#why does Crowley know and Aziraphale hasn’t seemed to notice me

[ivory--raven]

day 28, made you smile. we've all seen the scene. we've all seen the looks.

Michael senses it with every aspect of her being. War against Hell has been declared.

Why? They’re not having an Armageddon. That was cancelled four years ago and she’s grown quite used to her existence as it is. It’s rather annoying, really, for it to be such a surprise. Work is satisfying, Jeanne is amazing and for once safe, Dagon has her utterly captivated. She isn’t ready for a war. She hasn’t had time to make plans, to prepare, she hasn’t had the troops training in four years.

Still, they are technically four years overdue for a war, and she does enjoy smiting demons. This will be her excuse.

She and Uriel meet Saraqael, the excitable scrivener Muriel, and someone else at the lift. The other being looks familiar, they are… Crowley. A demon. What’s he doing here?

Unauthorized war on Hell and a demon in Heaven. Had he caused it?

“Funny old world, isn’t it?” he says as they descend and his outfit changes to the black she associates with demons.

They emerge outside the embassy in London, Aziraphale’s bookshop. A ramp appears for Saraqael and they all follow Crowley inside. There is a stunned demon on the sofa. 

“What did you do to them all?” asks Crowley.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I did the thing with the halo.”

Oh no. That’s as official as it gets.

“You what?” asks Crowley, as if he can’t believe it either.

“I did the thing with the halo,” repeats Aziraphale.

“You blew up your halo? Hell won’t like that!” laughs Crowley.

No. No, they won’t. They’ll understand it as the war declaration it is.

They appear, then. Some demon whose face she doesn’t know and Dagon. Dagon who seems extremely pleased, strutting towards the center of the room. There’s a glint of fire and fight in her eyes. Her shoulders. Her hips.

Beelzebub appears in a flash of fire. Michael hardly notices.

“We are at war!” says Dagon through her smile. “Finally!”

“Nobody’s at war,” says Crowley. “You idiots sent an idiot to lead a gang of idiots to attack a bookshop. Those idiots there want their Archangel back so they can fire him.”

Michael does not like to be called an idiot but she is far too distracted by Dagon turning and hissing at her. She shakes her head. Her ridiculous demon. She’s far too attractive in her uniform, which she appears to be wearing over… not much, her top is sheer. It’s not fair.

Dagon chokes. Good. Michael likes to have that effect on her.

Beelzebub wakes up the demon from the sofa. “Nice job, Shax. Beautifully done. Remind me to put in for your commendation.”

“Sarcasm, yes?” Shax looks to Crowley.

“I’m afraid so,” confirms Beelzebub. If demons are going to be teaching each other the art of sarcasm, they can do it in Hell!

“If it is to be war,” Michael starts, looking at Dagon, before Crowley interrupts.

“No, no, no, no, no war,” says Crowley. 

Dagon purses her lips, shimmies a bit with her hand on her hip. Ridiculous, enchanting demon. Michael would smite her all right, but not in the usual way. Take her away right now.

Crowley is saying something about Gabriel, Aziraphale brings out a cardboard box. Dagon leans forward, holding her arms in front of the two demons on either side of her. “Careful. Could be a trap.” She’s protective. She’s sweet. She’s actually afraid of the cardboard box. Michael understands. Aziraphale and Crowley are known traitors with suspicious powers. Michael knows how worried she was when it turned out Crowley was undestroyable.

“It’s a cardboard box, it’s not going to bite you,” says Saraqael.

Dagon moves back anyway when Aziraphale dumps some old things out of the box. Michael doesn’t blame her.

There’s writing on the box, a fly - Michael can guess where this is going. It’s him, the assistant bookseller, it’s Gabriel, and Beelzebub is so tender with him. “Good boy,” they say, “no wonder nobody could find you. This is where you were keeping all your memories. All your you. Look at you, you’re perfect.” They offer it to Gabriel - to Gabriel’s body, at least. “Here. Take it. Gently.” They’re smiling at him.

It goes in his eye, then, and he straightens - he remembers. Gabriel. 

He smiles his professional smile. He laughs. “Michael, Uriel?” He forgets Saraqael’s name, which Michael can tell annoys them. Dagon makes an unpleasant face at him. Michael loves her for it. “Oh, eesh. You guys,” he says. “You,” he says when he finally turns to Beelzebub, and it’s like he’s immediately soothed. He remembers them, then. Good. They’d been distraught. If he’d remembered everything but them, there would’ve been a problem.

And he has been happier since he started seeing them. Annoying he may be, but he is something to her, and Michael wants that happiness for him.

“Silly, silly angel,” says Beelzebub, far too affectionately to be hiding anything. “Why?”

“I was coming to you, but I… forgot,” says Gabriel. Behind Beelzebub, Dagon meets Michael’s eyes.

The demon next to Dagon, Shax, calls Beelzebub a traitor. “Collaborating with Heaven,” she accuses them of.

It’s so risky, what they’re doing. They have to pull this off.

“I just found something that mattered more to me than choosing sides,” says Beelzebub. Dagon gags.

Someone says something and it’s a mortal. There are mortals here? “Someone turn them into salt,” says Michael. The security risk! Saraqael raises a hand but Crowley interrupts and ushers the two mortals out. He’d better be going to dispose of them outside. 

“Fancy liking an angel,” Dagon says, shuddering. She sounds convincing. It isn’t real. It isn’t real. It’s for the benefit of everyone who can’t know, for privacy and safety. Shax has something loud and annoying to say to Michael, the demon Michael doesn’t know has a complaint for Michael. They want Beelzebub back, is the gist of it.

“They probably did something to Gabriel,” says Uriel. “Corrupted him.” Saraqael agrees.

Dagon points at Michael. “You Archangels,” she says. “You Archangels.”

Michael smirks. She’s right, and she can say it, as long as she doesn’t clarify. Michael cups her hand by her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

Aziraphale rings an annoying loud bell - Michael instinctively raises her arms to cover her head, but it’s only him, it’s only Aziraphale. “I’ve had quite enough of this!” he snaps. Michael has had quite enough of being here. If there is no war, the only crisis is Gabriel and Beelzebub, which wouldn’t be a crisis at all if it wasn’t so public. Michael would like to go home.

“You will speak one at a time,” demands Aziraphale.

Shax asks for Gabriel and Beelzebub to be handed over to Satan. “He won’t want them,” says Dagon. “Maybe as hors d'oeuvres.”

“And I demand you hand them over to us, to face celestial punishment,” says Michael. Someone had make the counteroffer, after all. 

“Obviously we would be reserving the option to send them both to Hell as our punishment,” adds Saraqael. “But we’d be the ones doing it.”

Aziraphale offers Gabriel and Beelzebub the choice, and of course they choose to leave together than stay and be punished. They don’t want to be destroyed, and that is very much still on the table. 

Crowley suggests Alpha Centauri.

“If you leave, you can never come back,” Uriel tells Gabriel.

“That would be the point,” he says. He seems fine. Perhaps with him officially gone, Michael can have his job. Heaven will need a new Supreme Archangel. And with Beelzebub gone, well, there is a natural choice for a successor.

Beelzebub suggests Shax might have their job. Dagon glares at the back of Shax’s head, shifting like she might be about to get out a weapon and stab Shax in the back.

Michael interrupts before that can happen. If Dagon is going to be rid of Shax, it won’t be now, in front of Aziraphale and Uriel and Saraqael and the demon she still doesn’t know. “Angels and demons, they can’t just-”

Gabriel and Beelzebub start singing that song Gabriel had been humming before, and disappear. Off to Alpha Centauri - or, if Michael knows Gabriel, a tailor.

“I believe the Dark Council might have something to say about all this nonsense,” says Dagon, who must know full well they do since she’s on it. The demon Michael doesn’t know whispers something to Shax, and all three vanish back to Hell.

“I am authorized to remove the name of anyone who helped Gabriel from the Book of Life,” says Michael. She’s never actually seen the Book, but Aziraphale doesn’t know that and she’ll figure something out. She’ll get it from The Metatron. “You will never have existed, Aziraphale. In the absence of Gabriel, I am the Supreme Archangel-”

“Duty officer,” says Uriel.

Michael does not care. “And I-”

“Excuse me, sorry, I must interrupt you there,” says someone who has just walked in. Michael stares, open mouthed. Walked in. Interrupted her. Michael. Supreme Archangel.

“I don’t believe I asked for any interruptions.”

“I couldn’t help it,” says the person. “You’re talking utter balderdash. I mean, complete piffle! You don’t have the authority to do anything like that!”

Michael has never been so insulted in her entire existence.

“And who are you?” she says, a moment away from smiting them no matter the response.

“For Heaven’s sake! And I mean that most literally. You don’t know me?” he asks. “What about you, demon, do you know me?”

“Get him out of here!” insists Michael. Or she will kill him.

It’s The Metatron. It’s The fucking Metatron. He dismisses them back to Heaven like naughty children. 

Uriel and Michael exchange glances and Uriel bows. “Your Reverence, your - your Grace, your…”

“Spit it out,” he says.

“Have we done anything wrong?” asks Uriel. It’s the question both of them have, probably Saraqael too. 

“That remains to be seen,” he says, which is very alarming. All three Archangels return to Heaven together.

“I’m going to my office,” says Michael as soon as they arrive. Uriel nods and turns on their heel, off to their own. Saraqael doesn’t even have a sarcastic comment - they must be shaken.

Of course Michael doesn’t go to her office. She goes to the house, with Jeanne, who is watching a film on the new television they’ve installed, where Dagon is waiting for her.

Dagon.

“Michael,” she breathes, and embraces her.

[antlerx-art]

GOOD OMENS 2 EPISODE 3 REACTION - CONTAINS SPOILERS‼️

ok so the resurrectionist minisode is in here

jim’s mug

nina my girl silence that damn phone at work

wait IS SHE THE WOMAN WITH THE JAUNTY HAT?

THE SCENE! THE CLIP! FINALLY!

but if aziraphale had already talked to muriel why does it seem like they don’t actually know each other? or do they both know it’s an act?

WHAT NO WAY WE WERE ALL WRONG THE WHOLE TIME? we were so sure crowley was moving to the bookshop but he’s actually just taking out the plants to let aziraphale use the car😭 nooo let me stay delusional

HES LEANINGGG HES GONNA SIT THERE WITH AZIRAPHALE AAHH HE DID IT

no okay muriel is trying to keep the disguise but aziraphale and crowley know they’re an angel, just maybe aziraphale didn’t really know them that well in the past

“word with you angel, in private” I’LL FINALLY KNOW WHAT THE WORD IN PRIVATE IS

THEY/THEM PRONOUNS FOR MURIEL YES!!!!!!!!!

aziraphale’s got used to lying to heaven huh

“one fabulous kiss and we’re good, i have a plan” yeah 🙂

AZIRAPHALE DRIVING THE BENTLEYYY

intro 🕺🏻🕺🏻🕺🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻🕺🏻

watching the intro more carefully my guess is that we’re going to see the gabriel statue thing here

“Ay Zed Fell”

THIS IS THE DIARYYY THE CONFIDENTIAL JOURNAL watch as aziraphale uses a pink glittery pen to write Crowley

and it’s in the past!!!! minisode incoming

“DEAR DIARY” he’s such an high school girlie

AZIRAPHALE WRITING ABOUT HIS DATE WITH CROWLEY AHHHH ripping my hair off

yup as i said statue of gabriel here

crowley is so she/her in this minisode

“that’s lunacy” / “no, that’s ineffable” HAH

classical music in the bentley is a crime aziraphale

“angel, WOT are you doing.”

HE CAN FEEL WHEN HE DRIVES THE BENTLEY UNDER THE SPEED LIMIT LMAOO

NO WAY IT’S YELLOW I CANT BREATHEHEEE

“change it back😠” / “but it’s pretty☹️”

CROWLEY THREATENING TO GIVE BOOKS AWAY i’m sure i’ve seen people drawing a scene like this in some comic i love this show

OOOHHH AZIRAPHALES FACE WHEN HE SPEEDS UP IM SICK

what the heck is in the background are those?? TARTAN MOUNTAINS?

is that furfur? no wait prime video says “demon josh” 👍🏻

crowley and gabriel scene I KNOWW ITS GONNA BE FUNNY

the fly is beelzebub IT HAS TO BE

“vavoom” is the new “wahoo”

jim looks so focused but there’s not one (1) single thought behind those eyes

stop making david tennant say he’s a doctor

AHH aziraphale still can’t drink here

bro you messed up restore that dead body rn

DETECTIVE AZIRAPHALE WITH THE HAT

i think gabriel was with beelzebub

NOO whats happening poor girl

so she was sick already

CROWLEYS HAND

what’s Laudanum Poison

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO CROWLEY HELP😭 is it that thing he drank 😭😭😭😭

where did he go

HES LITTLE OMG WHYYY HES SO TINY if aziraphale puts crowley in his pocket i’ll be dead

alice in wonderland crowley

BIG TALL WOMAN 😍😍 if crowley puts aziraphale in his pocket i’ll be dead

oh this is the part where they mention kwording yourself

i’ll need to rewatch this whole thing it’s so chaotic

OH. MY. GOD.

THE WAY AZIRAPHALE IS TRYING TO STEADY HIMM

THE HAND AROUND HIS ARM AND WAIST IM SO WEAK I CANT DO IT I CANT THEYRE A COUPLE IM NOT OKAY

THEY’RE SOOO CLOSE

if hell noticed you’d already be WHAT crowley

oop he fell (lol)

ahhh this is the meme template scene

“mostly i just use it for twitter” damn bro same

“and grindr” damn bro NOT same

aziraphale is my grandpa using a computer for the first time thinking he has to talk to it BUT IT ACTUALLY WORKS??

jim is about to remember stuff

“mm good job” / “oh, do you really think so?” i’m fine i’m completely okay

aziraphale’s relief after crowley says he hasn’t sold books 😭 also crowley being in charge of the bookshop because aziraphale asked even if he had said to nina “not even at gunpoint”

in company 🫵🏻with beelzebub!!!!!!🫵🏻

“and twitter and grindr whatever they happen to be” H E L P.

THE LITTLE HAT THING AND THE LITTLE LAUGH AND HIS FACE I LOVE AZIRAPHALE SOOOOO MUCH

RAINY RAIN!

she wasn’t having an affair but she felt like it

ARE NINA AND MAGGIE GONNA KISS RIGHT NOW?

CROWLEY I KNOW YOU LIKE ROMANCE

nah i should’ve expected this 😔🙏

OHHHHHHHH jim is spilling the tea

hi shax 😄

VERY CLOSED

NO CROWLEY DONT LEAVE THE BOOKSHOP something’s gonna happen to him NOO IM NOT READYYYY

oh i thought shax was gonna see jim but there’s the miracle i forgot about that

anyway jim is obsessed with books falling and gravity i think it means something

WAR ON AZIRAPHALE?

OH MY GOD PROTECTIVE CROWLEY

“it’s always too late” i’m sick S I C K

i need to recover but i can’t wait to see the 1941 scenes

anyway so far i like how even though this season is very quiet gentle romantic and love centered, it’s not that different from season one, i noticed how well the plot and the romantic moments are mixed together and it’s not really just aziracrow

tagging @neil-gaiman since he said he was interested in reading live reactions

[lady-divine-writes]

Keepsake (Rated PG)

Aziraphale pats his right pants pocket quite often.

It’s a tick that’s easy to overlook considering the other ways he fidgets, worrying his hands and fingers when he doesn’t have a book or a fork in them. Besides, it’s not all that uncommon. Lots of people do it. Looking for keys, hunting down the cell phone … have I got my spectacles? Oh, yes! Have them right here!

Crowley has a similar habit of constantly keeping his hands shoved in his pockets, which is easy to overlook as well since everyone does at one point in time. It’s when Crowley wears a pair of pants so tight that keeping his fingers in his pockets looks excruciating that Aziraphale takes notice. But even then, it’s not that odd. Crowley is odd. Eccentric might be a more accurate term – a side-effect of age and familiarity, Aziraphale supposes. But his forcing his fingers into pockets no bigger than a matchbox?

Not so much.

Crowley definitely doesn’t think too hard on it when Aziraphale pats his pocket. He’s been doing it since the beginning, even before the invention of pants, when pockets were simply pouches tied about the waist or pinned to the underside of clothes. Aziraphale is also odd but in different ways. It’s not an insult. Simply a state of being. So when Crowley walks into Aziraphale’s shop and finds the angel patting his pockets and searching the floor, he thinks odd, but no more than usual.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asks, leaning against a post with his arms crossed – his go-to observational pose.

“Oh, uh, nothing.” Aziraphale glances up nervously and starts searching harder, if that’s a thing to be noted. “Nothing at all.”

“Really? ‘Cuz it seems to me like you’re looking for something.”

“I … uh … yes. I’m looking for something …” Aziraphale bends lower, examining the floor boards inch by inch and faster “… but it’s not important. Definitely nothing for you to concern yourself with. Why don’t you help yourself to a bottle of Merlot and I’ll be right with you?”

“Maybe I can help you find it.” Crowley affects a similar stance and begins searching even though he hasn’t a clue what he’s meant to look for.

“No!” Aziraphale barks suddenly. “No, I … I’ll come across it, I’m sure …” His voice dips with disappointment at the prospect of giving up the search now in favor of later “… you know … given time and …” His eyes, scanning the wood planks beneath his feet, widen on a spot behind Crowley – right beside his left heel (if Crowley is gauging the angel’s gaze correctly). He spins around on the wake of Aziraphale pleading, “No! Don’t!” and looks behind him.

