#you will always be greeted by aziraphale smiling brightly and giving you a little wave

[everysongineverykey]

crowley is a luggage carrying boyfriend i know this in my heart. not by choice don't get it twisted he just always ends up with the bags because he never packs anything on trips except a bag of extra sunglasses and aziraphale packs enough to last them through a 700 year nuclear fallout. you're a nice normal person living in the south downs and you decide to go out and meet your new next-door neighbors who've just bought the cottage and you're talking to this nice homely white-haired gent who looks like he just got back from tea with mr darcy of darbyshire and in the middle of the conversation he turns to the vintage car behind him and goes "ah, there's my sweetheart with our luggage!" and you're watching a sopping wet cat of a person who would give mullets a run for their money in a tired eighties vibes competition stumble out of the car with two white suitcases, a white attache case, a little yellow makeup bag, and one black handbag piled on top of it all. the handbag slides off the pile and way too many dark glasses spill out onto the grass. "angel!" the guy groans loudly, desperately holding out the remaining bags to sweet old mr. fell, who cheerfully goes, "in a moment, crowley, dear! i'm just getting the lay of the land from our new neighbor here!" and turns back to you. "crowley" kicks some grass in pathetic frustration, very carefully balances the white bags on the hood of the car, and sets to work picking up every single individual pair of dropped sunglasses one at a time, polishing them with care with a silken black handkerchief, blowing on them once, and putting them back in the black bag. you wonder if maybe the tories had a point about gay people

[yamisnuffles]

Cosmic Love

Not long after the Great Flood, Gabriel comes to lay down a few ground rules for Crowley and tries to set Aziraphale on a better path.

This is the fourth part in my Too Much of a Good Things series, where both Crowley and Aziraphale are angels. It won’t make sense if you haven’t read the other parts.

Read on Ao3

-

While of course no angel was exactly alike, there were a few things about the Seraphim generally considered rules amongst the other angels. For one, they burned with a fiery passion in all they did, both figuratively and quite literally. For another, they had very lovely voices. If they were to be found anywhere other than deep in the cosmos, it was at the Almighty’s side, singing Her praises. Finally, they were weird. This last point was generally considered a byproduct of the prior two.

Of course, because the Seraphim tended to work at a distance from many other angels, this opinion was likely little more than gossip. How many of the Host could say they spent enough time with even a single Seraph to sum them up? That was Aziraphale’s opinion on the matter. Or, at least, it had been until he had spent enough time with a certain Seraph to form a distinct impression.

Aziraphale had started to wonder if Crowley himself was the reason the Seraphim had developed such a reputation. He was certainly dramatic and what was that if not a sort of passion. Aziraphale hadn’t ever heard him sing but Crowley also had a lovely speaking voice. As to the last bit, well…

There were plenty of ways that Crowley was different from anyone else Aziraphale knew. Crowley went by Crowley instead of his God given name, for one. It was certainly his choice and one Aziraphale respected but he couldn’t say he understood the impulse. For another, Crowley was often using nonsensical turns of phrase, talking about lead balloons and zoos and the like. He said them in ways that implied what he was saying made perfect sense but always made Aziraphale feel an awful lot like something had gone wrong with his hearing. And then there was the way he was always calling Aziraphale “angel” as though they weren’t both angels. As though Aziraphale was something special, singular to Crowley. It made Aziraphale’s heart flutter in a way that definitely wasn’t normal, not for him.

Which was to say nothing of the way Crowley walked since he’d regained his legs. The way his hips and his legs seemed to have a rhythm all their own that defied logic and the laws of gravity while they were at it. It was peculiar. Outlandish. Altogether too much in a way that awakened parts of Aziraphale he’d rather forgotten he’d had and if that wasn’t strange, he didn’t know what was.

Crowley was doing it at that very moment, sauntering about like he wasn’t bound by any of the rules of his corporeal form. Aziraphale had been content to quietly watch him at it until the Seraph started to do something else odd. Crowley had been replanting the fertile but devastated landscape. Lush greenery sprang up in his wake was he walked, arms outstretched. It was a beautiful sort of dance with the way he moved. Or would have been, had Crowley not made frequent stops to grumble at whatever he’d just grown. 

“My dear, are you… talking to the plants?” Aziraphale asked. Talking seemed the kindest way to describe what Crowley was doing. Hissing was far more accurate but Crowley got a bit tetchy when his lingering serpentine features were pointed out. 

Crowley gave a low lying shrub a parting glare. When it raised its limbs further up toward the sun, he nodded and then looked at Aziraphale. “Just giving them a few reminders.”

“Of?”

