#while crowley may have just been trying to get aziraphale to listen to his warnings here.. they are in love so. ship tag. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

agerefandom · 4 years

Text

Mornings and Knights

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: Aziraphale & Crowley

Words: 1,800

Summary: The first morning that Crowley wakes up still regressed, after an evening of regression with Aziraphale as his caregiver. (Able to be read alone, but technically a continuation of my ‘Evenings of Eternity’ series!)

Content warnings: Bath time, play-fighting with sticks, and enough fluff to rot some unsuspecting teeth.

“Up you go!” Aziraphale caught Crowley gently, lifting him up towards the midmorning sun. He was cheating a bit, ignoring the gravity that should be pulling them back down to the ground, but he was sure that Crowley wouldn’t notice.

Crowley was laughing, wiggling in Aziraphale’s grasp. He stretched his fingers up towards the blue sky, dark against the shining backdrop.

Aziraphale brought him back down into an embrace, holding him tight. “There’s my little one!” he exclaimed, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s bedhead. Neither of them had gotten dressed before running outside this morning, after a quick breakfast of cereal and a longer cleanup of said breakfast. Crowley had certainly gotten into the spirit of making a mess as a toddler.

“I want to play!” Crowley protested, trying to get out of Aziraphale’s arms.

Crowley didn’t really go in for the baby talk, but Aziraphale could tell how much less he filtered himself. How different he was like this, how open. Aziraphale was amazed every time by how much trust Crowley was putting in him, to take care of him and see this part of him. It had been just over a month since Aziraphale had first raised the topic, only four evenings of exploring Crowley’s regression.

Crowley had taken to it like a duck to water, from finger-painting to playing pretend. Aziraphale was hard-pressed to keep up with his toddler energy, but he admired this new form of Crowley as much as he loved the other lives they had shared together. It was nice to have a natural place with this version of Crowley, each of them constructed to fit the other: Aziraphale the one with snacks and napkins, and Crowley with a mischievous grin and fast-running legs.

“Remember to stay in front of the house,” Aziraphale told Crowley before he let him run off into the field. The backyard was still sizeable, but it dropped off into a sheer cliff that Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley going near when he was regressed.

Crowley didn’t pause to acknowledge the warning as he bolted out of Aziraphale’s grasp into a longer patch of grass. He batted at the fronds that bobbed at the level of his chest, then went into a complicated martial arts routine that flattened a large section of the poor greenery. He flipped between coordination and childish stumbling steps, a contradiction in movement. Aziraphale leaned against the gate and watched him, calling out encouragement every now and then. He loved to watch Crowley play, showing an internal drive and joy that Aziraphale didn’t often see in him.

Crowley was now performing some speech in the center of the grass, attempting to threaten the remaining fronds into submission while illustrating the consequences with punches to the air.

Aziraphale smiled fondly at the sight of Crowley yelling, dressed in a new t-shirt with two crossed swords on front. Crowley, as a toddler, had an obsession with knights and weaponry. Aziraphale was almost convinced that it was adult Crowley mocking him, knowing just how much Aziraphale had hated their days in knightly armour, but Crowley was much too genuinely excited as a toddler to have a nefarious agenda. So there were pledges of loyalty and honor, quests for imaginary treasure.

Aziraphale was thinking about getting Crowley some kind of playset that was themed around knights, but he wasn’t sure if that would be taking things too far. He would have to ask Crowley when he was feeling grown up.

“Help me siege the castle!” Crowley yelled, pointing at the tree in their yard with his newest ‘sword,’ a broken piece of wood that Aziraphale had dulled on both ends with a quiet miracle.

“At your service, my liege!” Aziraphale called, running to his side. “I come with my bow!”

“Good.” Crowley took his position, chest puffed out and sword raised high. “Shoot them all! But don’t hurt them too much.”

“No worries,” Aziraphale assured him. “All of my arrows are covered in sleep dust, and they’ll fall asleep as soon as they’re hit.”

“Brilliant!” Crowley swung his sword around once with a fierce war-cry and rushed at the tree, Aziraphale obediently loosing imaginary arrows over his head at the invisible enemy.

“They’re no match!” Aziraphale called as Crowley slashed at the trunk with his stick. He wouldn’t do any real harm to the tree, Aziraphale knew. And if he accidentally hit too hard, they could always heal it later. They both loved the shade of its leaves too much to allow it wounds from silly games. “You’re too good!”

“None can defeat me!” Crowley cried.

With one last thrust to the trunk, Crowley dropped his sword for a victory lap around the tree, his fists held high.

“The knight victorious!” Aziraphale said, exaggerating a bow. “How can we repay you?”

“No repayment,” Crowley said imperiously. “I do what I do for the good of the chivalric code. As all men should.”

“A noble knight,” Aziraphale nodded. “Truly.”

“Can I have a medal?” Crowley’s eyes came together, and his eyes were wide. Aziraphale laughed, recognizing what writers would call ‘puppy-dog eyes.’

“You may have a cookie, darling one, and that will be your medal.” Aziraphale held out his arms and Crowley jumped into them, curling long limbs in until Aziraphale was supporting his weight entirely. “And a bath for your grass-stained knees.”

“I don’t need a bath!’ Crowley protested, but Aziraphale knew from previous discussions that a bath was something Crowley had been wanting to try for a while. Neither of them usually took baths, able to miracle away any blemishes that settled on them. It would be a new experience for both of them, and all the better for being tried together.

“But don’t you remember the new duck we bought for your bath time?” Aziraphale coaxed as he carried Crowley towards the house. “I think he deserves a chance to float around.”

“Oh, true!” Crowley brightened, squirming in Aziraphale’s grasp until he could wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, nuzzling into his chest. “And will it be very warm?”

“The warmest,” Aziraphale promised. “And you can take a nap afterwards.” The door opened politely for them and Crowley’s shoes unlaced themselves, tucking themselves away in their proper spot. Aziraphale toed off his own shoes and carried Crowley down the hall to the bathroom, sitting him gently on the closed toilet seat.

The running water was calming, sound and steam filling the room as Crowley chattered about the morning and his escapades. Aziraphale sat on the edge of the tub, one hand testing the water’s temperature, smiling and listening to Crowley’s stories. Once the bath was full and warm, he helped Crowley undress and watched him clamber into the tub, settling in with a sigh of contentment. Aziraphale could practically see him soaking up the warmth.

Just as Aziraphale started to wish that the bath was big enough to fit two, there was suddenly enough room for them both. Aziraphale blinked, fairly certain he hadn’t made that happen. Crowley stretched his arms over his head, wiggling back and forth to send waves through the bath, then grinned at Aziraphale, reaching out a hand in his direction.

Aziraphale laughed and started unbuttoning his shirt. “If you wanted me to come in, you could have just said so.”

“You need to wash my hair!” Crowley pointed out, grabbing for the shampoo bottle and making a little sound of surprise when it fell into the bath water with a splash.

“Patience,” Aziraphale said, scooping the bottle up and putting it on the side of the bathtub as he stepped into the warm water. He’d made it a bit too hot for himself, knowing that Crowley would appreciate the extra heat, and his pale skin turned rosy red as the water touched it. He sank into the water carefully, trying not to jostle Crowley. The tub might be big enough for two now, but it was still a bit of a squeeze with Crowley’s long legs. “Okay, lean back,” Aziraphale said when he was settled.

Crowley obediently leaned back against Aziraphale’s chest, and they both huffed a contented sigh at the same time.

The world was full of soft steam and wonderful warmth. Crowley’s familiar sharp lines were pressed against him, head on Aziraphale’s chest and their arms pressed together on the sides of the bathtub. Aziraphale could feel the inhuman heat coming from Crowley’s skin, could feel the lines of his ribs as he breathed. Aziraphale wished they could stay here forever, basking in the water and the intimacy. He wrapped his arms around Crowley, tugging him closer and hooking a chin over Crowley’s freckled shoulder. Crowley nuzzled his cheek against Aziraphale’s, damp hair tickling Aziraphale’s nose.

“I love you very much, little one.” There were no words for the pressing feeling in Aziraphale’s chest, but those would have to do.

“Love you too,” Crowley murmured into the quiet air.

After a moment of silence, Crowley started playing with the water, splashing it between his hands. Aziraphale laughed, unwrapping his arms from around him so that he could play. Crowley didn’t have a long attention span when he regressed, preferring to be moving at any given moment. Sometimes Aziraphale wished he was more interested in cuddles, but he was happy enough to spend the time with Crowley however he wanted to.

The rest of the bath passed in a cycle of suds and rinses, with Aziraphale doing his best to keep the soap out of Crowley’s eyes and give him enough time to play with his rubber duck in between bottles of shampoo and conditioner and bodywash. Crowley liked pushing the duck under the water and then watching it shoot up to the surface, laughing delightedly every time.

“Come on, darling one, out you come.” Aziraphale had some trouble coaxing Crowley out of the nice warm water, but eventually it cooled down enough that he clambered out and into the towel Aziraphale had been holding for the last ten minutes. Aziraphale towelled him off with determined scrubbing, and an unusual gust of indoor wind finished the job, pushing Crowley’s hair into an absurd shape and making him laugh.

Aziraphale carried Crowley back to bed and put him into pyjamas, changing into his own comfortable clothes. Crowley willingly crawled under the blankets, but left the corner turned down in a clear invitation.

Aziraphale hesitated: he’d been planning to do some reading this afternoon, and a nap was not really part of that plan… but Crowley looked so cozy that Aziraphale eventually gave in and climbed after him, wrapping Crowley in his arms and closing his eyes to let the now-familiar darkness of sleep claim him for a little while longer.

#fandom agere #good omens agere #agere writing #agere fic #agere fanfiction #sfw agere #my writing #my fics #this has been on the back burner for a while #keep your eyes out for more series! i've been working on my own projects over the winter break #hopefully i'll have time to finish them between requests ^-^#good omens

50 notes · View notes

mortuarybees · 5 years

Text

The sun beat unseasonably hot and heavy on Crowley and Aziraphale's backs as they took their stroll. It was beautiful, Aziraphale couldn't help but admit; he spent the whole of the year in London, and rarely left, but he had to admit that spring in the countryside put the city to shame. They had left the path behind and made their own through a field of wildflowers, the smell heady in the air, so thick and rich it warned this was the peak of the season. Aziraphale, at Crowley's side, would certainly enjoy it while he could.

"All I'm saying," Crowley said, and Aziraphale's attention returned to their conversation, "is that you have to admit, her books would be more interesting if she fell more to my side."

"I disagree," Aziraphale said primly, though he wasn't sure that he did. They were both guests of the lady of the house, a rising author with a substantial readership, and had both been tasked with influencing her to spread vice and virtue through her novels, respectively. It was, on the whole, perhaps the best assignment Aziraphale had ever been given. He had quite enjoyed her first two publications, the estate was beautiful, her library impressive, and he would be spending the whole of the week in Crowley's company--which, of course, would make it far easier to thwart his wiles, and was agreeable for no other reason. "I think a virtuous, traditional heroine is far more interesting."

"No you don't," Crowley snorted. "Remember Ivanhoe? Come off it, angel, you were furious about Rebecca's ending. You sent me a six page letter about it."

"Rebecca was virtuous," Aziraphale snapped. "Even more virtuous than Rowena. The only reason she didn't marry Ivanhoe is because she was Jewish, and that's all there is to it. None of this nonsense about the nobility of tragic endings--Scott was simply a coward, and I do believe he wound up one of yours."

"I don't know about that," Crowley said, cutting what Aziraphale is sure is an amused look out of the corner of his eye. "She might be virtuous but she's hardly traditional. And besides, look at East Lynne, you were in a way about Lady Isabel's ending too."

"Hasn't anyone ever heard of Christian forgiveness?" Aziraphale muttered. "A fallen woman she may have been, but she hardly deserved the fate she got. Her only crime was falling in love with a charming rogue, really. And I resent the notion that disfigurement is a punishment, which Wood clearly intended it to be--"

"Alright, alright, angel, I'm just saying, you don't like all these boring novels about virtuous people being virtuous and making the good, virtuous choices their parents want them to make," Crowley said, laughing. "I've got a whole box of letters to prove it. Don't you want something more exciting? Less predictable? People being happy instead of all," he gestured with his cane, "sensible?"

"I like predictable," Aziraphale sniffed. "I'll take a good, predictable ending, and a sensible protagonist, any day."

"Sure," Crowley said, sighing. He swung his cane at the tall grass brushing their knees, an explosion of petals erupting. Aziraphale frowned at his behavior, but said nothing, instead enjoying the breeze that had picked up. "Suppose that's why you're so fascinated with that Lord Edward fellow."

"Lord Edward? Which novel is that?"

"Not a novel, that bland heir to something or other with the awful voice in the parlor," Crowley said. He took another vicious swing at a flower, missed, and hissed, irritated.

It took a moment for Aziraphale to place who he meant. He blinked at him. "The--pianist?"

"Yes, the one singing those dreary songs about the Rhine or whatever else," he muttered.

"Whyever would you think I was fascinated by him?" Aziraphale asked, amused. Why would you care? Certainly, he was a skilled musician, but a bit...fair-haired, for Aziraphale's taste. Short, broad-shouldered, muscular. Not that he had tastes, of course, being an angel, but if he did. And not, of course, that it's that sort of fascination to which Crowley was referring. Why would he? "I was simply listening to him play, he was quite talented."

"For an amateur, perhaps," Crowley said.

"Really, dear boy, must you be so judgmental? I think he did a fine job," Aziraphale said. "It's very generous to devote ones entire afternoon to entertaining the rest of the room."

"Oh, yes, a real trial, having everyone in the room looking at him, hanging all over him," Crowley muttered. Another flower exploded, before Crowley's cane even came in contact with it.

"No one was hanging all over him," Aziraphale said, exasperated.

"You were."

"I wasn't," Aziraphale said. Truthfully, he'd spent most of the afternoon watching Crowley flirt with the lady of the house's husband, as if that was even necessary for his assignment. "He's engaged, besides."

"So you asked--"

"What is this about, Crowley?" Aziraphale snapped impatiently. "Are you worried I'm persuading him to good? He's doing a fine job of it on his own. He sponsors poor young people so they can go to school and get educations."

"How bloody wonderful for him," Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale huffed and picked up his pace to walk ahead of him until his irritation waned. Crowley got this way sometimes, inexplicably concerned about who Aziraphale spoke to. He'd been the same way about Shakespeare, of all people, when Aziraphale could easily counter with Crowley's close friendship with Marlowe. He was responsible for the dashing, brooding, inexplicably sympathetic character of Mephistopheles, Aziraphale was certain of it.

Crowley lengthened his stride to catch up, sighing. "Look, angel, I'm sorry--"

"I just don't see how it's any of your business," Aziraphale sniffed. "I'm allowed to have acquaintances, you know. It isn't all blessings and miracles."

"I know," Crowley said, smirking, "you hang around me, don't you?"

"That is purely professional," Aziraphale said, whirling to face him, and he winced at the wounded expression on Crowley's face. "I, er--"

"Professional, right," Crowley said. "Professional nights at the theater, professional lunches, professional saving your ass when you get yourself into stupid jams, professional country strolls."

"We're discussing our assignments," Aziraphale said weakly, and Crowley flinched.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you're right. I'm an idiot. Come on, it's getting late. We should head back." He turned and began the slog back to the path, stomping with unnecessary force. The tall flowers leaned precariously out of his way, and still met his wrath, flattened.

"Crowley--"

"Just don't, angel," Crowley sighed. "You're right, I was out of bounds."

Aziraphale chewed at his lip, hurrying to keep pace. "No, I...Crowley," he said, putting his hand on his elbow to stop him, and he froze. His black coat was sun-warm to the touch, even through Aziraphale's gloves, and he let his hand linger a moment before his mind caught up and he snatched it back, wide-eyed. Crowley only stared at him, not moving a muscle, and after a moment of hesitation, he laid his hand on his arm, forcing himself to make meet Crowley's eyes, hoping against hope he could see what Aziraphale couldn't say. It was an unlikely hope, given that Aziraphale wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted to say, except--

You’re my friend, maybe, but even that he couldn’t admit to himself. There was more than that, too, nebulous things he could feel but couldn’t grasp, wouldn’t try. "You understand, don't you?"

He nodded, slowly, but Aziraphale didn't remove his hand, caught in Crowley's gaze, the way the sun hit the lenses of his glasses just right so Aziraphale could see his stricken eyes. There had been a fad, for a time, when young people would carry little miniature portraits of their lovers eyes, wear them as jewelry, taunting their friends with the mystery of it. Aziraphale had always thought of Crowley when he saw them, richly framed bracelets or pinned on lapels. His eyes would be far too unique for that, were he to ever take a lover. There would be no mystery, no wondering who those gold slit eyes belonged to.

"Angel," Crowley said, his voice soft and hoarse, and Aziraphale swallowed hard, watching his mouth form the word. His hand remained on his arm, separated by Crowley's shirt, his coat, Azirapahle's glove, yet Aziraphale's palm prickled, like there was nothing between them at all, only skin against skin.

It felt, really, like there was nothing else to do, as if it was gravity; as if he'd been tilting towards him since the moment they touched and there was no choice but to fall. But really, it was quite the opposite: with his gaze fixed on his lips, Aziraphale rose up, as if in a trace, and kissed him, soft, light, barely-there as the dandelion fuzz which clung to his cheek.

His eyes slide closed, and Crowley made a sound like a whine or a moan, and his cane thumped to the ground as his hands came up to grip Aziraphale's waist, pulling him in, deepening the kiss to something desperate, grounded, sweet as the inner flesh of an apple, and Aziraphale shuddered at it, at the taste of him. Tea and tobacco and something sharp and earthy, like cinnamon, and he licked into his mouth, chasing it. Crowley gasped, fingers tightening in Aziraphale's coat, and surged forward, knocking both their hats off.

Aziraphale stumbled back, yelping when his back hit the ground, but the sting and dull ache was driven out of his mind by the gentle kiss Crowley gave him, his gloved hand twined in his, and he kissed Aziraphale's cheek, whispering, breathless, "alright? Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Shut up," Aziraphale said, turning his head to chase his lips again, something hungrier, and Crowley's tongue dragged along his lower lip, the soft slide of it almost painful in the way it made Aziraphale feel wild, dazed, out of his mind in the heat and grass, Crowley's weight pressing into him. "Crowley, my dear, Crowley, I--"

Crowley kissed along his jaw, his trembling fingers working at Aziraphale's necktie, and Aziraphale gripped his hips, pulling him down, closer, staring up at the wide, open, cloudless blue sky, and suddenly felt--

Terribly exposed, weren't they? Out here in the field, on assignment, no less--

A horrible terror, a foreboding crashed into him, heavy, with far more force than Crowley had landed on him.

"Crowley, wait," he said, and Crowley froze immediately, leaning back. Flower petals were tangled in his hair, grass seed and pollen clung to his face, the absolute picture of flowering passion, youthful Dionysian impulse, but they were hardly, youthful, were they, they were old, very old, an angel and a demon, and--

There was a familiar crack nearby, and the sharp smell of ozone burned away the intoxicating scent of the meadow. Crowley, suddenly, was gone, a black mass in Aziraphale's lap slithering into the grass. Aziraphale sat up, staring, terrified, into Crowley's snake eyes, as wide as his own, and his head dipped, something almost like a reassuring nod--I'm not going anywhere, it said, I'm right here, I won’t leave, and Aziraphale nodded back, gathering his composure.

Gabriel stood in the grass some distance away, frowning at the scenery.

"Gabriel," Aziraphale said, his voice high and oddly-pitched, and Gabriel's eyes cleared when they landed on him. "How...lovely, to see you."

"Aziraphale," he greeted. "What, uh." His eyes flickered over him, disheveled and sitting in the grass. "What are you doing?"

"It's a," Aziraphale struggled to find an explanation that did not involve admitting he had just been kissing a demon. "A thing humans do."

"Really," Gabriel said, and shrugged. "How stupid. Anyway, I just thought I'd check in on how the assignment's going."

"It's," Aziraphale frowned. The last time someone had actually come to check on one of his assignments was...early Christianity, he was pretty sure, helping to build the church. "It's going well? The young lady is quite talented, and of course, virtuous. Definitely on our side.”

"Great," Gabriel beamed. "That's good to hear."

"Er, why is Heaven so interested in this particular woman's soul, if I may ask?" Aziraphale couldn't help but look at Crowley, who seemed as confused as he was.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel scolded. "Heaven is interested in the fortunes of all human souls."

"Of course," he said hurriedly, though he knew that wasn't, exactly, true. No one had ever come to check up on the individual progress of a soul towards the light before.

"But Our Lord is particularly fond of this author's work," Gabriel allowed. "She's very intent that she be influenced towards the light."

"Ah," he said faintly. God was reading romantic epistolary novels. And had a particular interest in this woman's. And was very keen that she be swayed to their side. And no one had told Aziraphale this. And instead of working on this assignment, perhaps his most important since establishing the church hierarchy, he had been cavorting with the adversary in a field, rolling around like lustful youths with more passion than sense. "Wonderful. Good to know."