Sitting on the floor, curled gently upward, he finds a single black feather.

A familiar feather.

Crowley knows this feather. He feels it in his gut … and in his shoulder.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” he asks, bending over and snatching it before Aziraphale can make it across the room.

“No,” Aziraphale lies. “But all the same, why don’t you give it here …”

Crowley takes a step back, holding the feather up out of Aziraphale’s reach. “What, pray tell, is this?”

“Corvus corax,” Aziraphale says without missing a beat. “Otherwise known as the common raven. I have one stuffed that I just put into storage. It must have shed …” He reaches for the feather but Crowley pulls it away.

“Now, you see, Aziraphale, you’re usually an A-plus liar, but today you’re falling short. Do you really think I wouldn’t know one of my own feathers?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks burn, then go pale. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

Crowley peers at the feather, its barbs and roots unbroken, unseparated, in pristine condition – difficult to maintain after the feather separates from the wing. This one appears to be perfectly preserved – a remarkable feat if Aziraphale has been carrying it in his pocket. “How long have you had this?”

“A … a while.”

“And a while would be …?”

“A few thousand years … give or take?”

Crowley tries to remember the times he’s spread his wings in Aziraphale’s presence. Minus Armageddon, there’s only been one other he can recall.

It makes his eyes pop.

“You’ve had this since Eden?”

“Well … I … maybe?”

“And you carry this around with you?”

Aziraphale sighs. He’s not going to win. There’s no way to sidestep the truth. He may be an A-plus liar, as Crowley puts it, but he’s never been able to lie to Crowley.

Time to fess up.

“Always.”

“Do you even realize the risk you put yourself at keeping this on your person!?” Crowley growls. He drags the feather beneath his nose and inhales, his lips curling when he proves himself right. “I can smell the Evil on it! Every angel and demon between here and creation probably can, too!”

Aziraphale recalls Gabriel and Sandalphon in his shop, claiming that something smelled Evil. Aziraphale had blamed it on the Jeffrey Archer books. But even though Crowley had been there, his scent lingering in the air, what they’d actually smelled was more than likely that feather in Aziraphale’s pocket.

He suspects they always did, the way their faces scrunched with disgust whenever they approached him.

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do! Why are you constantly trying to get yourself into trouble? Stubborn angel …” Crowley mutters, pulling open his coat to slide the feather inside.

Aziraphale steps up, arm extended, hand palm up. “I would thank you to give that back to me, please!”

“What?” Crowley peers at Aziraphale over his lenses, his yellow eyes dangerous. But those eyes of Crowley’s don’t intimidate Aziraphale. At this point, they’re an overplayed card. A defunct strategy.

“I said … give. it. back.”

“It’s my feather.”

“I beg your pardon, but it is not. You left it behind and I picked it up.”

Crowley makes a face. “Are you really pulling a finders-keepers on me?”

“It’s mine,” Aziraphale says firmly. “It’s my talisman. My lucky rabbit’s foot. It’s kept me company when you haven’t. When I thought you were gone for good …” Aziraphale’s voice cracks. Crowley doesn’t seem too sympathetic, and yet he’s hanging on Aziraphale’s every word. “It’s the only part of you I get to have. I will not let you take it from my shop.”

Crowley steps forward, twirling the feather tauntingly between his fingers. “Are you telling me you’re prepared to fight me for it?”

“I’d rather not.” Aziraphale straightens his vest and squares his shoulders, but uncomfortably. “But if I have to, yes. I will.”

Crowley fixes his coat with a stunned look on his face, the feather still pinched between his fingers. “That’s not true.”

“It isn’t?” A red flush creeps up Aziraphale’s neck, the angel seething over the fact that Crowley would dare disbelieve him.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Which part?”

The hard lines on Crowley’s face soften, the venomous glow in his eyes extinguishes. “You have me, Aziraphale. All of me. You’ve had all of me since long before this feather shed.”

Aziraphale tuts. He rolls his head away. “Now who’s the bad liar?”

“Don’t believe me, huh?”

“Forgive me if I don’t.”

“You’re not the only sentimental old fool here, and I can prove it.”

“How?”

“Your feather?” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand by the wrist and places the black feather in his palm. Then he closes his fingers around it.

“Yes?” Aziraphale’s shoulders sag a hair, much more relaxed with his favorite keepsake back in his possession.

Crowley worms his fingertips into his front left pocket and carefully fishes out a brilliant white feather. Aziraphale’s jaw drops. He recognizes it immediately. He would know it anywhere.

Crowley knows he does, and he grins.

“It’s a match for this one.”

[prettybirdy979]

Prompt List #1 Fluff #8: "I'll take care of you."

From this list - feel free to send me any other prompts from it or any of the ones in this tag. 

I think this turned out more angsty then intended. Oops. If you don’t like it, poke me and I’ll write another fluffy one.

It all comes down to Aziraphale having more pity than common sense. He shouldn’t have. He knows his limitations - knows his flaws, even if he tries his best to bury them and hope no one notices - and getting involved here will mean dealing with the one flaw he’ll happy acknowledge. It’s not even a problem really, for an angel, just a quirk he can live with.

After all, the inability to keep any plant alive for longer than a week is not something most angels would notice they had, let alone consider a problem. A flaw. Aziraphale’s fine.

But... but Crowley loves plants. Has done so since Eden, having snuck a couple of apple seeds out of the garden. The trees he planted never lasted longer than their first fruiting season but Aziraphale knows there’s an isolated cottage in the south of England that has a descent of that orginal tree. A lovely tree really, in a garden Crowley pretends he doesn’t maintain on free weekends and hasn’t yet shown off to Aziraphale. Not that that matters, they’ve only been their own side a week or... two... or three... or ten...

Right. Not the point here.

The point is, Aziraphale can’t keep things. Plants. Can’t keep plants. Not alive. But part of an eternity with Crowley as your best friend means you do know when a plant isn’t doing well.

Not that it’s hard with this one, a brown little ferny thing sitting on a clearly deserted home with just enough sunlight and water to not die but not enough to look anything but sad and near dead. Aziraphale looks at it for a long time, longer than he’s been out on this walk for.

He sighs.

‘Oh dear. I... I don’t know if I’ll be any good but...’ he picks up the plant and looks it in the eyes. ‘Come on then. I’ll take care of you.’

*

It’s not that easy though. A week later and all Aziraphale has done is moved the plant. Despite all his best efforts - and research! so many gardening books -  It’s still brown, still sad, still hopeless and all Aziraphale wants to do is scream at it. 

But he can’t. 

He can’t yell at it, not like Crowley does. He’ll feel awful if he does and he needs to be as good a gardener as Crowley... that way Crowley will show him the garden in the south of England and they’ll garden it together and maybe he can kiss-

‘Aziraphale?’

Turning around, still holding the poor plant in his hands, Aziraphale just manages not to jump. ‘Crowley! My dear you’re early-’

‘Angel what did you do to that plant?’

Aziraphale bites his lip, trying to fight down the heat in his face and eyes. ‘Nothing! I rescued it from abandonment and nothing I do seems to fix it!’ Crowley reaches for the plant and Aziraphale takes a step back. ‘No!’

Crowley looks at him with hurt eyes. ‘No?’

‘No,’ Aziraphale says softer. ‘No, you can’t fix it for me, I have to do it myself. I have to take care of it, like I promised and then you’ll see I’ve changed and I’m not like the other angels and-’

‘Shh,’ Crowley says, stepping forward and putting his finger on Aziraphale’s lips. ‘You’re nothing like the other angels Aziraphale, nothing.’

‘I can’t garden.’

Crowley rolls his eyes. ‘I am well aware. You were a nightmare at the Downings, I barely saved that garden.’

‘Is that why you don’t show me yours?’ Aziraphale covers his mouth the moment he speaks, letting go of the poor plant to do so.

Luckily, Crowley’s reactions are snake-fast and he catches the plant before it drops. ‘Careful!’ he hisses and turns the plant around. ‘Oh, you’re a diva,’ he snarls and the plant starts to shake.

Then he looks at Aziraphale with something fragile in his eyes. ‘You know about my garden?’

‘The one with the tree, yes.’

Crowley sighs. ‘I didn’t... It’s not perfect. That’s why I’ve not shown you.’

Aziraphale blinks. ‘The garden? It’s perfect, like anything could be anything else with your tender care.’ The plant shakes more, as if disagreeing.

‘No,’ Crowley shakes his head. ‘The cottage.’ 

‘What?’

‘The... the cottage isn’t perfect. I wanted it perfect before...’ he looks Aziraphale in the eyes, bright yellow eyes staring into his soul. ‘I wanted it perfect before I asked you to move there.’

Aziraphale forgets how to breathe. Or talk.

For longer than he’s willing to admit to.

‘Aziraphale!’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

Aziraphale kisses Crowley, ignoring the plant shaking between them. After a stunned moment, Crowley kisses back and it’s perfect and oh, Aziraphale won’t have to learn to garden so Crowley will trust him - Crowley wanted to surprise him, wanted him to know as soon as he could and it’s perfect.

Crowley’s perfect.

‘Yes. I don’t care if it is perfect, if you’re there,’ Aziraphale kisses Crowley again briefly, ‘it’ll be perfect.’

The plant in Crowley’s hands now looks lively, green creeping into its branches. ‘Oi!’ Crowley says and the plant shakes but continues to get greener. ‘Don’t miracle them, they’ll start to expect it.’

Aziraphale, who can feel that there’s not a single drop of his power in that plant, just smiles. 

He leans in close to the plant. ‘I did say I’d take care of you,’ he whispers to it. ‘I promise, his bark is worse than his bite.’

Grumbling about lying angels but not taking any of his healing miracle away from the plant, Crowley leads Aziraphale to the car to take him to their new home. 

[elsajeni]

names, pet and otherwise

Aziraphale is studying the dessert tray, and Crowley is studying Aziraphale. This is as a sort of warm-up to watching Aziraphale actually eat whatever dessert he selects, which isn't the kind of thing you want to dive right into without preparation, lest the sheer radiant pleasure of it burn your eyes out.

Especially if there's any sort of sauce involved. If there's a sauce involved it can, frankly, border on the obscene. He'd seen Aziraphale chase a last drop of raspberry sauce, once, that had run down his hand and all the way up to his wrist, and he'd pulled back the cuff of his shirt and licked--

It occurs to Crowley that Aziraphale has just said something to him, and also that he's gone slightly cross-eyed. "Hng," he says intelligently, and then, mentally shaking himself, "What?"

"Did you want something, Anthony?" Aziraphale repeats.

"What?" Crowley says again, bewildered, and looks over his shoulder, as if there might be someone called Anthony standing there.

Aziraphale, apparently giving up on him, turns back to the waiter and says, "He'll have an affogato."

"I'll what?"

"You'll like it."

"Bet you I won't."

"Then I'll have it, and I'll like it," Aziraphale says, which Crowley has to admit seems reasonable.

While he's been bickering on autopilot, his brain has had a moment to catch up to events. He waits until the waiter's gone to say accusingly, "Did you call me Anthony?"

Aziraphale gives him a blank look. "Yes? I know I don't often, but--"

"Don't call me that. That's ridiculous."

"It is your name, my dear."

"It's not," Crowley protests. "I mean it's like you and Fell, it's just for humans. They don't like it if you've only got the one."

"You've been using it for five hundred--"

"Yes, for humans," Crowley says again, feeling obscurely that this is an important point. "Not for you. You know who I really am, I don't need a human name with you."

Aziraphale stops in mid-sentence, and his face softens. "Oh, Crowley," he says. "That's-- and don't argue, please-- that's really rather sweet."

Crowley shuts his eyes and grimaces. "It's not," he mutters.

"It is," Aziraphale says, and favors him with a soft, glowing smile. Crowley decides that, allergic though he is to being called sweet, if it makes Aziraphale look at him like that, he may be able to suffer through it.

It does also have its pragmatic benefits; Aziraphale won't keep arguing, he's pretty sure, now that he's decided Crowley is being sweet. "So you won't keep calling me by it?" he presses.

"If you don't like it, of course I won't. But I can't just call you Crowley when we're out like this, can I?"

"Why not?"

"Humans think it's a surname. People don't call their--" Aziraphale pauses, and gestures vaguely.

It's understandable. There's not a satisfactory word for what they are, really, not in any human language. "Lovers," Crowley suggests anyway, just to see whether Aziraphale will blush.

"Partners," Aziraphale says firmly, blushing absolutely scarlet and pretending not to notice Crowley grinning at him. "People don't call their partners by their surname. It would stand out."

Crowley looks down at his own outfit, and then, pointedly, at Aziraphale's. "Yes," he says solemnly, "of course you wouldn't want to stand out."

"Crowley."

"You could call me Mister Crowley. Very proper. Suits your whole Victorian aesthetic."

"Yes, very funny." Aziraphale glares at him. "It's easy for you, you've been sneakily calling me a pet name this whole time."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "You call me 'dear,'" he points out. "You've done it a dozen times just since we sat down to lunch. Isn't that good enough?"

"Yes, but I call everybody 'dear,' it's just… habit."

Which is a fair point, Crowley supposes; he hasn't kept an exact count, but he's pretty sure Aziraphale has called their waiter 'dear' a half-dozen times as well.

"Well," he says, "you'll just have to come up with something else, then. Just-- not Anthony. It's too weird, coming from you."

"I'll think about it," Aziraphale says.

Two minutes later, when the waiter comes back with their desserts, he says, "Thank you, dear--" that's seven, Crowley thinks absently-- and then, turning to Crowley and handing him a steaming cup on a saucer, "That's yours, my love."

"Ngh," Crowley says, coming very close to dropping the saucer.

He has, he realizes, done it to himself again. He's entirely used to Aziraphale saying my dear; he's not at all ready for my love, deployed at close range and said with overpowering warmth and affection. Yet another thing Aziraphale does that's going to take some warming up before he can cope with it; yet another thing Crowley has instigated that's come around to cause him trouble.

And the cake Aziraphale ordered has chocolate sauce drizzled around the rim of the plate-- which means at some point, as soon as he thinks no one's looking, he's going to drag a fingertip through it and, yes, there he goes, bring it to his lips and--

Crowley stares helplessly, his own dessert completely forgotten, and wonders despairingly how many more lunches like this he can survive.

[areyougonnabe]

Short Term Memory

But there can often be a lot of “thinking you love someone” before the loving truly begins.  — The Man In The Red Coat by Julian Barnes

Now I am superlatively, actually awake. — The amnesiac composer Clive Wearing

Aziraphale knows it in Eden.

He watches the demon, Crawly, sprawled loose-limbed underneath the boughs of an eternally blooming magnolia, lazily swatting at the plump bees that buzz around his head, and knows he is in love with him. 

On this plane, in this body, Aziraphale is subject to all the forces the Almighty has created. Gravity, yes. Electromagnetism, the strong and weak nuclear. And, it seems— love as well.

Adam and Eve certainly didn’t take long to get down to it, after all. Aziraphale, having observed the Garden and its inhabitants closely, knows of no possible love other than the kind that blossoms at first light, and does not wither ever after, even as the sun falls below the horizon. That is the only reference he has to compare this feeling inside him to, the sensation that throbs deep within him when he lets his eyes linger on Crawly, on the dark pool of him beneath the tree.

“I love you,” he whispers, so softly not even the bees can hear, just to know how it feels. 

***

On the Ark, Aziraphale thinks of how foolish he was, to believe that he’d loved Crawly after just a few scant days in a garden, hardly even speaking to each other. Longing gazes and yearning sighs does not a true love make. 

He hadn’t known then, not really, the true appeal of an argument that went on long after sunset, ideas and perspectives finding purchase before being wrestled triumphantly to the rhetorical floor. He hadn’t known all the different tones of Crowley’s voice, the demon’s magical ability to parrot and mimic, to mock and decry, to leave Aziraphale wheezing with laughter one moment and incandescent with offense the next. 

But now that he does, now and only now— can he believe himself to finally, fully be in love with Crowley. 

***

In Rome, Aziraphale cannot countenance his own sheer idiocy.

How could he have possibly loved Crowley, when they’d never shared a meal together? It was a childish infatuation, before this moment, before he’d ever seen food make its way past those full lips, before he’d ever seen that tanned throat bob as it drank down a dark wine. 

Crowley’s hair is shorter, now, too, and Aziraphale finds it almost laughable he’d thought what he felt for this demon was love, when only on this day has he first seen the pale nape of Crowley’s neck, the full uncurtained juncture of his ear and jaw. 

They order course after course, jug after jug. Aziraphale does not want the night to end, because now, and only now, for the first time in nearly four thousand years, does he really and truly know that he is in love. 

***

It is the fourteenth century, and Aziraphale has not seen Crowley in ninety-six years. Every year that passes without sight of him, in this monastery high on a mountainside, hurts deeper than the last. 

It was pure folly to have thought himself in love, in those times he could go centuries without seeing Crowley, and not have each separated year be a brand new wound upon his heart.  

Love is only really proven by pain in its absence, surely. So only now, assigned to this most sacred of places, where Crowley could not tread even if he wished to, is Aziraphale absolutely positive he knows for the first time what it actually means to love.

***

London burns, and Aziraphale gathers his precious books, his artifacts and keepsakes, into a bag that rightfully should not be able to fit them all, and escapes outside the city walls. 

There is a familiar dark shape waiting for him there, lingering in the shadow of Aldgate. Aziraphale can smell the telltale scent of Hell on Crowley, the acrid stench of a bad deed done well clinging to his smoke-stained skin. 