“Of the flood. Of the fact that I am graciously giving them all a second chance.” Golden eyes became molten and turned on the plants once more. Their leaves quivered under his glare. “That this all could be taken away in a moment if they’re not careful and so they need to grow better.”

Aziraphale’s heart squeezed uncomfortably at the implications. He tried to think of a way to respond gently to that but a sudden flash of lightning brought his brain to a halt. Gabriel appeared before them in what had been a pristine new field of poppies.

“Greetings, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said in that booming voice of his. He fixed a bright, white smile on Aziraphale and then turned it on Crowley. “And just the angel I was looking for. Hello, Sala-”

“Nope,” Crowley interjected.

Gabriel kept his smile in place, though it tightened noticeably. “Excuse me?”

Crowley crossed his arms. “That’s not my name anymore. It’s Crowley.”

Though Crowley might not be phased in the slightest by the Archangel’s clear displeasure at being both interrupted and corrected, Aziraphale couldn’t help but squirm. “Yes I, ah, I mentioned it in my memo to you?” It wasn’t a question. He knew he had but his voice rose all the same. He twisted the ring on his pinky finger. “In the report about the ark and everything.”

“I thought that was a joke,” Gabriel replied. “We all had a good laugh about it. Well, whatever.” He shrugged and turned his violet eyes down at the flowers crushed beneath his sandaled feet. He either couldn’t see or didn’t care about the way Crowley was glaring at him. “What is this?” he asked, wrinkling his nose and peeling a petal from his sole. “There isn’t supposed to be anything growing here yet.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley shrugged. Despite his feigned nonchalance, his fingers twitched in clear desire to heal the crushed flowers. Instead he swept his arm to his side and tall grass sprouted in a clump. “Now there is.”

Gabriel frowned. “I see that. Why?”

Crowley bared his teeth in a sharp smile. “Dunno if you noticed, but there was a really big flood recently. That big boat full of humans and animals need more than a whole mess of mud to get on with things. Soooo-” An aggressive arm sweep and more poppies grew up around Gabriel for every one he’d trod on. “I’m helping them out. S’what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“We aren’t supposed to interfere directly with the affairs of the humans unless ordered. And you aren’t supposed to interfere at all with them.” Gabriel’s frown was traded for his widest, most mirthless smile. “You’ve done more than enough of that, wouldn’t you say?”

Aziraphale nearly stumbled in his haste to get between the two angels. He rather felt like doing so might cause him to be ill. He’d rather not. He’d seen it happen to humans and it looked dreadfully unpleasant. However, he couldn’t let this escalate any further. His own smile fluttered about the edges.

“Gabriel, is there a reason you’re here?”

“To see this, of course,” Grabriel replied, gesturing to Crowley. As though the Seraph was a thing, a spectacle, and not a fellow member of the Host. Aziraphale knew the Archangel couldn’t possibly mean it in that way but it did make his stomach turn again. “When you said in your report that our errant angel, Crowley, had regained his original corporation, I just had to see it for myself. And what do you know, that wasn’t a joke either.”

Crowley’s only response was to bare his teeth further. Snakes weren’t capable of smiling, but Aziraphale had the distinct impression that it would look something like that if they could, a sickle sharp slice of venom. It made the too human hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck rise up. Danger, it said.

“No, not a joke,” he said. “Why- why would I lie in my report? I try my best not to embellish.”

Gabriel waved his hand. “Yes, yes. You were quite thorough, Aziraphale. But who would believe this? Not me. Not Michael. Sandalphon was taking bets on whether it would ever happen at all. No hard feelings or anything. You just gotta admit, this came as a surprise.”

Aziraphale couldn’t even think of what to say to that. His mouth worked around a response that wouldn’t come. Before he could find the words, Crowley stepped forward.

“Right, well, here I am. So if you’d just-” Crowley flapped his hand dismissively.

Annoyance flickered through Gabriel’s otherwise impassive features. “That’s not all I’m here for. 

You may have your original form back but, sorry to say, that’s not the end of it. It’s been decided that it would be best for everyone if you stay down here to live amongst the humans, as one of them. You’ll still have your miracles, of course. We’re not monsters. Though, in the future, do be less wasteful,” he said, gesturing at the lush greenery around them. “But that means no trips to Heaven.”

“Good riddance,” Crowley muttered.

“And no going off into the stars,” Gabriel continued brightly, as though he hadn’t heard Crowley’s aside.

Aziraphale gasped. He put a hand on Crowley as much to steady himself as to keep the Seraph back. But Crowley was no longer on the offensive. He was trembling. Aziraphale turned to look at him and saw his mouth was hanging wide.

“You can’t.”

