#“oh crowley... i love this bookshop but its nothing compared to my love for you”
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"you cant leave this bookshop" "nothing lasts forever" aziraphale already gave away multiple books just to dance with crowley sweetie he would give away the entire shop if it could maybe make you happy
#UGH#“oh crowley... i love this bookshop but its nothing compared to my love for you”#“oh crowley... I would let go of everything i have in order to keep you in my arms”#“oh crowley... I would sacrifice everything to save you”#U G H#He wants him safe he wants him happy#he wants to see his stars light up his eyes once more#UGHHHHHHHHHHH#good omens#gomens#good omens season 2#good omens 2#good omens spoilers#good omens series 2#aziraphale#crowley#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#ineffable divorce
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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.
#my writing#THIS TURNED OUT WAY LONGER THAN I EXPECTED HERE HAVE IT#i'll put it up on ao3 tomorrow#good omens#rated M below the cut fyi
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Feelings Stick
Summary: Crowley deals with his feelings for Aziraphale by writing them down in a journal, intending on keeping them a secret for as long as he can.
The journal, however, has other plans. (1110 words)
Read on AO3.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Crowley mutters, tearing through his flat, rifling through drawers and underneath sofa cushions, searching … searching …
When he comes up emptyhanded after a third full sweep, the swearing starts.
“Shit, shit, shit! Why me!? Why now!?”
He flings himself down on the sofa, hopping up onto his feet again in pain when his back hits the metal springs hiding within the cushion-less frame.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he growls, pulling hair out of his head as he attempts to remember where he last saw it. He has his suspicions. And if he’s correct, everything could go from Heaven to Hell in a handbasket in a less than …
Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz.
Crowley stares at the end table, at his phone vibrating its way across the glass top, the name Aziraphale displayed across the screen, white letters laid over an image of orange flame.
… no time flat.
“Shit!”
Crowley debates letting the call go to voicemail. It would be the first call from Aziraphale that he purposefully let go to voicemail ever.
He doesn’t want to do that.
Besides, he’d be a coward if he did.
Crowley hasn’t done anything wrong. Everything he wrote in his journal? 100% true. It’s the culmination of every confession Crowley ever held back, the words he didn’t say when he had the chance. When they would have mattered, could have changed things.
They would have come to light sooner or later.
He was hoping for later, of course. Not necessarily this particular Wednesday afternoon.
On the other hand, it is a nice sunny spring day outside - one of the first rare warm days they see in London this early in the year.
A perfect time to face the music.
He scoops the phone off the table before the last ring and answers the call. “Yel-lo.”
“Crowley?” Does Aziraphale sound anxious? Or is it just him?
“Hey, angel,” Crowley says, cool to counter Aziraphale’s nerves. “What can I do you for?”
“Oh, nothing really. I just … I have a question I’d like to ask you. If you don’t mind.”
“Yeah?” Crowley sighs. He knows. He just … he knows. “What is it?”
“I think …” Aziraphale swallows so hard, Crowley hears it over the line “… did you … the last time you were by the shop … did you leave … a journal? With a … with a black leather cover?”
Crowley slaps a hand to his forehead and scrubs it down his face. Shit! Mother … fucking …
Book girl!
This is all her fault!
Crowley didn’t want to start a journal. Writing his deepest thoughts and desires in a diary like a love-sick teenager?
That wasn’t him.
She’d mentioned it as a lark, as in, “What an amazing life you must have led! All the things you’ve seen! You should write them down! Maybe get them published! Even if no one believes a word of it, it could be seen as an incredible work of fiction!”
Crowley doesn’t know how it happened, when in the conversation he mentioned it. Was it after his sixth vodka shooter or his third bottle of whiskey? But before he knew it, he was a melancholy mess, droning on and on about how not a single thing he’s done in 6000 years would compare to his greatest adventure – falling in love with an angel.
For her part, book girl listened to every pathetic word, and in the end, she still felt the journal a good idea. She thought it might help him work through his feelings for Aziraphale.
How they don’t seem to be reciprocated, even after all the time they’ve spent together and everything they’ve been through.
If Crowley had a journal, he could put those thoughts in a place where he could catalog them, re-read them, sort through them rationally. Then, in the end, when he was ready, he might simply turn it over to Aziraphale, let him read it, and they could go on from there.
Or he could set it on fire and move on with his life. Whichever suited him best.