He doesn’t need to ask where Crowley has been. His own side has warned him, in many recent holy missives, about increased activity from Below during these tumultuous times of plagues, wars, dissidence. He knows Crowley had something to do with the flames now consuming the city; to ask for details would be to invite pain. So instead they exchange mumbled pleasantries, avoiding each others’ gaze, but not willing to separate, not just yet.  

“A pity,” Aziraphale is saying. “All those homes, and oh— St. Paul’s! That interior was simply divine…” 

Crowley grimaces, ash-faced, and shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” 

Silhouetted against the smoke, Crowley is wicked, and foul, and demonic, and Aziraphale loves him. Oh, he does, he does, he does. 

Only real love could withstand such conditions, such determined attempts to exterminate it. Whatever Aziraphale felt before this awful day, it was untested and as such untrue. 

It is only now, faced with such inarguable evidence of Crowley’s nature, and feeling a tide of affection rise within him nonetheless, feeling the urge to gather the demon into his arms and hold him there, whisper words of forgiveness and comfort, does Aziraphale know that he is finally in love at last. 

***

It happens again, and again. Aziraphale curses his own stupidity, as each and every time his past self is proven idiotic, infantile, naive, simply misled. His heart bears a succession of false claimants to the crown of love, each overthrown in turn. 

He did not truly love Crowley until Paris, when the demon snatched him from underneath the hanging blade of Mme. Guillotine, for love is only love when it surprises, amazes, does the impossible.

He did not truly love Crowley until St. James Park, when he refused to provide him with the means to his own destruction, because love is not love if it bends to every harmful whim, accepts every poor decision without question.

He did not truly love Crowley until the bombs fell on St. Mildred’s, because in that moment he knew Crowley must love him as well, and love is only love when it travels both ways, amplified by actions on both ends, miracles done in the maintenance of it. 

He did not truly love Crowley until he handed over a thermos full of holy water, because love is not love unless it is trusting, rather than rigid and unforgiving.

He did not truly love Crowley until they shook hands in the back room of his darkened bookshop, promising to save the world together, for love can only really be love when it is committed to, promised, sealed with a touch. 

***

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, between kisses to Crowley’s cheeks, his throat, the corners of his lovely mouth, here in the darkness of the demon’s flat on the night after the end of the world. “Crowley, I love you.” 

“How long?” gasps Crowley. “How long have you loved me?” 

“I— if you must know, I don’t believe I ever have, not until this moment. Not really.” 

“You can’t be serious. You’re lying, you’ve loved me longer than that—”

“A childish crush. A mere obsession. Darling, I swear, I never truly loved you before now!“ 

“That’s not true. You’re being ridiculous.” 

Aziraphale finds it in himself to be primly offended, even as Crowley’s fingers find the buttons of his shirt, opens them, and press into Aziraphale’s skin, shockingly cool as they travel up his chest, exploring him, claiming him. 

“I’m not!”

“You are, though. You wanna know how I know? That you’re wrong? I’ve watched you. I’ve known you, better than anyone. That— that damn look in your eyes, it hasn’t changed in six thousand years, no matter what you think. I’d’ve noticed if it had, believe me. You’ve loved me from the very start, angel. From the beginning.”  

This revelation does not square with Aziraphale’s understanding. It does not slot neatly into his narrative. “But I know,” he insists. “Everything before now, before this moment— it was nothing. It was all in my head. I feel it now everywhere, my dear.” 

“I can tell,” Crowley smirks, his hand now traveling downwards. The smirk turns into a smile as he finds purchase, and Aziraphale gasps, shudders, clutches Crowley tighter.  

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Crowley goes on, “seeing as we’re here now, after all.” 

“Oh, but it does! Love is not love unless it is spoken aloud, and only now am I speaking it, so only now do I truly love you, Crowley—” 

“If I let you believe that you’re right,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale remembers their friendly sparring as the Ark traversed those many waters, remembers how naively thought he knew love then, “will you keep saying it?” 

“Saying—” 

“That you love me.” 

“Clearly, you’ve—ah!— known this whole time,” Aziraphale says, still managing petulance even as Crowley’s swift touch between his legs increases in speed, sending shocks of sensation rocketing upwards, “so why do you need me to prattle on?” 

There is silence, for a moment, just the sound of breathing from the both of them, coming heavier now, the sound of fabric rustling between them, and the sound of skin on skin, hot and human. 

And then Crowley speaks, right into Aziraphale’s ear, in a voice so low, so close, it makes Aziraphale shake with the dearness of it, or maybe that’s just the rising tide of pleasure inside him—  

“Let me count the ways. Because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard. Because I deserve to be told, after all this time. Because—even though I’ve known, all along, doesn’t mean I ever really let myself believe. Because I love you, too.” 

Aziraphale falls apart, then, beneath the weight of Crowley’s affection, physical and otherwise, cresting over into ecstasy, unlike anything he’s known, from his own touch or that of others. 

“I take it back,” he gasps, winded, “what I said before, now I love you, now I really love you, Crowley—” 

And he goes on, until Crowley throws his head back in joy, lets out one of those pure, gleeful laughs, and cuts him off with another kiss. 

[letmetemptyou]

mistletoe

prompt from @drawlight‘s holiday advent calendar! i’m not going to be able to hit them all, but i’m excited to write as many as i can <3 will add to ao3 (username: leaveanote) soon! expect perhaps some pining, but definitely a lot of established relationship holiday softness <3 

--

There hasn’t been a much of a snowfall, not yet. There’s only the silver bite of frost in the cliffside air, the sharp of it creeping into the doorjambs and windowsills before Crowley remembers to seal it out. The South Downs seems to teeter on the precipice of winter, and its inhabitants are in the throes of holiday decorating.

Aziraphale comes home from the village one afternoon to find that Crowley’s got the cottage strewn with fairylights. The front of it is all smothered in the worst sort, the garish multi-colored kind blinking in the most irritating patterns--but on the inside, he’s made a wonderland. Twinkling gold dots line a tree, wreaths of holly, the mantelpiece on which perches a magnificent silver menorah, the bookshelves too. There’s candlelight and he’s built a fire in the hearth too, and there’s Crowley in the middle of the kitchen, white up to his knobbly elbows in flour, sliding the cookie tray into the oven.

“This is quite something, darling,” Aziraphale says faintly, quite overcome. Crowley gets the oven going, pulls off his lumpy oven mitts and comes to him, an enormous smile on his face. The cottage smells like pine and chocolate chip, and Aziraphale is desperately, awfully in love.

“Hope you like it, angel, ‘cause none of it’s going anywhere.” 

“I do, you sentimental thing,” Aziraphale replies. His arms go to wrap around Crowley’s waist, but to his surprise, Crowley seizes him by the shoulders none too romantically and looks up instead, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth and shutting one eye as if to line something up. He walks Aziraphale backwards a few steps. “What in the--”

“There we go,” Crowley says, a hint of pride and mischief there in his voice, the ridiculous, gorgeous creature. It’s been quite overwhelming in the best way to see Crowley...happy. They’ll never be unguarded, free of divine or infernal danger, but they’re closer than they’ve ever been, and they’re taking advantage of it. Crowley is happier than Aziraphale’s ever seen him, and he knows why, and that feels quite holy, indeed. 

“What,” he says again, “in the world are you on about?”

“Didn’t think you noticed one of my favorite decorations,” Crowley says. His grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders has softened, turned to a gentle, familiar clasping, tugging at his curls. “Wanted to show it to you properly.” He turns his glance skyward again, and this time, Aziraphale’s eyes follow him. They land on a small sprig of mistletoe, tied there to a hook in the ceiling Crowley appears to have fastened just for this purpose.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his cheeks warming. Crowley is beaming, his own cheeks quite pink as well. He moves to set his hands around Crowley’s waist again, and this time he does. “I love it. I love all of this, it’s beautiful. Very cozy. But,” he continues, nuzzling Crowley’s jaw, “you don’t need an excuse to kiss me.” He looks up, into Crowley’s bright eyes, gleaming there like fairylights, like the North Star, like a flame burning a lifegiving light, even when it wasn’t expected to. “Not anymore.”

Crowley pauses. Aziraphale watches him swallow, watch the muscles in his throat work. It’s taking some getting used to, this fresh new world they get to explore, together. Aziraphale is very much enjoying the process.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to take every chance I can get, angel,” he says at last. His smile has gentled, warmed.

���Good,” Aziraphale whispers. He threads his hands through his love’s holly-red hair. “Well,” he says, grinning. “Go on, then.”

[earsofducks]

Day 2 - Neighbours

Hello and welcome to my second attempt and writing goodly this week.

@ineffablehusbandsweek

Under the cut you’ll find Aziraphale being snappish, Crowley being a disaster, and dumb bois in love.

(You’ll also find some swearing, breaking and entering, overworking, and irritable shouting, and though all of these are done for noble reasons {with the possible exception of the swearing} I’d like you to take care of yourself, please. <3)

Aziraphale considers himself a patient person. He has a fairly stressful job, he has incredibly aggravating bosses, he deals with unpleasant customers on a regular basis. He knows how to take deep breaths, count to ten, save his screams for his pillow. 

But he is teetering on the edge of committing something resembling physical violence.

His neighbor (and good friend), Anthony J. Crowley, works a very early shift on a regular basis. Aziraphale isn’t upset about this. It’s understandable. (Although Crowley’s bosses seem hellish, honestly.)

 He sets loud alarms to get himself up on time. Aziraphale understands this, too. The loudness isn’t an issue. 

The issue is that Crowley doesn’t wake up. His godforsaken alarms beep and blare for hours on end, sometimes, leaving Aziraphale cranky and irritable and very, very awake, staring at the ceiling and wishing that he wasn’t.

It’s unbearable.

He thinks that if it was later in the day he wouldn’t mind as much. He’d put on some headphones, make some tea, read a book. But it’s - he squints at his bedside clock - three forty-five in the morning, and he’s not feeling so charitable. 

Before he even knows what he’s doing he’s out of bed and banging his fist on Crowley’s door.

“Crowley!” he shouts. “Crowley, wake up and turn your blasted alarm off!”

Nothing. 

“Crowley!” he all but shrieks, and there’s no answer. Out of desperation, irritation, and something else that he’d never admit looks a lot like concern, he tries the doorknob.

It is unlocked.

“You foolish man!” he spouts, opening the door and stepping through into Crowley’s apartment. “Someone could break in and hurt you!”

The alarm keeps blaring. Aziraphale considers the fact that he’s technically breaking and entering, and then considers the fact that it is three forty-five in the morning and Crowley could very possibly be hurt and Aziraphale is concerned. (Yes, fine, he’ll admit it.) 

He fumbles his way through the apartment, bumping into chairs and things, and by the time he reaches what he thinks is the hallway to Crowley’s door he hears a muffled groaning.

“Crowley?” he calls. 

“Mbjdfhriaphale?” 

“Yes, it’s me,” says Aziraphale, starting to feel cross. Crowley does not sound injured, just groggy, and that is unacceptable. “Turn your alarm off, for the love of all that is holy!”

“Nbhrag,” says Crowley, and there is a sudden, beautiful rush of silence where the alarm used to be. 

“Why on earth did you not wake up?” demands Aziraphale from his spot in the hallway. (He’s not sure whether going into Crowley’s room would make the situation better or worse.)

“Ssssorry,” slurs Crowley. There is the gentle thump of feet hitting floor, and then the sound of stumbly footsteps. He appears in the doorway of his bedroom and leans a hand against it, rubbing at his face with the other one. “Wha time ‘sit?”

His hair is sticking up in all directions and he has a Queen t-shirt and some red and black plaid pajama pants and he is barefoot and Aziraphale wants very badly to stay upset so that his points will come across, but unfortunately that is very difficult to do when Crowley is looking so… oh, bother it all, he doesn’t want to say adorable but frankly no other word will do.

The scoundrel.

“It is - ” Aziraphale checks his watch and then remembers that he doesn’t wear it to bed and he didn’t put it on before he huffed his way over here and also that it is dark and he wouldn’t be able to read it anyway. “It was three forty-five quite recently, I think.”

Crowley jerks awake, hisses several profanities, and disappears inside his room again.

“There really is no need for that kind of language,” says Aziraphale, who is feeling quite rattled from seeing a flash of Crowley’s midsection when he rubbed at his eyes just now. 

“Sorry,” says Crowley, for the second time that morning, and Aziraphale starts to feel sympathy. “I didn’t - oh, shit - I forgot - fuck - I can’t believe I - ”

“What is it, dear boy?” says Aziraphale, who promptly regrets saying dear boy (really, Aziraphale, what kind of ridiculous antiquated language will you use next?) but cannot take it back. All he can do is hope that Crowley is too sleepy and panicked to notice - which seems an awful thing to hope for. 

“Delivery,” says Crowley, dashing down the hall past Aziraphale and towards the door. “Last night - fuck - ” he caught his foot on the same chair that tripped up Aziraphale - “had to work late, didn’t get home til one, forgot - ”

“Oh my,” says Aziraphale, appalled. “And must you stay at work all day today?” 

Crowley looks up from sliding his feet into his boots, looking baffled and befuddled and it makes Aziraphale’s heart do strange twisty things. 

“Yes,” he says, sounding bewildered. “That’s what you do at work, isn’t it?”

“Well, usually,” says Aziraphale, wringing his hands, “but not when you’ve only gotten a few hours’ sleep.” 

“Eh, ‘m used to it,” says Crowley, waving a dismissive hand and heading out the door. Aziraphale, feeling as though he’s just starting to understand something very big, follows him.

“Is that why you never wake up to your alarms?” he asks as they make their way down the stairs. 

Crowley looks intensely apologetic. 

“Ah, dammit, angel, I’m sorry - ”

They both stop and look at each other, feeling panicked, but for different reasons.

“What,” says Aziraphale, feeling lightheaded for some inexplicable reason. (Though it might have something to do with the endearment and the emotions that seemed to be lying underneath.) “What.” 

“Aghck,” says Crowley, looking even more intensely apologetic, this time with touches of utter dismay. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I really - ”

“No, no,” says Aziraphale, whose irritation at being woken up has melted away in the face of this revelation. “You needn’t be sorry. For not waking up, or for… well. But, I just - I’d like to understand. How long…?”

Crowley looks miserable, and Aziraphale feels suddenly wretched. Expecting Crowley to be brave when he himself hasn’t said a thing for years. 

“Well, never mind. You don’t have to - It’s all right. Only - ”

Crowley is clutching the railing with white-knuckled fingers and looking thoroughly unhappy, and Aziraphale suddenly remembers that he’s late and might be in trouble if he’s kept any longer by a fussy, demanding… angel, apparently. He feels himself start to smile. His neighbour really is one of the sweetest people he’s ever met. 

“Only,” he says again, feeling stronger and determined, “when you get home from work tonight, no matter how late it is, perhaps you could knock on my door and we could have a conversation? I could tell you…” Still time to back out, if you wanted, his brain whispers, but Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who woke up ten minutes ago and has had the worst morning of his life, probably, and knows that he can’t. “I could tell you how much I liked hearing you call me ‘angel,’ and how much I might like to hear it again.”

Crowley’s head jerks up. His eyes are wide, and Aziraphale feels a rush of tenderness towards him. 

“Now go on, dearest,” he says, feeling incredibly bold. (And flattered. Crowley all but chokes at the name.) “You musn’t be late.”

And he leans forward, using the momentum of his own courage, and presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. 

He pulls back, and Crowley’s mouth is hanging open, and he looks incredibly dazed. 

“Go,” says Aziraphale, unable to keep from grinning, and Crowley seems to wake up for the second time today.

“Right!” he says, trying to take the next step down but missing it and only saving himself from falling with his death grip on the railing. He can’t seem to look away from Aziraphale. (Very flattering, indeed.) “Right,” he says again, and reluctantly wrenches his gaze away to focus on the next step. “Tonight, then,” he says, and there is wonder in his tone and Aziraphale wishes he could kiss him again. Preferably in a less innocuous location. “I’ll look forward to it,” says Crowley, and then, tentatively, “... angel.”

“It’s a date,” says Aziraphale, and leaves Crowley to find his way down the stairs on his own. 

(And if the next morning Aziraphale doesn’t need to leave his own apartment to snap at Crowley to silence his alarm… well. That’s his own business.)

[roseskiesandbutterflies]

My Melancholy Blues (Good Omens One-Shot)

Summary: 1923. When Aziraphale bumps into a rather drunk Crowley for the first time after their fight at St James's Park, he's hellbent on helping the poor dear. Pun not intended. But maybe it isn't just Crowley who needs help. After all, what is it we say about coincidences?

Warning(s): alcohol, swearing, cigarettes, angst

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: I’m back! I’ll be quick because this is for the DTIYS from @whiteleyfoster and it needs to be up by the end of September to be considered and September in the UK ends in 2.5 hours. Classic me leaving this until the last minute. Anyway I hope you enjoy, sorry about the angst but it just kind of happened. Whoops. Also the title comes from My Melancholy Blues by Queen! The song isn't a perfect match to this fic but the vibe is similar enough for me to like it.

"Hey, 'ziraphale," Crowley slurred from the rooftop he was perched precariously on, waving like a lunatic, "Cooee!"

He watched as the small white blob that was hopefully the angel in question stopped dead in his tracks. Something not all that dissimilar to astonishment washed over his face, before looking up warily, almost scared of what he would find. Shock soon turned to concern when he saw that Crowley was, in fact, sitting on the roof of the Ritz with a ridiculously lopsided grin on his face. Honestly, he thought to himself, a little over sixty years and not a single word, and then I find him drunk in the middle of London. Typical. He shook off the thought with a hardly noticeable eye-roll before calling back, "Crowley? What on Earth are you doing up there?"

