocoon of blankets.  No matter how much he growled and hissed at it, the sound wouldn’t cease.  In fact, it was only getting louder.

Crowley reached out and grasped his phone, swiping the alarm off without even looking.  He drug his now-cold arm with the phone back into the warmth of the blankets and sighed.  Maybe five more minutes.  What was five more minutes after months of sleeping?

He gave up on it two minutes in, an antsiness spreading out into his limbs making them want to move and slither.  He pulled the phone up in front of his face and blinked a few times to clear his vision only to startle and sit up, throwing the blankets back.

There were 24 missed calls, all from Aziraphale.  His heart started racing, thinking something had gone horribly wrong while he slept.  But, really, if it was something so bad surely Aziraphale would have popped over and woke him up, right?  He jabbed the first voicemail:

“Ah, I see I did miss you.  I had hoped, well... I had hoped to catch you before your nap,” and here Aziraphale’s voice waiver and lowered a bit, “It is just a nap, I hope.  I hope you won’t be gone until July.  Just... er, just call me back when you get up, I suppose? Okay.”

Crowley stared at the phone.  So, Aziraphale had been okay on May 2nd.  That was good.  He tapped the second message:

“I guess you were telling the truth about your nap until July.  That’s okay, really.  I mean there’s not much to do, is there?  I was enjoying my baking... The whole process and, of course, the tasting.  I don’t know.  It’s lost a bit of it’s shine, I’m afraid.  I thought about leaving some of my cakes on the neighbor’s stoops.  Not sure how well that would be received.  Is that a thing humans do anymore?  Unprecedented times, they keep saying,” there was a long pause where Crowley could hear him breathing, “I suppose that’s it then.  I hope you’re resting well.”

He scrolled down a few voicemails and tapped the one from the last day of May.

“I spent some time reading human accounts of ‘ancient Rome’ today,” Aziraphale began without preamble; Crowley thought he sounded tired, “not all accurate, but they do a pretty good job for what information they have.  Doesn’t quite capture the feel of the time.  You can’t capture the feeling if you haven’t experienced a culture though, can you?  Do you... do you remember the oysters?  I thought they were divine, but I remember your face when you tried them.” There’s a soft chuckle and then, “I miss our dinners.  Ordering in isn’t the same, even if I can get whatever I want these days.”  There was another pause and then a click.

Crowley’s heart was doing a funny little sideways wobble.  That was the end of May.  He was a little afraid to click the next few messages.  Maybe... maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to leave Aziraphale behind just to skip a few months.  He scrolled past a few more voicemails and tapped one for the middle of June.  There was hardly a sound at first, but an occasional soft sigh or the creak of floorboards gave away that someone was there, pacing.  Crowley held the phone closer.

“... the thing is, as you say... I miss you, Crowley.  I don’t miss our dinners so much.  I can order in what I like.  I don’t miss the plays; I can ‘stream’ those.  A lot of museums are putting so many interesting things on the internet for me to visit.  I can have the majority of the world right here in my bookshop with me.  Imagine, human ingenuity,” Crowley swears he can actually hear Aziraphale swallow hard over the phone, “But you’re over there sleeping and I miss your company.  Which is silly, isn’t it?  We’ve gone longer apart, I know...” there’s another near-silent pause before Aziraphale seems to collect himself, “Do give me a ring when you wake up, dear.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes with his free hand because they were itching from being closed for so long.  It’s the brightness of the phone, that’s all.  Still, his chest is aching solidly now.  There were a couple more messages before the last one and he skips those, opting to listen to the one from two days ago.

“It’s- It’s nearly July now.  I find myself a bit excited to hear from you.  I hope you don’t hit the snooze,” the laugh that follows sounds hollow and a bit forced, “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, though.  Especially if you check the news before your phone.  Things are not...  they’re not as far along as we’d hoped.  I mean, the world is trying to open back up.  Humans treat economies like living things, you know.  Some of the sellers on the street have lost their shops.  And, one of them got sick.  She’s still in hospital.  I would like to visit her... maybe help... but they aren’t allowing visitors due to the infectiousness of the virus...” there’s another one of those long, painful pauses that gnaws at Crowley’s chest before, “When you wake up you’re more than welcome to come here now.  I should have... I should have let you pop over to begin with.  It’s still hard to remember, sometimes... that there aren’t rules for us now.  Not even human rules, really.  You can drive as fast as you like in London.  We can’t get sick.  You can come here.  I wish.  I wish you’d come here.  Call me when you’re up, won’t you?”

Crowley tossed his phone and the blankets aside, sliding to the edge of the bed and rubbing his face with both hands.  Taking a nap had been a mistake.  He should have insisted and tempted the angel into giving in.  That’s what he always had done, wasn’t it?  Spin words differently until something that had sounded impossible started to sound like something allowed.  It was just that, after everything, he had wanted Aziraphale to invite him willingly.  But, what had that stubbornness really accomplished?  With a snap of his fingers he was clean and dressed.  He grabbed a few of his things and a bottle of wine and headed for the Bentley.

Strangely, a knock at the door of the bookshop door yielded no answer.  Crowley had seen plenty of humans out and about on the streets on his way here.  Maybe the angel had gone out at last.  Still, it was being advertised as a bad idea, so he didn’t think that was the case.  He snapped open the door and crept inside, locking it again behind him.  The bookshop was dark and still inside.  He kept walking through the maze of books and the collected clutter of all the angel’s lifetimes.

He found Aziraphale in a pool of light in the back room.  He was curled up at the end of the sofa where they’d spent so many nights talking and drinking.  A blanket was draped over his lap and a book that had been in his hands was now on the floor.  He was sleeping, unbelievably.  Crowley had never seen him sleep before.  But, here he was: asleep with his silly little glasses still on.

Crowley set the wine down on a side table and stooped down to pick up the book, closing it gently and setting in on the sofa beside Aziraphale.  He didn’t stand back up, instead crouching there and observing his friend: his face was lax in sleep, all the fussy lines smoothed out.  Crowley found he would rather have those lines back if it meant he could see his eyes.  He reached out and gently shook the angel’s knee.

Aziraphale startled which made Crowley jump, losing his balance and pitching backwards to sit on the floor.

“Crowley!”

“Yes, it’s me!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale flustered, going about straightening his bow tie and his collar, “How did you... Did you really pop over here?”

“You were asleep.”

“Nonsense, I don’t sleep.”

“You rarely sleep.”

“I don’t sleep at all.  You sleep.  For months.”  There was a hurt edge to his voice that cut where the voicemails had ached.  He had.  He had left him alone here for months.

“Okay, you weren’t asleep.  I just snuck up on you.  Very sneaky, me.”  He was back up on his knees now, unsure what to do with his hands.  He wanted to touch, but that hadn’t seemed so welcomed a moment before.

“That isn’t much better, is it?”  Aziraphale was fiddling with the edges of he blanket in his lap, “Did you have a good nap?”

“Nothing to speak of, really, I was unconscious,” Crowley wanted to rest his hands on Aziraphale’s knees at least, some form of grounding connection, instead he tried to use words, “I’m sorry-”

“I do apologize-”

They shared a long look.

“I’m glad you didn’t oversleep,” Aziraphale swallowed glancing from Crowley’s eyes to his own lap, “It’s been a long couple of months...”

Crowley placed a hand on one knee and when that wasn’t met with more than a cautious gaze he grasped the other and gave it a squeeze.

“I would rather have been here.  I’m glad to be here now, with you.”

“I’m relieved you’re here.  I missed you terribly, Crowley.”  Soft, impossibly warm hands covered his own and Crowley’s heart gave a lurch.

“Next time,” Crowley watched more lines cross the angel’s face, “if there is a next time, I mean.  Next time I’ll set my phone so you can ring through.”

“Oh, would you?”

“Anything, Angel, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Maybe next time- if there is a next time,” Aziraphale pulled back his hands and fussed with them in his lap, “Next time you could just sleep here.  So I... So I know where you are.”

“I could do that, too,” Crowley’s voice sounded rough even to him.  The distance between them, though scant, was still unnerving him.  He stood slowly and sat beside Aziraphale, knee pressed against his thigh, “You sounded so sad on the phone.  I should’ve been there to answer.  I won’t make that mistake again, I promise.”

There was a pause.

“You believe me?”

“I do.  You haven’t lied to me yet.”

Crowley felt his shoulder’s relax for the first time since he’d started listening to the messages on his phone.

