#what if they got interrupted and Aziraphale realized what he was doing and it terrified him?

[ineffableteeth]

They probably almost kissed after this

They probably almost kissed after this

They probably almost kissed after this

[sometimeseffable]

a sudden proposal

Aziraphale finds he likes talking about Crowley rather a lot.

“How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, ages. Practically since the beginning.”

The women coo. “High school sweethearts, how romantic!”

“Er, actually, the getting together bit was fairly recent. Our, uh, families weren’t too keen on it, so. Well. It was mostly me who put it off, I think Anthony would have been ready to elope a few thousand years ago.”

If there’s anything odd about the statement, the group doesn’t show it. They simply laugh it off as a humorous exaggeration, which Aziraphale is grateful for. Sometimes he forgets how time works for humans.

“Families can be hard,” says Candace sympathetically.

“Indeed. Took a while to get over thinking Gabriel would show up at my door just to tell me off - “ Aziraphale freezes, realizing the slip up far too late. Susan just clucks her tongue.

“Older brother?” 

Relieved, Aziraphale nods. “A fairly overbearing one at that.”

“I know all about that,” Deidre interrupts. Adam’s mother had been, with a little demonic intervention, graciously welcoming of Adam’s ‘godfathers’ dropping in on the boy’s twelfth birthday party. Even if it was completely unannounced. “When Arthur proposed, my sister was not happy with me. Kept wanting me to get back with my ex, you remember John from secondary school? Well, I told her, I said…”

Aziraphale lets the idle chatter wash over him, pleased to be part of a human social gathering for the first time since Portland Place gentleman’s club closed. He glances over to where Crowley is busy entertaining the Them, and can’t help but smile.

 The demon is engaging in a non-lethal watergun fight with the kids and Newt. The teams had started off as strictly Adults vs Kids, and has since devolved into Newt running around yelping as Crowley tag-teams with the Them in a desperate bid to get him soaked to the bone. They seem to have devised an exceedingly efficient battle strategy.

 Aziraphale can just catch the edge of fangs in his demon’s manic grin. His entirely too-human heart flutters at the sight of Crowley letting go of his ridiculously aloof facade and having fun for once. Such a rare sight after centuries of looking over his shoulder, unappreciated by his colleagues and at constant risk of Hell’s displeasure.

“Anthony certainly knows how to handle kids,” someone remarks, bringing Aziraphale back to the present. “Do you ever want some of your own?”

He flushes under the August sun. “Oh - well, um, we’ve never - never really discussed it.” 

The answer was a hard no, but the angel felt rather uncomfortable discussing the delicate horror of watching onesselve outlive their human children. Thankfully, Candace comes to his aid.

“Understandable. Anne and I didn’t even consider having kids until they passed the marriage act. I remember the day they passed it. Hopeless romantics, we were, we got married the very next day. It was all very exciting.”

There’s a moment of wistful joy as Candace gives him a knowing look, eyes quickly flicking down to the winged ring on Aziraphale’s pinky. He blushes harder.

“Oh,” he demurs, “No, we’re not - “

“Everything alright over here?” Crowley materializes at Aziraphale’s shoulder, somehow bone dry despite that he’d been manning a SuperSoaker 9000 for the better part of an hour. A plate slides smoothly into the angel’s lap. “Cake, angel?”

The women all twitter at the pet name. Suddenly, the idea of correcting Candace’s assumptions seems terribly wrong as Crowley settles into the lawn chair next to him, arm slung loose over Aziraphale’s shoulders. His demon is wildly animated in his storytelling, wooing the ladies further. Aziraphale listens to him with a flutter of pride and quietly eats his cake, contemplative. 

The drive back to London is spent in comfortable silence. What had begun as Tchaikovesky’s 14th symphony has morphed slowly into the heart-aching refrains of Love of My Life. Crowley hums along softly, fingers laced through Aziraphale’s on the angel’s knee as he steers one-handed. 

Aziraphale watches him. Warm light from the setting August sun catches his hair so that it shines like fire, painting delicate gold over high cheekbones. Those infernal glasses cover his eyes, yet he imagines they would be soft with contentment. In fact, with all the tension loosened from his shoulders, radiating love like a furnace as he is, Aziraphale is quite sure this is the most relaxed and - dare he say it - happy Crowley has ever been in his presence. Possibly, and he would be remiss not to consider it, his happiest since the Fall. 

All of a sudden, the millennia he’s spent denying they were even friends feels like an anchor crushing his chest, collapsing his ribcage until he can barely breathe.

They break the silence at nearly the same time.

“So, I was thinking when we got back, we could get - “

“We should get married.”

Since they’re doing just ten over the speed limit, the Bentley’s screeching halt holds less promise of imminent discorporation than usual. Neither being moves; Aziraphale’s heart beats a rapid tattoo in his chest as Crowley stares at the road ahead of them, mouth ajar.

“...Thai,” the demon croaks, “I was gonna suggest Thai. Hang on, back up, you want us to what?” 

Aziraphale wishes the seat would open and swallow him whole in a fit of cliche. “I - I said perhaps we should get married,” he says, voice sounding terribly small even to his own ears, “I just - well, I was talking to Candace, you know, Deidre’s friend, and - and she made an excellent point regarding - “

“Okay.”

“Sorry?”

“Okay,” Crowley repeats. The black glasses leave his face unreadable, “We’ll get married.”

It does not sound like the most enthused of proposal acceptances. 

Aziraphale feels the swell of assured confidence deflate a touch. “Oh. Right then. Tickety...boo.”

Crowley nods and turns back to the road. The Bentley makes it another ten meters before it stops again.

“I can’t go in a church.”

“Loads of people get married other ways, dear.” Aziraphale wonders if that were a true concern, or a deflection that could be used as a big red TERMINATE button.

“Right.”

Another two meters before they stop.

Aziraphale throws up his hands, exasperated. “Oh for Hell’s sake, if you don’t want to marry then we won’t!”

“No!” Crowley yelps, strangled. He twists his ridiculously lanky body to face the angel, and were he capable of it, there would probably be sweat on his brow, “It’s not that, it’s just. Like married married. Like you want to spend the rest of eternity trapped in a legally binding contract to me in the eyes of the Almighty, and you think we won’t tear each other up because sssomeone’s leaving the telly on or dishesss in the sssink, and it’sss not too fassst - “

Aziraphale kisses him.

The rest of Crowley’s diatribe is muffled into a short mmph. Instinctively, his hands come up to frame Aziraphale’s face, protective as always. Aziraphale pushes the glasses back up into his hair. Wide gold eyes blink at him, terrified and hopeful and oh-so smitten.

Aziraphale presses another reverent kiss to his palm. “Too fast?”

“Never.” Crowley lets out a shaky breath. “Whatever you want, angel, s’long as you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth again, slow and sweet. Then he pulls away with a frown. “Don’t we miracle the dishes clean?”

“It’s an expression,” Crowley mumbles before swooping in for a thorough snog. Aziraphale’s hand tangles in his fiance’s hair - oh, but isn’t that a thought? A very, very lovely thought. Someone snaps their fingers; they fall, giggling, into the back seat, trading fervent, giddy kisses. 

London can wait. They’ve got all the time they need.

---

Part two of the ineffable godfathers miniseries

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

In Control

5 Times Aziraphale Was Blindsided by Panic Attacks (+1 Time Crowley Helped Him Through It)

Today marks the 1-year anniversary of my first AO3 fic! Thank you SO MUCH to all my readers who have come with me on this long, strange, largely angsty Good Omens journey. This fic is my first 5+1, written a few months ago when the stress was getting me pretty bad. As always, I cope by abusing my favorite angel. Full fic available on AO3.

CW: Detailed panic attack descriptions

I. Dubrovnik

The first time it happened, Aziraphale had just arrived in Dubrovnik, ship sliding between the enormous cliffs that sheltered the bright red roofs of the port city. A towering stone castle stood atop the cliff to the west; it hadn’t been there last time Aziraphale visited, but was at least a century old already.

It was just a quick stop over, in and out, on his way to more pressing matters up north; low-profile work, protecting a few travelers, blessing a few churches.

But all during the journey, he had heard whispers, rumors that something evil lurked in the city.

What he should do was contact his superiors, asking for orders and recommendations. He had never failed to do so before.

Evidence of demonic work, he would say. Sometimes he would be given instructions on how to counteract the most likely lines of infernal influence; more often, he would be detoured, given a new path to his destination that avoided any confrontation. A few times, reinforcements had been sent, though always they were dedicated soldiers who were quick to smite. If any of Michael’s legions showed up – or worse, Sandalphon’s – well, that would be the end of any low-profile work for at least a century.

But it wasn’t fear of destroying his cover that kept him from calling Head Office. In fact, for once, it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Instead, he stood at the prow of the ship, hands tapping at the rail, excitement mixed with nerves. Yes, he could sense the agent of Hell, even from here, like a faint scent on the breeze, and he knew Crowley could sense him, too. Five thousand years on Earth grants you a certain…familiarity.

Crowley would be waiting. Not a doubt in his mind. And woven all through his usual what ifs and be carefuls was the simple, buzzing happiness of seeing the demon again.

Docking took an eternity; Aziraphale had to resist the urge to simply miracle himself ashore. Why not? His charges had all been marked so that he could easily find them again, conveniently bump into them in the marketplace in time to join them on the next leg of his journey. He wasn’t carrying much baggage of note, nothing he couldn’t replace easily. Just a small teleportation, Heaven probably wouldn’t even notice…

With a thud, the plank was lowered, and the small group of travelers began making their way to the pier. Aziraphale joined the throng, moving slowly, slowly ashore…

By the time his feet reached solid ground – which seemed to tip for a moment but a quick miracle cured him of any lingering motion sickness – Aziraphale was already scanning the crowd and there – there – brilliant red hair barely contained by a black veil, deep red dress down to his ankles covered by an impossibly black overgown, covered in onyx and red coral, sleeves scandalously short. Tall and narrow and gliding through the crowd like a fish through water, like a shark, predatory smile that nevertheless made Aziraphale’s heart speed up and his stomach twist. He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, all thoughts of Crowley were shoved aside by the doubts, the endless worries, surging to the surface: his assignment, his next report, the dinners, the lies, what he would say to Gabriel next month? What would he say if Gabriel showed up right now? He never should have come – should have reported in hours ago – should have never invited Crowley for oysters – should have – should have – should have –

His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t sad or happy or any of the things that usually brought tears, they were just there, in the corners. His fingers shook uncontrollably as he reached to wipe them away.