Crowley made a face at him, "What does it look like I'm doing?" He waved the bottle of wine he was holding in Aziraphale's vague direction before taking a swig of it.

"I can see that," he said, speaking a little more slowly when he started to realise just how drunk Crowley was, "What I meant was why are you drinking on the roof of the Ritz?"

"The view up here's great! You can see Buckingham Palace from up here!" he said, quite keen at defending his choice of location.

"Surely there's a nicer place to drink in, though? Perhaps somewhere warmer?" he suggested, really quite worried now that he could see how little Crowley was wearing.

"Nah, I was in this club in the East End but the music was a bit shit so I left," he shrugged.

"Right," he nodded unsurely, "And it never occurred to you to go to another bar?"

Crowley suddenly looked very offended, pouting like an extraordinarily petulant child, "Why are you so worried about where I drink? I thought you didn't care about me or something. 'S a bit suspicious if you ask me."

"No, no. Curious is all," Aziraphale said, blatantly avoiding the issue they hadn't got round to resolving yet. No matter how annoyed he was at Crowley, and how the latter must feel towards him, he didn't think he could bear to fight with him again. He'd much rather dance around the truth for a little while longer.

Crowley, even in his not quite sober state of mind, seemed to understand, though the tension was so thick it wasn't exactly difficult. He quickly changed the subject, "You should come up here, angel, you'd like it. Promise."

He looked so hopeful and even vulnerable, as if his whole world was about to come crashing down and Aziraphale sitting with him was the only thing that could stop it. If he'd refused then that would have made him very heartless indeed, and that simply wouldn't do. Though luckily for him, he didn't have the time to even briefly consider the proposal before he found himself sitting by Crowley's side, staring down at where he'd just been standing. He shifted himself so he opposite him, with his back leaning against the chimney post, feeling considerably steadier than he was before.

"Well," Crowley looked at him expectantly, "What do you think?"

Aziraphale blinked before murmuring, "I think you look lovely, my dear. The blue of your dress really compliments the colour of your hair-"

He was cut off by Crowley's undignified snort, "Well, thanks, angel, but I meant the view. Not my dress. Though I'm glad you like it," he reassured him quickly when he noticed his mortified expression.

Aziraphale's tense expression softened like melted butter when he finally looked at the breath-taking landscape surrounding the two of them, encompassing them in the odd security that comes with strangely empty cities. Crowley was right, you could see Buckingham Palace from the rooftop, as well as St James's Park and Berkeley Square and the rest of Piccadilly. Incandescent lights shone from the streets below, but they were nothing compared to the forget-me-not blue of midnight skies above them, dusted with millions of stars like icing sugar on a cake. "Oh," he sighed softly, wholly content and at peace with the world, "Oh, Crowley, it's beautiful. It's, well, I never realised London could be so..." he trailed off, left speechless from awe.

Crowley grinned up at him, "Just wait until the sun comes up. Won't be long now."

Aziraphale's smile faded ever so slightly, "You say that like you've been up here before," he said gently, trying hard not to come off as accusatory.

Crowley's face morphed into one a child might wear when caught with their hand in the cookie jar, but he quickly shrugged it off, leaving it for Aziraphale to mull over by himself. "Drink?" he offered, holding out the bottle of wine.

"Oh, a drink would be lovely, thank you," he smiled, taking it cautiously and sipping at it, letting the alcohol seep in and ease his aching mind.

"What are you doing out this time of night, anyway?" Crowley asked innocently as he took the bottle back from him.

"I-I fancied a walk. Been spending far too much time indoors recently. Needed some fresh air," Aziraphale stammered out, passing the bottle back even though he could have easily finished it off right there and then.

Crowley hummed in response, deciding not to question it even though his gut was screaming at him, screaming that he was lying, he needs help, he needs someone, anyone.

He needs you. Just as much as you need him.

He decided to ignore his intuition because ignorance was far easier than the truth. It slid down like honey and soothed your soul, however temporarily.

"So, the nineteen-twenties," Crowley mused, letting his eyes dance over his surroundings, "'S been an interesting decade so far, hasn't it? Great nightlife. And the fashion, ooh. I've really been enjoying this whole flapper thing. What d'you make of it all, angel?"

It took Aziraphale a moment to respond, "I-I can't say I'd noticed much," he murmured, eyes hellbent on avoiding Crowley's.

Don't look into my eyes. Don't look into them, my love, because if you do, you'll know everything. I'll have no more secrets left, none at all. And I don’t think I can handle that.

The alarm bells in Crowley's head were deafening by that point, even he couldn't ignore them any longer. "Noticed what?" he asked, cautiously placing the wine bottle behind him, deathly terrified of the answer.

"Any of it," he said, voice no louder than a whisper, "I haven't noticed any of it."

Crowley's eyes widened as he tried his best to push down this rising tide of dread inside of him, "Angel-"

"Don't, Crowley," he pleaded, voice breaking but desperately trying to hide it. It was when he finally dared to glance at him that Crowley could finally see the vulnerability and the fear and the anxiety and just about every other emotion that humans had a name for. "Please, don't make me explain, I can't-" he stopped midsentence, inhaling deeply, desperately attempting to pull himself together, "I don't want to talk about it."

Crowley momentarily looked like he was about to object, and Aziraphale’s heart would have skipped a beat if he had one, but he didn’t, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He let himself wonder, for a fleeting second, if perhaps he hadn’t been alone in his weird and confusing feelings. For he had felt this strange sense of loneliness for decades after their fight back in 1867. He’d spent much longer than a few decades without his angel before, but that time had been different, had stung in a way that struck him to his very core. Maybe there was a chance that Aziraphale had felt much the same way. Maybe they were more alike than he thought. He brushed off these thoughts as quickly as they’d arrived; it was unwise to ponder these things while in the presence of others. Instead of making a comment that wasn’t likely to be welcomed with open arms per se, he nodded deeply, oozing with understanding.

Crowley would be a hypocrite if he said that he wouldn’t mind being interrogated like that if he was in Aziraphale’s position, and he was sure he’d already worked most of it out.

Aziraphale softened in relief, the unshed tears in his eyes glistening like gemstones in the glow of the sun that was just starting to rise, creeping slowly up his face as it peered over the London skyline. Crowley couldn’t help it if his eyes lingered on the angel’s face. The logical side of him knew that angels were ethereal by nature, but only now was he starting to understand why. He seemed to literally glow gold with the dawn, outshining the sun and putting it to shame. His ivory suit had been dyed champagne by the sun’s rays, champagne, the colour of the drinks people downed with ease, the colour of the streetlights below them. His eyes were sapphires buried behind a veil of melancholy, framed with the wrinkles that came with centuries upon centuries of things to find joy in.

Oh, the irony, Crowley thought sadly to himself. He forced himself to cast his eyes away, feeling Aziraphale starting to squirm under his stare, instead looking at the Marlboro Red which had materialised in his hand miraculously, or not, depending on how you looked at it. He lit it with a click of his fingers, taking a drag and offering it to Aziraphale. No words had to be said; they’d known each other for long enough, they could say anything with no more than a look.

He eyed it nervously but only for a second, vulnerability taking over and impulses kicking in, and it was in his hand and he was breathing it in before he could even register what he was doing. The smoke waltzed circles around them before leaping away in the early morning breeze. Sparks flew off the cigarette as Aziraphale passed it back, glowing crimson in the sunrise, dying embers of a phoenix blowing away in the lapis blue of the sky.

They sat in the strangely comforting silence for a few moments, the dawn bringing with it its own eery peace. It wasn’t until the cigarette had nearly burnt away completely did Aziraphale finally murmured something, “Will we be okay, Crowley? You and me? Will we be alright?”

Crowley blinked back at him in surprise for a second before mumbling, “I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you do,” he said, voice filled with the spirit of the clouds above them, sweet and gentle and oh-so-soft, “Will we be alright?”

Crowley took advantage of the now burnt out cigarette to think of a response, leaving it to fall out of his hand and onto the pavement below, watching the ashes scatter over the London streets as if he was mourning them, “Yeah. I think we’ll be okay. Do you?”

“I hope so,” he said, voice no louder than a whisper but speaking volumes all the same. A single tear escaped, a drip of molten gold running down his face.

There was a lump in Crowley’s own throat just at the sight of his angel, and at the overwhelming meaning of those three simple words. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and brushing the tear away and my, hadn’t they gotten rather close. Aziraphale melted like butter under his touch and Crowley’s heart could burst just looking at him. Suddenly he was pressed up to the demon’s chest, arms hesitantly snaking around him, leaving Crowley speechless in shock for no more than a second. He quickly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, resting his chin on the top of his head as the angel buried his face in his chest. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle that had remained unsolved for far too long, both of them internally sighing in relief and shouting for joy because they knew that this was where they needed to be. Neither let go, for neither wanted to, and they held each other as the dawn sun watched over them, casting its protective glow over a moment that deserved to be shielded from prying eyes.

And in the years to come, they would both act like that fateful night in nineteen twenty three had never happened, tucking the memory away in a far-flung corner of their minds and putting the whole thing down to alcohol’s wicked influence. But, no matter how much denial they would put themselves through in the next century or so, they both remembered in the depths of their hearts the words that had been said and the words that had been buried deep between the lines.

[animeangelriku]

Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down Swinging

[Sugar Daddy Aziraphale receives a surprise from his Sugar Baby Crowley, a surprise he very much likes.]

[Also read on AO3!]

Aziraphale takes a sip from his scotch and lets out a long, relaxed breath.

Spring is finally starting to give way to summer. It gives him the chance to take advantage of the chairs by the pool, where he can sit down and read to the quietness of his private property. He doesn’t usually care much for the pool or its nearby chairs, but Crowley mentioned an interest in swimming, and Aziraphale hopes that being here rather than indoors will entice him to go for a swim… or at the very least sit with Aziraphale with as little clothing as possible.

His darling boy has such bad heat tolerance, poor thing. Even this weather might prove too hot for him.

Aziraphale takes out his pocket watch and frowns slightly. Speaking of Crowley, he should have been home by now. Aziraphale isn’t sure where he went, as Crowley just told him he was ‘going out,’ but he usually doesn’t take so long. Could something have happened to him? Surely Crowley would’ve called him if that were the case—

He shakes his head to himself. Crowley owes him no explanation for anything: not for where he goes or what he does or what time he comes back. That has always been their Arrangement, and it has worked wonderfully so far, and Aziraphale will not be the one to make a mess of it.

He places his glass of scotch on the table beside him and gently turns the page of the book on his lap.

Just then, he hears, distantly, Crowley’s car pulling into the property.

Aziraphale feels his heartbeat increasing, and he wills himself to calm down. He’s not a schoolboy with a bloody crush on the pretty boy in his class, he’s an adult man in a mutually beneficent sexual relationship with the most brilliant, cunning, stunning, beautiful man he has ever met.

Another shake of his head.

You’re an adult man, Aziraphale reminds himself. An old man, to be precise. He knows better than this.

With great effort, he forces his attention back to his worn copy of Four Quartets and waits for Crowley to call for him—hoping he will, really.

It’s eight minutes and thirty-three seconds (not that Aziraphale kept count) before he hears Crowley’s voice behind him.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Oh!” The next words sound closer, like Crowley has stepped outside. “There you are! Getting some fresh air?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says. “How were your errands?”

“Productive,” Crowley answers, and Aziraphale smiles to himself, thankful that Crowley can’t see it. “Actually, are you busy?”

Aziraphale lifts his gaze from his book. He’s never too busy for Crowley, never, much less when his tone has begun shifting into a coy sultriness that would be impossible for anyone else to pull off. For Crowley, it comes like second nature.

“No, not at all,” Aziraphale replies, gently closing Four Quartets and setting it down next to his glass, ready to stand up from his seat. Crowley has presented him with an invitation, and Aziraphale will always accept it.

He has barely clasped the arms of his chair when Crowley says, firm and commandingly, “Stay right there.”

A shiver runs down Aziraphale’s spine. He sits back down and folds his hands on his lap.

Crowley is not often in charge. It’s not that he doesn’t like it, and it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t like it—he has simply noticed that his darling boy prefers to be taken care of, looked after, even though he will never admit it out loud. He will say that he wants to be bent, broken, fucked, claimed, and Aziraphale will happily oblige, but he has also learned to read between the lines, both the spoken ones and the ones on Crowley’s handsome face. He knows when Crowley would rather they take it slow despite his pleas for Aziraphale to “just get on with it,” and he’s not above holding him down to give him exactly what he needs.

But Crowley has set the scene. It’s only fair Aziraphale lets it unfold.

“I’ve got a surprise for youuuuu,” Crowley singsongs, the pitch of his voice slightly lower than usual.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale asks, and he really shouldn’t be surprised at how ragged he sounds already. It’s ridiculous, truly, what Crowley’s voice does to him on a regular basis, let alone when he plays at seducing Aziraphale.

“Mh-hm,” Crowley hums. “Will you close your eyes for me?”

I’ll do anything you want me to do, Aziraphale thinks and closes his eyes, biting his tongue lest the traitorous words rip their way out of his throat. Perhaps he’ll speak them later, when he has Crowley begging and shaking apart on his hands.

Good lord, heat is beginning to build in his pelvis, in his belly, his fingers curling on his lap, his mind racing with images of what this surprise of Crowley’s might be. A new outfit? Aziraphale loves watching Crowley try on clothes, especially if his dear boy decides to give him a show and parade himself as if he were on his very own runway.

Oh, he can perfectly picture Crowley twirling in front of him before he loses his patience and pulls him forward, desperate to have him gasping and writhing on his lap, his open mouth hot and damp as he begs for Aziraphale’s touch.

Aziraphale swallows a moan and presses the heel of his hand to his cock through his trousers.

Breathe, he orders his terribly weak body. Calm down, for Heaven’s sake.

It’s frankly outrageous how much he desires Crowley, how much he craves him, all the time. He hasn’t even seen him yet!

His eyes still closed, Aziraphale inhales deeply. Now that he has pulled his thoughts to the present, he can hear the soft click-clack, click-clack, click-clack of Crowley’s footsteps, and saliva pools embarrassingly in his mouth. Crowley is so frustratingly breathtaking no matter what, but he has a way of wearing heels like they were made for him, like they were designed and tailored just for him.

The click-clack grows louder until it comes to a halt and Aziraphale can almost feel Crowley standing in front of him. His skin itches with the anticipation.

“Right,” Crowley says, and… That’s odd. He sounds nervous. Aziraphale’s first instinct is to reassure him, which is impossible given his current situation. He can’t think of anything that would make Crowley sound even remotely close to nervous. What could possibly be the matter? “You can open your eyes… now.”

Aziraphale does as he’s told, and he subsequently feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. 

“Oh,” he exhales. “Oh, my dear.”

Crowley is wearing heels indeed, a pair of black stiletto pumps that accentuate his slender legs. His chest is covered by thin, black elastic straps forming a sort of bodice around his gorgeously pink nipples and upper torso, dropping into a mesh gown that flows all the way down to his heels, with a slit at each side of his adorable bellybutton to let him show off his mouthwatering thighs, the long expanse of his lithe calves. Underneath the gown and harness, he’s wearing lace knickers that are not even knickers, they’re just a black band with a strip of lace around it and a piece of mesh fabric covering Crowley’s half-hard cock, decorating it with two small pink bows, like a present.

And sweet God Almighty, what a present it is.

Crowley… He has never worn lingerie around Aziraphale, for Aziraphale, but Lord Above, he had nothing to be nervous about. As if Aziraphale would ever judge him or express distaste for something Crowley acquired for him, as if he would ever judge him for anything he did or wore or fancied.

Crowley doesn’t seem to know what to do with his arms, having no pockets where he can hide his hands, so he ultimately raises them above his head and bends them back, letting Aziraphale see all of him.

“So?” he asks, the seductiveness in his voice betrayed by the nervousness still lingering there.

As if Aziraphale would ever not want him.

“Oh, Crowley,” he breathes. “You are stunning.”

He always is, a masterpiece of flesh and muscle and bone, but now he looks like he has manifested himself directly out of Aziraphale’s dirtiest, most indulgent fantasies, displaying himself like a goddamn feast to be praised and subsequently devoured.

Crowley’s golden eyes, free of the sunglasses he often wears everywhere but here, darken with hunger, the loveliest, softest of blushes pinkening his cheeks.

“Yeah?” he asks, almost timidly.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, reaching for his glass of scotch, because his throat is parched. “Won’t you turn around for me, my boy?”

This Crowley excels at. Having regained his ego, he stands tall and twirls slowly, a peacock showing off his plumage, his heels click-clacking against the tiled floor with every step he takes. Each peek at his bare skin through the slits of his gown makes Aziraphale take another sip from his scotch. Good. He won’t even have to waste time undressing Crowley.  

“Simply magnificent,” Aziraphale adds as he watches Crowley turn his back to him and sway his hips, his pert, biteable arse bare beneath the so-called knickers and gown. How he wants to press his fingers to the flesh, knead and tug and pull at it until he has left bruises.

“You think so?” Crowley asks, the question dripping with faux innocence.

“Positively sinful,” Aziraphale snarls, fingers tightening around his glass.  

Crowley looks at him over his shoulder, and the way he bats his eyelashes, beckoning, is almost enough to force Aziraphale out of his seat and over to him. But he waits. Crowley told him to stay put, and unless he’s commanded otherwise, Aziraphale intends to do just that.