“So, tell me: you’ve been here all this time wishing I was here, yeah?  What would you like to do?  I brought some wine!  We could play some board games.  Promise not to cheat... overly much.”  Crowley smiled at him, hoping to draw a smile from the angel.

Aziraphale smiled a little and then a worried shadow crossed over his face.

“Whatever you want, I’m at your disposal: a fully charged demon.”

“I... you don’t have to, you know?  It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale was rambling on like Crowley usually did and that was unnerving to say the least, “Could I... well, could I hold you?”

Crowley’s brain fizzled to a stop.

“You can say no,” Aziraphale’s breaths were coming faster now and he was blinking rapidly, “you don’t have to.”

Crowley sat up and threw a knee over Aziraphale’s lap so he could settle into it.

“Oh.”

“Whatever you want.  I meant it.”  Crowley watched for a moment as Aziraphale took him in, drinking him in really.  Then the angel was reaching for him and pulling him into a tight hug.  Crowley snuggled closer to him, burying his face in the angel’s shoulder.

“You’re what I want,” one warm hand was on Crowley’s back while the other was stroking up into his hair, “I missed you and now I only want to know you’re here.”

“m’here,” Crowley murmured into the shoulder he was pressed into, arms looping around Aziraphale’s neck, “Not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale squeezed him again and Crowley felt the tension in the angel’s body drain out, taking his along with it.

[evilasiangenius]

From his distinctly upside-down seat upon the far end of the couch, which was of course covered with blankets as Aziraphale hated him putting his feet upon it even if the shoes were infernally willed and not likely to be dirty, Crowley slipped in and out of pleasant unconsciousness.

The back room of the bookshop echoed with a flurry of sound, a clicking and clattering of a computer keyboard being used at an almost improbable high speed, and Crowley wondered how often Aziraphale had to replace that piece of equipment, unless of course it was miraculously reinforced or more likely, the angel had no idea that such hard use could wear it out and neither did the keyboard.

He wondered what the angel was doing – was it a game, perhaps? It seemed that Aziraphale liked those sometimes, ones made up completely of words and actions that had to be typed in that scrolled past the screen at blazing speed. Or perhaps it was a conversation with someone far away, something on elliptic curve cryptography or analytic number theory or algebraic topology – the angel always had more than a few mathematicians up his sleeve. But most likely, Crowley concluded, getting up from the couch in an awkward fumble of angular limbs to stand and lean against the doorway, looking over at Aziraphale in his little reading glasses, it was something involving accounting.

Hardly maths at all, he imagined Aziraphale saying. Barely counts as calculation.

He watched, waiting quietly for the angel to stop, not wanting to interrupt.

The keyboard fell silent. The angel stared unmoving at the black screen, green cursor blinking, fingertips still lightly touching the keyboard as if a musician waiting for the cue.

Even so, Crowley waited for the duration of a song, one with no words and no notes he could think of, just the sensation of a song.

“Angel.” The word was somewhere between a sigh and a yawn, and Aziraphale looked up from the computer.

“Yes?”

“Done?”

“Almost. No. Yes, no. I’m done.” Aziraphale turned off the computer, slipping off his glasses and setting them down before he turned to face Crowley and Crowley found that oddly disappointing.

“Everything reconciled?”

“No. Not everything. But in regards to the bookstore, yes. As much as possible has been reconciled. How did you guess it was the accounts?”

“Accounting face. That’s different from maths face. Or game face or any number of other faces.”

“You know me too well,” Aziraphale demurred with the hint of a little smile.

“Eh,” Crowley managed a syllable that was meant to sum everything up. “So, erm.”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner.” But then Crowley looked at his watch. “Wait, it’s afternoon. Sometime past lunch, if you must know.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose we’ll have missed the lunch service.”

“Yeah.”

“Afternoon tea?”

“Nah. I mean, unless you really would want tea-”

“What are you in the mood for, Crowley?”

“No, it’s fine. You can ask...erm, properly. Going to...try to practice. You know,” Crowley looked away, uncomfortable. “Um. Having preferences?”

“Oh, I see. Then, I suppose if you don’t mind me asking… Crowley, what would you like to do?” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled.

“Erm...soup? Can we have soup?”

day21:dancing

day22:song

[themadauthorshatter]

Clipped Wings(a Good Omens Fanfic) CHAPTER 5(YES. 5!!)!

All TWs still apply here. Like I said in the last part, this stuff goes downhill, so tread lightly.

Additional tw for characters being assholes to the ineffable husbands.

---

Hell was- well, Hell.

It had been some time, at least, since his arrival in Hell and a shorter time in his cell after the sulfur dip, and none of it had been a very pleasant experience. It wasn't supposed to be- it was Hell, after all- and Aziraphale was prepared for that, at least, but he wasn't prepared for it to be so unbearable so soon.

It's not fair, Aziraphale found himself thinking. This isn't fair.

Why were he and Crowley being punished when they'd done nothing but try to prevent Earth's destruction? Why weren't the other angels and demons repenting?

It wasn't fair.

At least the room's a bit lighter.

The cell had indeed brightened since he'd been thrown into the sulfur, but not marginally. Aziraphale could make out the vague corners and edges where the walls met and his hands in front of him, but no light was present.

He could make out how his wings looked as well, and their appearance wrenched his chest and stomach.

The once clean, full white feathers had thinned and and sharpened, burnt black from the acid that could have discorporated him.

Numbly Aziraphale pondered what would happen if he indeed lost his body, if Lucifer would grant him a new one or if he'd simply be a soul burning in He'll for all eternity.

How kind that would be of him, Aziraphale thought bitterly.

With a deep inhale, the angel pushed himself up until he was balanced on trembling feet. It would make sense if the ground truly did move of its own volition. Anything to make his stay as miserable as possible.

As if on cue, to make things worse, the cell door unlocked and swung open, unleashing a surprisingly bright light from the hallway that completely blinded him.

"You still alive in there?" Hastur's voice asked coarsely. "Or did the sulfur shut you up?"

Aziraphale took a breath and leaned against the wall. Maybe Hastur was the Duke of Hell because he was just everyone's idea of a demon.

"I'm alright," the angel said, challenging the demon before him. "Though I certainly hope you don't get in trouble with your master for being here."

He didn't know when Hastur had made his way from the door, but he knew the demon was in front of him when a fist rammed into his stomach.

Aziraphale coughed as air was forced out of him and groaned, his legs folded and sending him back to the floor.

He was pulled up by the back of his collar and held against the wall instead.

"Guess th' sulfur didn't help, after all."

The burns from the sulfur had turned to red patches on Aziraphale's skin, left his wings black amd sore, and rendered his body almost motionless due to the pain that raced in his muscles whenever he moved. The punch injury his body further and almost knocked him unconscious once more.

"Hey," Hastur said, sounded more far away rather than right in his face. "Hey! Stay awake, angel. We need to talk!"

Angel. Coming from another demon, it sounded like an insult. The only one who said it sweetly, said it like he was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

Crowley.

A hand struck Aziraphale's cheek, forcing his head to bang against the wall.

"Oi! Alistor! Rise and shine!"

Aziraphale awoke at the sound of the name, lifting his head shakily until he met Hastur's soulless black eyes.

"What?" He shuddered. "What... did you call me?"

Hastur rolled his eyes as he scoffed, or at least Aziraphale thought he did. "You can't recognize your name when you hear it?"

Of course Aziraphale recognized his name. He'd known it for a millennium. His name had always been Aziraphale, and nothing different.

To hear another try forcing another name on him felt like a bad jumper, and Aziraphale couldn't see it sitting him.

"I'll ask you now, " Hastur sneered as he leaned into Aziraphale's face, close enough that their faces were mere inches apart. So close, the demon reeked of decay and smoke. "What are you and what is your name?"

"Principality Aziraphale," Aziraphale answered before he could stop himself.

It earned him a punch to the jaw before he was thrown to the ground by his collar, a boot smashing onto his arm.

"Wrong answer. What's your name?"

Aziraphale coughed and glared up at the demon. "My name is Aziraphale," he weakly snarled.

Hastur groweled and delivered another kick to the angel's body, this time to his mouth.

Just give him what he wants, part of him begged as he coughed and spat out blood. You don't have to mean it, just say it.

Hastur's fingers dug into Aziraphale's hair and yanked him upward. "Don't try getting smart with me," he demended, his breath hot on Aziraphale's face. "What is your name?"

"Al-Alistor," Aziraphale answered brokenly.