"So, it's going well?" Gabriel said. "I don't need to tell you that when the Lord takes a special interest in the fate of one human, it's really important that it goes well."

"No," Aziraphale agreed. "You do not need to tell me that."

"Excellent," he said. "Heaven. Virtue. Maybe a, a helpful priest, in her next book? None of this, running off to Scotland to elope and be married by a blacksmith stuff. Churches, Aziraphale. The Lord wants to see churches."

"Churches," Aziraphale said. "Priests. No blacksmiths. Got it."

"There can be blacksmiths," Gabriel corrected. "The Lord hasn't said anything specific about Her opinions on blacksmiths. But no getting married by a blacksmith."

"Of course," he said.

Gabriel sniffed, looking around. "Something feels, or--smells--"

"Goats," Aziraphale blurted. Of course Gabriel could smell Crowley, that brimstone-and-clove smell that clung to him, beneath even the thickest cologne, because he was a demon. "Ah, it's a goat. Pasture. Goats live here."

"Oh," Gabriel said, with a look that said, and you're laying in the grass? "Alright, if you've got all that, I'll be off. Lots of important business." He clapped his hands together, and gave him a very cold smile. "Take care of this, Aziraphale," he said, and with a flash of lightning from the cloudless sky, he was gone.

The grass had worked its way into his sleeve and under his collar, itching terribly, and he picked at it idly. Crowley transformed back into his human shape, patting his torso as if to confirm he still had hands to do so with. "Satan below," he swore. "That was close."

"It was," Aziraphale agreed hollowly. If Gabriel had seen--Aziraphale would've Fallen, and Crowley probably would've been smote. Or taken to Hell and destroyed. He'd put them both in the most horrible danger, and for what? "I--I'm sorry, Crowley, I got carried away."

"You--"

"Too many romantic novels, I suppose, I apologize," he said, and pain flashed across Crowley’s face.

"Angel--"

"Crowley," he said severely, and allowed a fraction of the terror he felt make its way onto his face. Crowley swallowed hard, and ducked his head. He swallowed, composing himself again. "I got carried away."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."

"Right," he said, getting to his feet, and he wanted desperately to offer Crowley a hand, but--

Well, that didn't seem such a good idea.

"Given the nature of this assignment, dear boy, do you mind if I--"

"Yeah, you take this one," Crowley said, picking up his cane and hat from where they'd been discarded. Aziraphale found his own and secured it on his head. "I think I'm going back to London." He sniffed, brushed a petal off his shoulder. "Don't care for the country."

I'm sorry, Aziraphale wanted to say, but he didn't. He shouldn't even want to say it. He was an angel, and Crowley was a demon. Angels didn't apologize to demons. And they also did not kiss them senseless in fields.

What a poor angel I am, he thought miserably.

"Perhaps that's for the best," he said, and Crowley swallowed, looking away.

The walk back to their host's house was quiet, and Crowley was gone before dinner, without another word.

#i just wanted them to be kissing in a field. that is all #henry speaks #good omens #ineffable husbands #henry writes

3K notes · View notes

justkeeptrekkin · 5 years

Note

Sharing a bed for the first time and spooning / hugging. Nothing too explicit but a lot of affection and comfort. I have this headcanon but I can't find any good fic about this

“You know, I’ve heard that the best way to warm up is body heat.”

Hope you enjoy this prompt anon!

***

The neighbours have noticed. The whole street has lost its central heating, the entire place is freezing apart from Aziraphale’s bookshop, and the neighbours have noticed. They aren’t pleased.

There are many cases in which Aziraphale has used his miracle abilities for selfish reasons, for his own comfort. There’s, of course, the whole situation with those nasty mafia type men wanting to buy his bookshop from him, who he’s… dealt with. There’s also all the customers he persuades not to buy any of the books, gently escorting them from the shop with an angelic smile till they find themselves outside, not knowing how they got there.

Today, there’s the central heating. It’s very easy, really, to keep the whole shop warm. And he might have been able to fix it for the whole street, but Heaven still aren’t very happy with him about Armageddon and he doesn’t want to attract unnecessary attention. And, what with the neighbours noticing how toasty his shop is and complaining and causing a fuss, it doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

So now, he’s lying in his bed, something he rarely uses- it also happens to have a duvet, which is helpful on this particular occasion- he’s wearing three jumpers, and he is still absolutely freezing. Lying in the foetal position beneath the sheets, he weighs up his options.

As far as he sees it, he only has one.

That is how, a twenty minute cab ride later, he finds himself at Crowley’s apartment building. After ringing the intercom, it takes a moment for anyone to answer. He dances a little jig on the spot, trying to keep warm, his breath pouring out of him in clouds of steam.

Then:

“What is it?”

“It’s me- sorry to disturb you, I’m- good Lord, it’s so cold-”

“It’s all this post-not-apocalypse business, angel, it‘s messed with the weather,” Crowley says, without missing a beat. “Come on up.”

The door buzzes, Aziraphale pushes it open, and as soon as he steps inside, he’s amazed by the difference. It’s so warm. It’s the warmest he’s been in hours, and it’s making his skin tingle. The elevator journey up to Crowley’s floor is quick, and as soon as the doors slide open, Aziraphale sees him- leaning against the doorframe, waiting.

“Why didn’t you text me you were coming over,” he grumbles.

“I still don’t like it, Crowley.” Referring to the iPhone that Crowley’s fobbed off on him, which he’s encouraging Aziraphale to use and is failing to do so monumentally. “Every time I try and open up the message thing, it thinks I’m clicking on something called iTunes, and then it starts playing music without warning, and it’s just horrible.”

Crowley steps back to let Aziraphale through. “You’d get the hang of it if you tried. Problem with you, angel, ‘s you’re too stubborn.”

Aziraphale ignores him, as he often does when he’s being insulted like this. Crowley’s flat is deliciously warm, and Aziraphale shrugs off his coat with a contented sigh.

“What brings you here this fine evening?” Crowley says in a jokingly formal tone.

“Central heating is buggered,” Aziraphale says, hanging up his coat by the door. He pulls off his scarf, thus shimmying off his bow tie a little, and Crowley appears fascinated by the action. “And you know how hard it is to perform any miracles these days.”

Crowley growls. “I don’t understand-” his whole body slumps with exhaustion and infuriation, “-Why they still won’t leave us alone. Didn’t we scare them enough? Why do they still care? Their plan went to shit, so why? Why?”

“Who knows, dear,” Aziraphale gently drapes the scarf over the coat stand hook, turns to measure Crowley- who’s sloped off to sit at his desk sulkily. Aziraphale watches him from the corridor, continues, “Better not to dwell on these things.”

“Better than being melted with holy water. Or burned with Hellfire.”

“Well, quite.”

Crowley is draped over his chair. Aziraphale stands and lingers. His nose is still cold. Actually, despite it being toasty in here, he thinks it might take a while for his body to reacclimatise. Crowley casts his golden eyes over towards him, where he hangs awkwardly in the sparse room.

“So you’re coming to mooch off me, are you?”

Aziraphale tuts. “No. I had rather thought that the offer was still open.”

“What offer?”He hesitates.

“The- well. The one you made in Tadfield. On the bench. Before we got the bus to London that was actually for Oxford.”

Something in Crowley’s expression shifts. And something in his shoulders, too- his whole body tenses a little. Like someone who’d been expecting a friend to walk into the room has suddenly found the Queen, asking if she can make herself at home.

“Right. Yes, right. You- hang on.”

Crowley launches himself from his chair, snaps his fingers, conjures sofas. Not the Spartan, minimalist type either- no, these are soft and tartan and very much Aziraphale’s style.

“Oh! Lovely. I’ve been telling you for months that you need a proper living room,” Aziraphale notes, rather pleased with how the place looks now. “See how much more homey it is?”

“Right,” Crowley replies, like he’s not really listening. “Um. So, you’re thinking of staying the night then?”

“Ah. Well, if you’d rather I didn’t-”

“Nope. S’fine. All fine, this is fine,” Crowley rushes. “This is fine. Uuuuuuuuuuuuuh- OK.”

And Aziraphale marvels at how suddenly flustered he is, spinning round in panicked circles before magicking blankets into existence, fetching a bottle of Rioja from his cupboards, turning side lights on and main lights off so the place looks warmer, less cave-like, and doing one thousand other things at once that makes Aziraphale soften.

He’s already soft enough, but this is all too endearing for Aziraphale to handle. He’s always taken pleasure from Crowley fussing over him. Right now, the sight of him bustling about the living room- it lifts something inside of him. Something in his chest lifts like bubbles rising to the surface of a still lake.

“Crowley. Crowley,” he repeats, when the demon doesn’t hear him. After the second time, Aziraphale receives a startled expression, brows raised and mouth hanging open a little. Surprised by the interruption. “My dear, you don’t have to do all this. I’m perfectly happy just being here. With.”

With you, he thinks. With you. Just say it, Aziraphale, you coward.

He doesn’t. He closes his mouth, stares at Crowley’s slack expression, then at the wall directly behind him.

“Thank you,” he eventually says. Adds a nervous smile. “For putting me up.”

“Don’t- don’t thank me, you don’t need to thank me, I offered, remember? Just…” Crowley hovers in the makeshift living room. His lips twist nervously, he stuffs his hands in his barely-there trouser pockets, kicks the sofa. “What is it that changed your mind?”

“How do you mean?”

“About staying over. You said. Back then, you said your side wouldn’t like it. Now?”

Aziraphale thinks about this. He looks above the cold apartment- warm physically, cold emotionally- and then at the sofas that have just been produced. Purely for Aziraphale’s comfort.

“I’m comfortable with you,” he says quietly, too quietly.

“What?”

“I’m- it’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing. Aziraphale’s been chasing after comfort for his whole existence, never really finding it except for in the company of one person. The one person he’s not meant to want to be with.

But-

“Well, even if you won’t accept my thank you, I’m offering it nonetheless,” Aziraphale ploughs on- Crowley frowns at him, but allows the change in subject. “So it’s there. If you want to accept it.”

After a pause, Crowley’s frown melts, and he shrugs. He collapses on the sofa. He puts on the telly.

“Alright, alright, don’t go on about it. Let’s see if there’s anything less depressing than the news on.”

***

It’s not that the sofa isn’t comfortable. It’s just that Aziraphale feels at a bit of a loose end.

He’d confidently assured Crowley that he could leave Aziraphale to it and retire for the night. But without his books, and in such a sparse flat, he’s sitting here feeling a little bit of a lemon.

He’s thought about sleeping. He tried, and it just didn’t seem like he’d drop off. He’s only just got the hang of this whole sleeping business anyway- he had a very successful nap after Armageddon, but it appears that he still needs practice. So, giving up, he’s resorted to looking out of the window and staring at the people down below, walking about Westminster in the cold. After a while even that gets a bit dull, so he sits on the sofa again and turns on the television, puts it on mute so as not to disturb Crowley.

And, amazingly, he’s still cold. Not because the apartment itself is cold, but because his body is still acclimatising. He sighs. And he thinks, as he stares at the silent television, that he may need a bath to warm up properly.

The sound of the door bursting open makes him jump out of his skin.

He turns around and looks at the door- it’s open, but no one’s there. “Crowley?”

“I can hear you sighing from all the way in here,” he calls out from his bedroom. “Just get in here.”

“Pardon?”

“You said you could entertain yourself, but you obviously can’t.”

Aziraphale stares about the living room, at a loss. Crowley’s acting as if there isn’t anything remotely intimate about him inviting Aziraphale into his room. Back on that bench in Tadfield, he’d been rather casual then too, offering to let him stay over. Aziraphale had been scandalised and tempted. He’s feeling similarly now.

This time, though, he’s leaning towards tempted.

And so, brushing himself off, straightening his cardigan uselessly, he stands up from the sofa and steps uncertainly into Crowley’s room.

He’s under the covers, laptop leaning against his raised knees. The room is equally sparse, except from a huge piece of modern artwork that- for all that Aziraphale can tell- is simply a large canvas painted black with a little white blob on it. He tilts his head and stares at it for a while.

“Planning on standing there all night?”

Aziraphale’s attention flits to Crowley. He’s sat there, peering at him over the edge of his laptop screen. Huge, yellow eyes. Watchful- and possibly a little bit guarded. He’s growing his hair out, too- it’s looking more like it did a couple of years ago, half tied up in a messy bun.

“Sorry?”

“Just. Don’t think standing and watching me from the doorway is going to be much more entertaining than whatever you were doing next door. You. You could.” His word catch in his throat. “You could actually get in.”

“A-ah. Yes.”

Aziraphale nods to himself, straightens his cardigan out again and walks purposefully towards the bed. When he gets there, he hesitates awkwardly- Crowley watching with wry amusement. He pulls the duvet back and covers himself, knees in the air. Back, uncomfortably, against the railing of the bed.

“Well done, you managed,” Crowley drawls.

“Stop it.”

“Just a bed, angel,” he adds, though the tone is too light.

“I don’t use them very often.”

“Yes, but, see, I was under the impression you still knew how they worked. Just then you looked like you’d forgotten the function of a duvet.”

Aziraphale shoots him a look, but Crowley’s doing something on his laptop. He seems pleased with himself.

Aziraphale straightens out his legs, wiggles his toes.

“It is very warm in here,” Aziraphale admits. “I can see why you like napping so much.”

“Like being warm,” he mumbles, continuing to do something on his laptop that Aziraphale can’t understand.

“What are you doing?”

Crowley sighs. “You’re so nosy.”

“No I’m- I beg your pardon. I thought you were meant to encourage curiosity, snake?”

He snorts. “I’m catching up on Love Island.”

“What’s Love Island?”

“You…” he wrinkles his nose. “You don’t want to know.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It’s- ha! It’s really not.”

“Oh. Is it one of yours?”

“Yep.”

“I see.”

Crowley looks at him. And there’s a strange expression on his face; strange in that it’s almost childlike. Wide eyed and vulnerable.

“I can watch it later,” he says, lips barely moving.

“Oh- no, don’t let me stop you-”

“Nah. Nah, you know what, I’ll watch it tomorrow,” he announces too loudly, closes his laptop loudly, drops it on the floor loudly. “Let’s just sit. Sit and talk. When’s the last time we talked? Just sat and talked.”

“I believe we do that almost every day. And have done for a few millennia now.”

“Yeah, but.”

Not like this, Aziraphale thinks, though he’s too scared to acknowledge that thought. No, he ignores it stoically like a dog being offered medicine, wrapped up in ham. He eats around the pill.

As it turns out, neither of them want to approach whatever direction that conversation was going. So they end up instead talking about nothing. Things that Aziraphale will forget about tomorrow, but are enjoyable in the moment. Eventually, he gives up on leaning against the railing and lies down, and then so does Crowley, until they’re laying side by side. It’s easy to imagine that they’re outside, on some grassy knoll, looking up at the stars. Or the clouds. Heaven.

“I think I’m only just about warming up, now,” Aziraphale sighs, after an extensive conversation about glacier cherries and which side invented them.

“Only just?” Crowley asks, aghast. “I laid out all those sodding blankets for nothing?”

“No, no, you- you did wonderfully, dear.” Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way Crowley turns his head away and stares at the ceiling with a deep set frown. “I just don’t think my corporeal form is used to being cold for so long. If ever I was cold before, I’d just…”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Nothing happens, of course; he’s being careful these days.

“Being human sounds rubbish, doesn’t it. Being cold all the time. Getting hungry. Doing exams and running out of phone battery.”

“It has its perks.”

“Yeah. Least we get to experience the good stuff.”

Aziraphale has been watching Crowley, lying on his back with his cheek pressed against the pillow. He’s been watching the way his hair is falling out of its loose ties, red curls around his face in tendrils. He also keeps finding little stray red hairs over his own cardigan; proof that this whole sharing-a-bed thing happened, in case he ever forgets (he never will).

And he thinks of all the things that Crowley has done for him over the millennia. Everything, from the Bastille to books to apocalypses to offering a warm place to stay. He thinks of how much Crowley gives, despite never receiving; thinks of his trial in Hell, and all the cruelty that he’s experienced from the beginning; thinks about how, actually, he understands how that feels. To not be good (or bad) enough, to not be worth the attention, to be treated so coldly. Aziraphale thinks that he understands, in many ways, how Crowley feels- and he thinks of what he can give back, after everything Crowley has done.

“You know, I’ve heard that the best way to warm up is body heat.”

It sounds ridiculous when he says it, not like him at all. But he knows that the only way he’ll be able to give Crowley a cuddle is by dressing it up. By making it seem like he’s asking for a favour, rather than giving Crowley what he deserves. Crowley will readily grant Aziraphale a favour, but will bear his fangs at the sight of a compliment. Aziraphale sees all the demon’s insecurities, and it’ll take every trick in the book to get past those defences.

Crowley’s head turns towards him. Eyes darting about his face. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes. So. If- that is, if you’re a willing participant, you could be that body.”

Crowley huffs a laugh. “An offer I can’t refuse.”

At first, it sounds like a joke. The mocking tone is there, but beneath it, there’s sincerity. It’s so genuine and affectionate and intimate- and that feeling returns in his chest, the happy-nervous bubbles rising to the surface.

“Right,” Aziraphale breathes. Watching the indescribably soft expression on Crowley’s face. “Well, that’s decided then.”

“Suppose it is.”

Now he’s suggested it, though, Aziraphale’s not brave enough to move. Luckily for him, Crowley is. Crowley’s always the braver one of the two, even if he’s technically the bad one.

And so Crowley lifts up an arm, a gesture for Aziraphale to lay his head on his chest. And he does, after a bit of shuffling. Crowley is bony and sharp, but there’s also an obvious landscape to him that makes it easy for Aziraphale to get comfortable- like a particularly chair shaped rock at the beach. Although it takes him a minute to find the right spot, and Crowley grumbles at him to stop moving and sort yourself out, angel. Eventually, though, they find themselves still. Cuddled up, Crowley’s arms around him The feeling of his chest rising and falling, breath tickling Aziraphale’s forehead. His smell. His hair, too close to be able to focus on properly- just a blur of red.

Aziraphale can’t believe his luck.

And at some point, he dozes off. They both do. Aziraphale knows this, because when he wakes up, he finds their roles reversed- they’re lying on their sides, and Crowley’s curled up beneath his chin. Their legs are tangled and so is Aziraphale’s heart.

He simply lies there. He lies there and brings in Crowley close, holds him. Embraces him, offers him all the softness, all the attention that he deserves. Wraps him up in his arms like he belongs there.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #my writing #fic prompt

2K notes · View notes

roseskiesandbutterflies · 3 years

Text

Le Démon Déchu - Chapter 2: Réponses Et Plus De Questions

Summary: The summary is kind of long so please check a previous part or my masterlist if you want to read it.

Warning(s): threat, swearing

Word Count: 6.8k+

Inspiration: Do You Know What Eternity Is? by Elderly_Worm on AO3, Great Omens (The Big One) by falsepremise on AO3, Pray For Us, Icarus series by Atalan on AO3, Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm on AO3, wasteland, baby by john1513 on AO3, Not of Us by ShesAKillerQueen98 on AO3, How to Win a Lifetime Achievement Award for Services to Television (and how not to) by GaryOldman on AO3, Doctor Who (don’t ask) and, of course, Good Omens itself

A/N: Okay I took a bit of a hiatus from writing literally anything for about five months so sorry about that but I’m back now!! That’s the main thing. Also, I’ve left high school now which is very exciting! That does mean I’ll have so much more time to write and I’m definitely going to try and use this summer to establish some kind of routine for writing so that when I start college, I won’t get too overwhelmed with both my studies and with updating my fics. That’s the plan anyway so don’t hold me to that lmao. With any luck, now I’ve actually said that it’ll have to happen. (I wrote that part of this note back in May when it was the start of the summer. It is currently September and I’m just about to finally publish this chapter and I assure you, I am cringing at my own optimism.) Sorry this took so long to post. This chapter has been in the works since May (yes, I know I’m terrible) but I actually got a lot more writing done in that time that what you just see in this chapter. All will be revealed soon. I just promise that I have been productive. Once you’ve read this chapter, you have my blessing to translate the title of this fic. Hopefully it will make sense.

I just wanted to point out something about the playlist I linked in the previous chapter. I am well aware that there are some rather problematic people in it, namely Sia. I want you all to know that I don’t support her in any way (I don’t like her at all I think she’s a complete ableist twat). Her songs are only on there because of how well they fit with the story (a lot of this will become clearer as the story goes on).

I also wanted to point out that I know that if angels do exist, then their true forms probably wouldn’t look anything like humans. I’m well aware of that, I’m not an idiot, I don’t know if any of you remember when people started googling ‘angel true form’ and some people got scared lmao. The point is, we’ve all seen the pictures. But for the purpose of this story, and honestly just to make it easier for me to describe what the characters are doing, we’re going to have to pretend that they did look like humans. Can I claim creative license with this one? Maybe it got lost in translation because there is probably no way someone could describe how an angel truly looks in any human language? I don’t know, just roll with it.I know that this chapter had so much exposition and explanation in it but I can promise you two things. One, there is still much to be revealed. Two, I promise this isn’t just bad writing on my part. Just trust that I needed to put this all in this early on.