“D’you really like it?” his darling questions, barely louder than a whisper, lowering his eyes before he glances up at Aziraphale again. As he turns back to face him, his cock strains against the mesh fabric covering it, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to have it in his mouth.

Well. Just because he was told to stay put doesn’t mean he can’t do a bit of beckoning of his own.

“Why don’t you come here,” Aziraphale murmurs, grabbing his book from the small, round table beside him and placing it and his glass on the floor next to his chair, “and let me show you how much I do?”

It only takes Crowley a few steps forward to be within Aziraphale’s reach, and as soon as he is, Aziraphale grabs him by the hips and hauls him up onto the table, sitting him right on the edge. He knows Crowley likes being manhandled every now and then, evident even now by his parted lips and lust-filled gaze, and while Aziraphale enjoys teasing him about it when the mood strikes him, this is not the time for it.

“Azirapha—” Crowley begins, only for Aziraphale’s name to turn into a scream when he leans down, pushes the front of the mesh gown aside, and mouths at the line of Crowley’s cock. “Oh, fuck.”

Crowley falls back against the table, arms thrown over his head, and Aziraphale takes this opportunity to run his hands over the skin of Crowley’s thighs, his fingernails scratching the thin red hair as his teeth graze the mesh fabric of the lace knickers.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispers, his breath hot and damp, and he can’t help smiling at the small shiver that courses through Crowley’s body. “You should not have been so worried.”

“W-worried?” Crowley repeats wobblily. “I—I wasn’t—”

“I always find you extremely delectable, darling,” Aziraphale goes on, because he needs to reassure Crowley that nothing could ever change how he feels about him, how much he hungers for him, and he refuses to let Crowley believe otherwise. “And how could I not find you even more so now, when you went and prepared this surprise just for me?”

He hears Crowley stuttering through a response, but he’s grown quite desperate, and he wants to taste the gorgeously red, thick cock in front of him right now, please. So Aziraphale grabs the elastic band around Crowley’s hipbones between his thumbs and slides the lace knickers down his legs.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley whimpers as Aziraphale gently places his legs over his shoulders, his back arching off the table. He hears Crowley’s stilettos clacking to the floor, and his heels dig into Aziraphale’s back. “Aziraphale, fuck, please, please…”

Really, how can Aziraphale resist such lovely begging, especially coming from his darling boy’s sweet, sweet mouth?

Taking Crowley down to the root is no hardship. Aziraphale loves pleasuring Crowley any and every way, but he rather fancies feeling the weight of Crowley’s prick on his tongue, feeling the head graze the back of his throat, pushing his nose against Crowley’s pubes and inhaling the scent of him, of his sweat, and he hollows his cheeks and swallows around him and sears every single sound Crowley makes into his memory.

“A-Angel,” Crowley gasps, one of his hands curling in Aziraphale’s hair. That’s quite all right—Aziraphale has no qualms about having his hair tugged, and if the sting on his scalp brings a moan out of him and helps him bring Crowley closer to his release, then all the better.

He can tell Crowley won’t last much longer if the way his cock twitches and spills beads of precome on Aziraphale’s tongue is anything to go by, and he’s about to redouble his efforts when Crowley thrusts his hips up into his mouth.

Aziraphale pets his thighs. His poor dear gets so desperate when he’s this close, but Aziraphale will get him there, and he translates this message by skimming just the tips of his fingers over the skin of Crowley’s hipbones. They have gotten quite efficient at communicating without words, which serves them well in this kind of situation, where Aziraphale is otherwise occupied and Crowley cannot muster anything other than random combinations of letters Aziraphale shouldn’t find as endearing as he does.

But then Crowley thrusts his hips up again, this time harder, and Aziraphale has known him long enough to recognise when he’s being challenged.

Oh, naughty boy.  

Aziraphale pulls away, letting his lips suck around the head of Crowley’s cock before he regretfully releases him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groans, his sinuous hips continuing to thrust up into the air, his flushed prick resting long and curved against his belly.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says sternly, and relishes Crowley’s whine and the fast, heavy rise of his chest. He wraps his hands around Crowley’s waist and presses his thumbs into the dips of his hips over the mesh gown, almost hard enough to feel the bone beneath the flesh, and fuck if Crowley’s hiss of both pain and arousal is not the sexiest thing he has ever heard. “Do be still for me, please.”

Aziraphale wraps his lips around Crowley’s gorgeous cock and slowly bobs his head, letting his tongue press against the veins on the underside, swallowing around him, hollowing his cheeks as he makes slurping sounds, perfectly aware they drive Crowley nearly to blindness with desire. He pulls away just for a second to lick at the slit on the head of Crowley’s cock as if it were a lolly, and he pushes Crowley’s hips down with his thumbs when he feels him trying to thrust up into him.

“Fuck, angel, you’re—ah!—y-you’re killing me!” Crowley moans, using his grip on Aziraphale’s hair to push Aziraphale further down until he’s almost gagging. His own cock twitches in his trousers, painfully hard and smearing the fabric, but he focuses on Crowley, on his beautiful boy, who is almost there, so close to the edge, and Aziraphale so desperately wants him to come down his throat that he tightens his mouth around Crowley’s prick and sucks like he was born for it.

“Oh!” Crowley screams, and his fingernails scratch Aziraphale’s scalp, and he groans delightedly. “Fuck, f-fuck, FUCK, Aziraphale!”

And then Crowley’s coming, spilling in his mouth, and Aziraphale swallows him down, sucking his cock until Crowley mewls, pushing at his shoulders as he trembles with the aftershocks.

When he finally straightens, gently lowers Crowley’s legs from his shoulders, and glances at the stunning man beneath him, the breath is nearly knocked out of him again.

Crowley’s exposed skin, the bits of flesh that are not covered by his harness, is flushed and hot to the touch, dewy with sweat. His mouth is parted as he struggles to even his breathing with big, damp puffs of air. His gown flows beneath him and down to the ground. His hands slowly loosen their grip on Aziraphale’s hair, moving instead to wrap around his shoulders and pull him down for an open, filthy kiss.

Kissing is something Aziraphale has always been a big fan of, but he has never liked it as much as he does when it’s Crowley he’s kissing. Their mouths fit perfectly together. Crowley often pouts his lower lip so that Aziraphale can suck it between his, swiping his tongue across it until Crowley tugs it into his own mouth and nips at it, all the while making wet little noises that go straight to Aziraphale’s prick.

Still holding Crowley by the hips, Aziraphale pulls him up and sits back down on his chair with Crowley’s legs straddling him, the front of the gown pushed to the side showing off his cock, slick with Aziraphale’s spit.

“My dear,” he begins, tucking one stray lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear, but then Crowley grips his shoulders and grinds down against him, forcing a choked-off moan out of Aziraphale. His neglected cock makes itself known again, straining against his trousers, and Crowley smirks wickedly, an enticing gesture that quirks up the corner of his equally enticing mouth.

“Can’t have all the fun myself,” Crowley pants, breathless. The movement of his hips is serpentine, a dancing sin, the artwork of a tempter, and Aziraphale has fallen like a shooting star, fast and headfirst, into the jaws of the snake, and he would not have it any other way.

He grabs Crowley’s pretty arse, kneads the flesh on his hands, sinks his fingers on his cheeks and pulls at them to hear Crowley moan shamelessly, grinding down harder against him.  

“Aziraphale,” he whines, and his cock is starting to harden again, and Aziraphale’s mouth waters.

“You’re so beautiful, darling,” he mumbles, pressing his lips to Crowley’s pulse point to suck a bruise onto his neck. It is such a contrast to feel both Crowley’s arse on his hands and the mesh fabric of his gown brushing against the backs of his palms, but it is a contrast that only heightens Aziraphale’s arousal.

Crowley whimpers, a high-pitched sound that makes Aziraphale shiver. He realises, suddenly, that he has not paid attention to Crowley’s chest, to his cute nipples, and that will simply not stand. He does so love to lave them with his tongue, pinch them between his fingers, tug on them with his teeth until they are hard and flushed.

Reluctant to let go of his arse, Aziraphale uses one hand to scratch lightly over Crowley’s right nipple and wraps his lips around the left one. Crowley’s response is immediately, canting his hips upwards with such strength, Aziraphale is tempted to hold him down again, to keep him still while he thrusts up against him, giving his cock the friction he desperately craves. Oh, but it’s not Crowley’s fault, and Aziraphale knows it. His darling has such deliciously sensitive nipples, he knew what he was in for.

“Hngh, ang—Aziraph—ngh!”

“Hush, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, trailing kisses from one nipple to the other and then to his breastbones, his collarbones, every bit of skin that is exposed and bared for Aziraphale’s mouth to mark.

Crowley pushes back against Aziraphale’s hand on his arse, and one of his fingers slips and presses slightly, just barely, really, completely unintentionally, to his slick rim.

Crowley lets out a wounded noise.

It can’t be. It can’t possibly… But it is���

Aziraphale pulls back from Crowley’s chest and stares at him. His dear boy’s eyes are closed, his brow furrowed in ecstasy, one of his sharp canines fiercely biting down on his lower lip. Could it be…?

He grabs Crowley’s arse with both hands once more. His finger pushes tenderly between the globes of his cheeks and finds his hole, tracing the outside of it before pressing so easily, so smoothly inside.  

Aziraphale gasps, the sound deafened by Crowley’s broken moan.

“Oh, my dear,” he breathes as Crowley pushes back against his finger, trying to pull him deeper, sucking him greedily. “Is this part of your surprise?” he wonders, and he asks the question with his teeth grazing the sharp line of Crowley’s jaw. “Were you hoping for this?”

“Fuck yes,” Crowley growls, not even pretending to deny it. He’s flushed all over, the exposed patches of skin painted pink and bearing the purpling, blossoming marks left by Aziraphale’s mouth. His nails dig into Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he hisses with the pleasure of it. “Wh-why else would I—ah—w-wear this if I wasn’t gonna s-show it to—ngh, fuck, fuck, angel—”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Crowley’s chest. He glows at the words, at the thought of Crowley buying and wearing this for him, at the mental image of Crowley preparing himself before changing into his pretty lingerie. Did he tease himself open on the bed they share, his legs spread wide, feet against the mattress, moaning Aziraphale’s name? Did he stroke himself, picturing Aziraphale above him muttering words of praise and encouragement? Was he on his knees, perhaps, wishing Aziraphale were pressing him down to the bed, draped over him as he thrust into him?

Crowley shoves his hips forward, and Aziraphale is so close himself, half a second away from coming in his trousers. He slips a second and then a third finger inside Crowley, scissoring him open, curling the tip of one of them until Crowley keens, his back arching beautifully.

“Angel,” he whines, sweat dampening his hair and beading down his temples. Aziraphale wants to lick it off him. “Angel, fuck me, please fuck me…” Crowley’s hands move down to Aziraphale’s trousers, nimble fingers undoing the button and zip to pull out his cock soaked in precome, and Aziraphale swears. “Want your cock inside me, I’ll take it so good, make you feel so good, please…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale moans. “I know you will, sweet thing.” He pulls his fingers away, shushing Crowley’s hiss with a kiss. He strokes himself, smearing his own precome and what slickness stuck to his fingers over his prick, and then he takes Crowley’s lovely, finger-bruised hips through slits on his gown and drags him forward.

Crowley does not need to be persuaded. He lifts himself up on his knees, holding Aziraphale’s cock in one of his hands, and sinks down without any patience whatsoever, immediately taking Aziraphale to the hilt.

They both groan out loud, pushing their mouths together as Crowley begins to move, fucking himself on Aziraphale’s cock. He’s so tight, so hot inside, his body clinging to Aziraphale like a vine, and Aziraphale thinks—a bit hysterically, and certainly not for the first time—that he would like to spend hours like this, letting Crowley ride him or fucking him into the bed or having Crowley fuck him, whatever Crowley wants, as long as their bodies can remain entwined like this, joined together with the sole purpose of bringing pleasure to each other.

Crowley swivels his hips, impaling himself on Aziraphale’s prick until the head grazes his prostate, and he arches into Aziraphale and does it again, over and over and over again, driving Aziraphale mad with ecstasy.

He’s not going to last much longer, and he has a feeling Crowley won’t, either. Oh, how he wants to make Crowley come again, wants to watch him come undone this time, and he grips his hips and thrusts into him hard and fast, at Crowley’s preferred pace, relishing the slap of the back of Crowley’s thighs against his, the sound of his darling boy’s short, panting breaths.

“Will you come again for me, Crowley?” Aziraphale licks his palm and wraps it around Crowley’s cock, spreading the beads at the slit over the head. Crowley screams, and although his hips stutter, he does not stop, simultaneously fucking himself on Aziraphale’s cock and into his slick hand. The blush on his cheeks is so breathtaking, so sinful, and Aziraphale leans forward to pull his pouting bottom lip between his teeth. “Will you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Crowley whimpers, his arms wrapping around Aziraphale’s neck so he can grasp a fistful of his hair and tug him into another kiss. “Ngh, Azir—angel, I’m—fuck, ‘m gonna—”

“Yes…” Aziraphale strokes him faster, fucks him harder, his own climax rapidly building in his pelvis, but he wants Crowley to come first. “Come for me, you gorgeous thing.”

Give me all of you, he doesn’t say.

Crowley nods his head fiercely and grunts a series of consonants from the back of his throat, and with one more thrust into Aziraphale’s hand, he comes with a cry, spilling himself over Aziraphale’s fingers and waistcoat, still perfectly, neatly done up.

It is the most erotic sight in the world: Crowley’s pink, flushed skin beneath his harness, his mesh gown pooled behind him and at his side, exposing his softening cock. He is beauty and temptation incarnate, as alluring as the forbidden fruit—Aziraphale never stood a chance.

It only takes him one, two, three more snaps of his hips, and then he’s coming inside Crowley, biting Crowley’s shoulder to try (and fail) to lessen the intensity of his moan. Crowley lets out a needy whine, and Aziraphale cannot possibly deny him, and he cups the back of Crowley’s neck and brings him down to swallow the noise.

They stay exactly like that for several minutes, exchanging wet, lewd kisses, tongues licking inside each other’s mouths and their teeth clacking together, their breaths hot and damp over the other’s lips.

Eventually, Aziraphale helps lift Crowley off him, petting his thighs when he winces with oversensitivity. Crowley sits back on his lap, his hands clasping Aziraphale’s shoulders to steady himself, and his eyes are still dark with arousal, and his smile is soft and so terribly kissable, and Aziraphale loves him.

Oh.

Aziraphale loves him.

He kisses Crowley again. There’s no room for those feelings in this Arrangement, but if he can go on pretending nothing has changed, it will be fine. It must be. He’ll make sure of it.

He pulls apart and can’t help smiling at the content, relaxed hum Crowley exhales.

“Y’liked your surprise, I reckon,” Crowley mumbles smugly, sated.

“Oh, yes, quite,” Aziraphale says, nuzzling his neck. “I very much enjoy you in lingerie, my boy.”

“Good,” Crowley sighs, shivering at the first press of Aziraphale’s tongue to his throat. “’Cause you paid for it.”

“Did I?” he muses, sucking lovebites onto the flesh.

“Technically.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t care what Crowley spends his money on. He has plenty of it, and if he’s not going to spend it himself, he might as well give it to someone who will. It’s part of their Arrangement—Aziraphale does not ask questions, and Crowley is in no way obligated to tell him anything. He owes him no explanations, and yet he often gives them, most times bringing Aziraphale a book or trinket he “came across” on the way.  

Fuck. Aziraphale loves him.

“I also got some other stuff,” Crowley adds when Aziraphale moves to the other side of his neck.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Wanna see?”

Aziraphale has never said no to Crowley, and he’s not about to start now.

~~*-*~~

[If you liked this, please consider buying me a Ko-Fi!]

[whatawriterwields]

Am I Wrong?

The bookshop’s window looks out onto the street. Aziraphale stands there, feet planted firmly on the dusty wood of the floor, shoulders back, head erect. Hands clasped behind his back. A soldier at attention, though he can’t stop his hands from fidgeting, hard as he tries. He stares out at the cars and the pedestrians passing, one after the other, back and forth, back and forth. He watches the pattern repeat until he can hardly stand it, until he wants to scream. His eyes burn, but it’s not enough to produce real tears.

He’s used to this feeling, this twisting, swirling sensation in his gut. He’s been known to stand this way for hours, days even, before finally breaking down and crying, and then trying to forget about it. As his hands tremble now, and he fights to keep them still, he hopes this one will pass more quickly.

But this time he’s interrupted. Though he’s turned his bookshop’s sign to CLOSED - though he’s had the wild thought, as he always does in these episodes, that he should close the damn thing down and leave London for good - the door swings open around noon, and a familiar voice calls out to him above the bell.

“Angel?”

His heart leaps, faintly, at the sight of Crowley’s red hair making its way toward him through the shelves. For a moment he thinks about moving away from the window, opening a bottle of wine with the demon, and whiling away the afternoon and the evening with pleasant conversation. Laughing about customers and hearing horror stories about Crowley’s plants. But then the thought crumples. Aziraphale deflates, and turns back toward the window, eyes burning a little stronger. That’s just like him, to think of distracting himself with pleasure. How stupid of him. How selfish. 

Read on Ao3

Crowley appears by his side. “What are you doing here? I fancied a lunch date.” 

Aziraphale forces a little smile. “That sounds fine, dear.”