There was no punishing strike to land on his body, but the grip in his hair held firm.

"And what are you?"

The right answer was to say an angel, but, considering how short tempered this demon already already was, it would surely land Aziraphale in worse waters.

"A demon?" He guessed.

Hastur smirked and released his hold on Aziraphale, letting him gall to the floor.

"Better not forget that the next time I see you," Hastur warned as he stalked out the door and slammed it shut, locking it behind him.

Aziraphale could only stifle the urge to vomit as his own blood littered his tongue.

Demon Alistor.

The name made him gag, his stomach rolling and heavy.

The demon stopped when Aziraphale accepted the name he hadn't even chosen, one that seemed too dangerous to belong to an angel, too malevolent.

The change made sense, given the fact that he was possibly burned beyond recognition from the sulfur, but that fact that Hastur stopped his torture when Aziraphale accepted the name- his name- sent a chill through his body.

How many times would he lie to demons and say the name he now despised? How long would it take for them to cease their questions? And how long would it take for Aziraphale to forget his own name in his attempts to lie in order to keep himself safe?

Aziraphale shuddered as he sat back against the wall, his eyes closed and palms clammy.

"Crowley," he whispered into the barely visible room. "Please, dear. If I forget, please remember for me."

[hkblack]

Beyond Grace - Chapter 12: Resolution

The twelfth chapter of Beyond Grace has been posted! Head's up! The final "chapter" of this story will be posted on Friday, and the epilogue will be posted on Sunday.

Rated: T, No Archive Warnings Apply

Story Summary: After Aziraphale is discoporated Crowley goes on a mission to do what he does best. Recruiting help from both of their former Head Offices is easier said than done, especially when Hell thinks the whole thing is a ruse, and Heaven thinks you’re on the hunt for more angels to corrupt.

Start from the beginning on AO3!

Read Chapter 12: Resolution

Chapter Summary: Back at the bookshop, Crowley frets while Aziraphale remains unconscious. Raphael and Eric pay a visit.

Chapter 12 Snippet under the cut!

He reached under the blanket and grasped Aziraphale’s hand.

“Okay, let’s try something, Angel,” he murmured, leaning forward to touch their foreheads together.

And then, he pushed.

It wasn’t like the times before, where he pushed with his sense of self feeling for the edges of Aziraphale’s self so that they could exchange places. Aziraphale would have to be conscious to switch with him, and Crowley didn’t want to switch. What he wanted to do was find an opening, somewhere in Aziraphale.

It wasn’t hard.

The previous times Crowley had reached out to feel and see Aziraphale, he had been full of light and color. It was staggering and frankly intimidating. There was so much of him. It was like the angel had been everywhere and Crowley was just a speck of dust, easily sucked up into the vacuum of light around Aziraphale.

This time there were dark patches where there should’ve been light.

Crowley felt his heart break as he surveyed the damage that had been done to Aziraphale. Pieces of the Angel were gone, there was no other way to explain it. The light he was had diminished, casting shadows over the indescribable pieces that were Aziraphale.

Crowley let out a shaky sigh and focused on the Divine energy coursing through his own self, and gently fed them into Aziraphale.

He wasn’t sure how long passed as he sat there, pushing as much of the Grace he had, not caring where it came from or who it belonged to, into Aziraphale. Patching the soul of an angel was not unlike crafting stars, and Crowley felt himself falling into the steady rhythm he once had, weaving the fabric of the universe together, weaving the fabric of Aziraphale together.

He kept going, letting the light shine brighter. He found Aziraphale’s fountain of energy. It had been badly damaged, but no infernal source had come to replace it. Instead, it just let the tiniest trickle of Divine energy back into the angel.

It didn’t matter, Crowley thought. He would become Aziraphale’s source, if he had to. He’d give every piece of himself, every last drop just to hear Aziraphale say—

“That’s enough, Crowley.”

Read Chapter 12 on AO3

[vroomvroomwee]

I can just picture the next few years of them being apart but trying to stay together.

Crowley started to receive letters every now and then. At first, he was sceptical but very, very quickly got reassured of the suspected identity of the sender.

The letters kept coming, sometimes once a month, sometimes every few weeks. All of them short, precise messages, never dawdling on unimportant things, only on the stuff he needs to know. And they always found him on time, wherever he was. And they always helped him.

He got used to them with time. Each letter started to bring him a certain comfort that he couldn't quite place amongst all the nostalgia and pain that resurfaced every time they arrived. He didn't even mind that Aziraphale was keeping an eye on him. After all, they were rarely without the other during the last years, so his watchful gaze was almost familiar. No, it was more than that. It was endearing.

It caused a warmth he now less frequently feels, spread through him from the knowledge that the angel still cared about him, still looked out for him, still kept him safe. Even after everything that had been said and done. But, despite being watched every now and then, it still didn't stop him from storing every single letter in a neat little box and locking it safely away.

Sometimes, he reopens it and wanders down memory lane. He reads the letter that arrived to him when he was sitting at the park watching the ducks, thinking about a certain someone he used to do that with, and remembers how it saved him from getting smacked at the back of his head. Not the most original attack plan, but during his reminiscing, he might not have even noticed the bugger.

He reads the letter he found miraculously procured inside his pocket when he was crossing the street, telling him of the young guitarist in the neighbouring building who just needed someone to talk to. Not subtle, he thought. Or about the group of foolish boys that were intending to corner him in a dark alley. Or about the puddle of holy water on the pavement that a careless priest managed to spill. Or about the time one or two angels were waiting for him at his doorstep.

And the letters never lied. Of course they didn't. But despite their unimpeachable reliability, it didn't stop him from feeling unsatisfied. Feeling hollow and alone after every letter. Left wishing for more. Left wishing to talk to the angel in person, to see his face, to hear his voice. It's was a confusing combination of feeling you're never alone and feeling agonisingly lonely.

Eventually, that perplexing feeling made itself an almost permanent friend in his life, nesting deep in his heart, a constant reminder how far he is from the person he loves more than anything. How unreachable that person is. In how much danger he is. And how there's nothing he can do to help him except receive his letters and carry out his instructions.

He had begun waiting for them, anticipating the next arrival. Rarely did he think of anything else, and almost never did he put himself in a situation where he might miss their coming. His ears had unconsciously become attuned to sense their arrival, to feel the static in the air right before one pops up.

And that was precisely what he was doing now, sitting in the park, watching the lake, occasionally scowling or yelling at passersby when a new one finally arrived, right beside him on the bench which he was splayed out on. It didn't even properly get to settle and lie down before an anxious hand snatched it, almost instinctively, like it was starving for it.

The letter was in the same style all the previous ones were. Crowley delicately opened the pristine, neatly folded, white paper that didn't even have a millimetre out of order, not even a spot of dirt or grime. Perfectly clean, almost sterile. Everything was exactly the same as always... except for its contents.

As he unfolded the letter, his breath hitched in his throat. No. This was not like every other letter. Not even remotely. It radiated none of the comfort and reassurance the others did. It carried not the voice of the angel he knows and loves. The purpose of this letter was only to evoke one feeling and one feeling only. Fear.

Its purpose was to serve as a warning. Crowley stared at the message written in bold black letters and could feel his heart quicken its pace, his body going tense and frigid as his mind began to silently scream and drown out every noise around him. Or, rather, his gaze was deadly fixed upon the one terrifying word etched on the paper.

Run

Is no one going to mention the possibility of A and C working together?

Everyone keeps talking about Crowley moping and crying, or being spiteful towards Aziraphale, or even becoming Duke/evil, or how Aziraphale will be cold and calculating because he's gotten so used to the role of Surpreme Archangel, or crawling back to Crowley and grovelling for forgiveness. But yaalll. You keep forgetting that both of them will ditch everything in an instant and come running to the other at the slightest hint of them being in danger.

No one is proposing the possibility that they could meet in the middle, and it breaks my heart. I'm just imagining Crowley going about his day when he receives a pristine white letter next to where he's sitting with only one thing written on it. Run.

Aziraphale finally realises Heaven cannot be saved, so he's risking everything to save the only thing he can. To warn him that this time, they can't play with fire and escape unscathed. It's starting. Except... Crowley doesn't. For the first time, he doesn't have a reason to run. For the first time, he realises he can't run. Aye, they still have issues to talk about and fix. But they can wait, right now the Earth is more important.