She did warn him though that things like journals tend to take on lives of their own, and if he’s not careful, it might choose to reveal itself in its own time, not his.
It seems as though that’s what it may have done, seeing as his last trip to visit Aziraphale marked the first time ever he’d taken his journal out of his flat, and when he left Aziraphale’s bookshop, he was completely sober.
So leaving it wasn’t a drunken mistake.
“Why do you think it’s mine?” Crowley asks, giving himself time to think.
“I … I don’t,” Aziraphale stutters, lying. “I … I saw the handwriting. I thought it looked familiar.”
“I take it you’ve read it then?”
“N-no.” Another lie. Usually they’re not so easy to spot. Aziraphale is a decent liar … about things he doesn’t care too much about.
“Angel …”
“I’m … I’m sorry! I didn’t recognize it! I’ve never seen it before! I didn’t read it read it if that’s any consolation. Thumbed through it to see where it belonged in my shop. I didn’t realize till …”
“It’s all right,” Crowley interrupts in the interest of putting poor Aziraphale out of his misery. “Not your fault.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
Then, silence.
Crowley figures he should go over there and pick the damned thing up but he doesn’t want to. Cat’s out of the bag. Let Aziraphale read it, cover to cover, and come to his own conclusions about where Crowley fits in his life, if there’s a place for him outside the one he occupies now. That elusive something more Crowley has been hoping for.
But maybe that’s not them. Maybe it isn’t meant to be after all.
“Crowley?”
“Yes, angel?”
“Did you … did you mean what you wrote?”
“About?”
“A-about being in love with me?” Aziraphale asks softly. “About loving me since the day we met? Dreaming about … about kissing me?”
And even though Aziraphale’s tone is difficult to decipher over the phone, even though he could very well be preparing to let Crowley down or worse, Crowley can’t help smiling hearing those words come out of Aziraphale’s mouth, imagining every break a pause he’s using to catch his breath. “Every word.”
“Oh …” Aziraphale hiccups “… my dear boy!”
“Yes?”
“Come back here! Come back here right away!”
“What? Why?” Crowley asks, the agitation in Aziraphale’s voice concerning. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Aziraphale says, the word brightened by a giddy laugh. “Come back here … and kiss me then!”
#good omens#good omens fanfiction#ineffable husbands#anthony j crowley#aziraphale#crowley x aziraphale#aziraphale x crowley
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and i just want to love you, to love you, to love you well
{ao3}
Aziraphale is still getting used to being in his own body again when he and Crowley stumble into the demon’s flat somewhere well past one in the morning. While he’s very grateful for Madam Tracy’s hospitality, there’s nothing quite like being back in one’s own corporation, well-worn and comfortable after thousands of years of breaking it in — like a favorite pair of shoes. He’s still feeling a bit wrong-footed but after the day he and Crowley have had, it’s to be expected. Nothing a strong drink and a few chocolate biscuits won’t fix.
He sways on his feet, standing in the entryway to Crowley’s study and staring at the puddle of holy water and melted demon simmering on the floor. At the moment, he can’t be sure if his imbalance is from the stress of discorporation and an averted apocalypse or simply from the horrid images currently flashing in front of his eyes. He’d spent so long fretting over what might happen to Crowley once he was in possession of a heavenly weapon like holy water and now here he stands, staring at the evidence.
One wrong move and the puddle at Aziraphale’s feet could have been Crowley.
His stomach heaves and he shuts his eyes briefly, pressing his fingertips to his mouth in an effort to quell the sudden bout of nausea. From the other end of the flat, he can hear Crowley rummaging around in the kitchen fetching wine and glasses for them. Aziraphale clings to the sound of his voice as he mutters irritably to himself, drawing strength from the auditory proof that Crowley is perfectly safe. They both are. For now.
He evaporates the demonic remains and the holy water with a snap of his fingers. And then he sets about cleansing the whole study just in case, walking every inch of it and muttering incantations under his breath. He tidies up as he goes, gathering the papers strewn about on the floor like confetti. Strange, considering Crowley usually keeps all of his things in such pristine condition and frequently takes great joy in mocking Aziraphale’s magpie ways.
Tutting to himself, Aziraphale shuffles the papers neatly and drops them onto Crowley’s desk. His eyes fall absently to the page on top of the pile and he stops short, staring at the star system known as Alpha Centauri. We can run away together. Aziraphale goes cold, realizing with a pang that the uncharactertistic clutter is the result of Crowley searching frantically for an escape.