“Fine?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

His lips twist into a half-grimace, and he focuses his eyes on the people passing by on their side of the sidewalk. It’s not many people - the day is overcast, and it’s a weekday, and most people are at home or at work - but it’s enough. Enough to remind Aziraphale why he should be at work too.

“Something’s bothering you,” says Crowley. “Tell me.”

Oh, that would be easy, wouldn’t it? To confide in Crowley, to heave all his inner turmoil on the demon’s shoulders, to let him carry the weight Aziraphale was made for. That would be convenient enough. Aziraphale swallows, tasting salt on his tongue, and stares away. “It’s nothing.” 

“Don’t be daft. I’ve never heard you that unenthusiastic about food.” 

And that comment, though it’s said in a lighthearted tone, a gentle tone, even - though Aziraphale knows Crowley is only teasing, and that Crowley loves him, and that Crowley doesn’t mind going out to restaurants and watching Aziraphale eat everything on the menu - because of those things, in fact, that comment makes Aziraphale’s shoulders sag, and he covers his face with his hands as they begin to shake.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is taken aback. “Hey, hey -” he puts an arm around Aziraphale, using the other hand to draw Aziraphale’s damp fingers from his eyes, to brush the brimming tears away - “what did I say?” 

“N-nothing.” Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s arms. He doesn’t deserve comfort. “I’m…”

“What? You’re what?”

“I’m all wrong.” He gestures helplessly out the window, too overwhelmed to try disguising the catch in his voice. “Do you see the people out there? The people who walk by my bookshop every day, and have for hundreds of years, and did before I came here and started this ridiculous business?” He locks his eyes on a man with his head bowed against the wind, and points. “That man just lost his job. He’s trying to care for his son, but he’s barely making ends meet, and he’s been praying every night for a miracle to change his fate.” 

Crowley’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

Oh, Crowley doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t. Aziraphale has never told him what the world is like for a principality. That’s one secret he’s never confided. “I know them all, Crowley. I can know every human’s suffering if I want to.” 

“What?” 

“See that woman?” He motions, somewhat wildly, to an elderly woman several paces behind the man. “She hasn’t talked to any of her family members since her brother died. She tries to work up the courage every day, but she just can’t stop thinking about which one of them is next, and maybe it’s her but even worse, maybe it isn’t, and she’s terrified of letting herself cry about this first loss when she’s got to keep herself strong for so many more.” Aziraphale dashes more tears from his eyes. 

Crowley’s mouth is hanging open. He seems utterly lost for words, but that’s just fine - Aziraphale isn’t done, he isn’t close to done. 

“I’ve been in this shop since the eighteenth century,” he says, “and I’ve seen every kind of suffering under the sun. I’ve seen people break down and cry in the middle of the street. I’ve seen arguments end decades-old relationships. I’ve seen people dying, out there in the cold during the worst winters, and no one caring enough to help them.” He clutches his head, running his fingers through his hair, his breaths shaky, uneven. “But most often I just see the pain in their minds. And it doesn’t show up on their faces. And I can read exactly what’s happening to them - I can see how badly they need the world to just stop being so unfair, and for some great cosmic order to right their lives, and for things to start making sense.” 

Aziraphale lets his arms fall. “All while I’m here, in my bookshop, wealthy as can be, able to go out to lunch whenever I like, never needing to worry about money or dying or how I’ll keep warm when winter comes.” He wants to let his legs give out under him. He wants to fall apart. “All while I’m reading books and eating crepes.” 

There’s a moment of silence. Aziraphale doesn’t look up at Crowley; instead, he turns and leans his forehead against the window. He can still see people passing. He sees the ones in their cars, too, and it takes him no time at all to pick out the ones hurting. To see their stories unfurling out from behind them like so much shredded ribbon. 

“You...” says Crowley at last, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a bad angel, Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps. “I’m saying I was supposed to be a warrior against the forces of evil and injustice, and I don’t know how. I’m no good at fighting. I’m saying -” his hands are still clenching and unclenching, feeling, Aziraphale knows, for the flaming sword he still senses like a phantom limb - “I’m saying that I’m frivolous, and shallow, and selfish.” 

“Oh, come on.” Crowley reaches out for Aziraphale again, hands going to his shoulders, comforting - and once more Aziraphale sidesteps them. Why is being kind so easy for Crowley? Why does comforting come so natural to a demon? Why can’t Aziraphale reach out to the person driving that car out there, who’s fallen off the wagon for the third time, and give him some of that healing warmth that flows from Crowley without a thought? 

“I care so much about books,” Aziraphale whimpers. “I read them over and over, and I collect them, and sometimes I just sit in the middle of them and stare at them and feel so happy I can’t even explain it. And I want to care that much about all these people. I want to - really, I do. But it’s so exhausting.” He can feel another sob building in the back of his throat. “It never ends, their pain. And when they come in here I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t know how to help. I’m useless.” He has that wild thought again, that reckless, wits’-end thought, that maybe it’d have been better if his bookshop stayed burned. “All I can think about are these stupid books.” 

And he sobs again, and again, and leans against the window like it’s a lifeboat keeping him above a flood. Like it’s another little raft that keeps him from harm when the humans around him are drowning. 

“I don’t know how to help,” he sobs. “I’ve been here six thousand years and I don’t know how to help them.” 

And he feels so weak, so pale and fragile here in this place that’s supposed to bring him joy, that he barely notices when Crowley touches him once more. When Crowley’s fingers press to his cheek again, turning his face, slowly, tenderly toward him. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, quiet. “Look at me.” 

Reluctantly Aziraphale raises his eyes. Crowley’s sunglasses are off. His golden serpent’s eyes are on full display, spread without whites around them. They’re filled with something Aziraphale can’t quite name. 

“You’re not a bad angel,” Crowley says. “No one should be forced to carry the whole world’s suffering. That’s too heavy a weight for anyone.”

“I could be doing it better,” Aziraphale mutters. “I could be - I don’t know - I could be rescuing people from war zones. I could be going out distributing food to the hungry. I could be miracling jobs for every underemployed family. I could be out shouting down bigoted preachers - in fact I could have been doing that for hundreds of years, as they don’t seem to be getting any less bigoted as time goes by. I could have used some divine miracle to stop the Inquisition, if I’d caught it in time, if I’d been more vigilant. I could have stopped the Terror.” 

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for every terrible thing humans have done to each other.”

“What else can I think? They commend you. They ought to have punished me.”

“Come on.” Crowley tilts Aziraphale’s chin up. “We both knew they were idiots for thinking I started the Terror and the Inquisition. We both knew it wasn’t possible for a single demon to do that much damage. How can anyone have expected a single angel to stop it?” 

“So many people died.”

“People die, Aziraphale. It’s what they do.” Crowley moves his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, still gentle. “It’s not your fault.” 

Tears are running more freely, now, from Aziraphale’s eyes. “But it’s my mission -”

“Was your mission.” Crowley’s thumb runs over Aziraphale’s damp cheek. “It was a terrible mission, given to you by angels who didn’t care about you. It was a mission that just set you up to be a disappointment. But you’re free now.” 

“And what am I supposed to do?” Aziraphale wants to pull away, but he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He needs Crowley’s hands. He needs his breath. He needs his comfort, pathetic creature that he is. “I want to help. I want to be good. I don’t want to spend another six thousand years here not making a difference to anyone.”

And Crowley smiles, a smile so slow and so easy and so tender it’s like watching the dawn break in the sky. 

“Angel,” he says. “You’re an idiot.” 

Aziraphale blinks. 

“You know I’m a demon, right?” Crowley nods down at himself. “You know not a single person in six thousand years has ever been kind to me, except for you?” 

Aziraphale glances away, cheeks going red. Crowley’s exaggerating. Though his earnest expression, the way he ducks his head to make eye contact again, belies any sort of teasing intent. 

“You gave me hope in goodness again,” Crowley said. “When you gave away your sword. That’s not nothing, is it?”

“I…”

“You think you haven’t mattered? Angel, you’ve mattered to me for all six thousand years you’ve been on this planet. You’ve mattered more than the sun. You’ve mattered so much you convinced me to stop Armageddon, and it’s not because you were some grand warrior out fighting injustice. I met enough of those types in Heaven.” Crowley jerks his head, as if to dismiss the legions of God’s army in a single gesture. “It was because you loved.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Loved, not the way they talked about in Heaven - not the way they meant it when they said God’s made of love.” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in both hands and holds it steady. “Listen to me. You loved because things brought you joy. Because you were happy, in this world, and that was incredible to me.” 

Aziraphale hiccups. It’s hard for him to keep his mind on the gaping chasm in his gut when Crowley is looking at him like that. When Crowley is holding him so near, and still smiling that close, loving smile. 

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley murmurs. “You’re so good, angel, and you’re a light in this world without even trying to be one. You have no idea how much happiness you can bring just by loving books. It’s not wrong to be the way you are.” 

“Oh, Crowley -”

“Shh.” Crowley draws Aziraphale in, wrapping his arms around him and fitting his head against the crook of his neck. “Hey. It’s all right to cry. Get it out.” 

And Aziraphale cries; he stops trying to maintain his soldier’s stance and leans fully into Crowley, letting Crowley support him. Crowley pets his hair. The feeling is so nice, so wonderfully soothing; he shouldn’t enjoy it, he shouldn’t be thinking about Crowley when he’s supposed to be thinking about the world, but somehow he can’t help it. 

Maybe Crowley’s right. Maybe he doesn’t have to.

“The world needs people like you,” says Crowley. “So you aren’t a warrior. Who needs another force for violence anyway? Humanity’s better off with you watching over them than anyone else.” 

“You really think so?”

Crowley pulls back, and his lips meet Aziraphale’s, softly, so softly. Aziraphale can’t help the smile that blooms in his mouth at Crowley’s touch. 

“I know so,” he says. 

For a long moment they stand in silence, Aziraphale taking slow, steadying breaths, Crowley with his arms still around him, rubbing soothing circles into his back. For a long moment Aziraphale works to let go of the shame he let overcome him.

Then the bookshop’s doors jingle again, and the two of them break apart.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Someone else has entered the shop, someone he doesn’t recognize - a young girl, a teenager, with short dyed hair and large earrings. She looks a little small for her clothes, like she’s shrinking into herself, like she’s lost. It takes her a moment to turn her head in their direction.

When she does, her gaze drops immediately to their joined hands, before she looks up at their faces. Aziraphale catches the trace of a smile in hers.

“Hello,” he says, voice still wobbling slightly. “My apologies. I was just - ah - well, I’d been having a hard morning, and my -” 

He looks over at Crowley, who gives him an encouraging look.

His eyes move back to the girl, and he reads the lost look in her shoulders with hardly any need for a miracle - came out to her parents, they’re not pleased, she left the house to clear her head, but she doesn’t know what’ll be waiting for her when she comes home. 

“My partner,” he says, voice a little stronger, “was giving me some good advice.”

The girl’s smile widens into something more substantial. “Uh. No problem.” 

“Would you like to - er - look at a book?”

“He doesn’t like it when you buy them,” Crowley stage-whispers to her. “Just look and put them back, though, and you’ll be fine. And don’t get any smudges on the covers.”

The girl lets out a tentative laugh. “That’d be great. I’m just… looking for some light reading, you know.” 

Suddenly the spark of an idea enters Aziraphale’s head. With a little bounce in his step, suddenly, he disentangles himself from Crowley and moves toward a particular shelf, beckoning the girl to follow him.

“How do you feel about classical poetry?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “I don’t know much about it.” 

“Well, there’s a delightful poet from ancient Greece I think you might like. I’ve got a book of her work around here somewhere…” 

Crowley watches from the window as Aziraphale rummages happily through the volumes. The girl is starting to relax, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see what he’s looking for. Aziraphale can feel the bright grin growing on his cheeks, but he can’t stop it. And he doesn’t want to. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to talk about Sappho. 

Tonight, when the shop closes again, Aziraphale resolves, he’s going to take Crowley out for dinner. 

[sushiandstarlight]

“Unwrap”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Prompt One

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

Lemon Warning

“You look tired.”

“We don't get tired.”

“No, we don't need to sleep. We get tired. You get tired and you sleep.”

Crowley had wandered into Aziraphale's rooms, in the back garden of the estate, shortly after what he would assume was the child's bedtime. Although, come to think of it, it was a bit late even for that.

“Did the child give you a hard time today?”

“Nah, just being a kid. Lots of questions.”

“Hmm, I know you like that.”

Nanny's hat and coat hung on a rack by the door. Her tie and dark sunglasses were discarded on the coffee table. By now Crowley should have been in a relaxed sprawl, but he wasn't. He sat stiffly, staring ahead.

“Tea?”

“Sure, Angel.”

Something to fuss with, that's what he needed. Just a moment alone and something familiar to occupy himself. Really, he was reading too much into Crowley. He was always reading too much, paying the demon too much mind. So the serpent was tired. Well, weren't they both?

Aziraphale moved into the tiny kitchenette and put the kettle on, palms down on the counter as he waited for the water to boil. The only sound in the room was the kettle warming so the soft sigh behind him wasn't nearly as hidden as Crowley might have liked it to be. He took care in making Crowley's tea just how he liked it: steeped a little longer than the angel would prefer, but also with a little extra sugar. He would have drank it plain and bitter out in the world, but in here with Aziraphale he was safe to indulge. There was no one to impress, only an old friend. Neither of them would mention it, but Aziraphale would see the comforted droop in Crowley's shoulders after the first sip and that would be thanks enough. There were enough things in the world to be on the defense about: tea did not need to be one of them. Not here; not with him.

When he brought the mugs back to the sitting area, Crowley was still sitting stiffly in the chair, staring out over the yard with a pained expression on his face. Aziraphale sat the mugs down on the coffee table and knelt beside him, hesitating only a moment before placing a hand on the demon's knee. Even that gentle tough made Crowley jump.

“Ngk! Sorry, Angel, lost in thought.”

“Are you okay? I mean, really.”

“Sure, tip-top. Always okay, me.”

Aziraphale stared at him pointedly and watched as Crowley's put on smile melted around the edges.

“It's silly.”

“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that.”

“I'm afraid,” Crowley sighed again, “that I'm rather stuck in my corset.”

Aziraphale couldn't help the way his eyes drifted downwards, to the gentle curve of Crowley's waist. Truth be told, he had been doing his best to ignore it as he did with all the shapes that Crowley twisted his body into. It was only, sometimes, when he was alone that he would indulge thinking about them... All of them. There was no shape of Crowley's that Aziraphale found unappealing. But, if this one caused him pain...

“But, my dear, we have been here for weeks... how-”

“At first, I was...” and here Crowley made a pulling up gesture, “but then I thought maybe we should take it easy on that. Wouldn't want the energy to draw unwanted attention.”

Now that he thought about it, Crowley had visited him for tea (or something slightly stronger than tea) every day the first week they had been here in disguise. But he hadn't seen the demon off nanny duty since then. Why hadn't he noticed that before now? He would never curse his ability to get lost in his books (because he had brought a few with him even for this trip), but sometimes they caused quite a bit of inattention.

“Wait, do you mean...” He instinctually reached for Crowley's middle, but stopped the movement halfway, looking up at his face, “How long have you been stuck in this thing?”

Crowley looked away, out over the yard again, and mumbled something.

“Tell me it hasn't been since the last time you were here.”

“I... can't.”

“Crowley.” It was a reproach and a pity, rolled into one.

“Well, it's not like I'm human. My body can handle it.” Aziraphale watched him try to curl in on himself defensively, but when realize he couldn't bend that way in the corset his lips drew flat in frustration and he sat up straight again.

“How long are you going to let it go on, then?” Aziraphale cocked his head and squeezed the knee still under his other hand, “until the child is grown and armageddon is postponed?”

“m'here, aren't I?” Crowley grumbled.

“And here I thought it was for the company.”

Crowley glared at him.

“Is that a request, dear?”

“... yes.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably in the chair and met his eyes in a series of darting movements.

“Well, up you get then,” this was not going to be a problem, Aziraphale thought, not at all. Friends helped friends out of corsets all the time, didn't they? How else was one to get in and out of one, after all? They seemed to require help by their very nature.

Aziraphale stood and backed up to give the demon room and thought that maybe, just maybe, he saw a smile of relief flash over his face before he turned away from him. He watched Crowley's elbows move as he made quick work of the buttons down the front of his shirt and then struggled to get it off his shoulders. Aziraphale gently plucked the shirt up and tugged it down his arms.

And so, he got his first look at the corset itself: it was mainly black, which was to be expected. But, it was decorated in swirling patterns of coiled red, too. At first he couldn't tell, but upon closer inspection, he realized the coils were that of one, long snake. The scales glittered in the low light of the room. The boning was golden and winked at him, too. It was a beautiful work of art, in and of itself, but it was the shape it pulled Crowley's body into that stole Aziraphale's breath. That decadent curve to his waist had his hands itching to touch, to trace. He fisted his hands at his sides to keep them from trembling from the want of it.

Crowley, seemingly entirely unaffected by the moment, tossed a glance over his shoulder.

“It ties at the top and bottom and laces all the way down.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was fine. He grasped the ties at the bottom and tugged, finding them easy enough to undo, before falling into a steady pattern of unlasing upwards. The task itself was repetitive enough that he was momentarily lost in it.

Until Crowley groaned softly.

“A-alright there?”

“Oh. Yeah. Just, it feels good to have it loosened.” He wiggled a little and Aziraphale lost his grip on the laces.

“Hold still, dear, I'm not finished yet.”

“Fussy.”