No, there wasn’t time for this, he needed to push the thoughts aside – make a list – deal with all of them, yes, start with – start with – start with – Breathe.

The first gasping, wheezing breath felt strangely voluntary, as if he were simply trying something new. What happens if I do this with my lungs instead? Then came another normal breath. See? Just experimenting. Now another wheeze.

But someone would notice. He should stop.

At which point he realized, all at once, that he had no control over anything. His body was simply doing what it would. He staggered, bending over, gasping, searching for breath. Tears began to run down his face and he sucked in one high, shrieking breath after another.

“Angel! Aziraphale! Are you – what’s wrong?”

This was absurd. He was drawing attention, making a scene right here by the water. The crowd was pushing away – people would notice – this wasn’t low-profile at all!

He needed to explain – needed to stop – but the world tilted dangerously, worse than the ship ever had.

“Can you hear me?” Two hands gripped at his shoulders, long fingers digging in. “Aziraphale!”

“Of…” he started, but was interrupted by another wheeze. It was strange. His mind could take everything in, perfectly logically, but his thoughts were spinning so fast they had become blank. It seemed that he was standing slightly apart from the body, watching it fall apart, watching the shaking hands fumble weakly for Crowley’s gown, tugging at the fabric, pulling him closer.

No, no, that wouldn’t do. He ordered the hands to let go, the legs to step back from the demon’s grip. They obeyed, but the brain immediately got worse, dizzy, nauseated, and Aziraphale felt himself drifting even farther away from the body as it fell, crouching, hugging its own knees.

“Fine.” He forced the lips to say. “Just. Air.”

“You aren’t fine!” Again those gentle narrow fingers reached for him, brushed across his cheeks, which were now coated with a stream of tears Aziraphale couldn’t control. “Aziraphale, look at me!”

His eyes finally moved to fully take in Crowley, crouching before him in that lovely dress, curls breaking free of the veil to dance in the sea breeze around golden eyes, wide with fear.

It made his chest hurt, worse than anything, as if his heart were trying to escape entirely.

“Heaven,” Crowley said suddenly. “You need to go to Heaven. Now. There’s – your body is dying.”

“No—” Aziraphale’s head shook frantically, partly just from the tremors. “Don’t – what do I say? You’re here—”

And then Crowley was gone, leaving no trace except a wave of demonic energy that would surely be felt by any angel on Earth and many in Heaven besides.

Enough of this. He tried to breathe normally, to stand up, to let go of his legs – anything to return to some semblance of normalcy. His body refused to listen.

When the angels arrived – one of Uriel’s units, thank goodness, at least they had some idea of how to act like they belonged – he was still crouched in the street, breathing barely under control.

(He could stop the tears, he could stop the gasping, he could stop all of it. Aziraphale was in control.)

He spent two days in Heaven, being poked and prodded as experts attempted to determine the nature of the demonic attack that had left one of their best agents helpless in the street.

(Aziraphale felt the usual mix of pride and shame at that – he only ever seemed to be called one of our best agents when he’d failed to live up to the title.)

But in the end, there was nothing – no sign of any attack, damage or illness – some heightened hormone levels, but that could easily be an aftereffect of the stress on the body. There was some discussion of replacing the body with another one, better functioning, better suited to Earthly combat.

(No one asked Aziraphale’s opinion on that. It was just a piece of equipment, after all, even if he’d become rather attached to it.)

In the end, Aziraphale was sent back to Earth, almost too late to reconnect with his charges, with strict instructions to contact Head Office if the demon attempted another strike.

(Crowley would never. It was a terrifying thought, to be so confident in one’s nemesis. But Crowley would never.)

Read the rest on AO3!

[ineffable-endearments]

M’kay SO switching it up from The Rules to The Relationship - 

The thing about the lockdown video that’s super super SUPER fascinating (aside from all of the other things about it that are super super super fascinating) is that it’s Crowley and Aziraphale trying to negotiate what “our side” actually looks like in practice. It’s that moment in fanfic when they’re like, okay, so I know he likes me, but does he LIKE me like me? And what exactly is it that I want from him?

Because “our side” could be a wide gamut of possibilities. I mean, I think it was always pretty obvious this wouldn’t be the case, but in theory, “our side” could look like two beings who meet up on rare occasion to catch up and then part ways without really seeking each other out just for company. It could look like voluntary coworkers. It could look like two beings who enjoy meeting up on a regular basis just to spend time together because they like each other.

Or. It could look like two beings who are so close that they’re a unit. So close that they don’t have to socially distance because they live together. A closeness that is for all practical purposes a domestic partnership, whether that partnership is romantic, sexual, or queerplatonic in nature. It might be delightful, but it brings risks, too. What if you don’t get along as well cohabiting as you did apart?

When you’re already happy with your existence, you get to see your best friend pretty much on demand and pursue whatever you want while they’re out pursuing whatever they want and you’re both retired and immortal and there’s nobody to tell either of you what to do, you might not want to take the risk of upsetting that status quo. Oh, sure, you might have little not-completely-fulfilled desires somewhere in there, but what you’ve already got is so good that the idea of taking the first step toward changing it might seem rash or destructive. Someone in this situation might hold themselves back a little, but it may not really feel like pining so much as simply a deep affection that is kept under control.

Lockdown interrupts that comfortable status quo by saying nope, this little routine can’t last forever. In the lockdown video, Aziraphale has pretty obviously discovered that he’s extremely happy to stay in and be introverted all day, and there is only one thing missing. That one thing is Crowley, of course. Meanwhile, Crowley realizes the extent to which he fucking hates being locked in, but I’d say he discovers two important things: one, he’s willing to endure this near-torture for the good of humans even when the world isn’t literally about to end, and two, it would be far more tolerable if Aziraphale were here.

Aziraphale sounds nervous on his phone call to Crowley. He keeps saying things like “you’re a demon and you should be out” but this clearly is a thin excuse. He wants Crowley to be heading out voluntarily so he can invite him over. Crowley picks up what he’s putting down, but when Crowley blatantly offers to break his lockdown to come stay over with Aziraphale, Aziraphale obviously gets really nervous again and says they shouldn’t.

I’m not certain how I read Aziraphale’s original “invitation” (because let’s be real, that’s what it was). Was he thinking Crowley was going to “hunker down” with him, or was he thinking Crowley would be out and about anyway so they’d have a nice visit and Crowley would eventually go home/leave to go cause havoc somewhere else?

I mean, on one hand, when Crowley suggested “hunkering down” with a “case” of something drinkable, Aziraphale panicked, which could imply that a long-term arrangement wasn’t his intention. On the other hand, it would be double-breaking-the rules for Crowley to leave his own apartment and THEN to leave Aziraphale’s shop. Logic would dictate - and Aziraphale would probably know this; he’s certainly had time to contemplate it, and if the props are any indication, he has been contemplating Crowley a lot - that if you’re going to thwart your wily, easily-bored counterpart’s attempts to be socially irresponsible, you’re going to have to keep him occupied the whole time. You’d be doing the most good by keeping him with you for months on end. Yup, I think Aziraphale was angling for a lockdown slumber party, too, but was already anxious about it, and then the final act of having to openly ask Crowley to break the rules was more of a line than he was comfortable crossing.

Aziraphale ALWAYS DOES THIS when things are about to change, even for the better. It’s part of who he is, and part of why he’s bonded so well with Crowley - because he WANTS the good changes, but they’re terrifying, and Crowley gives him the ability to do it. But he always says “no” the first time, and hangs nervously around the periphery until he’s invited again.

When Crowley suggested the Arrangement? The answer was no, and it became yes. When Crowley asked for holy water? The answer was no, and it became yes. When Crowley asked to save the world together? The answer was no, and it became yes.

This is progress. This is Aziraphale making the call himself and obviously nudging towards a significant change that he wants, instead of trying to bury his desire completely. The fact that he can’t quite seal the deal at the end is a part of the process.

[cleverlittlejay]

Raphael anon back once again with a hilarious thought: Family therapy with Crowley, Lucifer, Gabriel, & Micheal and it’s just so wild & the poor therapist is so confused. They assume it’s just rich people scandals & shenanigans but all of these drama queens in a room together trying to work through over 6,000 years of family issues while some poor human tries to keep everything from becoming a chaotic nightmare without the full story of what’s going on is infinitely funny to me.

hello, anon! this was such a delight to write! also, fun fact, i’m a psych major and took one (1) intro to counseling psych class, but that actually helped in writing this, so that was fun! This is also super long (1k words!) so it also goes under a read more. (another fun fact: i stole the name Dr. Martin from Lucifer on Netflix because why not.) 

(one more fun fact, i genuinely hate the Neflix!Lucifer stereotype that a psychiatrist who went to med school would be a therapist. it’s two different fields. ok sorry, it’s fic time)

Dr. Martin was good at her job. She worked hard to become a therapist, and she genuinely believed that she could help her clients. It’s why she started her private practice. 

Her next appointment was a family therapy session. She briefly wondered how her secretary forgot to mention that she had an appointment or that she had new clients at all, but these mistakes happen. Sometimes computers just don’t want to work, deleting emails and not saving the clients’ last names in the file. 

The family consisted of four siblings. Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel, and Anthony J Crowley. Anthony, she learned, preferred to be called Crowley, and the other three siblings did not share that last name. 

The four siblings did not get along. At all. And they wanted to, Crowley explained, but they just couldn’t see eye to eye. 

“It all started when Mother kicked me out,” Lucifer said. “More specifically, she had Michael kick me out because she’s–”

“Because,” Michael interrupted, “you were an awful son who refused to listen to her. Causing trouble, thinking you’re better than her. Asking questions.” That last part was clearly directed at Crowley, who offered a light shrug. 