Crowley doesn't run because there's nowhere to go. Just as Aziraphale realises what he's been trying to tell him, Crowley also realises what Aziraphale has been trying say. The only thing he loves in the entire universe is up there. Not in the stars or Alpha Centauri. Up there, in the midst of it, in the most dangerous place someone can find themself in. So he doesn't run. No. This time, he stays. And he fights.

One shielding humanity from above, one fighting alongside them from Earth. Both of them, separated, but fighting TOGETHER to protect it.

[29-pieces]

Whumptober Day 25 - Good Omens

Day 25: Disoriented Fandom/setting: Good Omens, post-series Read on AO3 Read on ff.net

~*~

"Crowley, I want to help, I just don't know how!"

"You're a witch, aren't you? Do something... witchy!"

Crowley yanked his dark glasses off so that Anathema would get the full benefit of his terrifying snake-ish scowl, forgetting for a second that they had saved the world together and she was altogether unafraid of him.

The witch in question sighed and rubbed her forehead. "We've been over this," she reminded him. "I'm an occultist and most of my 'witchiness' came from a book of someone else's prophecies, which I don't have anymore! And anything I ever learned... Crowley, nothing would have prepared me to deal with this."

She gestured at the "this" she was referring to as Aziraphale wandered up to them with a brilliant smile. He was carrying a frog in his palms, holding it out to them with delight.

"Look at what I found, isn't it wonderful, Crowley?"

"No," Crowley snapped, too anxious to be nice. "Looks too much like Hastur."

"Who's that, my dear?"

Crowley stared at the angel in alarm, then gestured wildly at Anathema. "You see what I mean?" he demanded. "He's forgetting more and more every minute! He didn't know where the bookshop was. He didn't know he had a bookshop!"

Anathema winced. "Oh dear."

"Oh shit, more like! Listen, it was witchcraft that did this to him, it's witchcraft that should be able to fix him. Now are you going to help us or not?"

"Still no luck, then?" Newt asked, poking his head into the kitchen. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help?"

"He's not a computer," Crowley grumbled back, more waspish than he'd intended. He growled when Newt ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he gritted out. "Just..."

Newt nodded his understanding, leaning against the doorframe. The frog in Aziraphale's hands croaked once, making the angel chuckle, before he held it out once again towards Anathema.

"Do you want to hold him?" he asked. "You seem like a lovely young lady. I'm Aziraphale, by the by, terribly sorry, I should have introduced myself right off."

Crowley froze, sharing a horrified look with Anathema. Throat dry, he reached towards the angel and took his arm in a firm grip. "Angel," he said slowly. "You- you remember Anathema."

"Oh, is that her name? Pleasure to meet you, my dear."

Crowley let go and turned his back, trying not to hyperventilate in panic. Aziraphale had known exactly who their witch friend was when they arrived ten minutes ago. Whatever the spell was that was taking the angel's memories, it was only getting worse. If it kept progressing...

"Crowley," Anathema said gently.

"He's going to forget," Crowley whispered, sliding down the wall to sit heavily on the floor. "He's all I've got and he's going to forget..."

"We'll fix this," she said. A rustle of skirts preceded her crouching down in front of him, dark eyes earnest. "I want to help. If we can figure out what spell the witch used on him, maybe- maybe I can undo it."

"And what happens when he doesn't remember we're not enemies like we're supposed to be?" Crowley asked, voice hoarse with fear. His jaw clenched and he scrambled to his feet. "I should go- if he sees me and doesn't know I'm a friend- if I put you two in danger because he attacks me-"

"Crowley!" Anathema hushed, holding out her hands and taking both of his. "He's not going to attack you. Or us. This is Aziraphale we're talking about-"

"This was Aziraphale!" Crowley was on the verge of a full meltdown, he could feel it coming, only it wasn't going to help and he had to do something to help. He could not lose his best friend, not like this, not after everything. He needed to keep his head, he knew it, but-

"Miss, please stand aside."

Crowley's heart clenched as Anathema was firmly guided aside, and then he was face to face with an angel who held not a single trace of recognition in his eyes. His breath caught in his throat as his entire world came crashing down. Aziraphale was gone, and now he was just an angel, and angels did not look on demons with kindness, or mercy, or friendship, or love.

"Hmm," The Angel said, peering at Crowley in open curiosity. "You're a demon, aren't you?"

Crowley swallowed and unconsciously pressed himself as close to the wall as he could. "Aziraphale," he whispered. "You- you have to remember me. I..."

"Aziraphale," The Angel repeated slowly, tasting the name like the sweetest crepe in Paris. "Oh, I do like that. Aziraphale." He smiled briefly, then turned his attention back to the demon at hand. The Angel's eyes narrowed, only for an instant, then widened with the same innocence Crowley had always known in him. "My word, you feel like so much love. I do beg your pardon if I seem forward, only that's not what we were led to expect, you see. You have a good heart, I can feel it. Although it- it seems to be quite broken. I wouldn't presume to overstep my bounds, but- is there anything I can do to help?"

Crowley's mouth opened in shock and then—because he simply couldn't help it—he choked out a strangled, sobbing laugh. The Angel was still Aziraphale after all. Of course he was. A very confused, very disoriented Angel, but his angel nonetheless. That fact was the only bit of encouragement Crowley needed to replenish his stores of hopefulness. They could figure this out, they'd figured out the Apocalypse after all, they just had to-

SMACK!

Crowley and Anathema both jumped as Aziraphale crumpled to the floor before their eyes. They stared in shock, first at the downed angel, then at each other, then at Newt.

"What did you do!?" Crowley practically screeched, leaping towards Newt, who backpedaled frantically. "Did you just knock him out with a dictionary?"

"Cookbook," Newt replied, holding the book up as evidence and also to keep as a barrier between himself and the furious demon.

"WHY!?"

Newt shrugged, finally ducking behind Anathema to protect him. "Factory reset!" he exclaimed. "Maybe all he needed-"

"Factory- I said he wasn't a computer!"

With another shrug, Newt explained, "I know... that's why I thought it might actually work. It wouldn't, if he was, because, well, it's me-"

"If you hurt him," Crowley seethed, holding up his hand in preparation to snap his fingers and cause something dreadful to happen, but Anathema quickly covered his hand with her own.

"He's an angel, Crowley. A knock over the head isn't going to hurt him- see, look, he's moving."

Still fixing a glower at Newt, Crowley quickly crouched down beside the now stirring angel and took his shoulder.

"Aziraphale?" he called, trying not to grip too tight but needing something to steady himself. "You okay?"

The angel groaned and raised a hand to rub the back of his hand, wincing where the book had hit him. "Oh, my head..." he groaned, peeling his eyes open slowly to see Crowley and the two humans crowding around him. He blinked. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Newt called down, still hiding behind Anathema. "I only wanted to help."

Aziraphale stared at him, and the glazed look in his eyes was no better at all in Crowley's mind than the blank ones from before. The demon growled, silently swearing a downpour of dead fish to follow Newt for the rest of his days, but that would come later. For now, he kept his attention on Aziraphale.

"Hey... you with us? Angel?"

The glazed, disoriented gaze turned towards him next, and it cost Crowley a tremendous chunk of his heart to see the utter lack of any recognition there, but then Aziraphale blinked and shook his head.

"Terribly sorry," he said, blinking again and then several more times as he rubbed his head. "Goodness, I don't know what came over me."

Crowley swallowed. If it had worked, he would forgive Newt everything. Carefully, he asked, "Do you... remember me?"

Aziraphale laughed. "Heavens, Crowley, I didn't hit my head that hard."

"Oh!" Crowley couldn't help but gasp, sinking back to sit on the floor, relief washing over him like a breath of fresh air. He fished a pair of sunglasses from his inner pocket and plopped them on his face so no one would notice if he happened to be tearing up a little bit. Beside him, Anathema smiled and offered Aziraphale a hand.

"You gave us a scare," she explained. "It seems a witch knocked you with some kind of memory spell. Newt saved you."

"Good thing," Crowley grumbled from the floor. "I'd have killed him otherwise."

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured disapprovingly, and it was so Aziraphale that Crowley only smiled happily about it. "Memory spell, hmm... I don't recall anything beyond fighting the witch. What did I..." He trailed off and looked back down at Crowley.

The demon, who after all had known him for over six thousand years now, saw every single emotion the angel passed through in the various expressions of his face. It landed eventually on sorrow, which Crowley always hated to see there.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, crouching down beside his friend. "Crowley..."

"You're better now," the demon pointed out, shrugging like it was no big deal, like his world hadn't been ending only minutes before. "That's what matters."