“Hmm.” He was most of the way up now and faced a new challenge: Crowley wore his hair a bit longer as Nanny and, well, it was right there... The almost unbearably soft-looking waves settled only a little above the last tie of the corset. He bit his lip and indulged in admiring them. Of course, he wouldn't tough them. That's not... That's not what they are.

“Taking a smoke break?”

“No,” Aziraphale laughed, if a bit higher than he normally would, and quickly finished unlacing the corset, pulling the top knot free. He helped Crowley lift it over his head and watched as the man before him relaxed for the first time in an uncounted number of days. He cleared his throat and gently set the corset on the coffee table beside their tea. It really was a lovely item, he would hate to see it ruined; or worse yet, to be the one who marred it.

“I'm sure that feels much bet...” he trailed off as he turned back, only now really taking in all the skin he'd uncovered. Really, that on it's own would have been arresting, but what stopped him in his tracks were the lines cross-crossing Crowley's back and sides. Clear marks where the seams had come together, where the boning had held him in, and where the laces had pressed, even over a layer of fabric.

“What was that?”

Aziraphale barely heard the question, his hand reaching out of it's own accord, fingers stroking along one of the lines that started at Crowley's hip and trailed upwards. He felt more than heard the sharp intake of breath under his hand. He should pull back. He would pull back. Any moment now.

But he wasn't pulling back. Instead, he was tracing another line back downwards- right along Crowley's spine. He heard the hiss just as he felt the shudder go through the man in front of him.

“Does it hurt?” Aziraphale was whispering and he wasn't sure why. Was it reverence? Was he trying not to get caught? Maybe the moment would shatter if he spoke too loudly.

“N-no,” Crowley's throat worked loudly in the quiet room, “no, that doesn't hurt.” He wasn't whispering, but his voice had mysteriously dropped a couple octaves. Also, importantly, he hadn't made a move to pull away or discourage Aziraphale's roaming fingers.

So, instead of pulling back, Aziraphale pressed his entire hand flat into the small of Crowley's back and stroked upwards, feeling the already-disappearing lines under his palm. Crowley's skin was much softer and warmer than he expected. Every bit he touched only made him want to touch more. He was losing his grip on why that was a bad idea. His palm reached the end of the marks and continued upward, along the back of Crowley's neck and into his hair. And it was, oh it was, every bit as silky as it looked. A sound left him, whether it sounded of pain or pleasure he couldn't say.

An answering whine drifted back to him as Crowley pressed his head backwards into his palm. His breath left him in a gust, his heart somehow feeling twice as large but also half as heavy, seeing this beautiful creature so willingly submit to his touch. He stepped forward, completely into Crowley's space, guiding the demon's head back onto his shoulder as he stroked down the side of his jaw, his neck, and then along his clavicle. He pressed forward against him, wishing briefly that he was disrobed, too, and he could feel all this warm skin against his own.

His other hand drifted up and settled to wrap around Crowley's hip, but didn't stay there long. It roamed upwards, counting the ribs along his side and feeling the lines the corset had left there, too. He felt the short panting breaths stirring in the lungs beneath his fingers.

He drew his nose along the line of Crowley's arched and bared throat, taking in the scent of him: something dark and sweet like deep, red cherries. His hand had stopped, sprawled across Crowley's lower belly. The room was filled with the harsh sounds of his panting breath. Aziraphale couldn't hold out any longer, he drew his tongue along the arched line of Crowley's throat and then nipped it sharply.

“Angel, please!” Crowley sobbed, breaking any semblance of silence the room had held. Any denial that this was happening. Crowley was every bit as lost to this as he was. Aziraphale wanted to wander, lost in this experience with him.

Aziraphale soothed the spot with a kiss and then nuzzled up to his ear.

“What would you have me do, my darling?” He was idly stroking his thumb just under the demon's belly button. Crowley didn't respond with words. He grasped the hand on his belly and moved it downwards, pressing it to the front of his tight, and now tented, skirt.

“You're so beautiful, Crowley,” he murmured against the demon's neck as he traced him far too gently through the cloth. Crowley's hips bucked towards his hand, but he pulled back until he settled against him again before resuming his gentle touch. Crowley groaned, a sound of frustration that was belied by the twitching under Aziraphale's palm. He liked being teased, toyed with. That was a piece of information Aziraphale sent to the back of his mind for later consideration.

He trailed his other hand back up along Crowley's neck and into his hair, grasping it and gently pulling back, exposing more of his throat to his teeth and tongue. He watched Crowley's Adam's apple bob as the man attempted to swallow back his cries and whimpers.

His own control was slipping, though. He didn't think he could tease the man in his arms much longer. What he wanted was to take him apart, to see him loose and relaxed against him, both of them knowing that Aziraphale had given him that. Removing his teasing fingers, momentarily (he promised himself), he reached down and hiked up Crowley's skirt.

Crowley, himself, was lost to it. His hips thrust into open air, seeking out the return of Aziraphale's hand.

“Patience, serpent.”

“That's a virtue,” Crowley hissed, “I don't have any virtues.”

“We both know that isn't true,” Aziraphale nibbled on the shell of his ear, prompting an almost violent shiver to rattle through him, “but we can argue about that later.”

Now, he had wrapped his slickened hand around Crowley, tight enough to hold him, but loose enough to allow the demon to thrust into the grip. Crowley let out a guttural groan and thrust into his fingers with an every-increasing pace.

“Tighter, ah, tighter please,” he gripped Aziraphale's arm, as if to hold him in place. As if Aziraphale could stop what was happening, even if he wanted to. His eyes had been glued downwards, watching Crowley move between his fingers, but now as the man breaths of the man in his arms grew quicker and unsteady, he pulled back a bit so he could watch his face. He tightened his grip and that was all it took: Crowley's face screwed up in pained pleasure before he let out a high whimper as he came, pained pleasure giving way to utter relief.

He felt the moment Crowley's knees wobbled and caught him, pulling him in tightly to his own body and holding him there, peppering his neck and sweet, gentle kisses as his breaths slowed.

“So, uh, you liked the corset, huh?” Crowley had made no move to leave the circle of his arms. His grip on Aziraphale's arm had slackened, but he hadn't let go.

“Hmm, yes, I might. A bit.”

“A bit. Angel, you go on and tell me what you really like and I'll just go ahead and do it. I can't imagine.”

“Yes, I like the corset. But, Crowley, oh you know, don't you?”

Crowley had found his feet again, although the knees were still a bit iffy. He turned slowly, still keeping close to Aziraphale.

“Know what?”

“I like the corset because it's very you. And I love all the things that you love, because I love you.”

“Oh,” a blush crept up over Crowley's cheeks and, marvelously, down his chest as well (Aziraphale logged that thought as well), “you big, sappy Angel.”

“I don't think you mind, actually.” Aziraphale squeezed him close.

“No?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmm.”

“Crowley.”

“Yes, I love it. I love you, too. But I'll take it back if you keep grinning at me like-” Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss that made him lose his knees all over again.

[captainclickycat]

Recollections

My entry for the GO Secret Santa exchange, for

@teslatherat. Hope you like it :)

oOo

“You can stay at my place, if you like.”

So now here they are. Aziraphale hovers awkwardly in the doorway, taking in his surroundings, every inch the uncertain guest.

Crowley bustles about. He’s never hitherto been in the habit of bustling, but Aziraphale’s presence seems to have brought the inclination out in him. He stalks about the flat, jittery, plumping up the cushions and moving his Golden Girls DVDs off the coffee table.

That’s when he notices the letters, stacked on top of each other. One sealed with a crest of golden wings, the other smelling of sulfur, sealed with a blob of black sludge. No doubt as to the identity of the senders, and Crowley can guess at the contents.

He ignores them, for the time being. There’ll be time enough to look at them.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing towards the sofa. “If you want. I can get us another drink.”

Aziraphale sits almost daintily, clasping his hands together. Crowley bustles off to the kitchen, selecting a bottle of the whisky he’s been unconsciously saving for a visit. Angel’s Nectar. Aziraphale smiles weakly at the label.

They sit beside each other in silence, clutching their tumblers.

Aziraphale speaks, haltingly. “I believe I’d like to rescind my previous claim.”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

“It appears there is an our side, even if I was too silly to see it before.”

“Oh, don’t worry your head about all that. I’ve forgotten it already,” lies Crowley.

Angels and demons have good memories. It’s all part and parcel of the deal. Sometimes it’s an advantage. Being able to remember the way Aziraphale looked at him when he’d fixed things with Hamlet, for example, or the borderline-carnal pleasure on the angel’s face when he ate tres leche for the first time. Crowley collected little moments like this, snapshots in time, the way people collect stamps or butterflies. The conversations, too. The banter about each other’s outfits, the drunken philosophical discussions that went on into the wee small hours, the critiques of plays. He catalogues the appreciative accounts of different foods, the fussy comebacks to Crowley’s snark, the customer-related grievances.

On the downside, he can also remember things like we’re not friends and it’s over and you go too fast for me. He could also remember Jesus’s crucifixion in rather distressing detail, and the Crusades, and that time he had to spend an entire evening in the company of Dr Samuel Johnson, who inexplicably considered him an appropriate sounding board for every opinion he’d ever had.

“I do so wish I’d embraced you from the beginning,” says Aziraphale, swiftly bringing Crowley back to the present. “Er. that is to say, embraced our… alliance.”

Could’ve done both, if you’d wanted, Crowley doesn’t say. What he does say is:

“Doesn’t matter now. Who knows what they’d have done? Anyway, we managed to have some fun together, didn’t we? Over the centuries? Sampled a few dishes, that sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs in reminiscence. “Do you remember that little place in Paris, with the crepe cake? That was divine.”

“Still can’t believe you ran off to France in the middle of a revolution for dessert.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “Never going to let that slide, are you? Quite turned my head, though, you putting in an appearance to save me like that. Tell me, how long did that hair take to style, exactly?”

“It was fashionable! Least I wasn’t running around dressed as an aristocrat.”

“I believe you enjoyed it, you know. Being able to swoop in and save the day. Being kind.”

“Fighting talk, that is. Anyway, someone’s got to get you out of trouble.”

“Strong words from the one who lost the antichrist.”

“I didn’t - it wasn’t - the nuns, if anything…” Crowley splutters. Aziraphale is giving him a discreet smirk. It’s nice, he supposes, that at least one of them can laugh about it now.

That soon trails off, though, when they remember the predicament they’re in.

Crowley finally turns his attention towards the letters. There’s no mistaking the contents. You have been summoned on trial. Attend, or we’ll just come and get you. Dressed up in fancier terms, naturally, but that’s the gist of it. Undoubtedly their former employers don’t intend to send them off with a slap on the wrist. Crowley tries not to dwell on the prospect too much.

One look at Aziraphale confirms that he’s thinking the same thing. Cautiously, Crowley lays a hand on top of Aziraphale’s, and finds it gripped tightly.

“It does occur to me,” says Aziraphale, “That we were always, perhaps, in the best position to understand each other, in a lot of ways.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, in terms of… well. The experiences we’ve had, never quite fitting in with our head offices. But we found each other. I think that’s terribly important. I never would have had the courage to sever ties, I think, without you by my side.”

Aziraphale stares into his tumbler as he continues, swirling the liquid around. “But there’s something else you must understand. It’s not just because of that. I know that it’d be easy to latch on to the first individual I met who I felt I could identify with. But I do believe I very much came to like you for your sake. Even though you’re very silly and rather rude and have the most abysmal taste in fashion, you’re also funny and generous and really rather sweet, underneath it all. Now, please don’t be silly and argue. I know it.”

“Er.” I love you more than my bloody car. “Er. Yeah. You too. For yourself, and all that.”

Aziraphale nods, swallowing hard, and doesn’t let go of Crowley’s hand. “I loved our little meetings. I believe I’d have been driven quite round the bend, without them.”

They spend some time reminiscing. It’s a warm and welcome distraction from their eventual fate. There something oddly comforting about the way they can claim these memories now. The tangible reminders that they had managed, in small ways, to be a little defiant, for the sake of whatever hazily-defined but cherished relationship they had.

They’re laughing about a particular night in the pub during Shakespeare’s day when Aziraphale’s expression shifts to contemplation.

“Crowley, do you remember that conversation in… oh, must have been in the 1620s or thereabouts? We went to see Much Ado About Nothing…”

“Oh, yeah. That lead guy was awful. Far too hammy.”

“Anyway, my point is, you made a bit of a proposition that day, do you remember?”

Crowley does, although he’s not sure why he’s being called upon to remember it now.

Standing around at the Globe on a bracingly cold day. He’d lost the beard by then - feeling that it wasn’t really him - but he’s still bothered to style his hair according to the fashion of the times. He always liked to make a little extra commitment, when he knew he’d be seeing the angel.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Aziraphale during a scene in which the plot came to rely heavily on mistaken identity. “We should do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be each other, for Head Office meetings. We’ve already got the Arrangement, eh? Couldn’t hurt to go the extra mile.”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale said primly. “It’s bad enough that you’ve got me involved in this little scheme of yours. I’m not tripping around in your silly flashy outfits to add insult to injury.”

Crowley pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley now. “What about it?”

“Well, now,” says Aziraphale. “Do let me know if you think I’m being silly, but I think the idea might actually be worth revisiting.”

oOo

“Is it as you remembered it?” Aziraphale asks.

It’s Crowley’s first time back behind the Bentley’s wheel, after they’ve succeeded in pulling the wool over their respective former employers’ eyes. He still can’t quite believe they got away with it.

“Yeah. You were right, angel. Not a scratch on it. Even got that new car smell back.”

“Good.” Aziraphale is fidgeting in the passenger seat. “That’s just lovely. Glad to hear it. Ah.”

“You all right, angel?”

“Oh yes, yes, perfectly… I simply… well. We were talking about… about old conversations, the other day, and it got me remembering another… something I’ve meant to resolve for some time, I suppose.”

Crowley shoots him an enquiring look, and Aziraphale takes a deep, steadying breath.

“You made me an offer once. Here, in the car. A few decades ago; must have been… oh, 1967? Do you remember?”

Crowley nods, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“Ask me again.”

Crowley turns to stare at him. Aziraphale is sitting there quite guilelessly, only the restless movements of his hands betraying the idea that he might not be as calm as he lets on.

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley says softly. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale smiles.

“Oh, gosh,” he says. “Rather spoilt for choice, now, aren’t we? Perhaps we could, I don’t know, nip back to Paris for a while. Take a fortnight in the countryside. But do you know, I think at the moment, what I’d like most of all is to come back to your flat.”

Aziraphale flashes him a brisk smile, looking for all the world as if he hasn’t just made such a huge, life-changing revelation. “If you’re amenable to that, of course.”

“Really?”

“Mmm. I think, perhaps, we have rather a lot of lost time to compensate for. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley nods slowly, before unbuckling his seatbelt to lean over and cradle Aziraphale’s face in his hand.

A demon kisses an angel in the front seat of a vintage Bentley, and suddenly that particular conversation doesn’t seem like quite such a bad memory after all.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “Risks and Consequences” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Crowley surprises Aziraphale with a surprise skating excursion on Christmas night during a suspicious snowstorm. (1436 words)

Read on AO3.

“You do enjoy shoving me headfirst out of my comfort zones. Don’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, warily watching his husband strap a stiff black boot to his foot. 

“Poppycock,” Crowley grumbles, struggling to unknot long laces he accidentally macramed while attempting to navigate the rows of eyelets and hooks. “Consider this an adventure.”

“This is certifiable! You do know that?”

“How? You’re an angel! What on Earth could happen to you?”

“A great many things, I imagine,” Aziraphale replies. It’s a thin response. Crowley can tell Aziraphale has a thought, a vivid one, of something plausible. 

Something that has him concerned. 

Crowley stops messing with the skate and looks into Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale's gaze ducks and dodges, bouncing from his hands to his knees to other random things inside the confines of Crowley’s Bentley. But Aziraphale can’t avoid Crowley’s gaze, nor Crowley himself, for too long. “Sometimes, I feel as if, one of these days, I’m going to snap my fingers, and nothing will happen. Heaven will have found a way to make me mortal or …”

“Or abandoned you altogether?”

Aziraphale nods sadly. “Yes.”

“I get those thoughts, too, sometimes,” Crowley admits, going back to fixing his angel’s skate. “Too often, really. Which probably explains why you use your magic so rarely, and I use mine all the time.”

“You’re always double-checking."

“And you’d rather not know.”

“Losing my powers wouldn’t be the worst part. Inconvenient, yes, but not terrible. Abandoned by Heaven …” Aziraphale's words drift off, but their meaning lingers, clinging to Crowley's heart and building like the snow outside their windows.

Crowley winks at his husband, trying to get him to smile, to laugh, to roll his eyes and groan Oh Lord! “It’s not so bad ..."  

“... once you get used to it. So you keep telling me,” Aziraphale teases, gifting his husband with the tiniest of grins, gone all too swiftly. “Are you truly afraid of being abandoned by Hell?”

"Ngk ..." Crowley’s shoulders bounce a shrug back and forth as he thinks over his answer “... nah. Not really. They've already tried to exterminate me once, haven't they? It’s the consequences that come with it that would really suck: being mortal, having no powers, growing old …” Crowley’s eyes meet Aziraphale’s - melancholy blue eyes exposing those same fears, a subject his angel hasn’t felt comfortable bringing up before tonight. He still doesn’t seem comfortable with it, tight-lipped as an oyster. “But let’s not talk about that now,” Crowley suggests. “Tonight is for having ridiculous amounts of fun. Stirring up a little mayhem.”

“We’re going to get into trouble,” Aziraphale laments. “With the humans, I mean.”