“Interrupting isn’t kind, Michael,” Dr. Martin said. “Please let Lucifer talk, and then you can say your part.”

If looks could kill, Dr. Martin would’ve died a hundred times over in her career. Michael’s glare was terrifying, but she’d seen it all before. 

The final picture was that their mother kicked out Lucifer and Crowley due to rebelliousness. The two questioned her authority and so they had to be removed before they corrupted any others. Now, after the disappearance of their mother, the siblings decided to get together again and reconnect.

A cult, Dr. Martin realized. She was working with the aftereffects of a cult. The religious names, the absolute authority, the punishment that included some kind of fire, the isolation from others, it all painted a very clear but dark picture.

She thanked them for their openness and had her secretary book their next appointment. 

Then, she realized how much she didn’t know about cults–she owned a private practice, she didn’t work with law enforcement or social services–and began her research. She read articles on cult-related family dynamics and trauma. She even called her old colleague for some direction. 

The next session, the two eldest siblings focussed on each other. As Lucifer and Michael went on, Crowley and Gabriel seemed content to watch them argue as Dr. Martin futilely attempted to control the session. 

“Even now, you’re a pest,” Michael sneered, ignoring the no-interruptions rule. “Your demons cause nothing but trouble and you barely control them.”

Inner demons were difficult to control, sometimes spiralling and causing issues in real life. It took strength to admit that you need support in fighting your battles.

Lucifer spoke before Dr. Martin could voice that. 

“Maybe you should control your angels, Michael. Always wandering into trouble, making friends with demons and then getting hurt. It’s almost as if they don’t respect your command.”

“Tell your demons to stop fraternizing with the enemy!”

“Hey,” Crowley interrupted. “I thought that sides don’t matter anymore. I can fraternize with an angel if I wanted to.”

“Now, yes, but not before,” Michael said patronizingly, as if she was leading the session rather than Dr. Martin. “But you endangered yourself and Aziraphale by being with him.”

“Not like Aziraphale was in danger,” Gabriel grumbled. “He got away with it.”

The session ended without any of the siblings making any progress. It was fine, Dr. Martin rationed. Progress is not always linear, and she needed to first create a safe space where they were comfortable speaking up. 

She also realized that her original theory was wrong. It wasn’t a cult. It was the mob. 

Different sides, angels and demons, both told that the other is the enemy. Perhaps Lucifer and Crowley disagreed with their “mother’s” rule and were punished for noncompliance. Michael was clearly the enforcer, punishing those who stepped out of line. It blurred the definition of “sibling,” but it explained the disdain that Lucifer and Michael had for each other. 

This realization led to a new line of research. The mob was harder to research from a psychological or counseling therapy perspective, and Dr. Martin ended up making even more calls to colleagues and old professors. 

“First a cult and now the mob,” her old classmate laughed. “You have some interesting clients.”

Dr. Martin refused to admit that she was wrong about the cult. No one had to know. 

She changed her strategy during their next session. The past was important to understanding a person, but perhaps it was better to focus on the present. 

“Despite everything that happened, Lucifer and Crowley being kicked out and you being forced to lead, how do you feel about Lucifer right now?” 

Michael didn’t answer immediately, which was a good sign. When she answered, she didn’t look at Lucifer or speak to him directly, but she knew that he was there and listening to her.  

“I don’t hate him,” Michael said slowly. “He’s still my brother. I didn’t have a choice, you know. I had to do it.” 

Dr. Martin could imagine the lack of choice. It was likely that if Michael didn’t do as told, she would’ve also been punished. It was coercion, and Michael couldn’t be held fully accountable. 

“I don’t hate you, either,” Lucifer said. There was a forced air of casualness around him, protecting Michael from rejection. “You’re still my baby sister. No fall can change that, Micah.”

Progress. It took three sessions and a lot of pain and bitterness, but they were making progress. Michael and Lucifer finally broke through their hard shells to admit that there is a possibility to move forward in their relationship with genuine love and affection. That kind of hope was why Dr. Martin was a therapist in the first place. 

Dr. Martin scheduled their next appointment. She was hopeful for their next session, creating an outline that would include more dialogue and encourage the younger two siblings to speak more often. The four of them had hope yet. 

Dr. Martin was good at her job. She would help bridge a 6000 year old gap of pain and misery to create a new era of peace. Not that she knew that, of course. She was just a therapist to a weird group of siblings. 

Humans, She thought in amusement, were clearly Her best creations yet.

[areyougonnabe]

Gerry Keay learns that the last place a very dangerous Leitner was seen was an international rare book fair in London, just last week. He intimidates the trader into giving him the information of the buyer, and hopes it’s not too late by the time he gets there, he hopes that his mother hasn’t beaten him to it, hasn’t arrived and done something unspeakably awful to the shop owner in order to get her hands on that 17th-century tome, Athanasius Kircher’s Ars magna lucis et umbrae, which Leitner’s catalogue indicated had the power to induce a catastrophic hallucinatory state in the reader. 

When he gets there, prepared to intimidate and bargain and wheedle and terrify his way into possession of the book, his heart falls as he steps in to see a pale, bookish man seated in a chair, the book propped open on his lap. 

“No—!” he yells, panicked, horrified. This is worse than being beaten by his mother, somehow. With that, at least, he could have had somewhere external to direct his anger. But now, the idea that if he’d just been a bit faster, a bit quicker to research, he could have saved this poor man from a ruined mind— there is only one person to blame, and it’s himself. 

And then, as Gerry rushes forward, prepared to see the telltale swirls of distorted light behind the man’s eyes, marking him out as a lost cause, yet another casualty of a Leitner, the man looks up at him. His eyes are clear and blue, utterly and obviously entirely lucid. How the fuck—? 

The man snaps the book shut. “Mr. Keay, I presume,” he says. "Um,” Gerry stammers, and the man smiles kindly and stands up from his chair, holding the book in wide, solid hands. 

Gerry points at the book, trying to regain some sense of his mission. “That book,” he says, and before he can continue the man interrupts, “It’s quite interesting, isn’t it?”

This nearly draws a laugh out of Gerry. Interesting isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe a Leitner tome that has permanently incapacitated six people in the last year. “It’s dangerous,” he says, as seriously as he can. “I don’t know how— look. If it hasn’t already done its damage on you, it’s only a matter of time. It’s got to be destroyed. Please. You’re in danger, as long as you’ve got it with you.” 

The man— who Gerry realizes must be the A.Z. Fell of the store’s marquee, though that hardly seems like a real name a person would have— looks him up and down, with a stare that seems to penetrate to the very heart of him. Gerry feels like he’s being— well. Read, like a book.

“I appreciate your concern,” Fell says, “but I assure you, it’s not needed. A little thing like this could do just as much harm to me as you could.” He smiles, a little twinkly smile wildly at odds with the outlandish implications of his statement. 

“But my mother—” Gerry begins, wondering how he could possibly convey the threat Mary poses to anyone who stands in between her and her precious books. Fell, in his waistcoat and reading glasses, looks like he’d last about five minutes against the fearful torments she’s capable of dishing out, even in her weakened state of undeath.

“Your mother,” says Fell, stern, like a schoolteacher, “is, I’m sure you won’t mind me saying, an utterly horrid woman. She knows very well that she’s not to come anywhere near this bookshop, and the consequences that await her if she should even so much as try.”

“...You know her?” 

He raises his eyebrows. “In this profession, one must be acquainted at least superficially with one’s competition."

Gerry’s eyes are drawn inexorably to the book Fell still holds in his hands. “I don’t want to take it from you by force,” he says, “but I will. If I have to. I’m telling you, it’s no good, I’ve got to destroy it—”

Fell tsks softly, letting his gaze fall to the book as well. “Such a beautiful book,” he says quietly. “A shame, what’s been done to it...”

And now those eyes are on Gerry again, and he feels pinned beneath their weight. He’s suddenly conscious of the dirty blonde roots showing at his scalp, clashing with the black dye above; he’s aware of the holes in his shirt, worn down from constant wear; the pitted acne scars on his face and his crooked teeth. 

But Fell is not looking at him with judgement, not the way his mother did, constantly condescending, rating him short of standard. It’s whatever the opposite of that is— a look of pure acceptance. Pride, even— but how is that possible, when he’s never met this man before in his life—? 

“My dear boy,” says Fell, “you’ve done so very well. I think it’s high time someone told you that.” 

He places the book gently into Gerry’s hands. Gerry is frozen in place for a moment, mind whirring prematurely with plans of how to destroy it (would it respond to flame? Necessitate drowning? Shredding, burying, a single stab to the heart of it?) 

But then Fell snaps his fingers, and the air around them shivers, sings silently like a ringing bell, and the book crumbles cleanly to white ash in his hands. 

Gerry’s seen enough to not question the mechanics of such an act. 

Instead, he asks: “Why?”

Fell smiles now. “You remind me quite a bit of an... associate of mine. Someone who’s done me many a favor over the years. Sentimental of me, I suppose, but I have my vices.”

Gerry finds it hard to believe a man like Fell would associate with someone like him— if Fell were to have a friend, Gerry would imagine them to be another stuffy academic type, not a shabby goth with a sarcastic streak fathoms deep.

"Thank you, sir,” says Gerry, because Mary may have utterly failed to impress up on him her worldview and morality, but she certainly taught him his manners. 

“Oh, please,” says Fell, “call me Aziraphale.” 

He extends a warm hand and Gerry takes it, and mid-handshake something clicks in his mind. A tome in his mother’s library, an ancient and obscure manuscript containing illuminated portraits of the hierarchies of angels— one of the few books with pictures, so naturally one he read over and over as a child. One of the pages rattles around in his head and then settles, coming into focus. A white-robed, sun-haired angel with great white wings, bearing a flaming sword, and underneath it in black ink against gold leaf: The Principality Aziraphale.

Gerry steps back, a bit shocked. Aziraphale sees the flicker of recognition in his eyes and raises a single finger to his lips conspiratorially. 