Gabriel laughed. “I can’t? The Almighty may have decided in Her infinite goodness to let you stop crawling around but it’s up to Heaven to decide everything else. The humans are still suffering because of what you did, so it’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Crowley’s mouth thinned and a shadow passed over his golden eyes. It should have been easier for Aziraphale to read him now but he’d gotten so used to the body language of a snake. He needed to relearn everything about how Crowley expressed himself. All he knew at the moment was that his emotive friend was all too still and quiet for his liking.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Gabriel, could I perhaps speak to you for a moment? Er, privately.” Gabriel raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest when Aziraphale led him out of Crowley’s earshot. “You’ll have to excuse Crowley’s behavior. He’s been rather moody since the flood, what with the almost dying and being left out of plans. I don’t think he quite understands the… the ineffability of it.”

“Aziraphale, buddy, if it was up to me, I’d say getting his body back was the end of it. This is nothing personal. But you’ve got to consider appearances.” Gabriel wrapped one arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and used the other to gesture at the sky. “Think about it. He already skipped out of his duty during the War and then there’s Eden. How do you think the other angels would feel if he got off so easy? Not to mention those mucking about in Hell. We let Salath- Crowley off after a mere thousand years and before you know it, we have demons demanding they be let back into heaven.”

Aziraphale squirmed uncomfortably. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am. As long he’s under Heaven’s care, we’re responsible for him. You wouldn’t rather he not be under our care, would you?”

Aziraphale’s throat went suddenly dry. He couldn’t help but look back at Crowley. The Seraph was barely visible crouching amongst the poppies, a shock of red hair amongst even redder blooms. Nearly everything Crowley had done since coming to Earth seemed designed to make Aziraphale fret on his behalf. He was always pushing at the bounds and asking too many questions instead of trusting in the Plan. Was Gabriel’s goodwill all that had kept Crowley from Falling? If so, what if he ever found out about the things that Aziraphale had left out of his reports, like why Crowley had nearly died during the flood?

Aziraphale shivered. “Crowley really does care for the humans. He sometimes shows it in an unusual way but he is trying. Perhaps if he had duties to keep him occupied?”

“I don’t think so, Aziraphale. It might seem nice to give him some busy work, but think about it from the other side. After what he did in the Garden, which souls are we supposed to trust to his care?” Gabriel shook his head. “I told you bud, gotta keep your eyes on the big picture. Good. Evil. We don’t need rogue agents messing things up.” He clapped Aziraphale on the back hard enough to wind him. “Big picture. Something you should keep in mind yourself when you consider what company you keep.”

As quickly as he’d arrived, Gabriel was gone, leaving only the tang of ozone and disapproval in his wake. Aziraphale let out a long, shaky breath. He knew what the Archangel was getting at- that he would be better off without Crowley around. It might be true but he wasn’t worried about himself. Well, not entirely. In truth, ever since he’d given away his sword he’d worried that he wasn’t doing the right thing. But he worried more about Crowley. If Gabriel was concerned about the influence Crowley might be on him, he was far more concerned about the effect he had on Crowley. Maybe they’d both be better off without each other.

With a heavy heart, Aziraphale turned to discuss the matter with his friend. However, Crowley was nowhere to be found. Aziraphale turned his head this way and that, hoping to catch a flash of copper hair or yellow eyes. Nothing. Wind rattled through the grass and dislodged a single white feather from its depths. Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath. He could feel his heart pound and stopped himself before he got too worked up. There was no reason to believe Crowley was in danger. There had been those demons for a time but… No, no. It was fine. Crowley was hardly defenseless. He wasn’t human.

Nor was Aziraphale, for that matter. He extended all his senses. He wasn’t limited to anything so mundane as sight. Crowley had been difficult to find when he’d been a serpent, muted in a way. Since that day on the ark, though, he’d been like a beacon. He must have loved the world fiercely indeed for as bright as he burned. He was so full of love it was hard for Aziraphale to sense much else around him. 

“There you are,” Aziraphale sighed, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

With a snap, he appeared in the upper atmosphere. He had to yank his wings quickly into this dimension to keep from falling. Once he’d steadied himself, he examined his surroundings. Above the clouds and everything else, it was easy to find Crowley. With his wings extended and his long hair trailing behind him, Crowley looked like a comet that was defying gravity to shoot upward. He went high enough that he was just one more shining point amongst many when something violently rebuffed him and he went crashing earthward.

Aziraphale shot forward with a yelp. He needed to tuck his wings in and propel himself faster with a miracle to surpass the speed of Crowley’s disastrous descent. He swept the Seraph into his arms and unfurled his wings again in time to stop them from crashing. Crowley looked dazed. He stared owlishly at Aziraphale as the Principality did his best to settle them in for a comfortable landing. He tried to place Crowley back on his feet but the other angel seemed liable to topple over if Aziraphale loosened his embrace.