He could tell Aziraphale wasn't buying it, but was relieved that the angel didn't push the issue. Not here, not in front of other people, not when Crowley was still feeling shaken and vulnerable. They'd end up talking about it later over a good vintage, no doubt, but for now Crowley was going to just sink into the fact that he still had Aziraphale.

Everything was going to be okay.

[goodomensblog]

Denial

I feel like Madame Tracy, who shared a body (and thoughts??) with Aziraphale for a hot second, would absolutely have picked up Aziraphale’s very obvious head-over-heels adoration of Crowley. So naturally, here’s my 2,000 word fic about her cluing in an oblivious angel to his own feelings. 

Denial

Inhabiting a new body was usually quite a lengthy process, and that wasn’t even including the paperwork. There was actually a very good reason why celestial beings didn’t just slip into human skins whenever they felt like it - beyond the moral quandary, of course. Much in the same way that no two humans are exactly alike, neither are angels. A human must try on shoes for size, and so must an angel, well - try on bodies, that is.

As the apocalypse was imminent, Aziraphale did not have the luxury of choice.

So Aziraphale had taken what he could find, and what he’d found was Madame Tracy.

If Aziraphale’s old body could be likened to a six thousand year old comfortably broken in, yet remarkably cared for pair of loafers, Madame Tracy’s was a pair of stiletto heels, fresh out of the box and half a size too small.

Not that Aziraphale wasn’t grateful. Really, he considered himself fortunate to have found a body that could accommodate him at all. It just...really wasn’t very comfortable.

It’s not a walk in the park for me either. I appreciate the metaphor though. The heels, I mean. Terribly uncomfortable, breaking in a new pair.

The voice was high and saccharine and seemed to echo around the space of his head. Or rather, he amended, within her head. He was, after all, the intruder here.

I appreciate that acknowledgment, Mr. Aziraphale, Madame Tracy sniffed.

I do apologize, Aziraphale thought, consciously shaping his wandering thoughts into words. I’m afraid sharing a body is very much a new experience for me.

You’re not alone there, love.

No, I suppose not, Aziraphale said. And when he smiled, it was Madame Tracy’s red painted lips which parted.

Now, what exactly is it that we’ve got to do?

First of all, get through that gate, Aziraphale thought, squeezing the brakes as Madame Tracy’s scooter sputtered to a stop.

Before them, the Tadfield Air Base loomed.

The man out front’s got a gun.

So he does.

As Aziraphale struggled to park the scooter - hindered by Madame Tracy’s attempts to commandeer her hands to help - he noticed that it was quite a large gun, at that.

By the time the scooter was settled, the soldier stood before the gate, gun cradled against his front.

Mr. Shadwell marched up, brandishing a grimy finger.

Oh dear, thought Madame Tracy.

“You see this finger Laddie? This finger could send you to your maker.”

Good God, the man is going to get himself shot.

Yes, Madame Tracy agreed. Please do something.

Aziraphale stepped in front of Shadwell, waving Madame Tracy’s purple gloves through the air.

“It really is vitally important that we speak to whoever is in charge-” he started.

From their lips, Madame Tracy’s voice interrupted, “He’s telling the truth, I’d know if he wasn’t.”

Lord, Aziraphale thought, save me from the whims of foolish mortals.

Madame Tracy’s annoyance flared hot and bright in their shared headspace.

Aziraphale flared his own annoyance right back and took control of their mouth.

“-would you please stop interrupting? I’m trying-”

Madame Tracy took it back.

“-yeah I just thought I’d put in a good word for-”

“I understand, but-”

“Will you please be quiet?” The guard ordered, impatient and confused. “Both of you?”

Well now you’ve done it, Madame Tracy tutted.

I’ve done it?!

“I mean, Ma’am,” the soldier continued, licking his lips, “I must respectfully ask you to-”

He was interrupted by blaring music.

A bebop, Aziraphale thought, and twisted round, heart in his throat.

Pardon? A what?

A car roared round the bend.

Normally when one describes a car as roaring, what they are describing is the sound of a working engine.

In the Bentley’s case, it was not the engine.

Unfortunately, the Bentley roared because it was literally on fire, and the flames were exploding and crackling, making awful noise as the vehicle flew over the darkened pavement. Contributing to the roaring was the metal frame, which beneath the considerable heat, had begun to fracture, and was now squealing its death throes.

None of the roaring could be attributed to the engine as by now, it was little more than a blackened husk and didn’t actually appear to be powering anything.

Oh my, thought Madame Tracy.

Indeed, Aziraphale thought, staring uncomprehendingly at the flaming car.

It was Crowley’s car. That much was clear. Up until now, Aziraphale had never seen it quite so...inflamed, however.  

The guard, Mr. Shadwell, and the united persons of Madame Tracy and the angel Aziraphale watched, transfixed, as the conflagration of heat and steel skidded to a halt before the barbed wire fence. Cacophonous music blared from speakers which had surely long ago melted.

The door swung open and - oh.

There was a flutter in Aziraphale’s - er, well technically Madame Tracy’s stomach.

From the vehicle, a lanky figure unfolded. Heedless of white flames, he swung the door closed behind him. The music evaporated as though it had never been.

“You wouldn’t get that sort of performance from a modern car,” he called, flippant. As if his cheekbones weren’t marked with soot, and his black, fitted jacket, not thoroughly singed.

Aziraphale took over their shared mouth without a thought. 

“Crowley,” he said, like a sigh after a long held breath.

Crowley? Madame Tracy probed at Aziraphale’s thoughts, curious.

As Crowley sauntered away from the burning car, carelessly swinging Agnes Nutter’s book at his side, Aziraphale finally registered the question.

Oh, ah yes. Crowley is a demon - but a very good one, even if he doesn’t like to admit it.

I see, Madame Tracy thought back.

Aziraphale could feel her gearing up for another question - and he fought against annoyance, because he was in her body, but Crowley was here now and they had things to do. Like avert the apocalypse.

So how do you know each other then?

That, my dear, is a very long story. Suffice it to say, we’re friends.

Ah.

Crowley strolled over, shades down and flames licking at his back, and Aziraphale conceded that Crowley was quite good at making an entrance. Not that those sorts of things mattered in the end - but, ah - well, there was something to be said for style, Aziraphale supposed, gaze following Crowley’s sauntering approach.

Aziraphale felt a flash of amusement from Madame Tracy’s side of the head.

Now what? Aziraphale thought, and was immediately horrified by how rude it sounded, echoing around the shared space.

Nothing dearie.

But then, Crowley was speaking, and Aziraphale found his attention most immediately diverted.

“Hey Aziraphale! See you found a ride.”

A ride? Madame Tracy huffed.

He didn’t mean it like that-

“Nice dress. Suits you,” Crowly added, sidling up beside them.

“Ahh,” Aziraphale managed, and was embarrassed to feel his shared body flush with warmth. Had he done that? Or was it Madame Tracy-

All you, I’m afraid, Madame Tracy answered - and did she sound smug?

Ah.

He’s very handsome, isn’t he? Your demon friend.

He - why - what?

Aziraphale vaguely wondered if the prolonged sharing of a body was having a negative effect on his angelic essence, as he couldn’t seem to formulate a coherent thought.

And then Crowley was at his side, brushing shoulders with him - no Madame Tracy - no - oh confound it!

“This young man won’t let us in!” Aziraphale burst out, once more taking control of their mouth.

And then - oh dear - Crowley was leaning in.

He smelled of spice, and charcoal-

And burnt rubber, Madame Tracy added, unhelpfully.

Madame Tracy’s body was just slightly shorter than Aziraphale’s had been, so he found himself craning his head back just slightly more than he was used to. Crowley’s dark gaze flickered over Madame Tracy’s face, as though trying to find a trace of Aziraphale within it.

Aziraphale, quite unconsciously, forgot to breathe.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a moment, but for both Aziraphale, who was, for some strange reason, distracted by the sheen of sweat that had collected on Crowley’s soot stained upper lip - and Madame Tracy who did, inconveniently, require oxygen, it felt much longer.

Aziraphale blinked. Pressing his lips together, he swallowed.

Crowley leaned back and grinned, apparently satisfied. Flashing them a wink, he said, “Leave it to me.”

His voice was low, assured, and Aziraphale didn’t have time to consider the way it made something flip in his stomach - because Madame Tracy was hissing in their head.

Could you please breathe Mr. Aziraphale?

Oh. Right. Of course.

They drew a breath.

Better.