There’s a moment where Gerry thinks he might do something embarrassing like beg for help, or ask to stay a little longer, here in this wonderfully warm and bright and safe bookshop— but it passes, as his purpose reasserts itself inside of him with the burning force that’s kept him going for so long on his own. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, testing the ancient name on his tongue. “Well. If you ever come across any more Leitners—”

“You’ll be the first to know, you have my word.”

Gerry nods. “I— You— you’ve got a very nice shop.” Aziraphale beams at him. “Best be off, though,” Gerry goes on. He dusts off the last of the white ash that used to be the Leitner from his hands and turns to go.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale understandingly. 

At the door, Gerry pauses, and turns back.

“Your friend,” he says. “The one I remind you of. For your sake, I hope he’s better than me at staying out of trouble.” 

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. “He is trouble.” 

“Much better,” says Gerry, and with that, steps back out into the busy Soho street, and disappears into the crowd. 

[yamisnuffles]

Love Like Yours

It’s 1967. Aziraphale grapples with his decision to give Crowley holy water and what it represents for them both.

Read on Ao3

- - - - 

Aziraphale could barely hear what Crowley was saying- what he himself was thinking- for the blood that pounded in his ears. His heart’s terrified staccato was the sound of coming doom. He had to keep his hands folded in his lap to stop them from shaking. It was bad enough the way they’d quivered as he handed over the thermos, the way his voice quivered still over uneasy breaths, he didn’t need to fall apart completely.

Despite the sunglasses between them, he felt like he was unspooling under Crowley’s gaze. Perhaps because of them. Those particular spectacles, large and round, had an oddly emotive quality to them. Crowley was all eyes and protruding bottom lip and pleading eyebrows. Aziraphale suddenly understood what the demon meant when he complained about Aziraphale giving a particular look . It felt impossible to deny Crowley anything he wanted at that moment.

But Aziraphale had to deny him. To deny them both. As much as he wanted to take that final step over the edge and fall headfirst into whatever was to come, he couldn’t. Not yet.

He forced his voice over the growing lump in his throat. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

At that, Aziraphale got out of his seat and left the car. He took a few steps and then a few more. He felt less sure of his choice every moment. One step forward had him wishing he hadn’t given Crowley the holy water at all. The next, he wanted nothing more than to dive back into the car, take the demon up on his offer, and never look back. These opposing desires instead saw him rooted in place by indecision.

He watched the Bentley, listened as the engine rumbled to life, and then watched Crowley disappear into the night. Aziraphale waited until Crowley was well and truly gone before he miracled himself back into his shop. It was the definition of frivolous, given how close it was, but he couldn’t trust his feet to carry him there.

Indeed, the moment he was back in the shop, he collapsed back against the door. He slid downward. The sounds of the Soho night were as loud as ever. People laughed, shouted, and chattered in the streets. Strains of music drifted and mixed from different locales, each a siren song for some hedonistic diversion. Aziraphale had come to love it all for what it was- proof of human vitality and fallibility. It was all so very alive and at the moment, he couldn’t stand any of it. He couldn’t help but strain to hear the familiar purr of the Bentley, for proof that Crowley was still well. A snap of his fingers and silence fell over the shop.

It didn’t take long to realize what a mistake that was. Without any other sound, Aziraphale was left with his thoughts. He wondered if Crowley was home yet. Given how Crowley liked to speed down the road, it seemed likely he was at least well on his way. But there was a chance his recklessness had finally gotten the better of him and he’d crashed. No doubt Crowley wouldn’t have taken proper care with the thermos and it would have been jettisoned out of the seat, cracked open, and spilled.

Aziraphale bit his wobbling lip hard enough that he tasted blood. It was a much needed focus. He couldn’t think like that. He’d blessed every molecule of that thermos to protect it from breaking. He’d been tempted to ward it against being opened at all, but that would have been a show of bad faith. He had to trust Crowley. He needed to believe that it wasn’t a suicide pill. He also needed more than anything to believe that no matter Crowley’s original intent, that he hadn’t pushed the demon to use it as one. An angel could not despair.

Aziraphale had tried to offer hope. It had been a difficult thing to do, when he barely had any himself some days. But, demon or not, Crowley was often more optimistic than him. After all, he’d been nursing feelings for God only knew how long, while Aziraphale had only realized the depth of his own for a scant few decades and had found it nearly unbearable.

He tried to take a bracing breath. Instead it caught in his throat, stuttered and stuck and came back out as a sob. He tried so hard, so often to keep all such feelings stuffed safely out of sight but the more he tried to stifle them, the more insistent they became. He was too exhausted to keep up the facade and there was no one around to see, anyway, so he allowed himself to weep in earnest. He remained huddled against the door, shoulders shaking and tears flowing.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, only that millenia old joints eventually protested his position on the floor. He hiccupped and wiped his face with the back of his hand. A tear caught on the tip of one of his fingers. He held it level to his eyes and stared at in a detached way. How strange the human body was, how odd that working out tear ducts a bit could be cathartic.

Light from the fluorescence outside caught on the tear and Aziraphale’s hand started to shake at the way it shone. The problem was, he wasn’t human. Was he with his human corporation full of so much liquid also full, by virtue of the celestial essence that enlivened it, of holy water? Was there any part of him that didn’t threaten Crowley’s existence?

It was a ridiculous thought. He knew it was instantly. He’d spilt blood, tears, and more in Crowley’s presence over the millenia without any trauma, beyond perhaps an emotional toll for some. But wasn’t there some truth to it? While he may not be a physical threat to Crowley, everything else about him was dangerous. He was an angel. His very presence in Crowley’s life was a threat. They were supposed to be hereditary enemies and instead they were…

He should have never let it get to this point. They should never have become friends let alone something… something… more. So much more. He should never have agreed to the Arrangement. He’d let the allure of regular companionship cloud his better sense.  He’d known it was a terrible idea all along. If not for the Arrangement, Crowley never would have needed ‘insurance’ against Hell’s retribution. If not for the Arrangement, Aziraphale could have kept a safe distance and gone on pretending they were tied by nothing more than a shared enmity. He never would have found himself in the bombed out remains of a church without anything left to hide behind, just him and his books and the demon he loved.

Who was he kidding? Arrangement or not, they’d found each other again and again. Crowley had always been there when he most needed someone. Even without the Arrangement, that careless, ridiculous serpent probably would have braved consecrated ground to save him, risked destruction simply so Aziraphale wouldn’t be inconvenienced.

It was a wonder to Aziraphale that he’d been able to lie to himself for so long about his feelings because he loved Crowley so terribly that it often frightened him. Something electric had torn through him when their hands had met over that leather case of books. Standing in the dust of what had once been, his love for Crowley had been the only thing left in him. And it had been terrifying. It was terrifying still. He was made for love, yes, but love for Her first and for everything else in a much more general sense. But there was nothing wide and encompassing about this love beyond the way it consumed him.

Aziraphale found he could no longer breathe. Air came quick and shallow into his lungs and his chest ached for more but he could do nothing to right the situation. The more he fought against it, the shallower the breaths became. His heart raced in response and his vision swam. When he tried to pull himself off the ground to sit in a chair instead, his legs also gave way beneath him.

Tears fell again and he was left cursing the weakness of his corporation. It had made him too human. He didn’t even need to breathe and yet his entire body ached for want of it. Worse, his foolish, fragile heart was an agony of mixed desires. He wished Crowley would finally be sensible and stay away for good. He wished Crowley was there with him then, holding him and soothing him and saving him from himself once more.

Aziraphale let out a small, choked cry as he curled in on himself on the floor. He longed to pray that his suffering be taken away but who was he to ask God to relieve him of a love he was never meant to have? And if his prayers were actually answered, what would that mean for Crowley? He shuddered to think of what Heaven would do if his feelings were found out. He might be able to spin it, to say he had drawn a demon to the light. There was no way Crowley could do the same, not now that he bore a weapon as viciously destructive against his own kind as holy water. There was no plausible deniability. No slithering into the shadows if he was discovered. And Aziraphale had made it possible, so it was down to him to keep Crowley safe from the consequences of this impossible love.

Which meant, right now, he needed to pull himself together. He squeezed his eyes shut against scorching tears that still wanted to fall and focused only on breathing. His entire world was boiled down to the movement of his lungs. He forced them to slow, to really draw in the air that his body was at this point screaming for. It took some doing, but eventually he got to the point of being able to fill his lungs completely, hold the breath there, and then release it in a measured fashion. In turn, every other rogue function in his corporation fell in line. The beat of his heart returned to the rhythm he’d grown accustomed to and strength returned to enfeebled limbs.

Aziraphale unfurled aching joints and pushed himself back up to his feet. He smoothed his rumpled trousers with his palms but his comforting ritual was interrupted when he didn’t find the hem of his waistcoat nor the familiar shape of his bowtie. He’d traded both in for the night, his usual buttoned up exterior softened in an attempt to portray a calm he certainly didn’t feel. He’d even splashed on some cologne and done up his hair. All a bit of a masquerade, when he thought about it. A mask that said, “Here’s what we could be. What we could have, a fine night out on the town just you and I. Someday. Not today, but someday.”

A snap of his fingers, and the lot of it was replaced with fresh clothes. He clutched his soft housecoat close. It all smelled of books and dust, traces of his soap and whiffs of angelic ozone. The rich smell of leather, of smoke and spice and everything demonic, was gone. He felt its loss the way he felt the loss of his own wings when they were tucked away. Just as those wings were hidden for the sake of the humans, so too would this part of him be hidden away for the sake of another.

He would just have to believe that there would come a day when he wouldn’t have to play act or hint any longer, when he could stop lying to himself and everyone else. And if he doubted such a day would ever come, then he would believe in Crowley. Dear Crowley and his inexplicable ability to defy the odds at every turn. Not what an angel should be nor a demon, an impossible creature who made stars and then himself.

Someday their day would come. Someday.

Until then, Aziraphale thought a long, warm bath was in order. Perhaps a trip to the coast to clear his head. Maybe, just maybe, he’d also ponder what he’d like to take on a picnic or order at the Ritz.