“Nonsense. They'll never even know we were here."

“There are security cameras everywhere!”

“When was the last time you got caught doing anything on CCTV? It would be all over the Internet if you had! I'll fix it. You'll see.”

“By wasting another miracle? Or do you have a small army of rodents positioned on light poles, waiting to do your bidding?”

“Besides,” Crowley continues, overlooking the jab at what was one of his more masterfully executed, if not elaborate, schemes, “I’m not sure this is actually illegal. As long as we abide by all traffic laws and posted speed limits.”

“Where did you even get this idea?”

“From YouTube. The youths do it - barrel down frozen roads wearing bicycle helmets and hockey skates.”

"You're getting your evil ideas from children?" Aziraphale tuts. “Aren’t you supposed to be the bad influence? Not the other way around?”

“No shame in finding inspiration outside your own head.”

“Yes, well, I hope you skate better than you drive.”

“Oi! I am an excellent driver!”

“I know two rabbits and a squirrel who might disagree with you.”

“That wasn’t my fault! You’d think they’d know to get the Hell outta the way of a moving vehicle!”

“Speaking of which, we’re going to get hit by a car.”

“What car?” Crowley stops fiddling with Aziraphale’s skate to wipe down a fogged window and take a look around. Beneath the glow of the street lamps, he sees nothing but snow - a veil of flakes wafting down from the sky, pushed into swirls by the frigid wind. “No one’s out here! It’s three in the bloody morning after one of the worst storms London has had in years! You’d have to be insane to be outside!”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aziraphale mutters. “Bit early for a storm like this though, isn’t it?”

“Uh … maybe,” Crowley says, abruptly returning to his task. 

“London isn’t due for snow until January.”

“Is that so? Strange.”

Aziraphale's brow furrows as he watches his husband focus intensely on basically nothing. “Crowley …”

“Wot?”

“Are you responsible for this?”

"Wot would make you think that?"

"Crowley. Look at me."

Crowley's head slowly lifts, eyes aimed everywhere but Aziraphale's face. At one point, he even closes them, assuming that, behind his dark lenses, Aziraphale won't notice. 

But Aziraphale does notice. Even if Crowley were speaking to him from a completely different room, Aziraphale would notice.

Because, for a demon, Crowley happens to be an atrocious liar.

“It’s Christmas night!" Crowley pleads, unable to hold back any longer. "The perfect time for a lock-yourself-indoors-and-get-sloshed sort of snowstorm, a'right?"

“So why are we not inside getting sloshed then?”

“Because this is something I’ve wanted to do for a while! And I was gettin' tired of waiting for Mother Nature to accommodate. Plus, with climate change and global warming, nothing's guaranteed, is it?” Crowley moves on from Aziraphale's right foot and begins sliding his reluctant left foot into its skate. “Live a little!” 

“I aim to live a lot, which specifically requires avoiding activities such as this." Aziraphale pauses his complaining to watch Crowley work, beyond curious what was going on inside his husband's demonic mind when he hatched this plan. "So," he says, working through the mystery out loud, "you conjured up a snowstorm, froze the streets, are in the process of strapping these awful contraptions to my feet ... would you like to tell me why?”

"Do I have to?"

"It would be nice."

"I'm a demon. I'm not nice."

"Crowley ..."

“Alright! It's because I wanted us to be together like this." 

"Like what?"

Crowley sighs. "Like humans. And do the stupidly wonderful things humans do when they’re in love: take moonlit strolls, hold hands, kiss in the rain, all that sappy shite. Humans go skating at Christmas! It's, like, number three on their list of Yuletide activities. It's almost a requirement! Even if they can't stand steady in regular shoes, they go skating. And they cling to one another, and they laugh, and they kiss, and I … I didn't want to take the chance that if I waited, I might miss ..."

Nothing's guaranteed, Aziraphale thinks as he watches Crowley sink in on himself, head bowed over Aziraphale's feet, curling as if he wants to disappear. And Aziraphale begins to understand. 

Crowley has been a ball of anxious energy for as long as Aziraphale can remember. Aziraphale doesn't blame him. Crowley has been tiptoeing through minefields since the beginning - making innocent mistakes and paying huge prices for them. As supernatural entities, it's easy to get lulled into the false sense of security that nothing bad can happen to you. 

But that's not true. 

Not at all true.

Because even a demon and an angel with magical powers aren't anywhere near the top of the food chain.

Crowley destroying Ligur with Holy Water proved that.

So did his belief that Aziraphale had been extinguished by Hellfire.

The fact that he hadn't been didn't prove Crowley wrong.

Hellfire would most definitely annihilate his angel from the face of the planet.

Crowley and Aziraphale helped save Earth for humanity, but every day, the humans work harder and harder towards their own destruction.

Nothing's guaranteed. 

Not for anyone.

"If you don’t want to go skating, that’s fine. I know it’s risky. Probably the last way in the world you’d want to discorporate."

"I can think of worse ways," Aziraphale says with a chuckle.

"We can go back to your bookshop, make hot cocoa, listen to your gramophone or ... or something.”

“The biggest risk I’ve taken is sitting right here with me. And that’s worked out so far. For 6000 years, as a matter of fact. I don’t mind taking another one. Just … try not to let me fall.” 

“Just hold on tight.” Crowley scoots down the bench towards his husband and wraps his arms around him. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”

[funkyfaerie]

Crowley invented sunglasses. Not on purpose and it wasn’t as if he could take credit for it. No one in his Home Office would find much evil in the invention, though an argument could be made that the evil was in the dividends: humans got used to walking around without the full glare of the sun in their eyes and were extremely irate and uncomfortable if they forgot their sunglasses at home. Crowley didn’t think the likes of Hastur would go for such an argument. Shortsighted sod.

So yes, Crowley invented sunglasses. Regular old spectacles had been around since the 13th century (and were, in his not-so-humble opinion, the only worthwhile thing to come out of that dreadful hundred years) but he was the first one to tint them dark. Not to keep the sun out of the wearer’s eyes, mind.

To keep people from seeing his. Oh, he could change them, of course, but it gave him a dreadful headache, and besides, it wasn’t the humans he was worried about. (Humans never noticed anything. Crowley had learned many things in his jaunt planetside, but the first and foremost was: humans never noticed anything.)

Crowley was worried about the angel. The angel who kept looking, you see. Looking for hundreds of years, when he thought Crowley wasn’t paying attention (which he always was). Eventually Crowley simply decided that his snake eyes, the last vestige of his time as the Serpent of Eden, bothered the angel. And why wouldn’t they? Stupid, pompous, shiny, oyster-loving angel, of course he’d be bothered by Damnation literally looking back at him whenever he saw his compa—partne—associate’s face.

(This wasn’t true in the slightest. Aziraphale thought that Crowley’s eyes were lovely. He had been trying--fruitlessly--for millenia to find an Earthly color that even somewhat resembled the sharp, golden ochre of his sweet Serpent’s eyes, but so far nothing. (He also thought he was being subtle, stealing glances when Crowley wasn’t looking. Aziraphale was anything but subtle. Case-and-point: his Heavenly weapon of choice was a flaming sword, for Someone’s sake. Anyone willing to bring a flaming sword into battle could not be counted upon to gaze at the color of their compatri--acquant--associate’s eyes without being dreadfully obvious about the whole thing.))

Aziraphale noticed, of course, when those eyes he liked so well became hidden behind dark glasses, but he daren’t comment. Crowley was particular about things like that and the last thing Aziraphale wanted was to upset him. He wasn’t the most adaptable creature (not like a snake, not at all) but Aziraphale made a note of the kinds of dark glasses that were most stylish century to century and kept a growing collection, just in case his serp--just in case Crowley ever lost his. He was forever losing them. 

It’s a mild and otherwise unremarkable spring day in London when Crowley receives a phone call from a rather excited angel, insisting that he come to the bookshop right away. Crowley doesn’t come immediately, of course, because he is a serpent, not a dog, and he will not bend the rules of time and space just to be at Aziraphale’s side instantaneously. He, like any self-respecting demon (well, perhaps not demon. Self-respecting individual. Being), drives. And if he breaks nearly every speed law on his way to A. Z. Fell and Co, well, that’s his business. 

The shop looks exactly the same as it ever does--warm and inviting, with the smell of old books Aziraphale loves so much hanging in the air, so vastly different from the sterility of Heaven--but the angel is grinning like it’s Christmas. 

“I found it,” he exclaims, before Crowley can even ask what all the fuss is about. He was really working up to it too, was going to act all impatient and put-out and everything. 

“Found what, angel?” Crowley cocks an eyebrow to distract from the way his insides do something complicated at the unbridled glee in his ang--in Aziraphale’s voice. 

“The color! They finally made it, those clever humans, look!” He points to the ceiling, where the compass looks...exactly the same as ever. Aziraphale waits, his expression melting into something of a pout when Crowley doesn’t immediately notice what the Someone he’s talking about. “I redid the compass,” Aziraphale explains. “Bit of of a tricky miracle, but I think it looks alright.” His pouts seems to melt even further down, into something so achingly disappointed that Crowley’s first instinct is to apologize but he doesn’t know what the Someone he’s meant to be apologizing for. 

“I just thought,” Aziraphale says, with the air of a once-excited child explaining a hard-won science fair ribbon to an apathetic parent. “I thought that it was lovely, and I know you’re a bit worried about your side, so this would be my way to--”

“To what, angel?” Crowley asks at last, distressed because Aziraphale is distressed and he doesn’t know how to fix it, which is even more distressing. 

“To look out for you!” the angel says--not at a shout, he is far too dignified for that, but something close. “You’re always looking out for me and this way I’ll know if you’re in danger--it’ll spin, you see, point to you if you ever...if you ever need. And I thought it would be nice to redo the compass rose the precise color of your eyes because, I don’t know, because there’s symmetry in that and you know how I like symmetry and I guess the whole thing is just silly and ridiculous, waiting this long for humans to come up with a color the precise shade of yellow as your eyes but--”

“My what?” Crowley feels a little bit shaken, almost like the ground is rearranging itself under his feet and he’d rather like to extend his wings to steady himself, but that would be expressive and awful and he patently refuses to do so.  

“Your eyes! They’re so lovely, and I’ve been looking for ages and--”

Crowley has never, not once, understood the human urge to kiss someone. It all seems a bit unsanitary to him, if he’s honest, but there’s something about the great swell of emotion that bubbles up in his stomach--his chest, though demon-kind don’t keep any important organs there, don’t be ridiculous--that makes him rather want to push the angel against the wall and kiss him stupid. 

He doesn’t, of course, because he hasn’t asked permission and Aziraphale already looks upset. Instead, Crowley very simply, very deliberately, removes his sunglasses. Now that he’s paying attention, the repainted compass is a dead match. Clever humans. Cleverer angel.

“It’ll do,” Crowley says, miracling the glasses away. Aziraphale’s relieved smile is so brilliant that it could outshine the sun itself, and Crowley is still feeling rather bubbly and unsteady but, as he glances up towards the repainted ceiling that matches the color of his eyes, he doesn’t think he’ll be needing those sunglasses anymore. Not here, not with his angel, anyway. Not ever again. 

[ineffablegame]

28 or 15 for ineffable husbands? Please?

28: One teaching the other something new.

Also published on my Ao3.

Standing outside a mudbrick house in the Sumerian city of Ur, Crawly considers the object in his hands.  A large, flat oblong, it might be considered heavy by human standards.  It would certainly be a trial for a human to pilfer it still hot from the kiln like a child stealing bread from the oven.  But trials for humans are mere parlor tricks for demons.  

Crawly turns the tablet over, brow furrowed as he examines the markings etched into the clay from a new angle.  A startled smile breaks across his features.  Aha.

“Crawly?”

Crawly’s fingers tighten around the tablet, but otherwise, he gives no outward sign of surprise.  He raises his head to regard the angel with a cool stare.  “Aziraphale.  Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Aziraphale cocks his head.  “Oh, I suppose it’s been… well, goodness, at least one-hundred years.”  Crawly watches the angel closely as he talks.  His hands are constantly in motion, fingers knitting and unknitting before him.  Are all angels so fidgety?  “The time does pass so quickly among humans.”

“It does at that,” Crawly says, flicking his eyes back to the tablet.  “Diverting creatures.”

Aziraphale shifts fractionally closer, instantly putting Crawly on his guard.  But the angel stays a safe few paces away, neck craned to better inspect the tablet.  “What is that?”

“A story, I think,” says Crawly.  He’d seen the head priestess making her etchings the other day, so mired in concentration she had seemed lost to the world.  Something about that intense focus had reminded Crawly of the prophets of old, of Moses and Elijah sunk deep in communion with Her.  The sight had unsettled Crawly as much as it entranced him, and it was with equal parts reluctance and curiosity that he returned to steal the tablet from the kiln.  

Lost in thought, Crawly is slow to notice the angel’s silence.  When he looks up, Aziraphale is regarding him with a puzzled expression.  “What is a ‘story?’”

Crawly blinks, momentarily thrown.  “A… well, it’s a story.  A tale.”

A frown darkens Aziraphale’s face.  “That means nothing to me.”

“A story.”  Crawly casts about for a simpler explanation, but it is as if he is trying to reduce building blocks to building blocks.  Stories are fundamental structures, bases upon which the imagination builds.  

That’s why, he realizes.  Heaven has no imagination.

He changes tack.  “You know writing, yes?”

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale says, testily.  “Of course I know what writing is.  The Almighty has given me the knowledge to read every written language the humans invent.”

“Well,” Crawly soldiers on, “this is writing of things that didn’t happen.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepens into suspicion.  “Deceit, you mean.”

“No,” Crawly says, aggrieved.  “It’s… it’s more like… games.  You’ve seen human children playing, yes?”  Seeing the gathering thunderclouds of indignation, he hastily adds, “Stories are like writing and play.  The humans know they aren’t necessarily true, but they enjoy them anyway.”

“Why would they enjoy reading things have haven’t happened?  There’s no point to it.”

Crawly shrugs.  He is beginning to feel as if he’s been instructed to fill an endless void with the basest knowledge, to cobble together a universe from spare parts.  “They… they just do.  They enjoy using their imaginations.”

“Well.  That explains it.  Angels don’t need imagination.”  Aziraphale shrugs, but his offhand tone is belied by the curious gleam in his eyes as they track over the tablet.  Crawly waits a beat, suspended by a sensation like weightlessness, and at last the angel says, “What is it about, then?  This story.”

“A god yelling at a mountain,” Crawly answers.  

Aziraphale scoffs and crosses his arms.  “That sounds utterly ridiculous.”

Crawly studies the angel.  For all his hauteur, his curiosity is piqued.  Crawly has been plying his wiles for a thousand years, now – he knows temptation when he sees it, and if reading stories was a sin, he suspects he would have the makings of a Fallen angel on his hands.  A prickle of remorse creeps across his flesh at the thought, as unpleasant as a chill breeze.  He shrugs it off.  More’s the pity.  Reading stories isn’t a sin.  She probably just prefers Her lackeys dumb and obedient.

Inspiration strikes.  “Why are you here, angel?  Come to thwart my wicked deeds?”

Aziraphale tears his gaze away from the tablet with a visible struggle.  His fingers are moving again, steepling and netting back and forth.  “A-ah, yes, in fact, I have.  I was just passing through when I noticed a distinct whiff of evil, and indeed, here you are.  Stealing and promoting…”  His gaze flits to the tablet and away, so swift Crawly might not have noticed.  But oh, he notices.  Aziraphale coughs delicately.  “…Promoting blasphemous deceit, apparently.”

“Oh, no,” says Crawly.  “You caught me!  Drat, I’ve been thwarted yet again.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes.  “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not.  I’ve been bested by my hated Adversary and I’m absolutely gutted about it.”

“Now I know you’re up to no good,” Aziraphale snaps, waspish, and lays his hands on the tablet.  Crawly puts up a token struggle before releasing the stolen treasure.  Checking an impulse to shake his fist, he settles for a muttered oath and retreats a few paces.  Aziraphale beams, triumphant.  “Begone, fiend, and trouble these good people no longer.”

“Curses,” Crawly says dryly.  Aziraphale frowns and, realizing his misstep, the demon puts his back into it.  “I’ll win over Ssssumer in the end, angel!  Jusssst you wait and ssssee!  Ssssooner or later, they will all belong to my massster!”

Crawly flees after that, mostly because he fears he’s gone overboard and ruined the ploy.  He needn’t worry.  If he had stayed a moment longer, stolen a covert look, he would have seen the reverence with which the angel Aziraphale passes his fingers over the etched characters.  

Five-thousand years later, Crowley impulsively seeks out the tablet.  He doesn’t expect to find it, doesn’t dare hope it has survived the ravages of history.  When he does, it seems both a marvel and a sign.  

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale says as Crowley leads him through the museum, “this is all very intriguing, but to bring us to America of all places…”

“Don’t pout,” Crowley says, tugging on Aziraphale's arm.  After they’ve finally sorted out their feelings for each other, he can’t help but touch the angel at every opportunity.  He never wants to stop.  “Look, after this, we’ll get you some of that famous Chicago deep-dish pizza.  How does that sound?”

Aziraphale tsks.  “Cheek.”  But his mutterings fall silent as they reach the display case.  His breath catches.  “Oh, Crowley.  Is that…?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmurs, wonderingly.  His gaze is fixed on the clay tablet – battered and worn after thousands of years, many of the characters rubbed away – but his hand is firm as he braids their fingers together.  “You old serpent.  I knew you were a romantic at heart.”