“Crowley, are you alright? What were you thinking?”

Pink colored pale skin and obscured the freckles that dusted over Crowley’s high cheekbones. He found his feet at last and staggered back a step. “Just wanted to test,” he mumbled. He threw his head back to look up. His eyes were intense as he stared up at the clouds that dotted the blue sky, as if he could see beyond all of that to the cosmos. His eyes were wet when he looked down at Aziraphale. “How did you find me?”

“Simple. You positively radiate love, my dear.”

“I… ngk… wuh?”

Crowley’s face was positively scarlet now, though Aziraphale couldn’t fathom what he had to be embarrassed about. Best to reassure him after all that he’d just been through.

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Yes, I don’t know why I didn’t notice it in Eden but I suppose you hadn’t had time yet to really appreciate creation. Now, well my dear boy, I’m really in awe of how fiercely you love this world. But I’ve always heard how passionate the Seraphim could be.”

He meant it as a slightly teasing compliment but it didn’t seem like he’d hit the right mark. Crowley was still sputtering and the red of his face had seeped up to his ears. “Course you can sense… don’t know why I didn’t think…” All that nervous energy spread and caused Crowley’s wings to flutter. “Yeah, the world’s great. Just love it. Never known anything like it.”

Aziraphale smiled wider over the way Crowley’s voice broke around the word love, as though it was too much to even say. He put a gentle hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “I know you want to go back to the stars but perhaps you can remember that until you’re able to return. It can’t be so unbearable to be trapped with something you love so much can it?”

A small, broken noise escaped Crowley’s throat. “No, s’fine, I guess. Nice. Great.”

Aziraphale thought of what Gabriel had said.  Aziraphale couldn’t imagine it was possibly that bad to be around any angel who knew how to love so wholly but he often felt there was a lot he didn’t understand about how to be a good angel. He certainly didn’t know what was best in this case- for him, for Crowley, for anything. Maybe he didn’t need to decide that just yet. It felt cruel to abandon Crowley when he was reacclimating to the world after a millennia as a serpent, especially when he no longer had the comfort of the stars.

“Shall we get back? I know Gabriel said you oughtn’t miracle the plants back but I do think the humans will be rather confused if they come across things unfinished like that.”

Crowley beamed. “Anywhere you want to go, you know I’ll follow. So lead the way.”

[coloursflyaway]

Fall On Me

Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.200

Tags: Fluff, mutual pining, love confessions, getting together, first kiss

Link to AO3

Occasionally, Crowley still thinks of Alpha Centauri. Although, no, it’s hardly enough to be classified a thought, more the hint of one, the notional equivalent of picking up just a little bit of another radio station while listening to music. Not because there isn’t enough to think about, not even because he doesn’t want to, but because he absolutely forbids himself to do anything more. He’d forbid himself from thinking about it entirely, but unfortunately his brain is not like his house plants and cannot be frightened into submission. Crowley knows this because he has tried. Several times.

So, he still occasionally thinks of Alpha Centauri. They’re not the clearest thoughts he has ever had, because all of those had come from a healthy mix of not sleeping and three hundred quid’s worth of cocaine pumping through his bloodstream, they’re more of the fuzzy and shapeless kind that leaves you a bit disoriented afterwards. Their topics include, but are not limited to:

the vast nothingness of space

the lack of gravity

Aziraphale

the problem of deciding on which of the twin stars to settle on

the possibility of solar flares feeling ticklish

Aziraphale

the new and exciting possibilities of inhabiting a new solar system

Aziraphale

Some of them, like wondering if he would be able to taste the magnetic activity of his new home, are relatively comforting thoughts, while others are quite the opposite. Anything, that is, that has to do with a certain angel. And of course, it is those thoughts which take up the vast majority of the time he spends thinking about Alpha Centauri; it’s all light blonde hair and soft wrinkles that make gentle eyes look gentler, cream-coloured suits and smiles so bright that Crowley thinks he might remember Heaven for a moment. What makes it more difficult is that it is so easy, impossibly easy, one might say, to go from there to, well. Alpha Centauri. And how it could have been if they had let the Earth implode, run away together and made a new life there. Maybe without books, without wine and without his Bentley, but with each other and with an eternity to spend.

The thought, even if is just fleeting, a minor ripple in the dark, menacing sea that is Crowley’s mind, is enough to make something bloom in his chest that is decidedly undemonic, something warm and soft and bright, something that is as old as it is new, and as beautiful as it is torturous. He knows what it is, has known it for at least four thousand years, which is the precise reason why the Feeling has remained nameless, even if it is stubbornly clinging to the door in Crowley’s mind through which he is continuously trying to push it.