With a bounce in his step, Crowley strolled toward the tense guard.

He’s a friend, you said? Madame Tracy thought, looking pointedly at Crowley’s back.

A very good friend, Aziraphale amended. We’ve been through quite a lot together.

And it was impossible not to think of nights at the Globe, shoulders pressed together in the crowded theater, of quiet, content meals taken in elegant restaurants, of late nights spent drinking and reminiscing on centuries long past. Or, alternatively - the cold burn of metal around his wrists in that jail cell in Paris, and the feeling of utter elation upon hearing Crowley’s voice in the darkness and knowing he was saved. And that church in England, when Crowley had danced upon holy ground to come, once again, to Aziraphale’s aid.

I see, Madam Tracy thought - though Aziraphale was unclear as to exactly what it was she was supposed to have seen.

Before he could ask, Crowley was speaking.

“Army human!”

Aziraphale looked on, satisfied in the knowledge that the situation would be handled. Crowley had said he would take care of it, and so he would.

The Antichrist had risen, the world was on the edge of annihilation, and Angels and Demons eagerly awaited The Last War. But - now Crowley was here.

It was a comfort in spite of it all.

And then Madame Tracy piped up again. Hm. Yes, now I get it.

What are you even talking-

“My friend and I have come a long way, and-”

The sharp ringing of bells cut him off. And then the gate shuddered open.

Crowley and the guard stared open-mouthed as four children on bikes raced past. Pedaling furiously, they entered through the open gate.

- and then Crowley’s car exploded.

From that point, time shot forward - from the merciful splitting of Aziraphale and Madame Tracy, to the showdown with the four horsemen, to the rising of Satan himself - until Crowley stopped everything, time included.

It was only for a moment, of course.

And then Adam had done what no one else could. With one single, simple statement, he changed everything.

After that, it was all mercifully anticlimactic.

Adam’s father took Adam and the other children home, and Anathema kindly offered to squeeze the remaining adults into her car to drive them as far as the village.

It was quite a walk back to the vehicle, however, and as they walked, Aziraphale’s mind turned over the frankly mind-boggling events of the previous hour. The apocalypse had been started - and thwarted. And Adam had succeeded, so the world still turned round.

It was a lot to take in.

Crowley walked ahead - forced into a brisk pace by Shadwell, who was in hot pursuit, asking pointed questions about his eyes. 

Aziraphale, walking at an easy stroll, watched the demon from afar, thinking of all Crowley had done to avert the end of the world. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t have been able to do it without him, of that he was sure. He should tell him - or congratulate him, perhaps? On an apocalypse well averted.

Aziraphale hurried to catch up, still deciding precisely what it was he wanted to say, when a soft touch drew him up short.

Madame Tracy sidled up beside him, linking her arm through his.

“Busy day,” she murmured, red lips curving in a tired smile.

“Indeed it was.”

“It wasn’t so bad, sharing a body with you. At least for a little while. A few more hours and I would have been ready to kick you out though.”

“Thank you. For sharing with me,” Aziraphale said sincerely. “It’s because of you I was able to get to Tadfield at all.”

Madame Tracy nodded and hummed. “It’s strange. Though what we went through should, by all rights, be unforgettable, my memory of recent events is already becoming a tad fuzzy.”

“Adam,” Aziraphale mused, tilting his head. “When he - er, fixed things, he may have turned back the clock, in a way.”

“Will I remember all of this then?”

Slowing, Aziraphale patted her hand.

“I don’t know,” was his honest answer.

“Well then,” Madame Tracy said, slowing with him. “Best get this out before I forget about it then”

“What’s that?”

“What are you going to do about that demon of yours?”

“Do about-” Aziraphale stuttered, “my demon?”

“Crowley,” Madame Tracy leaned in, whispering conspiratorially.

“What about him?”

“Oh come now, I heard quite a bit when I was in your head.”

“Wait, what did you hear?” Aziraphale questioned, equally confused and alarmed.

“I know how you feel,  Mr. Aziraphale,” she said, gentle.  “About him.”

“How - how I feel?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me you haven’t realized.”

Aziraphale, like all creatures, was in possession of a set of instincts. His, celestial and finely honed, warned him against extended introspection regarding Crowley - because angels were naturally predisposed to favor the status quo. And Aziraphale had always known, with Crowley, came the potential for world rending change. Change that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

Pressing his lips together, Aziraphale glanced down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come now,” Madame Tracy said, giving him a nudge. “You know. It was written all over your thoughts.”

“What?”

Madame Tracy sighed, “That you’re in love with him, dear.”

The thing about denial is, it works only so long as an individual is able to actually deny the truth. And for Aziraphale, who was forced to face the truth so plainly stated, denial slipped through his fingers like ice melting to water.

Aziraphale’s steps slowed. And stopped.

In the distance, Crowley strolled, his lanky figure silhouetted by the oranges and reds of the setting sun. Aziraphale knew in the depths of his very being, he’d follow Crowley anywhere. And now, with truth rearing its ugly head, there was no denying why.

Aziraphale blinked, suddenly aware of all he stood to gain - and with Heaven and Hell out for blood, all the more he and Crowley stood to lose.

There, in the quiet forest, with the sky alight in warm pastels and the demon whom he could no longer deny he loved walking oblivious, just out of earshot, Aziraphale did something he hadn’t done in centuries. He cursed twice within twenty four hours.

“Well fuck.”

[loki-hargreeves]

Good Omens Imagine - You Summon a Demon

Warnings: demon summoning, this is honestly just a crack fic, vulgar language, a moody demon Word Count: 2K Summary: Out of boredom, you decide to summon a demon, not believing that it would actually work. You end up summoning Crowley in your apartment. A very worried angel comes looking for him as well. That’s how you meet Crowley and Aziraphale. Author’s Note: This has been on my mind for a while now. I don’t actually know how to summon a demon so please excuse how I wrote it. It’s not meant to be taken seriously. Please enjoy <3

THIRD POV

It was a silly idea, truly. Y/N and her friend had been out at the nearest bar and after a few drinks, they ended up discussing paranormal stuff. Somehow the conversation morphed into the two of them planning on playing with the Ouija board Y/N had somewhere in her apartment, possibly hidden in her closet or underneath her bed to gather dust. In their tipsy minds, it sounded like a perfect plan.

As Y/N returned home alone, she remembered that. She decided to find the board and get it ready for tomorrow. But as she found it hiding underneath her bed, she got an idea.

What if she played alone? It’s not like anything would actually happen, but it could be fun nevertheless. Surely, she would laugh at herself about it afterwards. So that’s what she did. Y/N set up the board on the floor, lit up a few candles to set the mood. She turned off all the lights and covered the mirrors in her bedroom. In order to play, she quickly read the instructions. Just like that, she was ready to get started.

As much as she was convinced that it was fake, it still made her nervous. There was always that small chance that it would work, right?

“Okay, I’m calling in good spirits. No negative entities are welcome here,” Y/N started as the online instructions had instructed her. “If anyone’s actually there, I would like to play with you.” Gosh, that sounded so wrong, she thought.

She sat on the floor with her fingers on the pointer. After a few moments of silence later, nothing happened which relieved her. She sank her shoulders and smiled, feeling much more comfortable now that it hadn’t moved. “This is so stupid, it’s not like this board could actually summon a demon,” The woman laughed by herself, giving her words zero thoughts whatsoever. 

If only she had known the power of her words.

As if on cue, something happened. The pointer began to shake underneath her fingers which startled her out of her skin. Y/N let out a scream as she got up from the floor, watching in horror as the Ouija board shook wildly. That was not supposed to happen! “Holy fuck, shit…fuck!” Y/N whimpered in horror. Her eyes were glued to the board. Once it began to levitate, she almost passed out.

Was she dreaming?

Or was she drunk? Y/N hadn’t had that much to drink either.

Her heart was pounding so hard from fear that she felt it all the way up in her throat. She wanted to run away, but her entire body was frozen in shock. Her fight or flight response seemed to betray her.

A bright light came seemingly out of nowhere. It was so bright in fact that Y/N had to close her teary eyes. A few moments later, the light seemed to vanish, and she heard that the board dropped back on the floor. Terrorized by what she saw, she still decided to look at the board. What she saw next was definitely not a Ouija board.

There was a man, a tall man in fact, standing right in front of her. He had ginger hair, an all-black outfit and round sunglasses. Although the lenses were dark, she noticed that he had yellow eyes. Yellow! The man, or whatever it was, seemed annoyed. “Aw fuck! Couldn’t this have happened a little later? I was just in the middle of something!” The stranger groaned in a…British accent?