And how is everyone doing after the season 2 announcement? I mean, at the time of writing this specific part of my notes, it only got announced about an hour ago lmao. I’m very fucking excited, oh my god. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I found out I can’t lie. Catch me trying to finish this before it comes out in case things occur which means I have to change things in this story. I can’t be arsed for that. Oh well. Hopefully it’ll read like those Sherlock fics that people wrote in between series 2 and series 3 if that doesn’t happen.

Taglist: @briarrose26

Ask or comment to be on my taglist! Let me know if it’s for a specific fandom(s) or series. Full list is in my bio.

Hermit (upright) + Five of Wands (upright)

Conflict. Reflection. Resurfacing memories.

************

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other.

We know who our enemies are. We know.

– Richard Siken (Detail of the Fire)

************

“Fuck.”

The angel and demon exchanged glances of what could only be described as thinly veiled panic, while the woman in front of them just looked annoyed at the most.

“They couldn’t wait five minutes, could they?” she muttered, pinching at the bridge of her nose in frustration before standing up again, “Look, just stay down here, I’m gonna go sort this out. With any luck they won’t have actually realised you’re here too.”

“Wait, how do you know they’re here for you?” Crowley asked, suddenly curious as to what business Eloise might have with Heaven.

“Just a gut feeling,” she said before making her way to the spiral staircase behind them, muttering to herself, “If they were here for you, I feel like they would have at least used the front door.”

The other two waited until she’d run upstairs before exchanging a quick glance, an unspoken word, and following her up.

Meanwhile, Eloise was hovering outside a room at the end of the corridor which she could only assume was the bedroom. She was strangely hesitant, not out of fear of them, simply out of fear of the unknown. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in that room for millennia, and something told her that this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat. She took a deep breath, even though she technically didn’t need it, letting a wave of faux confidence wash over her, and stepped inside. Don’t crumble now. You’ve come too far to crumble now.

“Ah, Mariel, long time no see,” Gabriel smiled coldly, brushing the dust off his white suit. Flanked by two other angels, he stood in the wreckage of the bedroom without even acknowledging the damage they must have caused when they crashed in. Beside him were Beelzebub and Hastur, who both looked as though they had been dragged kicking and screaming to come here. Beelzebub in particular kept shooting metaphorical daggers at Gabriel, who remained perfectly oblivious. The entire ceiling had caved in from the impact of their crash, the setting sun painting the doorway where Eloise stood in a pale gold and casting a dark shadow over the others.

She’d grimaced at the use of her old name; it was too unfamiliar, too ancient. Mariel was the name of a long-dead version of herself. Once upon a time, she’d embraced it, but that was once upon a time. Once upon a time long gone.

“Almost like I’ve been avoiding you on purpose,” she muttered, leaning against the doorway as she stared intrusively at each person in the room, observing, assessing. She silently revelled in the blatant discomfort in each of their faces.

“No need to be so rude,” Gabriel said, doing anything to avoid her eyes, his previous confident façade now shattered.

Eloise stared at him in disbelief, “What exactly were you expecting? A fucking welcome party? I haven’t seen any of you in over six thousand years and you just crash through the roof of my house, unannounced and uninvited, so yeah, forgive me for being a little irritated.” She couldn’t help but feel a little bit guilty. She’d barely been in Aziraphale’s bookshop for fifteen minutes and she was already pretending she owned it.

She watched smugly as he squirmed under her gaze, desperately looking to the others to say something in response. A moment or two passed before Beelzebub’s head suddenly snapped up in confusion, “Are you alone?”

Shit. She’d hoped that they wouldn’t have noticed the presence of the two who were definitely not downstairs like she’d asked. She swallowed, trying not to let any kind of emotion show on her face, trying not to give the game up that quickly, “Yeah, I live on my own.” She watched the whole group of them squint in concentration, trying to sense any other beings in the house. She sighed, changing the subject before they could comment on it any further, “Look, what do you want? I don’t have all day so if you could make it quick then that would be much appreciated.”

Gabriel looked back at her, his suave exterior unfortunately making a return, “Hey, we just wanted to check up on you, see how you’re doing-”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she snapped. She pushed herself off from the doorway, stalking towards the others, “You have had six thousand years to ‘check up on me’, don’t pretend you’ve only started to care now.”

She was met with only silence as Gabriel and Beelzebub glanced at each other awkwardly, looking very much like chastised children. Suddenly the latter groaned and cried, “You can’t just leave Hell!”

“Oh, here we go,” Eloise muttered, rolling her eyes, bored already.

“You can’t! You Fell from Heaven, so you go to Hell, there isn’t a third option!”

“Well, apparently there is,” she shrugged.

“No there isn’t!” they argued, face screwed up like a petulant child.

“Then what do you call this then?” she asked, unfolding her wings for the second time that day. She studied their reactions closely, scrutinising coal-black eyes piercing through their very souls. She was searching for any hint of shock, of recognition, of anything that could clue her in as to what was going on in their heads at that moment. All she could find, however, was pure, unadulterated confusion. Which was annoying when her wings were supposed to be an answer to their unasked questions.

Gabriel stumbled over his words, “Good Lord, how did you even-”

Eloise cut him off curtly, no longer having the patience to listen to his incoherent mumbles. She instead turned to Beelzebub who at least had the decency to look a little more composed, “That would be what you could sense then. I’ve got both Heaven and Hell in me, that’s a lot of energy to pick up on.” She stared right through them, daring them to say anything else.

“Must be,” they replied slowly, though they didn’t look at all convinced.

Gabriel held up a hand, his eyes darting about as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing, “No hold on, how did you even manage that?”

“I left Hell,” Eloise said simply, “Why should I have black wings? I’m not some demon who ran away from everything. I left. Permanently. I looked Hell in the eye and walked away. You know what? Fuck it, I looked Satan in the eyes and walked away.”

“You what?” he stuttered.

“Yeah, you heard me. You have a problem with me leaving Hell then go on! Take that up with the bloody devil,” she said, staring them down, daring them to retaliate. She smirked when she was met with pure, uncomfortable silence, “Except you won’t, will you? Because you don’t actually give two fucks about me. Just like I said, if you did then you would have chased me up a long time ago. Quite frankly, I think you must have been glad to have me out of your hair,” she sighed, half sad, half amused when they couldn’t even meet her eye. She paused for a moment, wondering how far she could push this, before asking, “You know what I think is really going on here? I think the pair of you are feeling a bit bruised after the absolute shitshow that was Armageddon last year, which, by the way, fucking hilarious. I think your egos are feeling a little sore after a literal child stopped you from ending the world, so you’re thinking ‘hmm, what would be an easy win so that we don’t feel like total shit? Oh yeah, what about that demon who ran away all that time ago? That should be easy to sort out.’. Well, love to disappoint, but you’re not getting me that easily, especially when not a single one of us actually wants me back, and Sandalphon, take one more step further I swear I will dropkick you back to Heaven,” she snapped, glaring at the angel who had been menacingly inching closer while she had been talking. He reluctantly stepped back alongside Gabriel, looking a little more than miffed that his plan hadn’t worked out. “You really want me back? Get your bosses to talk to me because I don’t actually see why it’s any of your business. No middle men. Just God, Satan and me. I’ll see what they have to say about all this. Questions?” she asked, tone snapping from one extreme to another, almost as if she had just been possessed.

Gabriel stared at her, mouth gaping like a fish, “You can’t just boss us around like that.”

“What? Like how you bossed us around all those years?” she replied without missing a beat, real rage, real danger seeping into her voice now, “I think we’re done here.”

“But-”

“I said, I think we’re done here,” she said, leaving no room for arguments. She gestured to the sorry excuse for a room around them, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind cleaning this up.”

“Why can’t you do it? You can miracle things too,” Gabriel said, desperate for any kind of leverage over Eloise.

“You’re right, I could, but I didn’t make this mess, and I personally believe that you should face the consequences of your actions, Gabriel,” she said pointedly, watching as he visibly gulped. In a matter of seconds, the room was restored to its original state and Eloise was left alone in the room, no indicators that she was ever with any other people remaining.

She sighed and all but collapsed into a chair that may or may not have existed a few moments ago, confident façade shattered completely. She breathed heavily in exhaustion, as if she’d just run a marathon; she supposed she had just run a mental one. Her emotions were bugging her to no end. It was strange. She wasn’t scared, per se. There was very little that Gabriel or Beelzebub could do to her that would frighten her anymore. She tried her best to compose herself, writing off the tsunami inside her mind as just plain old adrenaline, before calling out, “You can come in now. I know you guys are outside, it’s okay, you can come in.”

Crowley and Aziraphale walked into the room, one looking considerably more sheepish than the other. Aziraphale perched awkwardly on the freshly reconstructed bed, “We’re sorry–”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, we’re not.”

Eloise and Crowley exchanged a glance, amused looks on both of their faces while Aziraphale simply looked distressed. Eloise turned back to him and smiled sympathetically, “I told you, it’s fine. I would have done the same,” she admitted, looking away before collecting herself once again, “So, I’m guessing you have a lot of questions–”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Crowley muttered as he took a seat beside Aziraphale, although it was a very loose definition of ‘taking a seat’.

Aziraphale glared at him while Eloise just sighed and reluctantly said, “I think it might be better if I just show you.”

Crowley cocked his head in confusion, “Show us what?”

She brought her chair closer to the edge of the bed and put out her hands, “Take my hands. Brace yourselves.”

Mariel was standing before a crowd of angels, dozens upon dozens of disgusted faces staring right at her. She couldn’t quite remember getting there. She had been in the pitch-dark holding cell and the next thing she knew, she was here. Blinding white light surrounded them, harshly illuminating her vulnerabilities before all of Heaven. She tried her best to keep her chin up even though she absolutely hated the fact that they could see the bruises from when she had been arrested that were now blooming on her face. She frowned as she noticed the lack of measures preventing her from escaping. All that was keeping her there was Gabriel’s presence at her side, cold violet eyes pointedly ignoring her. He really was an arrogant bastard for assuming that she wouldn’t even try to make a run for it. Just because he was right this one time, it didn’t mean that he shouldn’t have come prepared. Mariel sighed and looked up at the angels staring down at her. Michael was sat higher than everyone in the centre of the crowd, face void of all emotion as she said, “The Principality Mariel. You’re on trial today for betraying the will of the Almighty, rebelling against all that is good and light in the universe...”

Mariel blocked the rest of her pretentious speech out as she droned on about all the awful things she’d supposedly done to deserve this. It was all lies anyway. She knew the real reason she was here. There were a few things that stood out to her despite it all, things that nearly made her laugh. She’d known that they’d needed to conjure up some reasons for condemning her, but this was just ridiculous. Gabriel really had gone to extraordinary yet desperate lengths to slander her in her final moments in this Someone-forsaken place. She was surprised that the angels gathered to watch her downfall believed a word of this. She tried her best not to resent them, though. It wasn’t like they had anything better to believe in. Especially considering the amused smirk that had crept its way onto her face.

She returns to reality just in time to hear Michael ask, “What do you have to say to defend yourself?”

“I’ve done nothing I need to defend,” she said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“Don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is,” Gabriel muttered dangerously from where he stood beside her.

Mariel turned to look at him in disbelief. “How the fuck could this get any worse, Gabriel?” she hissed, fury flaring up in her eyes.

He just looked back at her condescendingly, “Do you really need me to answer that?”

She pointedly refused to reply, turning back to face Michael, determined to ignore him.

The next part goes past in a blur for Mariel. Michael speaks again, though she doesn’t listen. Then suddenly there are shouts of anger, screams of rage, coming from the gathered crowd. They spit with venom as they hurl insults at her. She doesn’t hear a word. It’s as though her head is under water, completely submerged in the stone cold anger that seeps through her body, and suddenly Mariel is drowning in the realisation that this is really happening, oh God this is really happening.

Why? Why is this happening to me? You listening, God? Look me in the eye and tell me why this is happening.

She doesn’t get an answer, and though she wasn’t expecting one, it still hurts. Because she knows that she’ll never get an answer from Her again now.

Eventually she feels a tug on her arm from where Gabriel has been standing, dragging her away from the crowd and out her of current state of mind. She could feel her senses coming back to her as she stumbled backwards, but everything was crashing down on her too quickly, too harshly. She did her best to shove the rising panic as deep down insider her as she could. There was no way she would let anyone here see her in that state. She couldn’t let them think they’d won.

She didn’t even realise she had reached the edge of the ground she was standing on, the edge of Heaven itself, Gabriel no longer grabbing her arm. She nearly found herself peering over the edge, but stopped herself before she could lean too far. It may have helped her in the past but now was not the time to give in to her curiosity. And she didn’t trust Gabriel to not push her the moment he had the chance. She turned her head to glare fiercely at him, piercing holes in his very soul. She could slowly feel her anxiety being replaced by cool rage as she found herself saying, “Any institution that tries to silence anyone who opposes them is inherently corrupt.” She stared knowingly at his discomfort as he forced himself to face her. He knew what she meant by that. He knew.

He took a second to compose himself before practically scoffing in her face, “Don’t preach at me.”

Mariel cocked her head as she studied him. She watched as his eyes subconsciously flicked back to the crowd, to the other Archangels. He blatantly wanted nothing more than to re-join his fellow angels, the only beings who understood why he was doing what he was doing, or were at least supposed to understand anyway. Somehow she doubted they were all as cold-hearted and self-absorbed as the angel in front of her. She considered him for a moment before saying simply, “Your quest for power will kill you in the end.”

He furrowed his brows in somewhat amused confusion, “Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s the truth,” she blinked at him before leaning in and murmuring in his ear, “It will be your downfall.”

“The only one who’s going to Fall around here is you,” he said dangerously. Mariel leaned back and watched the lethal glimmer in his eye wither and die under the intensity of her gaze.

She just smiled. “We’ll see.” She let herself look at him for a moment longer before blinking away the tears and cautiously taking a small step backwards. She could feel where the ground ended beneath her feet and was sure not to step any further. She took one last look of the place she once called home, embracing how it felt for the last time though she knew she wouldn’t miss it.

She closed her eyes for a moment and fell back.

Mariel was Falling. That bit she knew, but much more than that? Everything was happening too fast for her to notice. And yet, it was as if she was existing in slow-motion. She worried for a moment that this was, in fact, her fate; doomed to remain in a perpetual state of limbo, of Falling, for all eternity. The only thing telling her otherwise was the view of Heaven above her, which she realised only too late was slowly shrinking into nothing. Mariel found herself reaching her own arms out, grasping for Heaven. They were opposite ends of a magnet being roughly pulled away from each other by an invisible force.

You hear that God? Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? And don’t you dare tell me it’s all part of your plan because right now, the only thing I want is to be back where I should be and I can’t even have that.

She pulled herself out of her mind and back into reality; she’d have plenty of time in Hell to yell at a God who’d never listen, let alone answer. She only just started to register her surroundings, the fact that she was actually Falling, who knows how far and for how long, tumbling through the air at an unimaginable speed, plummeting towards a place that could be anything from seconds to hours away. The deafening wind that screamed in her ears, drowning out the screams which may have been coming from her mouth or her mind, who was she to say? Air whipped around her body, icier and more painful than any words that could ever be uttered by the angels above her. It wasn’t until she could no longer see any hint of Heaven on the horizon that she started to feel the tears finally fall, trickling down her face and floating slightly due to the force of the Fall.

Then suddenly it came. She felt it in the very tips of her wings first, a strange tingling sensation, as though hundreds and then thousands of pins were skirting the edges of her corporeal being. It spread over the rest of her wings, and then her body, at a faster pace than she could keep track of until her whole being felt as though it was burning. The pain grew, and it grew, and it grew, and she didn’t think she could physically take any more pain when she looked up in horror at her own freshly blackened wings. Her beautiful, holy wings which had once been the softest, purest white, were now stained with evil and ash. For the first time since she started Falling, however long ago that might have been, she let out a choked sob that racked through her whole body and through the ever-changing air around her. Nobody heard her cries. Nobody heard her screams as the searing pain in her chest grew stronger. She couldn’t even begin to work out whether it was physical or emotional but it was there and it burned a hole, a gaping wound, through her soul, leaving a scar fated to never heal and to forever haunt her-

Eloise was crying. She’d tried so hard to prevent the steady streams that were now running down her cheeks, but that was a memory that she’d never wanted to relive. She looked upwards for a moment, trying to regain control of her emotions and her breathing, before peeling her hands away from the two sat in front of her. She roughly wiped the tears from her face, and suddenly the only thing telling you she had been crying were the bloodshot eyes that Crowley tried to ignore as he said bluntly, “I’m still confused.”

“Crowley, give her a minute,” Aziraphale chastised him, furrowing his brows at the demon before he turned back to Eloise with kind eyes and a kinder heart, “Are you alright, my dear?”

She nodded without much hesitation, “I’m fine, it’s okay.” She certainly wasn’t fine, nor was it okay, but the last thing she wanted was to have to deal with her feelings in front of two people she was trying her best not to scare off. She looked back at Crowley, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

He looked at her in understanding, for if anyone knew her thought process in that moment, it was him. “Right, so you Fell and became a demon. Then what?”

“Well, you know what Hell’s like,” she started, looking pointedly at Crowley. She waited for him to nod before continuing, “Not my scene at all. I just point-blank refused to do anything they asked of me. Naturally they didn’t like that much. Eventually I was called in to see Satan about it. I remember thinking, ‘well, that’s that then. Terrible knowing you all.’, because I didn’t think I was going to survive that. Turns out he was just annoyed that I was being a bloody nuisance to everyone else, but he was too amused to really do anything about it, so he basically just told me to piss off. Leave Hell, don’t come back, and I won’t tell anyone where you’ve gone or that you’re even alive. Not exactly a deal I could refuse, so I left, came to Earth, been here ever since. I think everyone just assumed he’d killed me,” she shrugged as if she hadn’t just destroyed the whole idea of eternal damnation with just a few sentences. She smiled to herself as they gaped at her for a moment, though she doubted they realised they were doing it.

Crowley somehow managed to gather his senses quick enough to hold up a hand and say, “Wait, but when you were talking to Gabriel and Beelzebub and that lot, you said they had six thousand years to check up on you. Why would you say that if they thought you were dead?” He narrowed his eyes at her. He wasn’t altogether quite sure why he seemed to be so keen on finding any gaps in her story, but he needed to be able to trust that she was telling the truth. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Yes, and they didn’t exactly seem surprised to see you alive.”

Eloise grinned. You two are gonna be fun, I can tell. “You’re both very observant, I have to give you credit for that.” She paused in thought for a second before starting carefully, “You see, the trouble with me is that I’m not really one for keeping a low profile. I’m too noisy, so to speak, and I don’t even realise it most of the time. This demon I hadn’t exactly been the nicest to back in Hell saw me in Babylon, gosh, it must have been eighteen thirty something BC? Anyways, he ratted me out to Beelzebub who must have told Gabriel all about it. I had about a decade of this bloody demon trying to discorporate me just to see if it would force me to go back to Hell, then one day he just stopped, and I never saw him again. Beelzebub probably told him to piss off.”

They were both quiet again for a little while. Eloise didn’t even think to say anything. It might be a rare occasion, but she did know when to keep her mouth shut when it mattered. She could see the cogs turning in their heads as if it was projected in the air above them. Eventually Crowley murmured, “I didn’t even know you could do that, you know, leave.”

She shook her head with a strange kind of sympathy that came from recognising an experience you had far too long ago, “Neither did I. It stills shocks me sometimes if I think about it too much.”

A few seconds passed before Crowley cleared his throat abruptly and said, “They called you Mariel. I thought you said your name was Eloise.”

She hesitated before answering. She knew exactly what he was doing, she’d been doing it for the whole of their conversation thus far, but just because she tended to bury her emotions, it didn’t mean that she liked it when others did it. She decided to ignore the hypocrisy of that thought, how ironic, she thought to herself, and instead explained, “It is. Mariel was my angel name. You know how it is,” she looked pointedly at Crowley again, hoping that Aziraphale would be able to put the pieces together. She didn’t actually know how much he knew about what it was like to Fall and become a demon.

“Oh, so is Eloise your demon name?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“No,” she said curtly, instantly feeling guilty when she saw the hurt that flashed over Aziraphale’s face. She grimaced and explained in a gentler tone, “I chose it for myself when I came to Earth. Hell tried to change my name after I Fell but I just refused.” She studied him for a second, watching his eyes dart about, before saying, “You want to ask something, I can tell. What is it?”

He looked a little startled at being caught out, momentarily glancing at Crowley for support, probably subconsciously, Eloise noted with a smile. “I, well, I couldn’t help but notice that you mentioned Armageddon. Back when you were speaking with, um, well, you know. H-how did you know about that?”

“I might have been there.” The words rushed out of her mouth in a much less casual manner than what she’d been aiming for, coming out in a sort of jumbled heap that took Crowley and Aziraphale a moment to decipher.

Crowley, the poor sod, could only think to lean forward and ask a simple, “You what?”