It’s the Feeling which is making Crowley think of Alpha Centauri now too, because he can feel the first tendrils of it spreading in his chest, just waiting for a crack in his vigilance to strangle him. He won’t let it, he decides, while he watches Aziraphale pop another biscuit into his mouth, humming like it’s the best thing he has ever tasted when Crowley knows for a fact that he got them for ninety-nine pence at Tesco half an hour ago. But there is something endearing about it, the way Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly, how he throws another biscuit at a duck, hitting it square in the face, and how he looks at it with slight regret, because he won’t get to eat it. The biscuit, that is.

“So?”, Crowley prompts, before he can think of something stupid, like wonder if Aziraphale’s eyes would look differently in another sun’s light. “Hm?” Aziraphale looks over to him, his face such a perfect picture of innocence that Crowley can’t be anything but suspicious. “The thing. The thing that you wanted to talk about. That you didn’t want to discuss on the phone.” It could be literally anything, from a new cat that the angel had spotted hanging around the book shop to another bout of the Apocalypse, the this-time-actual end of the world, time, and everything Crowley has ever held dear, so he had decided very early on that he would not worry about it. Only that deciding something and actually doing it seems to be mutually exclusive. “Oh. Right. Yes.”

Aziraphale straightens almost imperceptibly, going weirdly still, and the danger scale in Crowley’s mind is suddenly tipped violently towards BAD.   “It is hardly anything, really”, Aziraphale says softly, looking stubbornly down at his biscuits, and the scale tips further. “A trifle, really. Just something that we, well, not discussed, but something that was mentioned.” Crowley waits for a few seconds if the angel intends to say anything else, but when nothing comes, he prompts, “Yes?” Not really because he wants to know that badly, but because he doesn’t want to give the building anxiety any more room in his mind than it has annexed already.

“Yes. Well. If you perchance remember, I think it was in the seventies, or maybe the late sixties, now that I think of it, I had brought you the holy water, and you…” Again, Aziraphale doesn’t finish the sentence, instead his voice goes softer, softer, until it’s gone; Crowley remembers the evening more than clearly, the heist and the hope and the heartbreak. “What I am trying to say, back then we talked about having ourselves a little picknick at some point. And since the world doesn’t appear to be ending anytime soon I figured, why not do that now? As long as we still have time.”

Crowley, just a few weeks ago, has stopped time himself, and yet Aziraphale seems to be able to do the same thing, because the Earth most definitely stops, everyone around them stops, and Crowley’s relatively useless heart? Oh, it stops the hardest of all.

Because he knows what that moment meant to him, that one second in which he thought that maybe they were on the same page after all, because he knows what he wants this to mean, because… because he knows it can’t be that. He takes a deep breath, and squashes what could be hope blossoming in his chest like he has done with a dozen ants on the way here.

“…yeah”, he answers Aziraphale what would have been several seconds too late, had time not stopped in between to give his heart the chance to break.  Another deep breath, since it almost feels like he needs twice as much air to speak even a single word right now. “Sure. Anywhere special you want to go to?” “No.” Finally Aziraphale looks up, smiling so brightly it hurts Crawley’s eyes even with his sunglasses on; as much as he hates it, he can feel his heart mending in his chest. “Wherever you want to go, dear boy.”

 They agree on meeting on Tuesday, because Tuesday seems like the right day to choose, and as always Crowley picks Aziraphale up at his book store. He looks… different. Crowley cannot pinpoint why, or how, because Aziraphale is wearing the same too proper clothes, his hair tousled, a picknick basket in one of his hands, but there is something just off about him, like something has changed without Crowley noticing. The thought is vaguely disconcerting.

Crowley doesn’t bother getting out, just waits until Aziraphale gets into the car; like always the world seems a little bit brighter as soon as he’s near. “Mornin’, angel”, he greets, and Aziraphale gives him a smile that also isn’t quite right, but too close to it for Crowley to say anything. “Does this really still count as morning?”, Aziraphale asks instead of answers, “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? I suppose it could count as a very late morning, if you insist, even if I would definitely say it’s closer to midday.” “I don’t insist on anything.”

It’s impossible to keep the amusement from his voice, and Aziraphale must notice it, because he flashes Crowley another smile; this time it feels real. “In that case, good midday to you to. Have you decided where we’ll go by now?” “Absolutely not.” He flashes Aziraphale a toothy grin and starts the car to go wherever it wants to take them. “Just as well.” The angel looks away from Crowley, out of the window to watch London’s streets pass them by, every molecule of his earthly body radiating contentment, and there is something about this too, Crowley thinks as he almost runs over a very small woman and her even smaller dog. It’s almost like something clicked in place, some part of Aziraphale’s brain that used to tick, or click or move in another rather infuriating way, and which now has found the one place it fits in and made it its home.