[acedesigns]

Book of Flowers [Good Omens: Aziraphale X Reader]

Word Count: 2100

Warnings: Mention of death of a relative, minimal editing

A/N: I love drying flowers, so I wanted to make it into a story. =)

--

There was a book you held dear to you. It was special, probably far more special than any of the books Aziraphale had collected himself. It told the story of you and him.

The first flowers you ever received from Aziraphale was on your birthday. You had been friends for quite a time before that day. Though you tried to keep your birthday hidden, not wanting to make a big deal of it, Aziraphale somehow found out.

There was a light knocking on your door. When you opened it, Aziraphale was standing there with a bouquet of sunflowers. His smile was just as bright and cheery as the flowers themselves.

“Happy birthday, my dear!” He handed the flowers to a stunned you.

“How did you know?”

“I have my ways!” He gave you a cheeky grin and stepped into your home while you filled a vase with water and trimmed the ends of the flowers. “I was wondering if perhaps you’d like to go out for dinner to celebrate your birthday. It’d be my treat!”

“You don’t have to do that, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I want to. I’m happy I’ve gotten to know you and that you’ve become my friend. Therefore, I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t celebrate you being alive.”

--

There was also the time where you had fallen ill for a couple of weeks. You felt absolutely miserable, even more so due to the fact that you hadn’t been able to see your best friend. However, while you were sleeping, Aziraphale had used the spare key you’ve gifted him to allow himself in your home. He called out your name while looking around the house for you. When he saw you asleep in your bed, he sighed in relief.

The blond went to go fill a vase with cold water and placed a bunch of bright yellow daffodils in it. He slowly made his way back to your bedroom and placed the flowers on your side table. His hand drifted towards your head and moved some strands of hair out of your face.

“[Y/N],” he cooed softly. You began to stir. “Wake up my dear, you need to drink some water.” With a quiet snap, a glass of water instantly appeared next to the vase of flowers with some medication. Though, you were completely ignorant of the miracle he had performed.

You groaned and sat up in bed. “Aziraphale? What are you doing here?” you croaked. There was a stinging in your vocal cords.

“I was worried about you,” Aziraphale said softly. He handed you a glass of water and two ibuprofen pills. “Take this, my dear. It’ll help you feel better.”

You quickly swallowed the pills with two gulps of water. It hurt, but you ignored the pain. You glanced over towards the flower and instantly, your day was brightened. “Did you get those for me?”

“Yes! I thought you might like them and that they might make you feel better.”

You hummed and nodded your head in agreement. “Thank you.”

--

The next flower was a peach carnation. You wanted to thank Aziraphale for taking care of you. It took you hours in the florist’s shop to decide exactly what you wanted. It needed to be something special. Something that would brighten his day as he brightened yours so many times.

The florist was starting to get annoyed with you, but you ignored them before finally picking one. It had white lilies, the carnations, peach roses, and echeveria succulents. The succulents really added to the bouquet to make it special.

When you handed the bouquet to Aziraphale, his face exploded in color. He kept giggling to himself. No one had ever given him flowers before. He hugged you tightly before proudly displaying them in his shop.

--

Then, there was the time where a loved one passed away. Aziraphale showed up to escort you to the funeral. He held you as you cried into his chest. One of his hands would play with your hair while the other rubbed circles on your back. He would whisper sweet words to you.

“They knew how much you loved them,” he would say. “They loved you so much. It’s okay to cry. You will get through this and you will be okay.”

After the funeral was over, he took out a handkerchief and wiped your tears. His hand lingered for a moment or two before he took it back to his side. He gave you a sad smile, one filled with sympathy.

“How about a magic trick to help cheer you up, my dear?”

You looked at him with curiosity. It was enough to ease your sobs into silence. He waved his hands around. Then, one hand reached past your ear. When he pulled back, there was a singular white rose.

“How?” you asked slightly stunned. Aziraphale was always garbage at magic, but what he just did was extraordinary.

--

Then was the first time you realized you were utterly in love with him.

The two of you were sitting in a park. He was sitting on a bench with his straight posture, gazing out at the water where ducks were circling around. You were sitting in the grass next to him, picking the dandelions that the government workers had yet to weed. Though, you were happy that these yellow-maned flowers were there. It gave you an excuse to weave a crown. Each stem got braided into the next until you had finished the circle.

You glanced up at Aziraphale who was busy thinking about something. Slowly, you stood up while cradling the crown in your hands. In an instant, you plopped the crown on his head and staggered backward to get a good look at him. He looked up towards the crown with a slightly confused face. A bright blush spread across your cheeks at how cute he looked.

‘Oh no,’ you thought to yourself. ‘I’m in love with him.’

--

The next page had a rainbow of tulips.

The carpet in your home had seen better days. You had paced back and forth in a spot repeatedly. There must have been a way for you to get over your feelings for him or for you to tell him. Either way, you had to preserve the friendship you had with him.

A knock on your door interrupted you. Much like when it was your birthday, Aziraphale was standing there with the flowers. Though, he looked nervous and unsure of himself.

“Aziraphale?”

“Hello, [Y/N],” he swallowed down some fear. “Mind if I come in?”

You stepped aside and shut the door behind him. He looked around your home nervously and straightened his tie. He looked at you and he felt his face growing warm. Yours mirrored his as you both just stared at each other in an uncomfortable, heavy silence.

“Right, I should tell you why I’m here,” Aziraphale started and then handed you the flowers. “For you. Though, I don’t think they could ever…” He choked on his words. “Ever…Ever match your beauty.”

“O-Oh,” you stammered and put the tulips to your face. You inhaled their scent in an attempt to hide the hot blush on your face. “Thank you.”

“Sorry if that was too forward. Crowley…Well, he told me to say that.”

“He did?”

“Yes, you see…I,” he paused. “I have fallen for you. Quite hard, I might add. I am totally and completely in love with you.”

The air in your lungs escaped you. Your heart skipped multiple beats. For a moment, your mind went blank. Then, you took one step towards him. Then, another. Finally, you lunged towards him and gripped him in a tight embrace.

“I love you, too.”

--

There were pages of roses, lilies, and lilacs. Each held a specific memory. Some were dates, anniversaries, just because, and whatnot. There was then a very painful page. Dark crimson roses were on it. It was when Aziraphale nearly left you.

“I haven’t been honest with you, [Y/N].” Aziraphale looked frightened. He had given you the crimson roses. They were for mourning. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I can’t hurt you.”

“What do you mean?” You were confused and scared. He was acting strange, has been for the past few weeks. “Aziraphale, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Aziraphale,” you pleaded and grabbed the sleeve to his coat. You felt tears streaming down your face. “Aziraphale, please talk to me. What’s going on? Please tell me what I did. I can fix this.”

Aziraphale looked at you. It looked as though his heart was breaking. “You didn’t do anything, my dear. It’s all me, I promise you.”

“Please, just explain it,” you started to sob. “I’ll try to fix it, please. Please, I’m begging you. I love you so much.”

Aziraphale sighed and wiped a tear from your face. He leaned forward and placed a peck on your forehead. His lips lingered there. You leaned into his touch, terrified that when he pulled away, he would leave you forever.

“I’m not a human,” Aziraphale finally said.

“What?”

Aziraphale took a couple of steps backward. His hands were placed behind his back. It was almost as though if they were in front of him, he would reach out towards you and never let go. But he had to let go, that’s what he was telling himself.

“I’m an angel,” he whispered with sorrow. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you. I didn’t know how to.”

“You’re an angel?”

“Yes.”

You looked down at the flowers you were holding and then back at him. Slowly, you placed the flowers on the chair next to you and took several steps towards the angel. Your arms wrapped around him. You gripped him tightly and didn’t want to let go.

“You’re an angel. But you’re also Aziraphale. I love you, no matter what.”

Aziraphale fought with himself. He didn’t know if being with you would place a target on you because of Heaven’s vendetta against you. But he also wanted to be selfish. He knew he’d always love you, no matter of whether or not you were together. Either way, you’d become a target.

“You’re not angry?”

“I’m mad that you thought that this could break us up!” you looked up at him with a scowl. “But I’m not mad that you didn’t tell me that you’re an angel.”

“Right, you’re right. I’m sorry. I should have known you wouldn’t let this get between us,” he ran a hand along your cheek and to your chin. Cupping your head, he leaned down and pecked your lips. “I love you more than anything on this Earth or in Heaven.”

You smiled at him. “I love you, too.”

--

The book was filled with flowers that told your story. Petals of various colors were sealed in the pages with dates and small captions of what happened. It was the most special book you’ve ever possessed. Now, you were hoping it’d be the most special book Aziraphale would ever have.

You clutched the leather binding close to your chest as you walked down the steps from Aziraphale’s flat to his bookshop. He was sipping some hot cocoa while reading over a new book he acquired. You paused for a moment to take this image in. He was always adorable wearing those glasses that you were certain he didn’t need. Did angels did need glasses? Every time he took a sip of his sweet drink, he’d get that little smile of pure bliss.

“Aziraphale,” you called and finished walking down the steps. He put his mug down and turned towards you with a warm smile.

“Hello, [Y/N],” he greeted. His eyes glanced towards the book in your arms. “What do you have there?”

"A book for you.”

The book made its way from your hands over towards his. He examined it and opened the cover. The angel was silent while looking over through the pages. A single hand went up to his mouth. He sniffed a couple of times and dabbed away a few tears. He looked over at you with a smile as tears continued to fall from his eyes. He tried to say something, but only a couple of sounds came out. He paused and with a chuckle tried to keep the tears from falling.

“It’s beautiful, [Y/N]. Thank you.” He opened his arms and brought you in for a tight embrace. He kissed the top of your head and continued to weep happy tears. “This is the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received, thank you.”

[fly-flower-fanfics]

Betrayed

Aziraphale x Angel (then Demon) Male Reader

Warnings: Angst

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You know they don't treat you right, Aziraphale," I said, pleading with the angel. "You know Crowley is actually trying to help. Neither of you wish to be where you are, and you can help it."