She jumped to defend herself, wanting to avoid the onslaught of questions if she could, “Not actually at the airbase, but I was in the area. I was living in Tadfield at the time.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, although the hint of a smirk on his face told her it was more in amusement than suspicion, “How did you know it was at the airbase?”

Eloise couldn’t help but chuckle to herself because of course, they’d notice her choice of words, “I knew Adam and his mates. I ran an ice cream shop, would you believe it. He came and told me all about it the day after,” she smiled fondly before suddenly coming alive with excitement, “That’s actually how I found out about you two. That’s why I’m here. Because I thought I was the only one trying to stop the world ending, but apparently I wasn’t. I had to see for myself.”

A moment passed before Aziraphale asked quietly, “You were trying to stop it?”

Eloise, not noticing the newly subdued atmosphere, launched herself into a painfully over-enthusiastic explanation, “Yeah, it was quite clever really, if I do say so myself. I made sure Adam was swapped with the American baby in the hopes that he would have a human enough upbringing to perhaps change things. Seems to have worked,” she shrugged, before finally taking in the two shocked faces that were staring back at her. Her brows furrowed and her face fell as she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You switched the babies?” Crowley asked blankly, although it came out as more of a statement than a question.

Her face screwed up as she tried to work out how best to explain herself. “Well, I say switched, it was more of a ‘made sure the demon dropping the antichrist off went to the wrong delivery room’ kind of thing. Feel sorry for the poor sod who had to deal with that but needs must.”

Crowley blinked at her and said bluntly, “I was the poor sod who had to deal with that.”

Eloise looked at him for a moment as about five different jigsaw pieces finally clicked in her head, before she threw her head back in realisation, “Oh shit, so you were. I knew your name sounded familiar.”

“You bastard, we spent six years raising the wrong child because of you!” he exclaimed, wagging his finger at her and jumping off of the bed at one point before Aziraphale tugged him back down. Eloise didn’t know whether to laugh or run for her life, for the menace in his words was betrayed by the disbelieving laugh in his voice.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” she asked, only just processing what he’d just said, and she couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips at his dramatic antics. She knew not to push it when Aziraphale just lifted a finger and pursed his lips with the look of someone who’d rather never bring up said event again.

“Oh bloody heaven, I can’t believe this,” Crowley shook his head, chuckling to himself. Although part of him resented it, he couldn’t help but look at Eloise differently now as they laughed like little kids together. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed so much more like them now, so much more human. Or maybe it was the fact that she had been trying to stop the apocalypse and all the implications that came with the fact. Suddenly he just wanted to know more about her, but he quickly silenced that thought. One thing at a time.

She raised her shoulders with a confused look on her face, giggling as she said, “Sorry? Well, I didn’t know, did I?”

They locked eyes for a moment before bursting into laughter again at the sheer absurdity of it all, leaving Aziraphale slightly bewildered and more than slightly exasperated at the pair. It took them a few moments to finally calm down but once they did, Crowley sobered his tone of voice as he asked, “Right, back to what happened before we came in. Anything we need to keep an eye out for?”

Though he didn’t say it, Eloise could see the unasked question in his eyes. Are we safe? She smiled softly, “Nah, you two’ll be fine. Basically I told them if they want to talk to me, then they need to get their bosses involved, and somehow I highly doubt God and Satan are gonna pop down for a friendly chat any time soon. Even then, you two should be fine. I don’t think any of that lot clocked on that you were here.”

Crowley nodded in understanding, and it didn’t escape Eloise’s attention how the remaining dregs of tension visibly dissipated from both of their bodies. Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other for a moment, the relief palpable from the pair of them. Eloise averted her eyes, giving them the privacy that they didn’t necessarily need but probably did want. She allowed herself a moment to ponder their relationship. They were very in tune with each other, very in sync, that much was obvious. Are they in love? The question sounded ridiculous the moment she thought it. Of course they are, look at them. She’d seen that look time and time again over the millennia. Although when she thought about the way they looked at each other further, that lead to another question. Do they know? The hint of yearning in their eyes was subtle but it was there. No, absolutely not. They’re too comfortable with each other. They’re a unit, that much she could tell. A unit that might not want to be disturbed.

Oh dear.

She looked back up at them hesitantly, unsure of what to say for the first time that evening. Eventually she said, “I’d better go. I think I’ve outstayed my welcome.”

Crowley frowned. Hadn’t she said she’d been travelling for a while? “You got somewhere to stay?”

Eloise paused. She’d definitely not been expecting that response. “Not yet. There is a flat I was going to rent but the people haven’t moved out yet because of the lockdown and it seems rude to miracle them away. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Stay here,” Crowley said almost instantly, then pulled a face of confusion at how quickly he replied, “I mean, only if you want to.”

Eloise blinked at that. Surely, they wouldn’t want her there? What reason could they possibly have to want her there? “Wait, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Crowley just shrugged, “It’s not a problem. What are your options anyway? No hotels are open, and you can’t stay with anyone.”

“Only if you’re sure,” she murmured, still wary for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She glanced at Aziraphale for confirmation; it was his bookshop after all.

He nodded firmly, “Of course. I’ve been told the sofa is remarkably comfy,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, to which she grinned broadly.

A short while and a few miracles later, the sofa downstairs had become a makeshift bed that was significantly larger and softer than it had remembered it being. Eloise was currently settled on it; all it had taken was ten minutes for her to completely crash out. Aziraphale and Crowley had left her in peace with a chuckle, heading up to the bedroom they shared (that wasn’t out of choice, mind you. Simply because there was only one bedroom in the bookshop. No other reason.) One slightly confused item of furniture aside, all seemed to be well in the bookshop.

Upstairs in the bedroom, an angel and a demon were sitting in the same bed. Neither of them had thought to turn off the lights, so they were sat in thick silence in the bedroom. Aziraphale didn’t usually come up to bed, not as used to sleeping as Crowley was, instead opting to read the night away downstairs. However this seemed impolite considering their new guest, so he’d come up with Crowley. And while Crowley was mulling this over he finally stumbled upon why he felt so uneasy.

Aziraphale hadn’t brought a book up with him.

As bizarre a concern as that may seem, Crowley could always trust Aziraphale to bring a book up to bed with him on the rare occasion he came up at night. That was one of the things he lo- liked about him. Liked. He looked at Aziraphale curiously, noting the slight frown on his face as he stared into space. How deep in his head must he have been to forget a book? “You alright, angel?” he asked as softly as he could so as to not startle him.

He looked at Crowley with wide eyes that darted away almost instantly as he started to play with his hands in his lap, “Yes, my dear, I’m fine. I just realised something, is all.”

Crowley cocked his head in interest, “Oh really? What was it?”

He was silent for a little while before saying in a voice no louder than a whisper, “I think I was there when she Fell.”

Crowley felt his eyebrows raise in shock, looking away for a second to try and compose himself. “Right. Well, that’s a thing.”

“Quite.”

He furrowed his brows as he tried to make sense of what this meant now, “And was she telling the truth? Did all that actually happen?”

“Yes. I remember it perfectly well. Clear as day,” he managed to choke out with a forced smile before going back to his routine fidgeting.

Crowley laid a gentle hand on top of Aziraphale’s, stopping what he was doing and getting him to actually look him in the eye for longer than a second. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I am quite well. Don’t fret,” he said, and despite Crowley’s concern, he couldn’t pretend that the smile on Aziraphale’s face wasn’t genuine, however small it may have been.

He reluctantly let it go, changing the subject quickly, “You alright with her staying here? I know it just sort of happened.”

The smile on his face only grew, much to Crowley’s surprise, “It’s alright. After all, wasn’t it you who said we’re on our own side now? I think she’s the first person we’ve met who might understand what that means.”

Crowley tried not to think too much about the fact that Aziraphale had actually listened to him when he’d said that, let alone remembered it, instead opting for a casual, “Yeah, I suppose so. Right, I’m gonna get some sleep. I, um, yeah,” he stammered out awkwardly, cursing his brain for not thinking of literally any other decent response.

Aziraphale simply smiled fondly at him, “Indeed. Goodnight, my dear.”

*************

Hello my love,

At the time of writing this, I do not know what the future holds. For me it’s an uncertain, unstoppable force, and it’s not one I think I can fend off for much longer. I’ve tried, please believe that I’ve tried. I’ve tried for your sake to prevent the inevitable. But it’s coming. I can feel it. It won’t be long now, I don’t think.

If you’re reading this, it means I was right, and I have Fallen. I know you’re probably confused and scared and that there is a biting anger bubbling inside you. I wish I could tell you why this is happening. I wish I could tell you that this is all a huge misunderstanding that will be resolved soon.

I wish I could tell you I love you one more time.

But I can’t. There are many things I can’t do now, and it’ll do me no good to dwell on this any longer than I have to. To survive we must focus on what we can do, and that’s exactly what I’m asking you to do.

If I know myself as well as I think I do, there are many things I would have liked to have said to you upon our final farewell, but didn’t because I wanted to make sure you were alright. Don’t feel guilty about this, my love. Think of it as my last debt to you being repaid.

I have a plan. Well, it’s more of an idea, and it might not work. And it’s because of this that I shan’t tell you exactly what it is. It seems cruel to allow you to hope for something that might never come into fruition. But please put your faith in me, and in our love, for we will prevail. One way or another.

I hope that you didn’t wait to read this letter because you were scared of its contents, though I’m sure this isn’t the case. You were always brave. It was always something I loved about you. Your quiet, beautiful, roaring courage in the face of such turmoil and anguish. You always had the courage to be kind and to love with all your being, even when everything was against you. No one would have blamed you if you had turned cold and bitter, and yet you chose not to. I admire you for it every day. My idea, should it work, will require us both to be incredibly brave. But more on that another day. It’s that bravery and that strength that you will need to rely on now. That, and the thought of me. Though I may not physically be with you, but I hope that my love’s own soul is enough.

I won’t sign off this letter, because this is not where our story ends. There is much left to be written. And I need you to remember that each day we are parted. Until the next time, my love.

#good omens #good omens headcanon #good omens fic #good omens imagine #crowley #crowley headcanon #crowley imagine #Aziraphale #aziraphale imagine #aziraphale headcanon #Ineffable Husbands

5 notes · View notes

readingwritingcrying · 5 years

Note

Can you do a piece where Crowley is accidentally burned by the holy water Aziraphale gave him, and while it isn't enough to kill him he's hurt real bad and Aziraphale feels super guilty? I love your blog!

Thank you so much for the kind words and this prompt!! A bit canon divergence, because it has to be, but I tried to keep it about how things might have been. I hope you enjoy!

When Crowley first took the tartan thermos from Aziraphale, he held it gently, as if grasping it any tighter or bringing it any closer to him would reduce him to a sizzling puddle of black goop, right there in his Bentley.

This, of course, wouldn’t be the case, but he still handled it with extreme caution. It was only natural that he wanted the holy water as far away from him as he could manage – it reeked holiness, and Crowley could practically feel the power humming under his fingertips.

And then there was the sentence that might stick in his head for the rest of eternity: “You go to fast for me, Crowley”.

He tried not to think of it on the drive back to his flat, listening to The Black Angel’s Death, as if he were driving off into his next misdeed. He sped through London at a miraculous pace (he didn’t notice the traffic, so in turn, the traffic decided to not notice him back) and couldn’t pinpoint when Freddie’s voice started to take over, but it didn’t matter since he was back well before it changed fully.

With too much nervous energy to be contained in an elevator, Crowley ops to use the stairs instead, quickly making his way to the flat. The stairs didn’t dare make him walk up the full length of them, of course, so in no time he was slamming his door with a little less force than anger would require.

Because he wasn’t angry. As much as he wanted to be angry at Aziraphale, he couldn’t be. Instead, Crowley just let the angel’s voice play on repeat. His chest ached the kind of way that only happened when you had begun to hope, only for that hope to be snatched right away again. He was more than a little empty, and definitely more sad than he’d ever choose to admit.

Crowley set the thermos down on a side table rather carelessly (still with some caution, he was upset, not stupid) and slouched himself down on his couch. What had he even been hoping for? For the angel to see him as anything more than an enemy? For him to agree, to spend the night together, to keep spending their nights together?

To be something to each other?

Demons didn’t get things like that. They got aggressions, sins, and positively dreadful amounts of paperwork. He was lucky for all the civility - the kindness - Aziraphale had shown him. He should be grateful.

Then again, he was a demon. Maybe it was a little bit his right to be selfish.

Crowley decided he should do what he did best when faced with a situation he didn’t like: take a nap. Preferably a long one.

He changed into his black silky nightclothes and moved to his bed.

He closed his eyes.

He let each muscle relax.

He slowed his breathing.

….he tried counting, thinking of something boring. He shifted. He adjusted his pillows.

He couldn’t sleep.

Crowley didn’t say that lightly. He had indeed tried just about everything one would normally do, as well as several other things one would normally never try and do, to help ease him into sleep (humans couldn’t sleep on ceilings, perhaps, but when Crowley wanted to he could sleep just about wherever he pleased). But after a week, he finally had to admit defeat.

If he couldn’t fall asleep, then alcohol had to be the only next step. Because he was tired of thinking, of feeling things involving one certain angel that he shouldn’t even be able to.

Pouring himself a glass of wine, Crowley stalked through his flat. The wine quickly turned into something darker and much stronger, and before long, he was properly shitfaced.

It is in these moments, very bad ideas seem to become very enticing, and in fact, seem like Very Good Ideas instead. This is as true in the occult (or ethereal) as in humans. That might be why it shouldn’t be surprising that Crowley picked up his phone and dialed Aziraphale (who’s voicemail existed but had never properly been set up like his own).

“Zzziraphale!” He slurred into the phone. “Jus’ wanted to call you. Um. No, wanted to talk to you too! ‘Else it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t pick up.” Crowley paused, going silent for just a bit too long for a recording, but he had to at least make an attempt at gathering his thoughts.

“Guess you don’t want to, then. Didn’t think it’d be too much after some thousand y- well, doesn’t matter. Call me, angel.” This would have been a respectable way to end a phone call - or at least as respectable as you could be when drunk dialing your more-than-enemy angel. Ending it with a broken, hissing please would be much less so.

Aziraphale did not call back.

Crowley called again. And then maybe a few more times. Each anxiously fiddling with the cable connecting his phone. Sometimes he would pace back and forth, other times he was sitting sprawled out on chair - or throne, really.

If you asked Crowley what he had said during these one-sided calls, he probably wouldn’t be able to remember well enough to tell you. Certainly, nothing he would say to Aziraphale in his right mind. For a week, he would call a few times, then sulk, then try again.

The last time he called, he slammed down his phone mid-sentence. Clearly, this wasn’t working. Aziraphale was still ignoring him in a way he hadn’t since much closer to the Beginning.

The phone made a satisfying crunch as it cracked on the table. This was when Crowley decided that he would sober up, at least for the most bit, since really getting drunk just made him more emotional cooped up in his flat alone.

Breaking things felt much better. He stalked to his garden, quickly spotting a plant with slightly drooping leaves. “You,” he growled. Crowley picked up the quivering thing by the stem, and smashed the pot down, shattering it there and then. The shattered edges of the terracotta sliced at his palms, making him hiss.

Stupid angel. Couldn’t he see how slowly Crowley was moving already? Why would he dangle something like that right in front of him, only to pull away again? And why did it have to feel like Crowley’s heart was breaking when it never should have been the Angel’s in the first place?

He was a blur of destruction in his flat. Pots that were not made of stone or concrete were helpless to his wrath. Anything that could be ripped was torn without mercy. Anything that could be toppled over was pushed to the ground, letting Crowley revel in the crash.

It was rather unfortunate when he tipped over a certain end table in front of him. Not because he liked the thing particularly.

No, it just happened to have a tartan thermos set on it by a rather careless, emotional demon.

It hit the floor, hard. The lid cracked.

Before Crowley could do anything but draw a sharp breath in, he was hit by a splash of water.

He let out an inhuman scream, flesh burning painfully, skin from patches on his arms and his collarbones dripping off as little more than black goo.

A quick demonic miracle was all Crowley could manage, putting the thermos the right way up to stop any more from spilling out.

Just the effort from that task alone made Crowley’s vision turn spotty. He fell back onto the floor, panting and whimpering. His heart (although not necessary, but some humans had freaked out when they didn’t feel a heartbeat while he was in the middle of a nap once) was racing, pumping adrenaline through his body.

It hurt. Christ, it hurt. For a moment he thought it might actually be the end, as he clutched himself, screaming. How could it happen like this? A simple accident, something so careless. Being immortal, he never faced the concept of an end. It was there, in theory, but it didn’t feel as real as it was in those few seconds when he just didn’t know.

The sharp burning pain slowly turning into a dull throb, and Crowley realized he wasn’t going to die. His pained shouts quieted into ragged breathing with the occasional whimper or groan.

His right arm and chest were badly burned, it hurt too much to even sit up properly. Crowly tried to shift his position, but it sent new waves of pain and nausea through him and left him gasping for breath that he really didn’t need.

All in all; there was hardly any way this situation could get worse. So, naturally, it did just that.

A hesitant knock rang in his ears as someone thought now was an appropriate time to stand outside his flat. It really wasn’t. Every muscle tense, Crowley brought his (left) hand up to his mouth, biting down on his finger to stop any wayward noises of pain.

The moment of silence hung delicately, balancing on an air of tension, much like how one would balance a pencil on their finger.

Then, “Crowley? I… I know you’re there.” Oh fuck.

Did Aziraphale really need to show up without any warning? Desperately Crowley tried to gather the strength to fix his apartment at least, but the effort just caused a pained groan to slip from his mouth, muffled as it may be.

“That’s it, Crowley, I’m coming in,” The angel said, determination strong in his voice.

“No-” Crowley protests, but it was too late. The door opened for Aziraphale, and Crowley shut his eyes to at least save himself from the initial expression. His right arm was curled over his chest and with any luck, maybe he just wouldn’t notice.

The angel made a noise that choked in his throat. “What happened here, my dear?”

Bless the stupid angel and his stupid pet names. How could he just say something like that after saying that before, after ignoring him for months? Crowley wanted to hate the way Aziraphale spoke to him, that way.

Mostly, Crowley just hated the way it made him soften.

“Nothing. Me,” Crowley manages to get out. “Can we reschedule, Angel?” Crowley gestured with his unharmed hand, “Little busy.”

“With what?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows made a good escape attempt, disbelieving as ever when Crowley got around to looking at him.

“Redecorating,” He growls back.

Aziraphale’s face wrinkles and he kneels down to look into Crowley’s eyes. “I did listen to your messages, you know.” Crowley flinches, letting out a hiss that had much less to do with what the angel had said and much more to do with how moving tore at his raw skin, the fabric scraping painfully at the wound.

Crowley wasn’t sure how long he could keep any sense of composure at this point. He didn’t respond, and apparently, that was enough for Aziraphale to continue.

“Dear boy, you had me quite worried.” Aziraphale looked away. “I couldn’t come sooner, not while heaven was keeping such a close eye on me. Gabriel paid a visit, but well, that wasn’t it,” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's right arm, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out in pain. He grits his teeth.

“You must know, Crowley… It’s not that I don’t, well, care for you,” he admitted. “I’m just…” Aziraphale paused, and Crowley realized his mistake.

Through clenched teeth, a whimper of pain has slipped out. IT’s a pitiful and desperate sound and one that has Aziraphale scanning Crowley immediately. “You’re hurt,” he says.

Crowley meets his gaze with his own demonic yellow eyes. He was breathing raggedly, each breath hurting just a bit more than the last.If it wasn’t such a dead giveaway, Crowley would stop the function altogether.

“Not ssseriously.” Crowley denied. Well, that was a blatant lie.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, tell me.”

“No!” Crowley snaps, panting. “Jusst leave, we’ll ressschedule this heart to heart later.” He wills his voice to be sharp and cruel, but it’s just tired and stressed. The drawn-out “s”s annoy him as soon as they were out of his lips, but like many a moment in his existence, he doesn’t have the control to stop it.

Crowley almost regrets smashing his sunglasses. A bit of protection from this plain vulnerability would be more than helpful.

As the angel starts to ask again, Crowley looks pointedly anywhere other than at Aziraphale. He won’t tell the angel - after all, he’s still here, and he didn’t need him taking away his one protection from hell over a little bit of misplaced guilt for the demon,

Hell wasn’t the type for sternly written letters, after all. And if they got word of the Arrangement? No, Crowley would just keep quiet about the whole situation until Aziraphale grew frustrated and left him for the night.

“...I apologize in advance for this,” Aziraphale said, and then did something Crowley had not at all planned on; he pulled Crowley’s arm from his chest.

Crowley cried out, trying to squirm away from the firm grip. Aziraphale dropped his arm as if he had been burned instead.

“No,” his voice broke. “Oh, no, what have you done to yourself?”

Crowley regained his voice slowly. “Angel. Angel, it was just a mistake, I would never-” he broke off. He realized how deeply he must have been afraid of Crowley using it on himself on purpose if the look of utter guilt on Aziraphale’s face was anything to go by. He cursed himself for not realizing that sooner. “I was just… Thought you weren’t going to come ‘round this time,” he admits. “Got upset. Broke things.”