“Maybe somewhere green would be nice”, Aziraphale says slowly, every word crisp and clear in the warm air, “Proper green, I mean. Not the way a park is, more like the countryside. Green and… peaceful. Yes. I think that would do nicely. What do you say?”

What Crowley wants to say is something close to the lines of this: I have absolutely no preference when it comes to this, because I haven’t cared less about anything in the last century than I care about picknicks, but I would willingly walk through the Pearly Gates of Heaven with you if it meant we spent more time with each other.

What Crowley says, however, is this: “Sounds good enough to me.” Which doesn’t quite hold the same emotional gravity.

“Splendid”, Aziraphale answers nonetheless, absolutely oblivious and lets one of his hands drop down from the wicker basket he is balancing on his lap, despite Crowley, like always, driving at a speed that would make some tornados dreadfully jealous. The hand lands in the most inopportune places it could, at least from Crowley’s perspective, which is between them, palm turned towards the sky and fingers stretched out just enough that the tips brush against Crowley’s thighs every so often. It’s the perfect position for someone to take it, hold it tightly, maybe even wave their fingers together to feel the thrum of blood beneath Aziraphale’s skin.

Even taking in account the one time his entire car was on fire, it’s still the worst drive of Crowley’s life.

 They arrive… well, they arrive somewhere. Not that the where part matters much to Crowley, he just stops the car when Aziraphale next to him mutters something like, “Don’t you think that this looks nice?” In Crowley’s opinion it really doesn’t. It’s essentially a field, very green and kind of soggy, complete with a few stubborn bushes that have yet to get the memo about agriculture and an unenthusiastic crow picking at an invisible object that might, or might not, be food. It’s as boring as the English countryside can get, but Aziraphale smiles at the crow like it’s the most magical of God’s creations and transforms the entire scene into something worthwhile.

So they get out of the car, Aziraphale still holding tightly onto his basket, Crowley’s thigh burning with the residual angelic touch; when the angel has found a slightly less soggy spot, they spread the chequered blanket on the ground and when they sit, Aziraphale is just a little too close. He must not notice how their knees touch, but Crowley does.

Deft fingers pull plate after box after platter from the basket, fresh strawberries and little sandwiches, scones and clotted cream and a tiny jar of jam, slices of cold meat and three different kinds of bread rolls, and as a triumphant finale an entire chocolate covered cake. Crowley can’t do anything but watch, both surprised at the amount of food and surprised that he’s even surprised. “Angel, how long do you intend to stay here? A fortnight?”, he asks, the surprise firmly refusing to leave his voice just yet. Aziraphale’s ears turn slightly pink.

“I, er, I couldn’t decide. You see, you never told me what you wanted to eat, so I just. Brought everything.” His voice is smaller than usual, but his eyes are still bright when he looks up at Crowley through his lashes, who promptly forgets how to be snarky for the first time since his creation. “That’s – “, he starts, then chokes on the words he couldn’t think of anyway, because Aziraphale gently lays his hand on Crowley’s knee. It’s the smallest of touches, and yet Crowley can feel the warmth he hasn’t possessed for centuries burn through the fabric of his jeans, heating up his skin. “Nice”, he finishes lamely, at least several moments too late, hoping that his glasses are dark enough to conceal the fact that his eyes are glued on Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured fingers on his knee, stretching out to touch his thigh.

“That’s because I am an angel, dear, it’s what we’re meant to do”, Aziraphale says easily, no change in his tone of voice. His other hand is picking up one of the tiny sandwiches like he isn’t aware that he has just launched Crowley’s mind into space, more accurately 4,37 light years away to Alpha Centauri, where it is plucking the fantasy of the life they could possibly have had right from the gaseous surface and transporting it here. To this field, this moment, this eternity. It’s impossible, and yet this time, Crowley doesn’t manage to squash the hope completely before it can bloom in his chest.

It’ll hurt like a bitch when Aziraphale eventually breaks his heart again.

Fingers tightening around his thigh bring Crowley back to Earth entirely, to Aziraphale smiling at him with eyes that should not be allowed to look so kind. “You should try one of the scones”, he tells Crowley brightly, “I picked them up at this charming little store in Edinburgh in the morning, they’re absolutely scrumptious.”

The scone is halfway to his mouth when Crowley really, truly realises what Aziraphale has said, isn’t just taking an order. It makes him pause, hand raised and mouth hanging open before forming the first string of passably sensible words since they sat down. “You went to Edinburgh for scones?”