I stood in between Crowley and Aziraphale, my wings out to shield Crowley's view as I spoke in hushed tones to the angel. As an angel myself, I could see how badly they were treating Aziraphale, and it just broke my heart. I offered my hand out to Aziraphale.

"You need to listen to him. And if you don't truly give a damn about him, then listen to me. How long have we been friends, Aziraphale? Six thousand years and then some. I've always done everything in my power to keep you safe and happy. I've always tried to protect you. I know this is going against whatever God's plan is, but for one, don't you think She might be wrong?"

Aziraphale looked up at me, clearly distraught. I could practically see all the wheels turning in his head, and I could only hope that he was making the right choice. Aziraphale was always good about that and making the right choices, but sometimes if he believed it was too bad, he wouldn't do it. 

"You're on our side, Azira," I whispered.

"There is no 'our side.' There never was. It's over. It won't work," Aziraphale said, causing me to stand in utter silence. 

"Come on, Azira," I begged after regaining composure. "You know that this-this plan is what needs to be done. You know it's for the better. You made steps towards it with us. We even got in trouble countless times for interacting with Crowley, but I've always backed you up, and you've always done the same for me. He's important to you; I'm important to you. This would not only save humanity, but the two of you, too."

"I won't do it," Aziraphale insisted. "We're angels, and he's a demon. Our kinds aren't supposed to mix. We follow whatever the true Plan is because that's what God wants. Crowley is incapable of doing good, and I thought you were incapable of doing wrong. I didn't think you would be the one to betray me like this."

I felt my shoulders fall, like a million weights were just added onto them. Aziraphale wasn't going to help. He was just going to stand by and watch. And he thought I was the one in the wrong. Betrayal? Really? Is that what he saw this as? That's what it felt like to me; he was betraying us. 

I scoffed softly, shaking my head. "Well that's the thing about betrayal, isn't it? It never comes from your enemies." I closed my wings, letting them disappear into my back before turning. "Come on, Crowley. We've got work to do."

I walked past the demon without a second glance and never threw one over my shoulder at Aziraphale. If it's going to be that way, then it's going to be that way.