Aziraphale took another look around him, studying the surroundings with a deep sadness. His eyes fall on the cracked thermos, sitting just a few feet away from the two of them.

Without speaking, he walks carefully over to it. Aziraphale picks up the thermos gently in his hands, and miraculously, it is free of any cracks. Carefully, he walks to a cupboard, opening it (and ignoring how the door hung off its hinges due to the state Crowley was previously in) and placed the tartan object high on a shelf.

“You can’t be so careless,” Aziraphale reprimands, returning to him. There is no real sternness in his voice, however. “Let me help, dear.”

Crowley nods. Aziraphale gently unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off of his injured chest and arms. Crowley chokes on the pain of the feeling, but doesn’t cry out - he hated the look enough on the angel’s face when he knew Crolwy was in pain.

A rather inappropriate part of his brain tells him that he would really rather the first time Aziraphale took off his shirt was in a much more pleasant, sinful context.

Aziraphale studies the would carefully. A good spot of his flesh has been burned away under his collarbone, but not quite to the bone. Similarly, there is a strip of his forearm burnt where the water had dripped. Aziraphale tuts, face still scrunched with worry and sets about tending to his wounds.

There wasn’t much that could be done about them, in the way of miracles. Regular injuries were one thing, but one of divine origins just couldn’t be dealt with so easily. Doing the human thing was the best Aziraphale could do for him, and so that’s what he did.

When the cool cream hit his skin, Crowley wasn’t sure if the stinging pain or relief would win out. He gasped, trying to adjust to the pain, and Aziraphale paused to let him. “Keep going,” Crowley grit out. “Best jussst to get it over with,” he reasons.

Aziraphale nods in agreement. “I’d just rather not see you in pain at all.” Still, he continues as quickly as possible while still keeping a tender touch.

Next, Aziraphale wrapped the burns in bandages. The arm was the easiest, and although Crowley made rather painful noises at the sensation, once it was done, he did have to admit it felt better than before.

Not much, but he’d take anything he could get.

The chest was the hard part. “You’re going to have to sit up, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale instructs. Crowley tries but is knocked back by the pain. He’s caught by soft hands, and Aziraphale is propping him up.

If he weren’t in so much pain, Crowley might appreciate just how close they were in that moment. Certainly, this was much more contact than they had ever had before.

“Tell me why you got yourself into such a state,” asks Aziraphale as he works. It’s said in a rushed way, the kind when you’ve been replaying a sentence over and over in your head, trying desperately to find the courage to say it out loud.

Crowley blinks. “You know,” he accuses.

Aziraphale sighs. “Perhaps. Best to say it anyway,” he insists.

Crowley considers this. For one, he’s a demon, and by nature, he doesn’t trust easily. Especially with things that could hurt him. Putting that aside, there was only so much Crowley could even admit to. Not without scaring Aziraphale off. Not without admitting something he couldn’t come to grips with himself.

But Crowley wasn’t very good at refusing anything to his angel.

“Youi.. you say these things, angel. That make me think just maybe you’d want… well, it doesn\t matter, but I just… got my hopes up, ‘suppose. Er. Thought you might, um, get scared away for good. Messed everything up.” He wasn’t sure if the words made sense, if they were in the right order, or if it was too much, too quickly.

Aziraphale finishes his bandages but doesn’t let go of Crowley. For a moment that seems to drag on into something like forever, they sit together in hesitant silence. “You know,” he says so quietly that Crowley can hardly make it out, “It might not be the Ritz, but there’s a sushi place I’m rather fond of. It would be a rather odd coincidence if, say, next week you’ve healed some and we manage to eat there at the same time.”

Crowley’s heart stutters. He nods, words stuttering, his brain not quite able to shape sounds into an actual sentence. Aziraphale seems to understand this anyways.

“For now, though, you should really sleep. Your body will need rest to heal this.”

“‘Course,” Crowley manages. With his agreement, Aziraphale helps him up, letting Crowley lean on him as they make their way to Crowley’s bed.

He blinks, and suddenly he is fully-clothed, albeit in pajamas. They were black, but soft cotton as opposed to his usual silk ones. They almost smelled like the angel.

Once he had been helped into bed (and once he had reluctantly released Aziraphale, maybe holding on just a second too long) Aziraphale stood, walking towards the door.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley called. The angel stopped in his tracks. Stay, he wanted to say. But he knew it was too much to ask. “Thank you,” he says instead.

Aziraphale’s shoulders relax, and although Crowley couldn’t see his face, he is certain the man must have smiled.

Exhausted, Crowley slipped easily into sleep,

Although the angel was gone the next day, Crowley could not possibly miss how everything was miraculously whole again, as if he had never broken a thing.

Not quite in their right place, but Crowley had to count the gesture as a win, coming from the angel.

#good omens #Ineffable Husbands #anthony j crowley #Crowley whump #hurt crowley #Aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #good omens whump #whump #otp: ineffable #ineffable husband fic #whump prompts

1K notes · View notes

insincerelycrowley · 4 years

Text

October

Summary: Crowley had said he was setting the alarm clock for July. It's now 2 weeks into July and Aziraphale is getting worried.

Word Count: 575

Warnings: N/A

Author’s Note: My first Good Omens fic - inspired by Neil Gaiman's confirmation that Crowley is extending his nap until October, and the #AngelWYD celebration on twitter (which focuses on what Aziraphale is doing while Crowley naps).

“I’m Setting the alarm clock for July. Goodnight Angel.”

July. He’d definitely said July, hadn’t he?

Aziraphale paced the backroom of the bookshop.

It was now July 15th and he had yet to hear anything from Crowley.

He didn’t want to seem too eager by contacting the demon himself, but he’d been certain that Crowley would be in touch once he woke up. However, 2 weeks had passed without a word, and he was frankly starting to get a little worried.

Perhaps Crowley was upset with him for rejecting his offer to come over in May, perhaps Crowley was in danger, perhaps Hell had…

With that thought in mind Aziraphale rushed to the phone and dialled a familiar number. His mounting sense of dread was not helped when Crowley’s answering machine kicked in. He was just about to hang-up and try again when he heard that Crowley had made an addition to his standard message:

… “do it with style … Angel … I’m sorry … I was wrong …”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“… about … ngk … about this whole thing being over by June…”

The angel sighed in equal parts relief and irritation.

“…October though, I mean … it’s gotta all be over by October hasn’t it? … well anyway, I’m re-setting alarm clock and going back to bed …”

There was more but Aziraphale had stopped listening.

“October” he mumbled.

Replacing the receiver back in its cradle, Aziraphale felt his heart sink. October was almost 3 months away, and yes, they’d been apart for longer periods before, but it felt like things should be different after…

But Crowley had houseplants, didn’t he? Were they being cared for while their owner was asleep?

Oh, Crowley would be so upset if anything happened to them.

It would be a welfare check, he justified, so it wouldn’t technically be against the rules. He could just pop in to see how the plants were doing and then come straight back to the bookshop. Crowley would never even know he was there.

Mind made up Aziraphale set off on the short journey to Crowley’s flat.

Once there he headed straight to the plant room and found that his concerns were quite unfounded. All the plants looked as verdant as ever – Crowley must have used a demonic miracle to keep them healthy for the duration of his nap.

“Wily old serpent” Aziraphale smiled.

Having completed what he came here to do, the angel supposed he should head back to the bookshop.

Then again, he reasoned, it wouldn’t hurt to look in on Crowley, just to make sure that he was o.k.

Nodding to himself Aziraphale turned and made his way to Crowley’s bedroom. Entering the room as quietly as possible, he was greeted to the sight of his companion sprawled out on the bed, sleeping soundly. Moving closer, he noticed that Crowley’s hair had grown out a bit while he slept and was now forming a kind of messy red halo around his head.

Unable to resist, Aziraphale reached out and gently brushed some loose strands away from the demon’s face. Crowley leaned into the touch with a sleepy smile.

Well, he was here now anyway – it wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer now would it?

Aziraphale miracled a book into his hand and carefully moved to sit next to the figure on the bed. Just before opening the book, he looked down at Crowley’s sleeping form fondly.

“Sleep well my dear.” He whispered.

#GoodOmens #crowley #aziraphale #fanfic #good omens fanfiction #crowley's nap

22 notes · View notes

mostfacinorous · 4 years

Text

GO Whumptober Day 31: Today’s Special- Torture [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21][22][23][24][25][26][27][28][29][30]

“You know,” Crowley heard, as he slowly woke. “Every hunter worth their salt has a tracking device they keep on their person. And his led me straight to you. So tell me the truth: where is Mathias?”

Crowley opened his eyes to find himself in a mostly dark room, tied to a chair, plastic spread out on the floor around him, and floodlights hitting him right in the eyes.

There was a woman standing in front of him, arms crossed and looking both unimpressed and threatening.

“I mean-- I ate him.” Crowley answered, feeling a mite groggy, like he may have been drugged. The pounding in his skull backed up that theory.

“Oh, a jokester. Funny. Mathias is my brother, so I hope for your sake he’s around here somewhere.”

Crowley groaned.

“Mathias sent a child after me by lying to her about the source of her ma’s illness, and then he attacked when I turned up to help them, so I turned into a snake and ate him.” Crowley told her. “I’m not joking, and I’m awful sorry for your loss, though he was a bit of a prick.”

The woman looked less than pleased with that answer, and paced back and forth a bit.

“You wanna talk me through what you’re thinking, or would you rather wear a hole in that tarp?” He finally asked.

“Well, your eyes say demon, so that makes your story a little more plausible. I don’t want to believe my brother’s dead, because if I come home without him, my father will be furious.”

Crowley listened, nodding.

“So I suppose,” she continued, “My options are to take you back to my father and let you tell him your story, and hope I get let off the hook while he kills you slowly, a little bit at a time, or, I do it myself, here and now, save myself the trouble of the roadtrip with you, and know I’ll probably kill you off faster than he would, so it’s really sort of a favor, on account of how you’re right, and my brother was a prick.”

“Sounds like either way is pretty shit, as far as options go on my end.” Crowley quipped, and she huffed a little laugh.

“Shame about you eating him,” she responded. “I feel like we really coulda grown to like one another.”

---

Crowley swam in and out of consciousness for the next several hours, as this incredibly disturbed human woman made a game of removing bits of him and putting them in labelled mason jars.

It really was like some kind of parody of a decor show, the way she tied little ribbons around each one, and labelled them with what they were and the time when she removed them from him.

He had no idea where they were or how they’d got there, but she’d done a damn good job of making sure she wouldn’t be interrupted.

He’d yelled and cried and screamed as loud as he could, but it seemed like there were no neighbors around to hear, or care, or help.

And he had no idea where Aziraphale was. He wished he could call to him, though, reach him, ask for some kind of way out of here.

“So it occurs to me,” Amber said, for that was her name, and Crowley hated that she’d bothered telling him about her, because he sympathized now, a little.

“I haven’t had much opportunity to learn about demons, and how they react to things. For example:” She held up a bottle of salt. “I can make a circle with this, and you can’t leave it, yeah? But what happens if I just…”

She upended the bottle over his chest, slashed open and bleeding sluggishly as it was.

He screamed again as the salt began to dissolve in his blood and sting at the open skin.

She watched, dispassionately, and when he voice broke and his screams turned to little whimpers, she hummed to herself.

“I’d say that was about on par with a human, actually.” She noted. “Which is a real pity, I expected more… fireworks, or the like.”

Crowley twisted his wrist back and forth, trying again to work his hand free, but she laughed.

His fingers were broken; she’d done that first thing, so even if he could get free, the act of summoning a miracle would be even more painful.

“How about the old folklore fixes, eh? Silver? Iron? Garlic?”

“Werewolves, fairies, and vampires. Not me.” He answered her, voice rough from screaming and ruining his attempt at sounding cool.

“And how about holy water? Does that do anything?”

He croaked out a little laugh.

“Tingles a bit. Demons use it as hot sauce.”

He had loosened the duck tape around his wrist enough to be able to move his hand a bit, and he smashed it against the chair, forcing his broken bones back into some semblance of being hand shaped.

“Hm. Hot sauce, you say?” She asked, and he didn’t like that at all. He wiggled his fingers, braced himself, and summoned a miracle.

“Maybe I should go get you some, then. After all, you are being punished for having eaten my brother-- maybe keeping your mouth on a constant holy water drip will make the punishment fit the crime a little better.”

Crowley sucked in air, in too much pain to try and figure out how to talk his way out of that one.

“Did I hear,” A new voice said in the darkness, and Crowley felt his eyes filling with tears of relief, “That you are in the market for some holy water?”

Aziraphale stepped forward, looking prim and proper as ever, and he’d even pulled out his halo and wings for the occasion.

Amber looked up at him in awe.

“You’re an angel aren’t you?” She asked, and Aziraphale smiled.

“I am. And it seems you’ve captured my own personal adversary.” He flicked his eyes towards Crowley, and Crowley whined at the cold expression in them.

Oh, Aziraphale was pissed. And worse, he was righteous.

“Oh, did you want to get in on this? It turns out he ate my brother, so…”

“Were you aware,” Aziraphale asked, voice still light and sweet and casual, “That your brother had made a deal with devils? That your brother kidnapped me, and sold me to hell?”

Amber took a step back as Aziraphale turned to look at her again.

“What? No, I mean, Mathias was an arse, but…”

“Your brother.” Aziraphale said, advancing on her, “Was a monster. And so are you.”

Crowley could not actually see what happened, but he did see that Aziraphale did not so much as lift a finger.

Amber screamed and fell to her knees, her eyes bleeding, her mouth wide open and her tongue suddenly missing.

“Crowley, darling, I think you had better close your eyes.” Aziraphale warned him, and, when he’d obeyed, he could see the bright holy light that suddenly shone throughout the room even through his closed eyelids. It stabbed into him and set his head off again, and he whimpered.

Just as fast as it began, it ended, and then Aziraphale was there.

“Alright, here we are, I am so sorry. Come on, let’s get you out of here, get you healed up.”

“What-- what did you do with her?” Crowley asked. “She was just-- her and Mathias both, their dad…”

“Oh, I know.” Aziraphale told him. “I sent her body back to her father, covered in writing that tells the entire story of their awful line. No further children will be born to them. The old man will see his daughter, read my letter, and then never see again. And whatever monster he is running from will finally be able to catch up.”

Aziraphale’s voice echoed with a sort of certainty, a knowledge beyond what they knew, and Crowley realized he was tapping into the weapons available to angels in the most extreme of circumstances. The sorts of weapons he’d have been given back in the beginning, back when it was a very real war, and he’d been set out to kill demons like Crowley.

Instead, now, he was using those powers in defense of a demon.

“I don’t think heaven’s gonna like this too much.” Crowley told him, head lolling as they moved, and suddenly Crowley realized he was being carried.

“I don’t give two fucks what heaven does and doesn’t like!” Aziraphale said hotly, but sounding more like himself. “I won’t let anyone take you from me again!”

Crowley smiled at that, even though, as they crossed out of the darkness and into the sunlight, his headache flared up, and all the moving was jostling the salt in his chest wounds.

He was woozy and in and out of it, and Aziraphale got him laid out on the grass by a roadside, the day crisp and bright and lovely, and Crowley felt cold and vague.

“That crazy bint killed me, didn’t she?” He asked, and Aziraphale’s eyes flashed, brighter even than the noonday sun.

“Not if I’ve anything to say about it.” He answered. “I am so very sorry,” He added, softer and sweet.

Crowley sighed, trying not to tense even though he knew what was coming next.

Or, he thought he knew. Aziraphale had done some laying of hands on him before, once or twice, and it was terrible for them both each time. They both suffered when they went about helping one another that intimately. So he tried to prepare for more pain.

What he felt instead, though, was Aziraphale’s hand on the side of his face, and then his lips on his, and he was kissing him back to life.

And somehow, it didn’t hurt.

It was like being dunked suddenly into a cold pool, a shock to the system, unpleasant, but bracing. He felt alert again, like he’d just woken, and he felt the pain in his chest going away, the throbbing in his fingers ceasing as everything straightened out and reknitted itself, pieces regrowing and reattaching and healing.

And Aziraphale was kissing him.

When he was done, Crowley chased after his retreating lips, panting and confused.

“That didn’t-- it didn’t hurt me at all. Did it-- are you alright?” He demanded, sitting up and reaching for Aziraphale to catch him in case he fainted from the efforts.

But Aziraphale just smiled.

“When God said she wanted us to be closer,” He said, sounding, finally like himself, “I suspect this is more what she had in mind.”

“You mean I could have been kissing you since winter?”

Aziraphale laughed and helped Crowley to his feet.

“If we weren’t so scared, I would say we could have been kissing for much longer than that. But, yes. I don’t think we’ll have any problems with healing one another any longer.”

Crowley felt tears coming to his eyes again, and he grabbed hold of Aziraphale and held onto him tightly.

“Let’s go find somewhere that’s quiet.” He requested. “Somewhere out of the city. You bring your books, I’ll bring my plants… and with any luck neither of us will have to heal the other ever again.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale said on a sigh, “That sounds delightful. How do you feel about the south downs?”

“If you’re there?” Crowley told him, as he reached to pull him into another kiss. “Better than heaven could ever be.”

#GO Whumptober2020 #Good omens fic #aziraphale #crowley #bamf!aziraphale #happy halloween!#whumptober #the end #that writing thing I do

6 notes · View notes

i-write-and-therefore-i-am · 4 years

Text

One Monstrous Miracle (Part Four)

Hey guys! I’d meant to get this out earlier today, but I’d also meant for it to be about 3,000 words shorter, so there we are. As always, give this chapter a cheeky little vibe check, and let me know if you find any mistakes! I love you all, enjoy, all those good things. Yay, melatonin! (Pssst! Also, if you’d rather read on Ao3 instead, here it is).

Previous-Next-First

Pairing: Aziraphale/Human!reader

Summary: Tender ANGST. Very angsty, might make you cry, i dunno.

Warnings: Aziraphale says a word that Microsoft Word told me may offend my readers, but other than that, I think we’re good. Let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: A WHOPPING 5295!! They’re getting loooooooonger.

This day, like many days, started off deceptively the same as always. Aziraphale had gotten up on the right side of the bed, the weather was not particularly noteworthy, and there was no string of minor accidents that would lead anyone to believe that this was going to be a Very Bad Day Indeed. Nevertheless, unbeknownst to most parties involved, this day was, in fact, going to be a Very Bad Day Indeed, possibly even The Worst Day Ever.

Aziraphale had been feeling happier than he could remember ever having been in his whole life. After you had shown up in his shop after weeks of not speaking to him, the two of you had spent very little time apart. You had resumed your habit of stopping by after work, much to Aziraphale’s great relief. He had missed you dearly, and he was enormously grateful that you had found it in your heart to forgive him. He shuddered when he thought of that night, remembering how terrified you had looked. Aziraphale had truly never felt quite as angry as he had when Crowley had insulted you, and it brought him right back to his younger days as a fiery agent of the Lord, smiting all who dared to cross Her. He had locked that part of him away, and until that fight with Crowley, he had all but forgotten about it. He’d decided very firmly that you would never again see him like that.

Today, Crowley had demanded that Aziraphale come over to his flat to make what he called an “Apocalypse Plan”. Things were getting rather sticky lately, and their search for the true Antichrist seemed fruitless. It was time, Crowley said, to bring out the “big guns”. What those guns were Aziraphale had no idea, but he could only hope that it wasn’t anything too drastic. He had just bought his new coat, after all. He’d made a quick call to you before closing his shop and heading over to Crowley’s.

“I’m terribly sorry my dear, but I’m afraid I don’t know when I’ll be home. Crowley is rather—”

“Difficult. I know, Azi, it’s okay. Take your time.”

Warmth bloomed over Aziraphale, and he couldn’t help the tender smile that worked its way across his face. You were so full of understanding, something that he’d had precious few encounters with during his time on Earth. As much as he loved humans and all their little quirks and flaws, it sometimes bothered him that for most of his life, he had been completely alone. Sure, there was Crowley, and he was absolutely infuriating but somehow endearing, but he was a demon, after all. There were fundamental things that they just would never understand about each other, no matter how long they’d been friends. You were different. You accepted Aziraphale, never questioning him or teasing him (of course you teased him, but never about his weight, or his obsession with books, or how the noises he made when eating sushi) or making him feel the way that the other angels invariably did. It was one of the many reasons he’d found he loved you for.

“Thank you, Y/N. I will call you if I get back earlier than I expect.”

“Thanks, Aziraphale. Have fun with Crowley! Give him my love.”

That was another thing. Aziraphale had been terrified that after such a disastrous first meeting, you would hate Crowley. Somehow, the exact opposite had happened, and after the two of you had gotten used to each other’s presence, you’d become fast friends. Aziraphale hadn’t realized how close the two of you had gotten until Crowley had yanked him into the back room of his shop one night and given him the sternest dressing-down the demon could probably muster, and promised that Aziraphale would regret ever having been created if he hurt you again. “Aren’t you meant to be on my side, dear boy?” Aziraphale had asked bemusedly, feeling very wrongfooted. “Oh, I am. I’ve already talked to her, she’s good. I just need to make sure that you don’t fuck this up, Angel.” Aziraphale had, through his tears, assured him that he had no intention of intentionally hurting you as long as you would have him (as a friend, of course).