This time, it’s not just Aziraphale’s ears that turn pink, it’s the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks too, leaving Crowley with the very demonic urge to just eat him whole. “I might have”, Aziraphale admits, sounding bashful. “But I was there anyway to pick up the jam, so it really wasn’t much of a bother.” “…the jam.” A moment passes with Crowley just trying to understand what is being said, but then again, this is the angel he had to break out of prison because of crepes. The thought passes, quicker than expected, because another pushes and pulls until it can take its place. “Where are the strawberries from?”

The blush dusted across Aziraphale’s face grows deeper in shade, and Crowley cannot be absolutely certain of the answer, because it is mumbled into the rest of the sandwich the angel is stuffing into his mouth. “Trondheim.” “The cake?” “This lovely café in Vienna, really charming, you’d love the décor-“ “What about the sandwiches?” “Oh.” For the first time, no colour changes on Aziraphale’s face, instead he looks vaguely pleased, which only makes Crowley more suspicious. “Those I made myself. I even cut off the crusts, see?”

Aziraphale holds up one of the little crust-less triangles for Crowley to see, a grave mistake. “That salmon is not from Sainsbury’s though, is it?” “It could be”, Aziraphale answers, telling Crowley that it absolutely isn’t. “There is absolutely no reason to think it isn’t from a local supermarket and instead from… from a small shop in Cordova, Alaska.” His voice grows more strained with every word he’s saying, and Crowley can’t help but chuckle.

“Really, angel”, he says without any malice, but a lot of amusement. “I always knew you were crazy about food, but –“ He doesn’t get to finish, because Aziraphale interrupts him, words flying from his mouth in a way that reminds Crowley of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. “I’m not. Crazy about food I mean. I mean, I am, but that’s not – it isn’t what this is all about, it’s not – “Aziraphale pauses, and something changes in his posture, or maybe the slant of his mouth, or maybe the intensity of his gaze. Whatever it is, it steadies the angel’s voice when he finally finishes his sentence. “None of this was for me.”

It doesn’t make much sense. “Who’s it for, then?”, Crowley asks, stealing the sandwich from between the angel’s fingers and stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. Over the past millennia, Crowley thought he had seen every possible facial expression on Aziraphale, but he’s proven wrong right here, in the English country side, because never before in all of creation has a creature looked upon another with such utter incredulity painted across his face. “Crowley”, Aziraphale says, sounding as stunned as he looks, almost desperate. Crowley chokes on his sandwich.

“What?”, he gasps out once he can speak again, having miracled the sandwich from his tracheae to Alpha Centauri, the first place he could think of. His voice is hoarse nonetheless, but it doesn’t matter, since he can hardly form more than one word. “What?” “I thought it was obvious!” Aziraphale is flailing, hands flapping through the warm summer air. “It’s what we discussed! A picknick, or a dinner at the Ritz, and since you didn’t do anything when we were at the Ritz, I thought – “ “I didn’t do anything?” Crowley interrupts him, sounding at least as scandalised as he feels. “I did everything! All the time! I asked you to run away with me to Alpha Centauri!” “Well. Yes.” Aziraphale huffs slightly, crossing his arms in front of his body. “I guess we both can agree that wasn’t your best idea.”

They can, but Crowley cannot admit that right now, especially not when his heart is finally starting to realise what exactly they are bickering about. It’s not a sudden thing, realising, it’s more like making a good cup of tea in the morning, letting the tea bag steep just the perfect amount of time, adding milk or sugar or in Crowley’s case, nothing at all. Realising takes time, time which he, after 6000 years, more than deserves. At first, it doesn’t feel like much at all, maybe like a small fit of cardiac arrest, but the sensation grows stronger, his heart seemingly sucking in blood without pumping it back into his system, growing wider, fuller, heavier. Warmer, too. It seizes up, like it wishes it could explode, and Crowley thinks, for the first time without panic clinging to the words, Oh shit, he knows.

He must know, maybe not quite the extent, or the amount of time, or the sheer mind-numbing pain of it, but Aziraphale knows, and not only that, he doesn’t mind. In fact, it seems that – and Crowley’s heart suddenly releases the blood it has been hoarding all at once, filling every vein, every vessel with warm, tingling knowledge – Aziraphale might reciprocate. An impossible thought, and yet there is a hand on Crowley’s knee still, there are the angel’s eyes on him, unwaveringly kind, unfailingly loving.

His heart beats another time, and the warmth is almost unbearable, the intensity, the brilliance of the feeling enough to make Crowley forget how to breathe for a solid minute, if not longer. After such a long time, he can’t quite recall what it was like to gaze at God, but he thinks it must have felt something close to this.