“What the fuck are you?” Y/N cried in fear, wanting to keep a distance between her and the man. 

“There’s no need to be so rude, damn,” the ginger man, creature, whatever replied to her. Shivers ran down Y/N’s spine. In her mind, she was convinced that she had just summoned death itself into her own bedroom. She wanted to scream and cry, to run as far away as she could, but she could only stand there as her world began to spin wildly. Her vision began to brighten until she saw white. A split second later, her body failed her as she lost consciousness.

The demon, Crowley, wanted to leave. But he had been summoned and now there was an unconscious woman on the floor inf front of him. As pissed off as he was, he decided to wake her up. Surely, the candles would burn down her house if he just left her like that. “Get up, will you?” Crowley sighed and squat down on the floor right next to her. He poked her body with his long fingers, noticing the details of her appearance. He wondered why on earth she had summoned a demon and why it just had to be him! Crowley had been at Aziraphale’s bookshop as he was summoned. Surely, the angel was worried as hell over his disappearance.

When his poking didn’t bring her back, Crowley cursed under his breath. He wanted to leave, truly, but he couldn’t. He had been summoned. He had to end this ritual she had started, and he couldn’t do that when she was in an entirely different world than him.

                          Y/N furrowed her eyebrows together as her headache grew worse, so bad in fact that it woke her up. Carefully, she rubbed her temples and moaned in pain. Did she really get such a terrible hangover over a couple drinks? She opened her eyes and noticed she was in bed, although she couldn’t remember ever getting in it. Then she heard two men talking. Quickly, she was fully awake, and she remembered what happened.

The man!

Y/N got out of bed and followed the voices. Although she was terrified, she was curious. She walked out of her bedroom and looked into her living room. There were two men there, talking until they noticed Y/N. One of them was the same man that appeared out of thin air. The other one looked much kinder. He had light locks of hair, big blue eyes and beige clothes. For a moment, it was perfectly quiet in her apartment. Little did Y/N know she had a demon and an angel in her living room. She was convinced at this point that this was a fever dream.

“Someone’s finally awake! Great. Now just end what you started so we can leave,” The ginger one broke the silence. He sounded angry which was indeed horrifying. Y/N didn’t know them or what they were capable of.

It made the other man sigh, “Crowley, can’t you see she’s terrified?”

What kind of a name was Crowley? Why was the other one so considerate? Nothing made sense to Y/N in that moment.  

The same man continued, “Hello, I’m Aziraphale and this is my friend Crowley. I know you’re scared, but I promise that you’re just fine,” Aziraphale tried to ease her mind a little bit as Crowley rolled his eyes in the background and crossed his arms like a grumpy child.

“How did you…where did you come from?” Y/N managed to say something despite her worries.

“You summoned me, remember? Aziraphale just followed me,” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale couldn’t just ignore it when Crowley vanished into thin air right in front of his nose. Of course, he followed the demon! A little curiosity went a long way. “This doesn’t usually happen. You see, in order to actually summon a demon…”

“A demon?!” Y/N breathed out in shock and her eyes widened. It sounded absurd, but it would explain what she saw.

“He’s not a bad demon! You know, he used to be an angel…” Aziraphale tried to speak, but he was cut off again.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley hissed, angry that the angel had to mention it to this stranger woman.

What the hell was going on? Had Y/N lost it? She was beginning to believe that.

“As I was trying to say,” Aziraphale raised his gentle voice ever so slightly, “summoning a demon requires a lot of spiritual power. You didn’t summon him for no reason. Now would you like to introduce yourself, dear?”

Something about Aziraphale was so calming. Yes, the situation was absolutely wild and unbelievable. Y/N was scared because there were two men in her home claiming to be demons. But this man had a presence which helped her relax. It was so overpowering, so magical. “I’m Y/N,” She said surprisingly calmly. The closer Aziraphale was, she more relaxed she became.

“Alright, Y/N. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this little mishap and then we can all go on about our days,” Aziraphale smiled so cheerfully, as if this situation wasn’t terrifying at all.

Crowley sat on the arm of Y/N’s couch and he crossed his long legs, “Why did you even summon a demon if you’re so scared?”

Someone wasn’t happy to be summoned. Y/N almost felt sorry for ever touching that Ouija board. “I didn’t mean to! I just…well, I didn’t think it would work, okay?” She defended herself honestly. “Also, how am I supposed to believe you’re a demon...an angel, whatever. This is crazy!”

“Oh, you want proof?” Crowley smirked, as if she dared him to do something. He suddenly stood up straight again, getting ready to give her a little fright.

On second thoughts, she didn’t want proof. She was terrified enough and even the sheer possibility that they were speaking the truth was absurd. It would confirm to her, a human, that demons and angels existed. That kind of information would surely mess with her head. “No!” Y/N took it back.

“Oh, such a bummer!” Crowley muttered. He was already getting excited over the thought of scaring her by showing her his true form. It’s not like it mattered anymore. She had seen him appear out of thin air so what’s another supernatural experience more on top of that?

Aziraphale felt his stress levels rise as he stood between the two of them. He couldn’t believe they ended up in that situation. But somehow, he was convinced they were supposed to find Y/N. There was a very high energy radiating from her which almost told the angel that she could be useful. As risky as it was, he wanted to be friends with the mortal. Perhaps she could have something to do with the doomsday?

“Can you please just end this and then finish whatever you have to with Aziraphale? I’m tired of this,” Crowley began to get impatient.

“How do I ‘end this’?” Y/N wondered. She truly had no idea.

Crowley hung his head low as he tried to stay calm. Was she for real? “Did you read any instructions whatsoever before you decided to ruin my day?”

Aziraphale almost giggled at the situation. Although it was serious, it was a little bit amusing. But he managed to bite his lips together to stay quiet.

“I read something online,” She admitted. Y/N was oddly calm now. So far, they hadn’t made any indications that they would harm her. Besides, when she passed out, one of them had moved her to her bed. If they wanted to hurt her, surely, they would’ve done that already. So, she concluded that she didn’t have to be as terrified as she was.

“Okay then do whatever you read. I hate being trapped in here,” Crowley admitted. Wow. He couldn’t have been any harsher, now could he?

“Okay, I end this session. Whatever. Is that it?” Y/N mumbled a little awkwardly. Both Crowley and Aziraphale looked at her quietly. Nothing seemed to happen, at least nothing visible to her eyes. Did it work? Y/N didn’t even know what was supposed to happen!

That’s when Crowley cracked a smile, “See? That wasn’t so hard!” It was as if some magical bonds had let go of him and made him ten times less moody. Good for him, Y/N thought.

“Now, how about we discuss how you got him here in the first place?” Aziraphale suggested excitedly. He was naturally curious, so this was all fun and games for the angel. As long as he stayed, Aziraphale stayed. They had a conversation to finish and it didn’t matter if they did that at the bookshop or this Y/N’s apartment.

_____________________________________________

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed this. Your feedback would be highly appreciated  💚

[coppicefics]

Masked Omens: Week Six

[Image Description: Image 1 - A simple rendition of the Masked Singer UK logo, a golden mask with colourful fragments flying off of it. The mask has a golden halo and a golden devil tail protruding from either side. Below, gold text reads ‘Masked Omens’.

Image 2 - A page from the Entertainment section of the Capital Herald, dated Saturday, 30th January 2021. Full image description and transcript below cut. End ID.]

Read the fic here!