“I will. See you soon, my dear.”

“See you. Bye!”

Aziraphale hung up, already missing the sound of your voice. He shut the lights off and headed out of the shop, locking the door behind him. Although he was a celestial being, and most definitely could make himself appear at Crowley’s door with little more than a thought, he found he enjoyed taking public transport. It was blessedly slower than riding in Crowley’s car, and it allowed him time to sit and watch the people around him. Aziraphale found himself strangely emotional as he looked around him at all the advances humans had made over the thousands of years he had walked among them. All the subtleties, the headphones in a young man’s ears, a little girl reading a book half the size of her head, a woman applying hand sanitizer. All these things made his heart ache with admiration. Yes, despite all the atrocities that humanity had perpetuated, Aziraphale knew that the vast majority of them were worth saving. He shifted in his seat, waiting for his stop.

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

Aziraphale hadn’t expected the absolute destruction that awaited him when Crowley opened his door twenty minutes later. Papers were littered everywhere, plastered on the wall, hanging from bits of string from the ceiling, and covering nearly every surface in the flat, including much of the floor. Aziraphale tilted his head, surveying the inexplicable damage.

“Are you…quite alright, dear boy?” Aziraphale inquired as Crowley shut the door behind him. Crowley came to stand beside him, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to look his friend over.

Crowley had always been obsessed with his appearance, even in the early days when self-grooming hadn’t quite been invented yet. Crowley was even worse than Aziraphale himself was at times, which was truly frightening. Today, however, seemed to be rather a large exception to the rule. Not one item on the demon’s body matched, even down to his feet, the left of which sported a thick, woolly sock, while the other was covered with bright green fabric with miniature snakes all over. “At least he’s wearing trousers,” Aziraphale thought gratefully. Crowley turned his wild and un-sunglassed eyes towards Aziraphale, and he quickly retracted his gratefulness. The day was not over yet.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be? I’m perfectly fine, nothing to worry about. Shall we sit?”

Aziraphale stared, feeling the gears turning almost painfully in his head. What on Earth had happened to Crowley? He had never acted this way, even during the chaos of the witch trials of the 16th and 17th centuries. He seemed…unhinged. As most people are no doubt aware, and if not, they can at the very least assume, an unhinged demon is a very dangerous demon. Aziraphale could do nothing but watch his friend as he pranced over to the desk at the center of the room, trying desperately to think of his next course of action. Crowley gestured impatiently at him and Aziraphale had no choice but to acquiesce. He was nearly to the desk when he was distracted by the sound of rustling leaves in the next room. He tilted his head, listening. His lips pursed in response to what he heard.

“Crowley, I’ve told you before that you simply must take better care of these creatures!” Aziraphale gasped, forgetting everything else. Crowley clicked his forked tongue dismissively.

“They’re just plants, Angel, I don’t understand why you’re always so concerned about them. And I don’t see any problems with them, anyway. Look at how green they are!” Aziraphale could tell that he had directed that last part to the plants, because they all gave a collective, terrified shudder. Aziraphale sighed in resignation and turned to the poor things, cooing and soothing their frayed nerves.

“Don’t mind him, my dears. You’re all lovely, no matter what the evil demon says—”

“I can hear you!”

Aziraphale ignored Crowley in favor of sending cool, calming thoughts to the plants. He didn’t leave them until their leaves stopped trembling. Feeling very satisfied with himself, Aziraphale turned back to the desk. He strode over and sat at one of the (significantly less ornate than Crowley’s own “throne”) chairs, shifting uncomfortably. He waited for Crowley to start explaining himself.

“As you know, the Antichrist is…missing—”

“You could, possibly, skip that bit seeing as we both know this part of the problem,” Aziraphale interjected. He was the very epitome of patience at the best of times, but this was decidedly not the best of times, and he was quite eager to fix this mistake that was all Crowley’s fault and had absolutely no connection to Aziraphale whatsoever. The fate of the world as we know it was at stake, after all. Crowley huffed, clearly upset that Aziraphale had cut off his carefully practiced speech, but Aziraphale really couldn’t find it in him to care (This was a lie: Aziraphale cared a great deal).

“Fine.” Crowley hissed. He opened his mouth to say more, but he was interrupted by insistent knocking at the door.

Silence. Neither of them moved a muscle, staring wide-eyed at each other. Nothing happened for a moment, but then the knocks came again, louder than before. Aziraphale barely kept himself from letting out a pathetic whimper, earning him a deathly glare. Aziraphale started bouncing his leg, trying to resist the urge to open the door. As an angel, it was just not in his character to ignore someone, no matter the context. Crowley knew this about him and was trying to ease his anxiety.

“C’mon angel, leave it be. They’ll leave. It’s probably some teenager trying to sell magazine subscriptions.” Crowley thought at the angel. He knew immediately that he had used the wrong words because Aziraphale’s expression turned into one he knew well—it was the exact one he wore when complaining about how Crowley treated his plants. Aziraphale’s eyes were so full of compassion it nearly made the demon gag with its intensity.

“The poor child! They’re probably selling to provide for their family, or the like. Oh, Crowley, you know I can’t leave them out there!”

Before Crowley could stop him, Aziraphale had jumped up from his chair and was rushing towards the door. A feeling of growing doom washed over him as Aziraphale disappeared behind the wall separating the front door from the rest of the flat. Something was horribly wrong.

Perhaps because he hadn’t been paying enough attention, or because his mind had been so preoccupied with the vision of the poor, snotty-nosed, raggedy youth swimming in his mind, but whatever it was, Aziraphale hadn’t picked up on the same ominous feeling as his demonic counterpart. Guileless, Aziraphale turned the doorknob and swung open the door. The sight that greeted him turned his stomach to lead and set his heart beating faster than it had the right to even think about working. He schooled his features into his usual, easy going smile, all the while thinking desperately at Crowley from across the flat.

“It’s angels. Stay quiet.”

“Michael! And Uriel.” There was a flash of diamond-studded teeth, and Aziraphale felt his throat constrict. “And, ah, Sandalphon. What a surprise! W-What brings you here, exactly?”

“We could ask you the same thing, Aziraphale,” Michael responded, a terrifying glint in their eyes. “It is rather odd to find you here, of all places.” Aziraphale had no idea what to do. He had been caught out, finally, after all these millennia, and he was going to be discorporated, or worse, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was finished. He would never eat sushi again, never dance the gavotte, never see Y/N—

“Here? Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale inquired, trying to look as innocent as a very clearly guilty person could. Sandalphon snarled but Michael silenced him with a look.

“Here as in the known residence of the demon Crowley, the very same Crowley that you have been providing reports on for last 200,000 years. How very interesting that we would find you here, in his home.” Uriel had always had such a knack for quiet intimidation, and she used it now. Aziraphale gulped, shifting from one foot to the other. He had to think of something, and quickly. Sandalphon broke from the group and moved closer to Aziraphale, so close that Aziraphale nearly went cross-eyed looking down his nose at the shorter being. The angel sniffed at his coat, taking one of the worn lapels and rubbing it in between his clawed fingers.

“Hmm. Smells evil.” He stepped back into rank, glaring at Aziraphale. Aziraphale swallowed hard, praying for strength.

“Well, ah, that would be because…” He trailed off, wracking his brain for anything, literally anything, to tell them. As they were essentially Gabriel’s innermost circle of confidantes in Heaven, Aziraphale knew that if he let them leave this place thinking that he had been working with the enemy instead of against, that would be the end of everything.

“What’s going on?” He heard Crowley thinking at him.

“Shut up! And stay that way.” He could feel Crowley’s indignation, but he obeyed.

“’Because’ what, Aziraphale?” Michael demanded. Aziraphale looked between the three angels, and suddenly, out of nowhere, the words flooded into his mind.

“Because I was doing surveillance!” Aziraphale blurted before he’d had the chance to think about it. The angels frowned, skeptical.

“Surveillance?” Uriel repeated, sharing a look with Michael. Aziraphale nodded, feeling his heartrate slow as his anxiety left him.

“Surveillance, my friends. I have been monitoring Crowley’s actions more closely since the birth of the Antichrist. I decided to have a bit of a peek around here to see if he had any…”

“Information?” Sandalphon supplied.

“That’s the ticket! Information. Unfortunately, you arrived not long after I did, so I haven’t been able to find anything of note just yet—”

“Well, then, let us help you, Aziraphale!” Michael interrupted, moving to push past him into the flat. Aziraphale grabbed their arm, keeping them from moving any further. “What in—”

“Crowley can’t sense my presence, with me being but lowly principality in comparison to you. You, being an Archangel, I can imagine that even Crowley would be able to tell if you’d been in his flat. Your imminence.” Aziraphale saw the slight blush that appeared on Michael’s face at his words. They had always been a bit of a narcissist, and the fastest way into their good spirits would always be cheap and simply flattery. They stepped back, straightening their blazer and clearing their throat.

“That is true. Even so low a demon as Crowley would be able to sense my power. Very well, then, Aziraphale, I’ll leave you to it. But know that we” they gestured to their companions. Uriel smirked at him while Sandalphon grinned, showing off his sparkling, sharpened teeth. “are watching you.”

With that, the three of them vanished. Aziraphale was left in corridor alone, still trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Slowly he realized that the taste of miracles lingered in his mouth, dancing on the tip of his tongue. This was no ordinary miracle, however. This miracle tasted of mana, of saltwater taffy and just a hint of last week’s winning lottery numbers. How odd. Aziraphale spun around and raced back into the flat to relay everything to Crowley.

“So your people are onto us. Of course it would happen now, of all times. We’ve just gotta be more careful…Angel? What’s wrong?” Crowley had caught sight of the expression on Aziraphale’s face; one of complete and utter despair, like all his dreams had come crashing down around him all at once. Alarmed, the demon pushed out of his chair and came closer to his friend. “Hey, it’s not that bad, we’ve prepared for this—”

“Y/N.” Aziraphale lifted his head to look Crowley in the eye. “She’s in danger. If they’ve been watching me, then they know about her and if they don’t already, they will know soon enough.” Crowley slumped, knowing it was true. He also knew what Aziraphale was about to do next.

“I can’t see her anymore.” If Crowley had had a heart, it would have broken into a million tiny pieces at the raw despair in the Angel’s voice. He knew how you both felt about each other, and how, after spending all that time apart, having to break off your growing relationship off once again would destroy both of you. He said nothing. “They will kill her, Crowley.”

“I know.” Neither of them said anything after that. Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath, opened his mouth as if to talk, but then shut it again. Crowley put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“But I also know that if you push her away like this, after what happened before, she might not come back,” When Aziraphale met his eyes, he knew that that didn’t matter to the Angel. He loved you so much that keeping you safe meant more to him than being near you. Crowley gave his friend’s shoulder a squeeze and nodded.

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

You were running late, not that it truly mattered. Aziraphale had called you an hour ago to tell you that he had, in fact, gotten home from Crowley’s earlier than expected and that you could come over for a spot of cocoa if you wished. You had spent almost 45 minutes trying to get dressed. For whatever reason, you’d decided to try and look nice for a change, rather than your usual scrubs or wrinkled work clothes. A random idea had popped into your head, making you wonder how Aziraphale would react to seeing you in make up for the first time. So, wearing one of your nicest blouses and skirts with your least favorite pair of achy heels, you were speed walking down Aziraphale’s street. The familiar feeling of butterflies in your belly increased in intensity the closer you got to the shop. Maybe today was the day you would finally tell him how you truly felt about him. Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

You weren’t expecting to see Aziraphale standing in the middle of the main room of the shop. Usually he was off in the back or upstairs even, but it was rare to see him out front. Especially when he wasn’t shelving books, which he definitely wasn’t. You frowned, closing the door behind you and moving to stand in front of him. There was something…off about the man today, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, but you knew it was there regardless.

“Azi, wha—”

“Hello, Y/N. May I get you some of that cocoa?” Aziraphale started, as though you’d never opened your mouth. You could tell that something was well and truly wrong now—Aziraphale didn’t have an impolite bone in his body. He would never cut you off when you were trying to speak. Your frown deepened as you tried to look him in the eyes, but he stared resolutely at a point just above your head.

“No, Aziraphale, what’s the matter?” He tilted his head to the side, eyebrows scrunched together as he looked down at you.

“’The matter’? Nothing’s the matter. Everything is fine, my dear.” He paused. You watched as his expression, already more shuttered that you had ever seen it, darken even further, making his face go blank. You were shocked. You had never seen Aziraphale like this, and you had no idea what had happened to make him so…angry? You couldn’t tell. All you could do was wait for him to continue.

A war was raging inside of Aziraphale, as it had been for the last few hours. A million possibilities floated around his mind, each one more ludicrous than the last. He could tell you that he was going on holiday and that you would see him in oooh…never because the world was doomed to end within the year. He could tell you that an old relation had passed away and that he needed to go home to Wales to settle the…whatever it was that humans settled when a loved one died. He could tell you the truth, that he loved you too much to keep you, that he was of the second-highest choir of angels and that some very bad angels were hunting for his golden blood as you spoke. Or he could say nothing, invite you upstairs for some telly and cuddling and continue living in this little bubble that the two of you have lovingly and tenderly created for yourselves. You could go on living in happiness…until, of course, Gabriel found out and smote you quite dead. The thought sent a trail of ice racing down his spine. He shook his head violently. Crowley’s lie it was, then.

“Actually, there is something that I need to speak with you about.” On instinct, your had shot out and reached for his but he pulled his hand back out of your reach. Hurt, you stared at him in shock. What the hell was happening? Was he breaking up with you? Not that the two of you were in a real relationship just yet, but after your talk, after everything, was this the end? Before it had even started? You refused to believe that your Azi could be so cruel.

“I…I can’t. I can’t do this.” Came the harsh nail in the coffin of your dreams. Tears sprang to your eyes but you held them back valiantly. Aziraphale could see them, trembling on your bottom eyelid, threatening to fall and to ruin this whole thing. His next words came out in a hurry, as though he was afraid if he didn’t say them quickly, he wouldn’t say them at all. Perhaps that was true.

“This. Us.” He gestured between the two of you. “Its…superfluous. I’m done with it and I am done with you. You were convenient, naieve and willing at a time when I was bored and lonely. That’s over now, and so is this. You can’t come to the shop anymore. Don’t call me because I won’t answer the phone. We’re done.”

Now, it is important that you know that angels don’t need to breathe. Well, perhaps that is a bit extreme. They do breathe, they have working cardiorespiratory systems that pump their golden blood throughout their bodies, just not with the same frequency as other life forms. In fact, an angel can hold their breath for years, which you may take anyway you wish. But in this moment, Aziraphale struggled to draw breath. As he watched the tears fall down your cheeks, ruining the liner and mascara that you had no doubt spent a great deal of time perfecting, he knew that there was no coming back from this. You would leave him, you would grow to hate him, if you didn’t already. He would never see you again.

But at least he knew you would be safe.

Aziraphale turned, unable to torture himself any further by watching you cry in front of him and not doing anything about it. His fingers itched to take you into his arms and hold you, to take back everything he had just said, but he restrained himself. This was how it had to be. He squared his shoulders, speaking without turning back,

“I’m sure you can show yourself out.” That was it. The last time he would ever lay eyes on you and he couldn’t even bring himself to look you in the eye. Gabriel was right, he had always been right. God had made some terrible mistake, appointing him a Principality. “Angel of the Eastern Gate” his divine bollocks. More like sniveling, fat coward who fails at everything and—

Aziraphale looked down to see your hand, smaller and softer than his own, covering his. He frowned at it, his grief-addled brain taking longer than normal to come up with an explanation. Surely you had stormed out of the shop in angry tears, vowing to hate the thought of him forever. How could your hand be here, slipping its fingers through his and intertwining themselves together as though they belonged that way? He turned his head, seeing that your hand was, in fact, connected to your arm, which was, surprise upon surprise, connected to you. You were still there, blotchy faced and bright-eyed, but still there, standing in his shop, stubbornly refusing to leave even after he had said all those terrible things to you. He raised an eyebrow at you, feeling faint headed.

“Do you hate me?” You asked, feeling very brace. Aziraphale turned around to face you fully, unable to believe what you had just asked him.

“No! Not—”

“Did I do something to offend you? Or to make you angry with me?” Aziraphale shook his head. He had to force you to leave him, but he found that he couldn’t let you leave thinking that he felt those awful things about you.

“Then why are you doing this to me? Is someone forcing you for whatever reason. Just tell me the truth, Azi,” At this, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I will try to understand.”

And it was then, that Aziraphale finally understood. Of course you would . You were kind, and patient, and the most forgiving soul he had ever met on Earth. Of course you would see through his veneer and into his true self, the one that called out to you even as he tried to push you away. He didn’t say anything at first, trying to filter his words and find the right things to say. Being as perfect as you always were, you stood there, eagerly waiting but not pushing. He did not deserve you in his life. He stepped forwards, bringing his free hand to grasp your other hand. He brought them up to his chest, resting over his heart.

“Alright. Alright, I am going to tell you something, but I cannot explain, and I cannot tell you anything more than what I am about to say. You must promise me that you won’t ask any questions until I tell you to.” “When will that be?” Aziraphale cracked a small smile, but it melted away as soon as it had appeared.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, my dear. But you must trust me. Please.” He could see the familiar fire of defiance in your eyes as you hesitated to respond. But once again, he stood in awe as you nodded.

“Yes. Of course I trust you, Azi. Tell me what’s wrong.” He was not able to stop himself from bending his neck to press a grateful kiss to your hands. You gasped quietly but said nothing. He began.

“Thank you. You’ve no idea how much that means to me. I’ll get straight to it: being with me puts you in a very real, very serious sort of danger. Know that I wouldn’t dream of putting you through all of this unless it was so serious. I cannot bear the thought that your life may be in danger because of me.” He paused, watching your face, trying to figure out what you were thinking. He could read your mind, of course, but that would be terribly improper. Instead, he had to deal with this the hard way—difficult conversation.

“So…my life is in danger?”

“When you are with me, yes. I am truly sorry, Y/N. I wish things were different. I find that I…” He trailed off, caught in your beloved gaze, and he found that he could no longer hold back. Not when this was the last time he would be with you. It was now or never, and never was certainly not a legitimate option. “I find that I have fallen in love with you. Yes. I…I love you, Y/N, and that is exactly why I must keep you as far away from me as I can. I need you to be safe, and I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

Your face did the most extraordinary thing. For a second, you stared at Aziraphale, understandably overwhelmed with all of this new information he had thrown at you. He waited, as courteous as ever, for you to piece it all together. When you did, your face bloomed into the most radiant smile Aziraphale had ever seen. His heart leapt in his chest at the sight, so wholly unprepared for something so beautiful.

“I understand. I really do understand, Aziraphale.” You said, inexplicably. Aziraphale felt on the verge of tears as he looked at you and saw that you were telling the truth. Hope flooded him, fierce and intense, and for the first time in hours, he thought that maybe he didn’t have to lose you forever. Maybe this wasn’t goodbye. You kept going. “I can’t say that this doesn’t hurt, because it does. Because…I love you too. I have done for months and I’ve always been too afraid to tell you. But I might as well tell you now, so you don’t go moping around without me.” You both chuckled at that. You stayed still for a few moments, drinking in this last bit of time together for the foreseeable future. You knew it couldn’t last, however much you wanted it to, and so eventually, you pulled your hands gently out of his and took a step back.

“So this is goodbye, I suppose?” You asked, already missing his warmth. He nodded, feeling much the same way.

You stood and watched each other, trying to commit the other’s face to memory. Neither of you knew when you would be seeing each other again. Impulsively, you sprung forwards, startling Aziraphale with your sudden movement towards him. He wasn’t sure what you were up to, but he found out almost instantaneously, as he felt your soft lips press a small kiss against his cheeks. Heat rushed through his body, but he was able to control himself—barely. He blinked stupidly as you pulled away, smiling mischievously at him. You were still very close to him, so close that he could see the flecks of gold in your eyes that he adored so much. You fidgeted with his coat, and Aziraphale had to keep himself from wincing at the thought that you were fingering the same place that Sandalphon had earlier. He let you continue, content to watch and wait. You eventually did what you had set out to do, which was straighten his lapels and collar, and you patted his chest in satisfaction. You sighed and looked up at him.

“Come back to me, Azi, okay?” Aziraphale’s hands came up, entirely of their own volition, to grip tightly around her waist in response.

“Of course I will! I promise, my love, I will come back to you once all of this…kerfuffle is over.”

A little while later, you were leaving, turning, walking out of the bookshop and away from Aziraphale.

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

“There she is!”

“Hush, you’ll get us caught!”

“Sorry, I’m just so…”

“I know. One my mark…now!”

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

“Authorities are asking for anyone who has any information about the possible whereabouts of the missing person to please call 999. Can you repeat that information for our listeners, Bob?”

“Of course, Janet. Her name is Y/N L/N, and she is believed to have been kidnapped on her way home late last night. Please, keep both her and her family and friends in your prayers tonight.”