Crowley is almost done with realising, the tea close to finish steeping, but there is still something missing, there is still the need to hear Aziraphale say it out-loud and make it real. “You mean…?”, he croaks out, because he has quite forgotten how to speak, but it’s enough for the angel to understand. “I suppose you could say that I finally caught up to your speed.”

Up until now, Crowley would have said he knew every single of Aziraphale’s smiles by heart, but this moment proves him wrong; the corners of the angel’s mouth pull up in a way he has never seen before, a curve of lips that makes Crowley’s heart shine brighter than all stars of Alpha Centauri combined. It’s a small smile, a kind one, but most importantly one that tells its audience that the person wearing it harbours not a single trace of doubt in their mind. And it’s directed at him.

A small part of Crowley still wants to ask Are you sure? but he doesn’t, because he knows. He knows with an intensity that makes it feel like he has never known anything in his life before, like all dogmatic principles of Heaven and Hell could only pale in comparison to the certainty of Aziraphale’s hand squeezing his knee, his eyes filled with an amount of love that should have to be enough for the entire Earth, not just one single entity on it.

“Alright”, Crowley says instead, mostly because he isn’t quite sure what to say, can’t think about it with Aziraphale looking at him like that. In all his life, Crowley never really understood the concept of physical beauty, at least not until now. Because now he can’t even think of tearing his eyes from the angel’s face, committing every groove, every slope and curve of it to memory once more, can’t imagine anything he’d rather look at for the rest of eternity. Aziraphale is beautiful, maybe not for human standards, maybe not even angelic ones, but he’s the most beautiful thing in all of existence in Crowley’s eyes.

Something starts to grow next, maybe inside, the Feeling inside his chest, something that feels more longing, maybe a little bit hotter still, a yearning, a hunger, something that is inextricably connected to this human body he is inhabiting. It isn’t lust, but at the same time not terribly far removed from it, a craving which informs Crowley in no uncertain terms that it will not go anywhere unless it is satisfied.

A moment passes until Crowley realises what it is his mortal body wants; when he does, he’s, well. Surprised. He’s seen humans do it before, but never has been terribly impressed with the concept. All in all, it seems relatively pointless, wet and possibly unsanitary, and yet his gaze flickers down to Aziraphale’s lips, which look plush and soft and impossibly inviting. Like they would feel perfect pressed against any patch of Crowley’s skin, most of all against his own mouth.

Maybe it’s because he never expected to be in this position that Crowley never considered how it would be to kiss Aziraphale, but the second the thought appears in his mind it overtakes it completely, leaves Crowley breathless with want. He looks down on Aziraphale’s hand on his leg, then slowly, ever so slowly, covers it with his own. Aziraphale’s skin is warm, soft, doesn’t feel angelic but human, and suddenly, it’s the simplest thing in the world to lean in.

Their lips meet in the middle, since apparently Crowley wasn’t the only one thinking about it, and it’s with the first touch that his eyes flutter shut, almost an involuntary response. It’s a soft kiss, a chaste one, a perfect kiss to be the first of a million.

Beneath Crowley’s hand Aziraphale turns his own around, weaves their fingers together and holds onto Crowley’s hand like it’s the only thing that is keeping him from sinking. And Crowley, lips parting easily to deepen the kiss, eager to take every little ounce of love Aziraphale is willing to give, seconds the sentiment.

They break apart at some point, and it’s only because their surroundings haven’t changed significantly that Crowley knows that they haven’t spent a century kissing. Still, it feels like it could have been that long, because everything has changed. Not the world, but then again, the world was never that significant; the sun isn’t brighter, but he is, and looking at Aziraphale, the angel is, too.

“So”, Crowley says after another moment-slash-eternity, “This is happening now, right? I mean, for a longer amount of time. I mean, for-“ He stops, cannot say it, cannot even think it. Even if it seems like a lifetime away since he thought it impossible altogether, it still hasn’t been long enough to truly wrap his head around the concept. Aziraphale seems to know, for once takes the plunge so Crowley won’t have to. His eyes are glittering with the sunshine of an early autumn day and his own celestial light as he takes their intertwined hands and raises them up to his lips, presses a kiss to each of Crowley’s knuckles, just as sweet as their first one was. And his voice is almost as soft when he, lips still grazing Crowley’s skin, says, "Yes, dear, I think forever would be quite the right word for it."

[ladybugsfanfics]

Lunch Interruption | Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale x Crowley

Style: One Shot apart of this drabble series.

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

WC: 1235

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

Intro | Series Masterlist | AO3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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