The Capital Herald - Saturday 30th January, 2021 Entertainment, page 13

Top story (continued from facing page): -talk filming, fans and family with 'Three Card Monte' star -finished, and hotly tipped for several major awards come the season, what does Dame Angela have in the pipeline? She's tight-lipped, but the question makes her smile. “Naturally I don't want to give too much away – an actress must maintain some mystery lest the camera fall out of love with her – but I can tell you I have several options in mind, and some of them are very exciting.” But is it a question of which project to take on, or which to take on first? “Well, of course, there are no guarantees, but... yes, I imagine some of them will wait.” It's an unusual level of power for an actor to wield, but at this stage in her career Dame Angela is more than entitled to wield it. How does she feel about winning the showbiz game so spectacularly? “Oh, I feel as though I've been playing a game of my own devising, to which even I don't know the rules.” She laughs. “No, but really, I don't think I've ever thought of it as playing a game. I go up for the parts I think are interesting or challenging, and I've been fortunate enough to get them more often than not. Then, when the part is finished, I move on to the next thing I want to do. There's no strategy, not really, not on my part. Naturally, my agent might tell you something very different!” Having the right agent can certainly be the key to success in the entertainment industry, and Dame Angela has been with Derek Mette, of MetteTalent, for many years now.“More than I care to admit,” she tells me with a laugh, “Derek has been with me since the beginning, really. We're old friends, at this point – our families exchange Christmas cards every year.” Family can be a challenge for someone who's trying to keep the momentum of their career going, and Dame Angela surprised the world when she took a year out of acting to give birth to her son, Anthony.“Yes, at that time it simply wasn't done; one could have a career, or one could have a family. Especially since I was very much on my own with it all. But I was able to get back in front of the cameras quite quickly, and I wouldn't change things for the world. Becoming a mother made me a better actress, I think, because it opened up that whole range of experiences. The highs and the lows of childrearing.” In fact, Dame Angela starred alongside young Anthony in A is for Apple when he was only eight months old. He briefly followed in her footsteps after leaving school, and seemed set for similar levels of industry acclaim. But it all came to a devastating halt when he developed an addiction that led to him being discovered unconscious in his trailer on the set of The Grasswater Affair. He'd overdosed. “I don't like to talk about it,” Dame Angela says, her mouth downturned. “I found it very hard. But now, of course, he's been in recovery for many years, and he does his little plays all around the country. It's behind us, and I'd like it to stay that way.” A change of subject, then; what does she make of the rumours that she is currently performing as a costumed character on The Masked Singer UK? “On- I'm sorry, what's that?” I show her a clip on my phone. “Good heavens, no.” But isn't that exactly what she'd say if it was her? “Well, I don't know. I'd never even seen it until just now. But it all seems a little childish for my taste. I'm far too committed to my art to do light entertainment.” Time, it seems, will tell. But if Dame Angela is indeed a participant in The Masked Singer, she hides it well.There’s time for one last question, so I try to make it a good one. What, I ask, does Dame Angela consider her proudest achievement to date? “Oh, that’s a difficult question. I simply couldn’t choose... Naturally, becoming a Dame was a great honour, and not one I expected at all, which made it all the more precious. But then, the first time I won an Oscar was a real moment of pride, and one that’s never soured with time. And, of course, every award and every round of applause is a moment of pride for any actor; it means I’ve done the job, and done it well, and that it has been appreciated by the audience in front of me. What more can any actress ask for?” MARY HODGES Dame Angela Crowley’s latest film, Three Card Monte, is in cinemas from the 12th of February.

Centre right: OWAS to host ‘magic’ event Literary society’s next gala theme announced The Oscar Wilde Appreciation Society has announced the theme for its spring social event, which is to be inspired by all things magical. Famed far beyond its actual membership for its lavish balls and banquets, the society has in the past held events held together by motifs such as 'Luck', which took place in a casino, 'Snow', which included a trip to a ski slope, and 'Flight', during which all participants had the opportunity to glide above the dancers on wires. This time, the theme is 'Magic', and while details are still being kept tightly under wraps, it seems fairly certain that Aziraphale Fell, London's most celebrated stage magician and a long-time member of the Oscar Wilde Appreciation Society, will be performing at the event. When the society throws open its doors each season, it's quite possible to go all night without seeing a single regular member of the club. While the organising committee is out in full force, soliciting donations from the wealthy patrons who attend the parties, and the society president stands up to make a toast at the beginning of dinner, it's largely outsiders who descend upon the Oscar Wilde Appreciation Society's chosen venue. In fact, the scale and opulence of these events has led some to speculate that OWAS is not a literary appreciation society at all, but rather a shadowy networking opportunity for the rich and powerful. Indeed, at the 'Flight' event, it's rumoured that two world leaders met in the queue for the wire-flying and laid the foundations for a later trade deal between their nations. The society's everyday goings-on are, I'm told, far more pedestrian and literary. But - as the current president, Edwin Pearce, often says - “what's an Oscar Wilde society without a little hedonism?” There's altruism, too, however; the society makes a substantial donation to a charity chosen by the members each year. This year's charity has yet to be determined, but last year the children of the Wessex Street Hospital enjoyed a very special Christmas thanks to a £20,000 cheque from the Oscar Wilde Appreciation Society. Much of the funds required to make such lavish events and donations possible are raised at those very events, which take place once a season. Tickets for the 'Magic' event have not yet been released, but previous events' tickets have sold for anything from £200 to £2000. A limited number of reduced price tickets are generally made available, so keep an eye on the Oscar Wilde Appreciation Society's website at oscarwas.org.uk if you're looking to get in without breaking the bank. If The Amazing Mr Fell will indeed be performing at the event, it might explain his recent reduction in performances – his show has gone down from six nights a week to just four, eliminating his Wednesday and Saturday performances. Magic fans in the capital can therefore hold out hope that once preparations for his upcoming performance are over, tickets might become easier to obtain. And, of course, the 'Magic' event itself promises to be one big avocado. CITRON DEUX-CHEVAL

Centre right: Drawing back the veil again Mystic Madame reportedly plotting TV return Two years after Drawing Back the Veil with Telepathic Tracy last aired, its old Saturday night slot is set to become vacant again – and rumours abound that the show may be set to return. For the last two years, live draws have been condensed into a fifteen-minute slot on BBC One, followed by an episode of one of the longer 45-minute drama series the BBC tend to favour these days. Much of the pageantry that used to go along with the weekly draw was shifted unceremoniously onto the National Lottery's YouTube channel or website, and the delivery of the actual results became more akin to the reading of a weather report before a return to the usual programming of the channel. Now, however, the BBC has put out a press release announcing that the National Lottery will now return to a half-hour draw show, allowing for 'a little more excitement and glamour'. This, the press release suggests, could take the form of a very brief trivia game before the draw, a return to celebrities wishing everyone luck before pressing the all-important button, a chance to showcase musical acts during the show, or some combination of the above. I'm all for a return to the showbiz nature of the nation's most mainstream gambling ring, but it's the shortening of the subsequent timeslot that has my attention. Already, just a day after the BBC's announcement, speculation is rife about what – and who – might be about to fill that second half-hour time slot. Most of the shows the BBC produces these days are designed for a 45-minute or hour-long format, and producers will be understandably reluctant to try to condense comedy, gameshows or drama into such a small space – especially given the National Lottery's occasional tendency to overrun. Pre-recorded shows have come unstuck before when the Camelot machines have jammed or some other calamity has befallen the draw, most notably in 2019 when the initial episode of Season 6 of Sherlock aired without the crucial first three minutes that explained the detective's cunning escape from the previous season's climactic scrape. It's the sort of situation that calls for a steady hand and an almost supernatural ability to adjust to disaster. Who better to take on the challenge than a woman who's had years of practice? Telepathic Tracy, the Mystic Madame, is very much still working her mysterious ways despite her departure from our TV screens – notably in The New Aquarian - and what better way to follow a disappointing lotto result than with the reassurance that this week, your luck will be better, or at the very least predictable? I, for one, predict Madame Tracy's triumphant return to television - and what's more, I welcome it. EDWARD BIGGS

Advertisement, bottom left: [Image Description: A grayscale photo of a warzone, with plumes of smoke. A smiling woman walks away from the destruction; she is in full colour and has artificially-enhanced red hair. Text is overlaid, as transcribed below. End ID.] When the news breaks, my hair doesn’t. Carmine Zugiber. Be bold. Be strong. Be Vibrant. [Image Description: The word Vibrant appears in red and is in a different font, like a logo. This is the case each time it appears. End ID.] Vibrant Flame Red Bottom right: Correction In Andy Sandalphon's column on page 15 of last Saturday's paper (23rd January), he stated that folk music made by an American is Country music. Several readers got in touch to explain that this is not, in fact, the case, and we would like to set the record straight. Country, or country and western, music is a very specific type of folk music, and while often associated with American artists, it is not simply the American version of folk. Furthermore, music must fit specific criteria to be considered country, and Anathema's does not. While country music belongs to the overarching genre of folk, not all folk music is country music, regardless of the nationality of the performer. We apologise sincerely for the mistake; while every effort is made to include only accurate information, errors do occasionally slip through. We regret the misunderstanding, and hope to do better in future. If you notice an error in any of our articles, please let us know as soon as possible by emailing editor@capitalherald.co.uk. We appreciate your help to keep our newspaper as accurate and factual as possible.

[End Transcript]