“Thank you, Bob. Now on to the weather. Sue?”

Tag List:

@chelsfic @lordbeezyprinceofhell @bi-andreadyto-cry @petalduck @dreamerkim @stripedbugs @aelin-thefirebreathingbitchqueen @caligirl1992

PLEASE tell me if you want to be added/taken off/have asked before but I’m stupid and I never added you!!!

#mine #aziraphale x reader #Aziraphale #crowley #michael sheen #good omens #One Monstrous Miracle

30 notes · View notes

ijustwant2write · 5 years

Text

Demons and Dragons-Crowley x Reader x Aziraphale (Platonic)

(GIF credit to @sherlxdestiel)

Saw a post by @darkshadow3942 and I had to write it! Also this is my first Good Omens post, and I can’t express how much I love this show!!!!

Summary: Imagine being the supposed dragon that was supposedly slain by Saint George. In reality, you’re a simple demon that posed as a dragon after Crowley dared you into it. He still gets a kick out of it to this day every time you two go out for a drink.

Characters: Crowley x Reader (platonic), Aziraphale x Reader (platonic)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Slight swearing, drinking

(A/N: I just had to include Aziraphale in this and you’ll see why)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“(Y/N)! What the devil are you doing here?” I heard Crowley exclaim as he spotted me.

I was casually leaning against a lamppost, hands in my coat pockets as I watched him emerge from the bookshop his angel friend owned. He sauntered across the road, not bothering to check for cars as a grin beamed across his face.

I smiled back at him.“It’s been quite some time. Needed to get away from everyone down below, you know? Be with someone I can tolerate.”

“Tolerate? So I’ve moved up in the ranks.”

“When someone told me that you were hanging out in a bookshop, I had to come and see it for myself. How come you’re here?”

“Well, you know, anti-Christ, end of the world, usual business.”

I nodded, sensing the sarcasm.“Oh yes, heard about that too.”

“Listen, we should talk about this over a glass of wine!”

“Just a glass?”

Over Crowley’s shoulder, I saw movement coming from the bookshop, a man dressed in variations of whites spotted us, twiddling his thumbs together. Crowley noticed that I wasn’t paying attention to him anymore, spinning around before quickly turning back to me.

“Right, are we going? I know a great place where-”

“Invite the angel.”

His lips were pursed as he went to speak, but he hesitated.“W-what?”

“We can’t leave him by himself! That would just be plain rude.”

“Demons don’t care about manners.”

A slow smirk grew on my face, Crowley’s eyes reflecting worry as he saw; his footsteps were frantic as I made a beeline for the angel, liking the horrified look he was trying to hide.

“Hello, we haven’t met.” I started.“I’m (Y/N), an old friend of Crowley’s, though I suppose you’re a much older friend than I am.”

“We’re not friends.” they simultaneously said, though neither held much conviction in their tone.

My eyes darted between them, before giggling at them.“We were wondering if you would care to join us for a drink?”

“Drinking with demons? I couldn’t possibly fathom-”

“What’s your name?”

“I-it’s Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale, have you ever heard the term, ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think that’s what’s going on here. Come on, I’m parched. Where’s a good place to drink round here?”

Leaning back in my chair, I clumsily placed the wine glass down on the table, chuckling quietly to myself as it almost tipped over. Yet again it was empty, though Crowley was quick to fill it back up again. We clinked our glasses, raising them towards each other before necking the wine back again. Poor Aziraphale sat with his own drink, and though he too had drank quite a few, he wasn’t letting loose as much as we were.

Everyone knew (or had suspicions of) these two. They definitely were friends, even if they didn’t want to label it that way. Demons and Angels despised each other, it was a well known fact, even amongst the humans. Good Vs Bad, God’s army against Satan’s. But these two seemed to break the mold. I had been around for just about the same time as them, yet I had never seen another friendship like it. They were able to find loopholes, break the system somehow without even alerting anyone. Yes, people knew, but they didn’t actually know what they were doing together.

“May I ask,” Aziraphale suddenly spoke up,“as to why you are here (Y/N)?”

I cleared my throat, crossing one leg over the other as I swirled my wine around in my glass.“To be completely honest with you, I was bored.”

“Bored?”

“Yes, bored. All anyone went on about down there was the anti-Christ and how many days it was until Armageddon. I mean, doesn’t anyone have anything better to do?”

“I mean, it is the end of the world they’re discussing. Seems like a big thing to me.”

“Yes, but I’m not interested. Everything turned so serious, where’s all the fun nowadays? We used to be able to do anything we liked!”

“Oh!” Crowley raised a finger, falling into hysterics as he tried to speak.“Do...do you....d-do...oh, I’m sorry, just hold on a minute.”

We waited as he continued laughing, the alcohol not helping him recover. He took a deep breath though ended up laughing again. Once he was calm, wiping away the tears in his eyes, he regained his posture, able to speak properly again.

“Do you remember St George?”

I cracked up with laughter too as soon as the name popped up. As we bent over giggling, throwing our heads back when snorting, Aziraphale once again remained silent, watching the two idiot demons lose it.

“St George? Why should she remember him?” Aziraphale asked, looking back and forth between us.

“Because, dear angel,” I spread open my arms in a proud fashion,“I was that dragon that was slain by the saint himself.”

Aziraphale sat up even straighter.“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, dragons are seen as evil beings right? Or used to be anyway. Obviously someone needed to do the job. Crowley was supposed to, but as usual, he found a loophole.”

“Now hang on a second,” Crowley rushed out after drinking from his glass,“we were both bored, and neither of us had an assignment, as you like to call them, like this in years!”

“Alright, if you say so.”

“Plus I don’t like morphing into animals, or mystical beings. It tires me too much.”

“Anyway, Crowley told me the details and insisted that I accept defeat from George.”

“You did?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, a small smile starting to form on his face.

“I don’t remember saying that.” Crowley protested.

“How would a simple man defeat a dragon? And if you know me so well, you would know that I wouldn’t accept defeat.”

“Yes, alright, but it was so much more interesting to watch than participate!”

“Hold on for just one moment!” Aziraphale exclaimed.“What happened after George slayed the dragon? Well, to you.”

“He slayed no dragon that day.” I started.“That man froze as soon as he saw me, almost shit his breeches. Before I could swallow him whole, Crowley stopped me. Somehow he convinced me to not eat the Saint-”

“But the dragon wanted human sacrifices, it kidnapped a princess!”

“Yeah, well, you know what our boss is like, a bit over dramatic a times, I’ll admit. When he got bored of that, he got Crowley in to sort out the mess he left behind, who then brought me in. I had no idea about the princess being there, she was annoying. Then George came along, I felt bad for the guy, pretended to be killed....that’s it really.”

“But the chivalry, the bravery-”

“He had none of that, and you made him a Saint.”

Aziraphale sighed.“Oh dear, if upstairs heard of this-”

I interrupted him once again.“They won’t though! It was centuries ago. Everyone was happy. I got to mess around with a good guy, Crowley got his bit of entertainment, and you did your job.”

I raised my glass in a happy fashion, chugging back the Prosecco like it was water. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, tutting at me, though not in a rude way; he was trying to process everything, the poor being. I knew that he would play by the books, he seemed to be the only angel that did nowadays. Crowley hadn’t stopped smirking throughout the story. He leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked around the back of it as he began speaking.

“Sorry I couldn’t tell you. But (Y/N) here is a sore loser.”

I scoffed.“I didn’t lose, I played dead so that some mere mortal would have a chance of living, because you begged me to.”

“See what I mean?”

“Although I am quite displeased by the fact that George didn’t do a good deed in ‘defeating evil’ as it were, I am grateful for what you did (Y/N).” Aziraphale finally smiled.

My face scrunched up at his words, pausing before saying,“What?”

“I put it down to good showmanship. I can imagine you put on quite a show.”

“A total drama queen.” Crowley added.

“Yes, well, I can admit it was a rather riveting performance.” I looked at my nails, distracting myself from the holy forgiveness being bestowed upon me.“Gave me something to do for a while.”

“Come on, admit it,” Crowley nudged me,“you loved it.”

“You know what gentlemen, we should do this more often. There are many stories I could tell you both.”

“Both?”

“Not all of them concern you Crowley.”

“I suppose you’re not that bad really. Why we could make this a daily thing-wait...Oh dear! Crowley, we must get going!”

“Whatever for?” Crowley slurred.

“Armageddon!”

The demon sighed, moaning like a child as he stood.“Yes alright. (Y/N), you need to pop by soon, tell me those stories. Pop by the bookshop anytime.” He slung his jacket over his shoulder, waltzing away as Aziraphale spluttered over his words.

“No! Well I don’t mean to be rude but, you see it’s my bookshop and-”

“Aziraphale, I think you might want to run after him. You do have a world to save.” I grinned.

He nodded, nimbly running after his demon friend. As the opposite pair quickly left, I gazed over the various alcohols left on the table. Crowley had drank almost all of his, though there was still enough left for me, whereas Aziraphale wasn’t as near finished.

I giggled to myself, pulling the beverages closer.“Seems a shame to let this all go to waste. What to start with first?”

#good omens #good omens imagine #good omens imagines #good omens one shot #good omens x reader #crowley #good omens crowley #crowley good omens #crowley imagine #crowley imagines #crowley one shot #crowley x reader #aziraphale #good omens aziraphale #aziraphale good omens #aziraphale imagine #aziraphale imagines #aziraphale one shot #aziraphale x reader

378 notes · View notes

mxsinistir · 5 years

Note

May I request a Good Omens Gabriel x Human! Reader please?

Pairing: Gabriel x [y/n]

Warnings: n/a besides the fact that the bad writing ™ becomes worse writing ™ towards the end bc it’s 2 am while I’m writing this.

Summary: Freelance London Photographer [y/n] is friends with the bookshop owner Aziraphale, and happens to be sitting in one day when a mysterious stranger enters to have a meeting with her friend. Suspicious, this artist is ready to find out as much as she can about the man.

Word Count: 2390

(tried to keep this gender-neutral but tell me if I screwed this up anywhere bc I probably did)

Hope you enjoy!

***

The first time you met him was whenever you were inside A.Z. Fell & Co., discussing a book you’d just read and returned (since you were aware he despised the permanent purchasing of his collection) over two cups of hot chocolate.

The moment he entered, you were intrigued. You turned your head to watch him saunter in, and some part of you screamed deafeningly that whatever he was, he did not belong here. That was saying something since unusual people were not uncommon in the little London bookshop. You’d known Aziraphale’s eccentric friend Crowley for quite some time now.

“Aziraphale,” His voice was hearty, one you should have taken comfort in hearing. But in addition to his picture-perfect, incredibly fake smile, it set your nerves on end. “May I have a word?” Part of you decided this was your chance to run from the off-setting visitor, but that would leave your friend alone with him.

“Hi, I’m [Y/n],” You shoved a hand into space between you, “I don’t believe we’ve met before.” He looked you up and down, your eyes unwavering until he met your stare. His eyes - your stomach flipped, oh god his eyes - bore into yours, and you nearly recoiled when you noticed the color. A glassy purple with no signs of contacts. Just unexplainably rich violet that made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

“Gabriel,” He said, shaking your hand with a grip that was just a little too strong. You were too proud to coddle your sore hand, though. “I need a moment with Aziraphale.”

“Sorry, can’t,” You couldn’t leave Aziraphale with him! What if something happened? You’d picked up that Aziraphale had been involved with some sketchy people before, and what if this guy happened to be a well-dressed gang member? Well . . . well dressed wasn’t exactly the way to put it. You didn’t know what look Gabriel was going for, but it just added to his overall wrongness.

Besides, Aziraphale and Crowley had always remarked on your excellent intuition. Warning Aziraphale about bad customers, giving Crowley advice on problems he hadn’t explicitly explained, knowing that both your friends were thinking at a given time - and at this time, Aziraphale felt very, very anxious about Gabriel waltzing into his shop.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” He half-snarled, his fake smile faltering.

“My bike got stolen earlier,” You explained, casually turning to drink the rest of your cocoa before it went cold. You also needed something to hide your growing smile. “I told the police to drop it off here when they found it.”“Are you sure you didn’t miss them during your chat?” He said, “I swore I saw a bike parked in the front.” You stepped past him, putting your nose against Aziraphale’s window. Sure enough, a blue bike was leaned against the glass pane.

“Well, silly me - Guess they just left it and had better things to do.” You laughed, turning back to smile at Aziraphale and Gabriel. “See you later, Zira!”

You walked outside, planning on walking home. You weren’t going to take some random bike from in front of the bookshop just because some guy had snapped and made it appear for you.

You didn’t own a bike.

***

The next morning, before you even had the chance to ask questions about the purple-eyed man, Crowley had come into your studio, mentioning that he was bored, due to Aziraphale’s sudden occupation with work. Aziraphale had never been truly busy since you’d known him.

“Crowley, do you know a Gabriel?” You asked, not looking up from the photo you were currently editing the lighting of, trying to decide if you could amend the conflict between the clashing color palettes. If anything, Crowley just hoped that you were too occupied with your work to even notice that you opened your mouth to ask the question. A few seconds ticked by, and then you stared up at the redhead.

“Yeah, I know him.” He said under his breath, “He’s a friend of Aziraphale’s. Definitely not a friend fo mine. I’d keep your distance.”

“What does he do?” Even without being able to see his eyes through the glasses, you sensed the panic in them as he proceeded to mumble out an answer.

“Paperwork,” He steadied himself, easing into the lie now. “Some company Aziraphale used to work for. I think he’s kind of a jerk, but he and Zira go way back, so I don’t intrude.”

“Funny, I thought the bookshop had been family owned for a hundred years?”

“Part-time job, maybe?” Crowley stammered out. You just rolled your eyes.

“Is Aziraphale in . . . is he in any danger with this guy?”“What? No, no, [Y/n], you’re just being paranoid.” You weren’t so sure. You’d never heard Crowley so nervous about the subject of someone, and you’d certainly never heard of him willing staying out of Aziraphale’s affairs. It was common knowledge that he was the nosiest man in London, especially when it came to his friends. “Seriously, Just stay out of his way and it should be fine.” He had a certain voice he used when he wanted you to believe things were fine, even if they weren’t.

“I’ll just ask Aziraphale since apparently, you won’t explain.” That little taunt was usually enough to make Crowley spill everything. Not for this, apparently. “He listens to you, Crowley. Just make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

Just because he didn’t say the promise doesn’t mean she didn’t see him make it.

***

The second time you saw Gabriel wasn’t at the bookshop, but on a bench in St. James’ Park. You were currently looking over some pictures you’d taken of the vibrant area, the photographs dotted with jogging passersby and fluffy ducks that reminded you of Aziraphale. You stood up to walk by, snapping a few more when your camera focused in on a not-quite-familiar face.

“Gabriel,” You said, curiously approaching the benched man. “Fancy seeing you here,”

“[Y/n], is it? Aziraphale’s . . . acquaintance.” Who the hell used the word acquaintance anymore? You thought. “Is there something you need?”

“Just came to clear my eyes - I’ve been staring at this one picture I took for Aziraphale last week.” You briefly explained how one of the customers had split their coffee on one of Aziraphale’s old wall paintings, which he had sat on the table to clean the walls behind it. He had been furious, and though you knew you couldn’t possibly replace the expertly preserved painting - ruined by only human clumsiness - you’d offered to gift a photograph to him. Though he was obviously still disgruntled over the lost air, he did say that even something modern would eventually become history. You’d gotten to work. “I’m supposed to bring it to him this evening.”

“I was planning to speak with him this evening as well, actually.” The man remarked.

“Well, if you wanted, you could com toe hang out at my studio for a while.” You had a feeling that no matter what, this man would try to keep up appearances. Meaning he would accept your offer, even if only not to appear rude. Thanks to some information you’d gotten out of Crowley, you now knew that you wouldn’t be in any real danger as a human inviting him to your studio. He, on the other hand, wouldn’t be expecting the onslaught of questions you had for him.

“That sounds great,” He said with clenched teeth, and so you just smiled and packed up your laptop and camera equipment, making sure to walk beside him all the way back to your flat.

The square footage wasn’t much - you were honestly surprised you could manage to fit two people inside at once. Beyond that, every inch of the place was stacked high with frames and camera equipment and printed portraits. Your bed was usually just the couch by the window, and even then, you more often than not just fell asleep at your work desk, head draped over crossed arms.

“I’m gonna be a little bit - I’ve gotta play with some finishing touches, and then I’ve got to print it.” You explained - Aziraphale had given you a faux-gold 18 x 21 frame, nearly identical to the one bordering the ruined painting. “You can sit on the couch if you still want to hang out. You okay with music?” You asked casually, bringing him a glass of water. You may be suspicious of him, but your mother had always stressed the importance of hospitality.

“Do you like music?” He thought for a moment, staring blankly before nodding as if he’d been assessing whether or not it was the correct response to say so. “Queen?” He looked even more confused but nodded again. You synced your Spotify to a small speaker and set it to shuffle, sliding into your chair as We Are the Champions began to play. You snuck a glance over at Gabriel while mouthing the words and concluded he was possibly the only person in the world who didn’t know the lyrics. If anything, that just confirmed your suspicions of the man.

Gabriel, on the other hand, was just as confused by you as you were by him. When you’d first met, he hadn’t known how to react to you. You’d stood up to him with no background knowledge, purely because you thought he had ill intentions towards your friend. Humans were always willing to throw themselves at things for no reason, but you were different - you had a reason, and that reason was nothing more than intuition to protect those you care about.

And now, you’d carelessly brought him into your apartment - if he could even call it that. It was a glorified storage closet, filled to the brim with art and junk and beauty. He’d never been exposed to such a mess; heaven would have never tolerated it. He couldn’t even imagine that Hell was this chaotically organized.

He could barely focus on that. How could he anymore, when there was you to look at? Smiling truly and losing yourself in the music blaring, snapping your fingers with bad timing, singing the guitar riffs, and constantly standing up just to pace around while mouthing the lyrics.

You walked around him more than a few times, asking him random questions while leaning far back to see what your photo looked like from afar. He eventually saw that it was of an eggshell white duck in St. James, curiously floating alongside a dark goose that had landed in the waters. He could have scoffed at the symbolism, wondering if you understood the irony of it all yourself.

Gabriel had never seen so much life in one plac.e It radiated from you, from your camera, from your fingers. It felt raw and unexplainably human, and not in the way that disgusted him with its mediocrity. There was nothing mediocre about you. You oozed with some sort of high that no angel could ever dream of finding themselves on. Angels were too flawless for something as uncontained as the day-to-day life you lead.

During the middle of one of your lyrical outbursts, you glanced over at Gabriel. He was drinking tea now, staring out into London from your window, sunbeams casting over his dusty hair and stunning eyes. Without a word, you pulled your camera in front of you and stepped towards him, snapping photos of him a quick succession. He whipped around at the sound, just quick enough to see you smiling.

“Stay where you are - the lighting’s amazing.” You said, steadily walking closer to the man. He truly was a vision in an element like this. You leaned back to observe the picture he’d found himself in. “Do you think you could give me one with your wings?”

And just like that, you watched the Archangel Gabriel freeze to the core as you shuttered a few more photographs.

“Come on, everyone knows Aziraphale isn’t human.” And of course, there was no way Crowley could keep a secret like that once he was sufficiently drunk. “And besides, humans don’t usually make this pretty of muses.”

He unfurled his wings gently, being careful not to knock over anything. All three pairs appeared in pristine, white condition, though when the window light scattered them, they reflected a spectrum of glistening violet.

He nearly asked to confirm that you were human, though he knew the answer. No one but a human could accomplish this - a demon nor an angel could live in such harmonious chaos with their own little world, dancing to the raw beauty of it all and flourishing in the flaws you did not perceive as such.

Gabriel had never felt love - a sort of ‘love for all humanity’, of course, but not the thrumming in his heart he felt now, looking at you in your element, high on the artistry of what you saw in him. On what no one else had ever seen in him.

“I could have a photoshoot with you, you know.” You said, looking at your camera screen. “You look great on camera.”

“There’s still a few hours before I need to meet with Aziraphale,” He lied - he was two hours behind schedule, not that that mattered. “He’d told me about this bakery beside his bookshop that he apparently adores.” He didn’t even like food. It didn’t matter - he figured you would.

“Am I being asked out by the Archangel Gabriel?”“That’s strong wording-”“I’m famished,” You smiled, and as you walked over to your computer, he expected you to print and frame your imperfect perfection. Instead, you just saved the photo and eased your computer shut. “I can make something here, though. I don’t want to leave. Does the Archangel Gabriel want to watch a movie?”

He was about to make a snarky comment about your sarcastically calling him that, but he paused as you did the unexpected. You settled down on your couch right next to him and smiled. That was enough for him to decide that his meeting with Aziraphale could wait till morning. To hell with Heaven questioning him - him of all people - being off schedule. He would deal with that in time.

Right now, all that mattered was that he was sharing in on an artist’s high, and he wasn’t ever coming off.