The car ride in Crowley's Bentley was silent. But for all I knew, Crowley could've been talking the whole damn time, and I wouldn't have heard a single word.

~~~~~~~

The amount of planning that went into everything drove me absolutely insane, and I didn't have Aziraphale to comfort me whatsoever. We lost touch after our last conversation, and hadn't spoken since. Thankfully, Crowley and I had been right. Everything had gone wrong, and we fixed it. Not that we were necessarily the best at it, but we had fixed it. 

And now it seemed like shit was going down again because God and Satan didn't seem so happy that we were now considered traitors. I had ended up falling. My pure white wings now turned black because of the help I have Crowley. Yet Hell didn't seem to want me either because they knew how Crowley acted. I didn't know what I was, and I wasn't really sure how to feel about it. Having Crowley by my side made it better though. We were on our own side still.

I was just sort of relaxing outside a bakery, eating a donut, when something in my chest felt...wrong. Very wrong. I grabbed my phone and called Crowley, hoping that it wasn't him.

When he picked up, I said, "Nevermind" and hung up immediately. That left one other person since only one other person make me feel like this.

Aziraphale. 

It had been decades since we last spoke, but I knew it was him. He was nearby, and he was in danger. Even though I was very much so hurt by the things he'd said and done, he was still my friend, and I'll be damned if I let anyone hurt him. 

Finding Aziraphale seemed to be like a game of Hot and Cold. The pain hurt more the closer I was to him, less the further away I was. Eventually, I stopped in front of a church and groaned. 

"Really? I know you're an angel, Azira, but here? Of all places? A church? You know I can't go here anymore," I whined, stomping my foot like a child. 

I flung open the door of the church and stomped in, hissing at the pain that was in every step I took. Fuck this consecrated ground. I found myself practically prancing down the main aisle. 

At the alter stood Aziraphale and a couple of men. All of them turned towards me after hearing my hissing.

"Oh — ouch — fuck. Consecrated ground," I explained, bouncing up towards the front. 

The confusion on everyone's face was blatantly clear, especially Aziraphale's. Clearly, I wasn’t supposed to be here, and judging by the look on the mens’ faces, I was interrupting something very important. Whatever Aziraphale was caught up in was nothing good whatsoever. 

“Who are you?” one of the men asked. 

I shifted on my feet once I stopped at the bottom of the alter. “None of your business.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened when he heard my voice. I suppose he didn’t realize it was me — I looked different since the last time I’d seen him, considering I had also fallen since we last spoke. 

“I’m here for my friend,” I continued, folding my arms over my chest. “Hand him over, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

The other man smirked at me. “Oh? And what are you going to do about it?” He grabbed Aziraphale, spinning him around, pressing a gun to the side of his head.

I froze, stopping my shifting. The ground burned my feet, but it had nothing on the burning in my chest. “You just made a big mistake,” I growled. 

My vision turned into shades of greys, whites, and blacks, showing me that my eyes had turned black. I felt a dull ache on my forehead which told me my horns had grown out to show themselves. There was a slight pinch on my lower lip, telling me that my fangs had also grown out. I looked down at my hands, cracking my fingers. They were pith black with black streaks up my arms and disappearing beneath my clothing. My fingernails were black, pointed, and curved. 

My demon form.

It wasn’t as dramatic as I wished it was, but it was enough to terrify. 

“So you see, you’ve crossed a line. And with me? That’s a big mistake — a huge one. I consider myself to be real nice because hey, I do my own thing. But now? Oh, now you stepped over the line. My friend here — he means no harm — doesn’t understand really what’s going on around him. He’s a bit thick sometimes.”

I saw Aziraphale pout in response to my words, but it was true. He was a bit thick. I took a step closer, needing some kind of movement on my feet since they were burning so badly. 

“So give him back his bag,” I said, gesturing to the bag in the other man’s hand, “and we’ll be on our merry way. Because whatever is in that bag, oh, I can assure you that it isn’t worth your lives.” 

The two men exchanged looks. I couldn’t read them, but I was getting really sick of waiting because my feet were on fire — almost literally. I knew I only waited a couple seconds, but I was just done. The pain made me quite agitated very quickly. 

I snapped, causing the gun to disappear. I rushed up the stairs, grabbed Aziraphale, and covered the two of us with my wings. The walls rumbled, cracked, and began to fall violently. It was over in mere seconds, but the church has been completely destroyed.

I let Aziraphale move away from me as his eyes scanned the rubble around us. 

“Oh, dear me. The books. I ca-“

“All this for a bag of books?!” I nearly shrieked at him.

Aziraphale’s attention stayed on the rubble as he nodded. “Yes, very important books.” 

I tuned out his ramblings as I went over to a spot in the rubble, reached into it, yanked out the bag, and handed it to the angel which immediately shut him up.

“Call it a miracle of my own,” I said before turning and leaving the now toppled church behind. 

“Is it really you?” Aziraphale’s voice causes me to stop.

As I sighed, I felt myself returning back to normal. My head no longer ached, color returned to my vision, teeth shrunk, and the black in my veins and hands disappeared. “Yeah, Azira, it’s really me.”

“You-you’ve fallen.”

I turned to face him. There was still bitterness in my heart from way back then. “Yeah, so what. Go on, make fun of me. You were right; I was wrong.”

“The world was saved because of you,” he said softly. 

I shrugged and turned away. “Yeah, and what did it cost me? Everything. Everything but Crowley.” 

“But humanity was saved.”

“So? Who gives a fuck anymore? Cost me more than I bargained for,” I growled, stalking out of the rubble and onto the sidewalk. 

“Well, ah, I, um, ‘give a fuck.’”

I froze, but only because Aziraphale had never cursed before — not in front of me at least.

“You still have me,” he continued softly. 

I turned, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do I? Because if I recall, I’m a demon, and you’re an angel. ‘Our kinds don’t mix.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turned a slight red. “I was upset.”

I sighed a little, rubbing a hand down my face. “Me too,” I whispered. “I never wanted to lose you, Aziraphale. Hell, I never wanted to fall. I never wanted any of this. I was in love with you.”

“W-was...?”

I laughed bitterly. “Was. Am. Whatever. Who even cares to define feelings?” I need to know if this is okay. Six thousand years. Are my feelings okay? Is it okay for me to feel this way? 

“I would because I would like to know if I, too, missed my chance to tell you I love you.”

“But I’m a demon,” I whispered.

I can’t remember a time I felt more broken than I did now. Aziraphale walked over to me, set his bag of books down, and pulled me into a hug.

“But your heart is still pure.”

I held him tightly as tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m scared, Azira. I’m so scared. I didn’t mean to fall. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I don’t fit. Azira, I don’t fit anywhere... I’m on my own side now, and it’s so lonely.”

He pulled back, rubbed his thumb over my cheek, and gave me a small smile. “I’m here for you. Just let me be there from now on, okay?”

“Okay,” I breathed out softly. “Okay, Azira, Okay.”

I never wanted to lose him again.

[ldybluerse]

The Nice and Accurate Tale of Beauty and the Beast

Chapter Six: Beauty and the Beast Good Omens AU

There is little for a Fallen to do when they are not getting into trouble; they are only really meant for trouble-making.  Not to worry though, most Fallen love making and getting into trouble, they love it even more when they get other people involved in their troublesome trouble.  

All Fallen, but one.  

Crowley didn’t mind the idea of trouble or even making smaller amounts of it, nothing that would really hurt someone unless that person was inclined towards harm already.  Crowley also was not a fan of going into town during some peak trouble-making hours (when the shops are busy or at night when there was less people out but more nefarious sorts of trouble are lurking around).  

This meant that Crowley had a lot of time on his hands.  He dedicated his extra time towards the gardens in and around his castle.  As he did not have anyone else to speak to most days, Crowley would talk to the plants.  Though, perhaps “talk” was too gentle of a term for what Crowley did.  He put the fear of Crowley into the plants, making them the most lush, colorful, and vibrant plants in all of France.  His roses were extraordinarily terrified, which is why they always minded their thorns and never curled a petal.  The colors of the roses were beyond anything anyone would find outside of the greenhouse and the scent of those roses could be considered intoxicating to the human nose.

But it was not the roses that Aziraphale saw first.  It wasn’t their sweet fragrance that he took note of right away.  It was not even the perfect display of colors and verdant leaves that gave Aziraphale reason to pause just inside the door.  The roses were the furthest thing from his mind as he gave his full, undivided attention, to the mass on the floor amongst the flowers.

Crowley was asleep, his serpentine lower body coiled in a loose circle while his upper body draped lazily over a portion of his lower half.  Aziraphale watched as slow and even breaths moved the large Naga’s chest in a pattern that marked Crowley as asleep before Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the thick lashes resting against a speckled cheek.  Being careful to not make a sound, he approached taking in every detail that he could of the Naga before him.

Aziraphale admired the long mess of red curls that spilled over pale and slender shoulders.  A smile playing at the curve of his lips as he noticed the freckles that blemished those shoulders. 

He studied the way that sleep softened Crowley’s angular face, took away harsh lines of unease and distrust.  It made what was striking, tender instead.  From closed off to relaxed.  From beast to beauty.

Aziraphale noted the lack of wings, meaning that Crowley could easily “put them away”, as it were, if he wished.  The Favoured’s smile made a small appearance as he thought of the earlier display with them out was all for intimidation and show.  With lazy strides he walked his way slowly around the Fallen, admiring the sheen of obsidian scales in his magic light.  Crowley’s hair had tumbled in a way that Azirphale could see how the black snake scales continued up his back, tapering as it ascended his spin.  He wondered if the scales of his tail were as smooth as a snake’s?  

Was his hair as soft as it looked?

The Favoured should, strictly speaking, strive for asceticism, a life of rigorous routines and self-denial.  And while Aziraphale could pretend that he was like that, the truth is, he is a hedonist.  Indulging in earthly pleasures never gets in Aziraphale’s way of doing what he thinks is best and being a helping hand as much as he can, yet it means he was far from able to avoid temptation.  He collected books, pretending that he sold them was his cover story to the higher ranks that helped cover his love of “material objects”.  The utter joy and delight he gained from reading, how utterly enchanting the written word was.

Pretending to be human meant that Aziraphale had a reason to enjoy food, sip all manner of drinks, relax in beautifully crafted clothing.  He loved it all.  Which should be enough to tell anyone that Aziraphale was not very good at resisting temptations.  Especially small ones, that meant no one was harmed over.  

Aziraphale’s hand raised before he was fully aware of it.  He hesitated, withdrawing his hand back and shaking his head a fraction.  As if needing a leash on the wayward right hand, Aziraphale held his fingers with the left; thumb and pointer playing with the gold signet ring on Aziraphale’s right pinky finger.  He looked Crowley over again, once more noting he was indeed asleep before he allowed his hand to reach up and graze the fire locks.

The corners of Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled as his brows raised, yes, the hair was as soft as it looked, if a bit messy.  His smile was no longer hiding as he gently touched the Fallen’s curls.  Tenderly he brushed back the hair to get a better look at all of Crowley’s sleeping face.  His fingers were light as they tucked some of the long strands behind a pointed ear, his fingers lingering over the snake tattoo that rested before Crowley’s right ear.  

~*~*~*~

Crowley came awake to the soft strokes of someone brushing his hair.  The temptation to allow this to continue as long as possible was too great.  Keeping his eyes closed, Crowley relished in the tender sensation.  It had been so long since someone touched him so gently, so long in fact he couldn’t pinpoint when the last time such a thing had happened.  He was certain he never had his hair brushed for him since he became a Fallen, living in isolation.  Crowley questioned whether someone had ever brushed his hair even before his curse.  Favoured were not the touchy-feely type.  

He decided that he didn’t want to think about the past or how lonely he had been, instead he would focus on the soothing hands playing in his hair.  There was no tugging or harsh scrapes against his scalp, even when the Favoured came across a tangle in his hair, it was worked out with the utmost care.  He was at ease in that moment, Crowley should have been panicked, at the very least worried; he was in a vulnerable position with his supposed enemy extremely close at hand.  He should get mad because the Favoured clearly did not follow orders to stay out of the West Wing.

Crowley couldn’t bring himself to be anything but in relaxed bliss.

When the brushing stopped, he almost let out an audible whimper because it was over far too soon.  The brush was replaced by deft hands that was working the hair.  Crowley could feel that something was happening but had no clue as to what the Favoured was doing.  “What are you up to…” It was in that moment Crowley remembered he did not actually know the other man’s name.  A few strangled sounds later, after Crowley was done tripping over his tongue, he tried again, “What are you up to Angel?” 

Aziraphale was surprised by the nickname, Angel, what a strange thing to call him.  Humans created the mythology of Angels and Demons to explain the strange things that happen when Fallen and Favoured are about.  Who is to say that Favoured were not Angels but by another name.  Still, it was an odd thing to call him just because of the human stories.  “I am braiding your hair Dear.”

Dear?!  Crowley had not expected an endearment in return.  “Yes, well… uh...ngk…” Crowley was worse than tongue-tied as his brain short-circuited and left him without any response at all.

Aziraphale was enjoying how Crowley’s pointed ears turned as red as his hair when he blushed.  Who knew something he called everyone would have such an impact on Crowley?  “When was the last time you tended to your hair?  It was in such a state.”

“I think a couple of days, I had a long nap before my “mail delivery”.  I didn’t think I needed to brush my hair before I left.”

“Ah yes, the matter of you delivering, what I am hoping is medicine.  Although that Baker child got sick so suddenly she may have gotten ill due to poison.” Suddenly the hands that were styling his hair stopped.  They were barely touching him but Crowley could feel the stiffness.  “You are not at fault for people getting sick are you?”  Aziraphale was horrified that he had just now thought of such a thing.