#good omens #good omens gabriel #archangels #archangel gabriel #gabriel good omens #gabriel #good omens x reader #gabriel x reader #goom #i love artists x gabriel #gabriel x human #good omens imagines #gabriel imagines #archangels gabriel imagines

284 notes · View notes

ourownsideimagines · 5 years

Text

Here We Go Again (Crowley x short!Fem!Reader)

Characters: Crowley, Fem!Reader, Hastur, Aziraphale.

Requested: Yes

Requested by: @throw-some-music-my-way

Point of View: Second Person

Warnings: None?

Words: 2060

A/N: Okay tbh I’m not very confident in this one? I feel like it may stray a bit too far from the prompt but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

---

The towering wall of flames that surrounded the while of London were preventing your previous plan of escape. Something fishy had been going on for a while, you knew that, and your gut told you that leaving today would be the best idea.

You guessed you just weren’t fast enough.

You had just been starting to get onto the M25 when you saw the flames in the distance starting. It was a miracle you were able to get out of your car before the flames overtook, devouring it and other cars (and people) whole. The only thing you had was your phone, which had miraculously made home in your back pocket before you’d got into your car.

Other people near you had begun to abandon their cars, the fear that maybe the flames would expand. But you stood there, alone in the rain, watching it with… wonder.

It was only a few minutes later, or so it seemed, that a vaguely familiar vintage black car pulled up beside you, and a very familiar red-headed man stepped out. Your eyes widened upon recognition, but before you could say anything be started.

“Who the hell are you?” He says. “Why is it, at every turn, you’re there, huh? Why do I keep running into you!” He throws his hands up, in anger and frustration. Under normal circumstances you would have run away. But there were two things keeping you there. One, even if you were to try to you, you were certain this man would be able to catch you, what with his damn long legs. Second, there was something odd itching in the back of your mind. Something that told you, that despite the way things seemed, you were perfectly safe with this man.

You’d run into him on many occasions now - typically, he was accompanied by a blond man in a tan coat and tartan bow tie. And on each occasion, they had saved your life - more accurately, this angry ginger man had saved your life.

The first time had been rather tame, in your opinion. You’d been bird watching, from your usual tree at the park, out of view of the cops, since they’d warned you against your tree-climbing many times. Usually you would have listened. It wasn’t in your nature to go against a higher authority, but bird watching was one of the few pleasures in life you had, as it required little to no human interaction and could be done from a lot of places.

Your favorite spot, though, was the park. Specifically, the one with the dinosaurs. You couldn’t remember the name for the life of you - you didn’t need to know it. All you needed to know was that someone didn’t cut down your usual tree, and that there were no cops around. Otherwise an afternoon of bird watching would be ruined before it even started.

You were scribbling something down in your journal when the pencil fumbled from your hand, and in the heat of the moment you had fumbled backwards to try and catch it, only to fall from the tree yourself.

It hadn’t been the first time, and you were certain it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time you were actually caught. You’d been rather surprised. It seemed as if the person had been expecting your fall. You thought, for a moment, that it might have been Officer Harrison, whom had warned you against tree-climbing on many occasions. But you didn’t recognize the man at all. It was the red-headed man. He’d set you down rather roughly, handed you your pencil before stomping off with a blond gentlemen, who gave you a nervous smile before following his companion.

It only got more extreme from there.

The next time you saw the man, you were making a visit to your Aunt Mary Hodges.

You weren’t related to your Aunt Mary by blood. Your mum had known her as a child, and they’d been rather close, practically sisters. They’d fallen out of contact when you were younger, and in that time Mary had become a nun, then after the order was dissolved, had become a successful business woman. It was around that time she got back in contact with your mom, and by default, back in contact with you.

You loved your Aunt Mary. She was a bit odd, you would admit. Sometimes she would forget she was no longer a part of the chattering order, and would tell you everything on her mind. Some things were questionable, others were just plain silly. You’d learned not to take everything she said to heart.

Was she a bit scatterbrained? Yes

Did you still love her? Absolutely.

Which is why you decided to visit her at her place of work. You’d forgotten to call ahead, which you quickly realized was a mistake. There were a good dozen cars parked out front, including a quite beautiful vintage Bentley.

That meant that another paintball session was happening. Usually when you came to visit during one of those, Mary would leave the back door unlocked for you. Now you were staring to wish you’d called her. You knew she didn’t answer her cell during work hours, especially not when there was a session happening. You would have to risk getting pelted with paint balls if you really wanted to get inside.

So, you tossed off your jacket, sighing in contempt before you began to walk. It was silent. Deadly silent. You were certain some must have spotted you already, and were bracing yourself for impact.

You heard the pop of the trigger being pulled, and your eyes widened as a real, metal bullet whizzed past your head.

Not safe. Definitely not safe. You lurched forward with a short scream, dashing towards the entryway of the building.

More gunfire rang through the air, and to your luck none of them came close to you. You didn’t bother to slow down, your feet carrying you in the direction of Mary’s office.

“Aunt Mary!” You shouted. “Aunt Mary!”

As you were about to turn the corner, you came face to face with a man - the same man, from the park. You froze, eyes wide. You opened your mouth to say something but he lurched forward, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards him as a few stray bullets flew through the window, shattering the glass and impacting the wall beside where you once stood.

You opened your mouth to say something, but it all became blank. The man stood before you a few moments longer before retreating, leaving you confused and alone. You didn’t know why you didn’t follow him, or why you didn’t say anything. A part of you wanted to, but something else was telling you to just… forget about it. And you did. Even when the police arrived to investigate, you could hardly say much about the interaction. It somehow just felt unimportant.

And you kept bumping into him. And he kept saving you, sometimes from himself and his own antics.

You couldn’t find the words to express your confusion, or your upset. You just stood there, in the rain as this man shouted at you. A part of you wanted to break down and cry, but all you did was stand there. He calmed down slowly, and turned to you. You blood ran cold as he removed his glasses, revealing a pair of golden snake eyes. But you weren’t afraid.

“Who are you.” He demanded again. You quickly stuttered out your name. “Why the hell do I keep meeting you, (name)?”

“I don’t know!” You cried out, arms wrapped around yourself to try and save your warmth. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He glanced over your shoulder and his eyes widened in surprise. You braced yourself. Anything could happen.

“Get in the car.” He said suddenly.

“E-excuse me?”

“Get in the car. Now.” He didn’t look away from whatever might be behind you. He lifted his hand, and with a snap of his fingers the passenger side door flew open.

“I, uh, I don’t think that’s a very good, uh, idea-” You went to turn around, but the man stopped you.

“You have to trust me.” He said suddenly. “Please.” You did. You against your better judgement, you trusted him. Despite this you stood there, staring him down.

“I don’t even know you.” You repeated.

“What? You want a name? Will that make you feel better?” You said nothing. “Crowley. The name is Crowley, now please get in the car.”

Feeling as if you didn’t have a choice, you entered the vintage car. Crowley followed quickly after, getting in the driver's seat. He hands you a singed book. “Open that, see if there’s anything.” He instructed.

You did as you were told. There were many, small, numbered paragraphs littered on the pages. You read the first one that caught your eye.

“3334. Drive. Hold her close, demon. For the fire will burn but yee can protect her.” You looked up at the towering flames. “What the fuck does this even mean?”

“It means we’re going for a drive, (name).”

“Are you crazy!”

“He must be.” You wanted to scream, the sudden appearance of a man in the back seat sending you into a panic. He was deathly pale, with warts covering his cheeks, and a slimy frog fused to the top of his head. He was horrifying, but he paid you no mind. His dark, murky eyes were turned to Crowley.

“Ah, Hastur, how was your time in voicemail?” Crowley grinned to himself. You yelped as he pulled you into his side, arm thrown over your shoulder.

“Funny ha-ha, joke all you like, Crowley.” The man, Hastur, grumbled. “There’s nowhere to run.”

“Aren’t you to be lining up, ready for battle around now?” All you could do was stare forward into the fire. Was he really going to drive you into that?

You didn’t doubt it.

“Hell will not forget.” Hastur sneered from behind you. “Hell will not forgive. You know where the real Antichrist is, don’t you.” Antichrist? Hell? What the fuck was going on with these men, you wondered. They couldn’t really be… demons. Right? “You’ll never reach him. You’re done Crowley. You think you’re going to get the both of you across that?” The flames before the car seemed to grow at the demons words. It took you a moment to realize Crowley was busy selecting a CD to play. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“Let’s find out.” Crowley slipped the CD into the player. The car began to roll forward, and your heart started to race.

“What- wh- why are you driving.” Hastur demanded.

“What the hell are you doing,” You said. “You’re mad!”

“Trust me on this,” He muttered, pulling you closer. Everything told you to pull away, but instead you squished closer, clutching his coat tightly as the fire came closer, and closer.

“That’s- what- Stop this thing!” Hastur demanded, and you wanted to agree. There was no way you’d make it across, you were certain of it.

“You know the thing I like best about time?” Crowley drawled. “It’s that every day it takes us further away from the 14th century.” Crowley kept an arm around you, and one hand firmly on the wheel. You began to shake. “I really didn’t like the 14th century. You’d have loved it then, Hastur. They didn’t have any cars back in the 14th century.” As Crowley spoke, you sped closer and closer to the flames. You let out a small scream as the car plunged into the fire, and Crowley gave you a tight squeeze.

You’re surprised to find that, you’re barely even warm. It was like a soft blanket was wrapped around you, protecting you from the flames that licked at the outside of the vehicle. Behind you, Hastur howled in pain. These howls dies out with one last ‘I hate you’ before all you could hear was the music on the radio and Crowley’s shouts at his car telling it that it ‘will not burn’.

Despite everything, despite the fear coursing through your veins, despite the voices in your head telling you that this is it, you found yourself snuggling just a bit closer to Crowley.

For protection, of course.

#good omens #good omens x reader #crowley x fem!reader #crowley x reader #crowley x reader good omens #crowley x short!reader #crowley x short!fem!reader #crowley #crowley good omens #anthony j crowley #x reader #x fem!reader #x short!reader #x short!fem!reader #reader insert #good omens reader insert #my writing #reese writes #the ineffable queue

780 notes · View notes

goodlucktai · 5 years

Text

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

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

read on ao3

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

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

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

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

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

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

What on earth?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aziraphale feels sick just looking at it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he mutters. “No no, angel, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crowley goes abruptly, terribly still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #my writing #gomens fic

35 notes · View notes

trashboatprince · 4 years

Text

I figure that at some point at least one or two angels came down to check on Aziraphale about his business with watching over Warlock. I know that the angels didn’t seem all that interested in the plan, but it doesn’t hurt to see what is going on with the lessons, yeah?

Summery: Aziraphale is enjoying the unmonitored freedom he has at the Dowling estate, his relationship with his favorite demon is going strong, until he gets an unexpected visit from one of his superiors.

How do you tell the Archangel Michael that you’re working in the same area as your so-called adversary?

I headcanon the angels having their signature weapons hidden on their person through marks and tattoos, so they don’t have to carry them around. If Aziraphale still had his sword, he’d have it on his body somewhere as a golden tattoo. I bring this up cause it’s mentioned in this.

This is also posted on ao3 under the title Of Heavenly Tree Trimmings and Hellish Nursery Rhymes

On with the fic!

Brother Francis gave his carnations a hard stare, just as Ashtoreth taught him, a warning that one must not displease an angel, for they are known to rain Heaven’s wrath down upon those who do! He then smiled and gave them a good misting from the hose.

It’s been a rather lovely week, he’s noted. The summer heat wasn’t terrible, Warlock was doing well with being rather good this week and rebelling against Nanny’s change in naptime hours, which Francis wasn’t going to touch, as it was funny. Just part of his attempts at thwarting a wily, in his mind.

He hummed to himself as he moved to go and tend to the rose bushes, only to tense up when he smelled something in the air.

A smell that was fresh, clean, with a hint of ozone, and metal.

“Oh no.” He dropped the hose and turned sharply, looking towards the house.

He could see Thaddeus on the patio, stepping towards the yard with a figure that the angel knew all too well. Dressed in a clean pantsuit, with laced sleeves and hair styled in a specific way, was the Archangel Michael.

She smiled as she listened to Thaddeus speak, nodding and chatting with him in return. Aziraphale panicked, why was she here!? He hadn’t expected to see one of his superiors show up, and if he had, it was always Gabriel! Once in a while it was Uriel, but she usually just dropped a report in front of him and walked away, but Michael never came to Earth where Aziraphale was!

At least, she hasn’t done that in a long, long time. This had to be serious, but why was she talking to Francis’ boss?

Did… did she come here to send Aziraphale to Heaven for something?

Or did she know about Crowley?

Aziraphale panicked, he couldn’t go to Crowley! He was already spotted; he couldn’t warn the demonic nanny! And Michael was smart, she would know Crowley was somewhere nearby. After all, she was the angel who took down Lucifer! She had her spear on her at all times, hidden on her arm as a tattoo, painted gold. Just a flick of her wrist and it would be embedded in Crowley without so much as a flinch.

He tensed up, watching them approach, but he smiled despite himself as the American. “Good afternoon to ya, Master Dowling.” He bowed his head. “And a good afternoon to yer companion here.”

He could see Michael looking at him with a neutral expression on her face, but her eyes betrayed her. She was disgusted with his appearance, but she understood that he had to blend in.

“And a good afternoon to you as well, Brother Francis.” Thaddeus returned the greeting. “I was just showing Mr. Archer here around the estate. He stopped by to discuss things with me and asked about the garden.”

“Ah, no need to introduce me, Mr. Dowling.” Michael smiled, his voice just slightly deeper. “I already know your gardener. I recognized his work from outside of the meeting room, he used to work for me.”

“Oh?” This caught both Thaddeus’ and Aziraphale’s attention. “Ah! Didn’t expect that, haha! Small world, am I right?”

There was a sharp ringing sound and he pulled out his phone. “Oh, gotta take this. I’ll leave you two to catch up! Do come back inside so we can finish the deal when you’re done.” He smiled at Michael before answering. “Mr. President!” He greeted before stepping away.

Once he was out of earshot, Michael turned to smile coldly at Aziraphale, making him feel small. “Aziraphale, you look… filthy.”

“Comes with the job, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale replied, his mouth dry. “But it allows me to keep an eye on the boy, he’s rather adventurous, always wanting to be outside.”

“Hm.” The Archangel stepped around him, looking around the garden. “Interesting. Any news to report?”

“Well, he’s doing well with his lessons! He prevented the death of a spider this morning, and he told off his nanny-!” He froze up, which cause her attention.

“That sounds rather evil.” Michael frowned.

Aziraphale swallowed, laughing nervously. “W-well, the nanny, she’s a troublesome lady..! Thinks things have to be done in such a way to get her approval…!”

Michael just looked at him, glancing at the house. “What does this nanny look like?”

“Like… a nanny you’d see from a while back, she claims to be old fashion, though I can’t say much myself.” He tugged as his smock.

“I wonder…” The other angel mumbled. “Do you smell it, Aziraphale? In the house?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Smell what? I don’t go in the house often, I’m usually out here, got a little cottage I live in too.”

“So, you don’t smell the evil?”

He tensed up, eyes widen, before he laughed a bit. “Oh, yes..! I’ve smelled it, but I just suspect it to be the child! You know how new powers can be, can’t quite be controlled!”

“I’ve heard that none of us should be able to detect his smell, do you think that there is someone evil in the house? Trying to do what we’re doing? I wouldn’t be surprised if the forces of Hell had come to a similar conclusion of influencing the upbringing as you did.”

There was a tone of suspicion on Michael’s voice and Aziraphale was glad he couldn’t breathe for real cause he’d suspect that he’d be having trouble doing so. Did she know? Did she suspect that Crowley was there?

He glanced towards the house, eyes wide when the backdoor opened and outstepped the demon in question, pushing a stroller with a giddy, two-year old Warlock strapped in. She didn’t seem to suspect that Michael was there, but if she did, then she was doing her best to not show it. Usually Crowley would tense up and try to bolt when other angels were about, but that would be suspicious.

He wished that Crowley had stayed inside, but it was the time of the day to take Warlock outside to play, and Ashtoreth kept to a tight schedule.

“Well, well,” Michael spoke up, “this must be the nanny you were speaking of. Aziraphale, maybe you need a lesson on evil again, because I can just sense it, there’s something dark about her…”

“That would be the aesthetic she radiates, lots of humans are into it, I do believe it is called ‘goth’.” Aziraphale spoke, trying to keep Michael from questioning things, and- oh dear, the Archangel was making her way over to Nanny.

Aziraphale hissed and followed quickly, seeing Michael step in front of Ashtoreth, who paused in pushing the stroller. She glanced up; eyes perfectly hidden behind her shades. “Excuse me, can I help you?” She asked softly, her voice accented as always for her persona.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” Michael smiled, speaking sweetly, Aziraphale bit his lip as he watched the two. “I’m Michael Archer, I’m just visiting, speaking with the gardener. We know one another.”

A slight shift of her head had Ashtoreth looking at the gardener, before she looked back at Michael. “I see, I suppose you are a former client he worked for. I am Nanny Ashtoreth.”

“Ashtoreth?” Michael asked, looking at the redhead with a suspicious stare. “Isn’t that name a little… demonic? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all.” Ashtoreth replied, her grip on the handles of the stroller was tight. “It is a family name, old, yes, and associated with a demon, but I have embraced it as something to be proud of, at least by which the goddess Ashtoreth is associated with. You yourself share a name with an angel, and our mutual friend here shares a name with a saint.”

That didn’t stop Michael from looking at the other, her nose twitching. Aziraphale unconsciously repeated the action, sniffing the air. He smelled Michael, along with a strong scent of flowers, of a musk that clearly meant perfume was used. It was Nanny’s usual smell, just a bit stronger. He could just barely smell the more demonic scent hidden beneath it.

“Do you often wear sunglasses?” Michael suddenly asked, stepping closer.

“Often enough, I have a bit of trouble in bright lights.” Ashtoreth replied.

“May I see them? Sorry, they look rather nice, I’d like to see if they’d be worth a purchase.” She smiled at the demon, who kept a neutral face in a way that Aziraphale had never seen Crowley do in the six thousand years they’ve known each other.

Quietly, Ashtoreth reached up and removed the shades, Aziraphale nearly jumping to action when he could sense the holy energy coming from Michael’s arm. Without saying a word, Ashtoreth turned her head up, opening her eyes to show perfectly normal brown eyes. There was no indication that they were snake-like in anyway.

Michael was handed the shades and quickly looked them over, the holy energy quickly gone. “I’ll think about it,” She spoke before handing them back, Nanny was quick to put them on, “well, I must get back to that meeting with your boss. Lovely meeting you, Miss Ashtoreth.”

She turned her attention to Aziraphale. “I shall see you in due time, Francis.” She patted his shoulder before making her way to the house. The two watched her until she vanished inside and Ashtoreth walked quickly into the large garden, to get out of sight, Aziraphale following.

Once they knew they were completely out of sight, away from prying angel eyes, Crowley snapped her attention to Aziraphale, looking quite shaken. “That was Michael.”

“I know.”

“Archangel fucking Michael!”

“I know, my dear…”

“Why was she here!? Does she know!?”

Aziraphale quickly shook his head, putting his hands on her shoulders. “No, no, she has no idea you’re Crowley. From what it seems, she must see you as just some nanny who likes witchy stuff, like the rest of the staff seems to think. Dear, you’re shaking like a leaf!”

A chair was suddenly behind the nanny as she was gently sat down onto it. Aziraphale moved behind her, removing her hand to put his suddenly-clean hands on her head, carefully rubbing at her hair. He knows his demon well, knowing that the panic and stress would give her a migraine, especially after having to use a miracle to make her eyes appear so human-like. It was something Crowley loathed to do, as it blinded her in the process, she couldn’t see with her pupils like that, she wasn’t the kind of snake with wide ones.

She seemed to relax carefully at his touch, but her hands were clenched on her lap. “She was going for her weapon.”

“I would have stopped her.” Aziraphale replied as he placed a kiss to her head. “But you stopped her with your fake eyes. I also noticed you covered your smell.”

“I sensed her before I ever saw her inside, I had to work fast, practically bathed myself in perfume.” Crowley hissed out, trying to force herself to relax. Her eyes turning to Warlock who was giggling as a butterfly flew around his head. “I’m suspecting you’ll be going up to Heaven tomorrow.”

Aziraphale sighed loudly. “No doubt about it, best to give all of them an actual update. I’ll explain that you’re just some human woman with an interest in looking like you worship Satan, but don’t really do so.”

There was a quiet hum from Crowley as she nodded. “Best of luck, angel.”

“Thank you, and best of luck to you as well, I’m sure you’ll need to report to Hell tomorrow, just in case.”

“Uuuuuhhhhhhgggggg…” Crowley flopped back, looking up at Aziraphale with a pout, which earned her a chuckle from the angel. “Wanna get shitfaced tonight in your cabin?”

“Oh, you have no idea how badly I was hoping you’d suggest that, my dear nanny.”

END

Michael is suspicious, but not sure. Give her a few more years and she’ll learn the truth.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #brother francis #aziraphale #nanny ashtoreth #anthony j crowley #john's drabbles

24 notes · View notes