“Of course not!  I have nothing to do with anyone getting sick.  And I don’t hurt kids, my kind might do that sort of thing but that isn’t something I would do.”  Crowley glanced as best he could over his shoulder to where Aziraphale was standing.  

“Oh… you can hardly blame me for being suspicious you are a Fallen.  A working apothecary that belongs to a Fallen would produce poisons, not medicines.  That is why I wanted to ask you.”

“And you would believe me if I told you I didn’t poison random people?”

“Well, no?  I supposed I should not.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“I have no reason to believe or trust you.”

Crowley decided he didn’t want to hear how much of a beast he was because of the curse.  “And why have you been poking about the West Wing, when I expressly told you not to.”  

“You must realize the best way to get someone to do something you do not want them to do, is to tell them not to do it.  Besides, I wanted to know what you were up to and hiding.  Whether or not there was a cause for concern.”

“Of course there is cause for concern.  It’s not like I am a nice person.”

“Mmhmm… do you mind terribly if I pluck a few roses?”

“You’ll do what you want anyway, so why ask?”

“You can hardly blame me for being curious,” Crowley felt the loss of heat from the Favoured’s body as he stepped away and towards some of the roses.  “We have just met and did not speak much…”

“You wanted to stop talking,” Crowley interrupted.  He received a raised brow and stern look for that one.

“Yes, well, we hardly spoke.  It is my job to know what you are doing and to stop you.  I see no reason to stop you from healing sick children, as I now know that is what you are doing.”  Aziraphale walked back once he selected several beautiful white roses that would accent Crowley���s hair and eyes.

Crowley stiffened ever so slightly when the other was back, his fingers working with his hair once more, weaving the flowers through the tamed mane.  

“Besides, I found myself rather bored.  There is not much for me to do besides explore.  Were I not your “prisoner”, I would happily be out of your hair and back at my bookshop.”

Crowley made an undignified sound, “We both know you are no prisoner Angel.  So there must be another reason you are staying.”

“Curiosity.  About you, you do not act like other Fallen I have come across or heard about.  Ah, there we are.  All done, and such a lovely sight.”  Aziraphale beamed as he looked over his work.  “I have been rather rude, as I have not properly introduced myself yet.  I am Aziraphale.”

Crowley took several long moments for his brain to process everything Aziraphale had said in those short few sentences.  “Yes..well.. Uh… You own a bookstore?”

“Yes, it is my disguise as I investigate the Fallen activity in this area.”

“You need a disguise?”

“If I wish to blend in with the humans, I should act like one.”

“People don’t notice things Angel.  They happily go about their lives without ever noticing odd things happening.  I suppose this means you like books?”

——————————————————

I regret nothing.

[femvimes]

Notes from the Script Book (episodes 1-3)

I got the Nice and Accurate Script Book and proceeded to take copious notes of things that weren’t in the show, or illuminating ways that Neil wrote things. It’s SUPER interesting but I took a lot of notes, so see them under the cut:

Introduction:

In a 1991 movie script for GO that Terry and Neil wrote, the producers pressured them into writing that Aziraphale worked at the British Museum and that Crowley OWNED A NIGHT CLUB. How’s that for an AU

Neil knew from the start that he wanted Aziraphale and Crowley to be the main characters

“I think it’s fair to assume that if, at any time in the last 6,000 years, anything interesting happened anywhere on Earth, Crowley and Aziraphale were probably there, not doing whatever it is they were actually sent there to do” (It is a gift, a gift to the foes of Mordor fanfiction writers)

Episode One:

Crowley originally hisses the “lead balloon” line unintelligibly while in snake form

Crowley’s wings are grey (why? this is super interesting to me)

Aziraphale “thinks tartan is nifty, and would use the word nifty with pride”

Aziraphale and Crowley originally had extra introduction scenes. In his, Crowley uses an army of rats to bring down the London mobile network. Then he tells them to, and I quote, “stay cool”.

Crowley runs from police in the script (like in the book) and uses RATS to sabotage their engine

One thing I was confused about in the show - Satan interrupts the radio to tell Crowley his work on the M25 was a stroke of genius, but it doesn’t sound like Ben. I think it’s actually a Freddie Mercury impersonator to make it sound like Satan is talking to him through Freddie Mercury (which is also in the book)

Crowley’s M25 Powerpoint originally happens in episode one, and in the script when he says his fateful “Can I hear a wahoo” everyone mumbles “Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds”, which is imo not nearly as funny as the non-reaction in the show

Thaddeus Dowling is a “presidential hopeful”

THE PRESIDENT IS LITERALLY BUSH IN THE SCRIPT

Like in the book, Crowley kills a duck at St. James’s Park, Aziraphale gives him the “really, my dear” line and Crowley brings the duck back to life. (I would sacrifice, like, the tip of a finger to hear Aziraphale call him “my dear” just ONCE)

Although the show never explains why Pestilence was replaced by Pollution, Crowley and Aziraphale discuss it in the park. All the Four Horsemen also have longer introductory scenes, but I’m glad they were cut because they don’t add a lot

Before Crowley and Aziraphale get drunk, they have “spent a very pleasant day together”

Aziraphale’s regency silver snuff box obsession was in the script, but dropped from the show

When Aziraphale starts to agree with Crowley, he’s described as “coming over to the dark side”, starting a trend of hinting at Aziraphale’s Fall and personally killing me, Tumblr user femvimes

Nanny!Crowley is “sexy and domineering”. Snerk.

Crowley and Aziraphale sit next to each other on the bus in 2012

The part that everyone says David and Michael improvised with the magic trick is in the script. So I’m not sure what part of the scene was improvised. Maybe the blocking?

Crowley appears to be “in charge” of the caterers at the birthday party

There’s an extended sequence at the party where Warlock fires a gun (like in the book) that got cut in favor of the food fight

Crowley brings the dove back to life by snapping his fingers

Aziraphale swears by saying “sugar” which was probably an amazing running gag which culminated in him losing his cool and dropping the f-bomb

Crowley told Hell he invented the CIA torture practices (woof)

Episode Two:

Stage direction: “the plants are terrified. No, I don’t know how we show this on television either.” I like to think that behind each plant in that shot is a production assistant shaking it.

Aziraphale brings shortbread on their trip to Tadfield

Crowley and Aziraphale both ask each other if the other side will give them asylum. (This foreshadowing is comin’ in hot, folks)

The scene where Aziraphale and Crowley get shot by paint balls was meant to be “shot like a war film”. WE WERE ROBBED

Crowley “gestures” to make the paint go away. Yeah, huh, he, uh, sure “gestures” in the gayest way possible

The full wall body slam is in the stage direction (Neil I REALLY want to know ur reasoning here)

“Aziraphale is rather enjoying having the upper hand in the ideas department”

Crowley tells Aziraphale at one point “Dude. Chill.”

Episode Three:

In Rome, there’s a few lines that get cut where Crowley buys Aziraphale his glass of wine

When Aziraphale agrees to the coin toss in the Globe, he “falls”. (I just can’t. I can’t anymore)

When Aziraphale sees Crowley in the Nazi Church scene, he’s “realizing they are still friends”. KILL ME

This seemed relevant, because I’ve watched the scene so many times: In 1967, Aziraphale opens the car door, delivers his “don’t look so disappointed” line and presumably exits the car after the “you go too fast for me” line. I prefer the blocking they kept (obviously) because it makes him seem more reluctant to leave

ALSO: after Aziraphale leaves the Bentley, a neon halo flashes on and off above his head. (WHY? did they cut all the references to Aziraphale Falling? This is all I want!)

More that got cut: some not-great jokes about Mme. Tracy’s sex work (thank God someone reined Neil in, ‘cause yikes)

We have one (1) Dear Boy: Aziraphale calls Shadwell that in their phone conversation

[ladybugsfanfics]

Lunch Interruption | Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale x Crowley

Style: One Shot apart of this drabble series.

Summary: Lunch is interrupted. Az and Crowley are having a rather good time. 

WC: 1235

A/N: This is part of a series in Aziraphale’s tattoo shop. This part will be called Chaotically Angelic which I got from @gamillian​ who helps me with these kinds of things. This part will be mostly from Aziraphale’s POV. If you would like to be added to/removed from the taglist, please let me know.

Intro | Series Masterlist | AO3

“Lunch, my dear, lunch.” Aziraphale stares shocked at his husband. “What on Earth did you think I meant?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Ngk… I don’t know,” he gestures in the air, “maybe something… I don’t know.” He looks away from Aziraphale, who smiles rather amused at Crowley. 

“Well,” he says and places a tray of sandwiches on the little table in the back room of the shop, “that is what I meant. And you promised to bring something to drink. Is it really that hard?” 

“...Yeah.” The florist scans the room. “I’ll just go upstairs and bring some.” 

“Don’t use too long.” Aziraphale says as Crowley goes into their apartment to get something to drink. “But don’t take the wine. We’ll have guests this evening and it took a long time to find that wine,” he yells after him, knowing the man usually prefers wine with any food. 

Crowley comes back a few minutes later. In his hands, he carries a jug of water. It nearly sloshes over as he puts it down on the table. “Happy?” he asks, which to anyone else would seem rude but to Aziraphale is only a gesture of love (he takes what he can get). 

The tattooist rubs his hands together with a smile. “Yes, very.” 

They both sit down to eat. Generally, they eat in silence. Aziraphale has already noticed that might not be the case this day, as Crowley is in a slightly restless mood. 

“Do you… uh, do you have any appointments later in the day?” 

Aziraphale nods. “Yes. One at eleven and one at one fifteen. Why?” He takes a bite of the sandwich and looks expectantly at his husband. 

“Nah, was just thinkin’ we close up early.” Crowley waves his hand, brushing the thought away. 

“For what purpose exactly?” Aziraphale purses his lips. He has a hope as to what Crowley is going to say. 

The florist, on the other hand, doesn’t answer. He looks at the stack of sandwiches, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. The latter gives him time, instead using his energy on eating and knowing one of the customers coming in later (his one fifteen appointment) has never taken a tattoo before. Aziraphale loves it when they come to him, especially with such requests as the one he had for that one. 

Crowley makes some noise where he sits, regaining Aziraphale’s attention. “I was thinking…” He coughs. “What if we take the day off tomorrow?”

“Why?”

Aziraphale’s husband shifts in his seat. “Nah, no reason, really. We could sleep in, have breakfast together, so on. Lazy day.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale says the name in such a loving tone he can see the other man blush slightly, then shake his head and hope it wasn’t noticed. “We eat breakfast together every day. Other than the one appointment I have at noon tomorrow that sounds lovely.”

The florist nods approvingly. “Sure.” To keep from the moment he reaches for a sandwich, takes one bite and puts it down on his plate. It lies there untouched until Aziraphale coughs (read: says he should eat). 

They spend the next minutes in silence. Both content with just being in each others company. Crowley even took off his sunglasses. And for a long while they just sit there, lovingly staring at each other. 

Aziraphale takes in the beauty of his husband. The messy bun atop his head he always has a comment about but secretly loves―dragging his fingers through the soft hair is moments he appreciates drealy as Crowley rarely lets him. He takes in the beautiful eyes of his husband; the small wrinkles around them, the warmth they emit as they lock eyes and just look at each other. Aziraphale can’t help but smile. 

The bell at the door of the tattoo shop rings, signaling a new customer. Crowley jerks his head in the direction whilst Aziraphale keeps his blue eyes trained on his husband. With a slight realization that they are, in fact, in his shop, he gets out of his chair and walks into the little waiting area of his shop. 

A woman stands by the coffee table. Her gaze scans the room and Aziraphale puts on his best smile as he greets her. “Hello,” he says. “Do you have an appointment?” 

The woman purses her lips. Nods slowly. “At eleven,” she says. “I’m in no hurry, though.” 

Aziraphale only smiles brighter. “Can I bid you something whilst you wait? Water? Coffee? Tea?” He motions to the coffee table, “and please, help yourself to some biscuits.” 

“Actually, coffee would be nice.” She sits down in the chair. A look of surprise flashes across her face. It is gone quickly, but Aziraphale noticed. He also notes how her fingers trace the spines of one of the books on top of a stack, and smiles brightly as he goes to make her coffee. 

Where the tattooist left him, his husband sits in his chair around the small lunch table. As Aziraphale walks past him and to the coffee maker, he lets out a huff. The tattooist rolls his eyes slightly. “Oh, Crowley, don’t be foolish,” he says as he pours the coffee. “I already told you I had an appointment at eleven.” 

The florist stares unhappily at him. “Yeah, yeah. Dunt matter anyway, I’ve probably been gone too long.” Crowley stands up from his chair and walks over to where Aziraphale stands, a mug of hot coffee in his hand. 

Crowley leans over to kiss his husband, but the latter shoos him away. “Careful,” he says, “this is hot.” And before Crowley gets to take the mug away from him to get his goodbye kiss, the tattooist walks away to deliver it to his customer. Slightly annoyed, Crowley saunters after. 

“Here you go.” Aziraphale puts down the coffee cup next to the woman. “I almost forgot. My name is Aziraphale. Have you ever gotten a tattoo before?” 

The woman frowns slightly, but quickly recovers from the slight shock. “Oh, well. Uhh, no, I haven’t. I was told this was the best place to go when I got my first.”

Aziraphale beams. “Oh, I love it when that happens. Don’t you worry the least bit. It will be slightly uncomfortable, it will possibly hurt a little bit, but it does pay off. And after it’s done there is usually nothing but happiness.” 

“Don’t scare the poor woman,” says Crowley. 

“One moment,” the tattooist says and turns to face his husband. “What is it, dear?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I have to get back to work.” He shudders at the statement, but beckons Aziraphale closer. “Uggh, just let me say goodbye.” Aziraphale chuckles slightly, smiles at his husbands cute antics and leans in. Their lips meet in a quick peck (that being all either of them is ever willing to display in public). 

“Bye, angel.” The florist says. Crowleys is out the door in a matter of seconds and Aziraphale smiles happily as he turns back to his customer. Had he been slightly faster to turn, he would have been able to see the slight shock on her face, but when he did face her, she had already regained her composure. 

“Now, shall we begin?” The tattooist clasps his hands together and beams at the lady, who nods―though with a slight half-terrified expression. “What would you like?” 

Taglist: @the-asexual-alien @clone-number-1