All this research and then he’d simply…stayed.
“Angel?”
He starts at the sound of Crowley’s voice, glancing up to find him lounging insouciantly in the doorway. Crowley holds a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. Wedged beneath his arm is a package of Aziraphale’s favorite biscuits. He’d shed his jacket somewhere between the kitchen and the study, the sleeves of his henley pushed up his forearms. Wearing a slight frown, he peers at Aziraphale over the rim of his sunglasses.
“All right?”
Mustering up a weak smile, Aziraphale says, “Oh…dandy. Just tidying up.”
Crowley glances around, sniffing the air. “Smells like you in here now. All…holy.”
“Oh.”Aziraphale feels his cheeks heat. He hadn’t even thought about how the use of his magic in a demonic space might effect Crowley. “I do apologize-”
“No, s’fine.” Crowley makes a show of inspecting the floor where the puddle used to be, peering at the shiny floor grimly. “Doesn’t smell like melted demon anymore. I’d call that a step up.”
“Indeed.” Aziraphale drops his gaze to the page on Alpha Centauri once more, spotting a note scribbled in Crowley’s hand in the margin. Transport books?? His heart swells in his chest and he bites his lip, overcome with a wave of fondness strong enough to sway him on his feet again. He grips the edge of the desk to keep himself upright. When he looks up again, Crowley is watching him warily. “You said you were going to leave.”
If it had been anyone but Crowley — anyone Aziraphale had not spent six thousand years learning like a favorite book — then he might have missed the subtle stiffening of his spine or the flex of his fingers around the neck of the wine bottle. But Aziraphale knows Crowley backwards and forwards, the way an academic knows his life’s work. He sees everything — the tightening of his jaw, the slight lift of his brows, the muscle that ticks in his cheek. And so he isn’t surprised when Crowley affects a nonchalant shrug and asks, “When?”
Willing to let him pretend ignorance for now, Aziraphale says, “In the street. When we were-” He drops his gaze again, studying Crowley’s handwriting in the margin of the paper. Aziraphale had already refused to leave with him and he’d still been planning to have him along, making plans to bring all of his books too. “You said you were leaving.”
“Told you.” Crowley sniffs, glancing away. “Stuff happened.”
“Yes.” Aziraphale fidgets, tugging at the sleeve of his coat and smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle. “I remember.”
He hadn’t been able to see Crowley’s face but the anguish in his voice had been enough of a clue all on its own. It’s been hours since then and Crowley has certainly managed to pull himself together admirably but Aziraphale hasn’t forgotten what Crowley sounded like when the demon had thought him lost for good. He doesn’t think he ever will.
He lifts his chin, feeling unexpectedly brave at the memory. “But that didn’t really change things, did it? You were planning to go without me anyway.” With a blush, he amends, “That is, I assume you meant I was your best friend and not Ligur-”
Crowley makes a face, nose wrinkled and mouth exasperated as he snaps tiredly, “Ligur, seriously? Course I meant you, numpty.” Under his breath, he mutters, “Hell knows why sometimes.”
“Yes, I quite agree.” Aziraphale clasps his hands together, a futile attempt to still his fidgeting. “I was hardly behaving like a friend at the time. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had gone.”
Crowley sighs, scrubbing a hand over his cheek. “I was never gonna leave without you, angel. Would’ve dragged you kicking and screaming if I had to. Fuck knows what those bastards would’ve done to you if they’d actually succeeded in bringing about Armageddon.”
Aziraphale wobbles again, dangerously unsteady on his feet, but this time he hasn’t the energy to cling to the nearest available surface until the world rights itself beneath him again. His knees buckle and he sinks down, right into the throne behind Crowley’s desk. His eyes sting and his face feels hot and it’s been so long that it takes him a moment to realize he’s about to cry. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he whispers, “I don’t deserve you, Crowley.”
Crowley makes an alarmed noise and drops all his efforts at being aloof, crossing the space between them the way he always does when he knows Aziraphale needs him. What is a simple office space compared to the continents and oceans Crowley has crossed for him before? The wine glasses clatter as he deposits them on the desk, the bottle of wine thunks heavily against the wood, and the package of biscuits winds up somewhere by their feet. Neither of them pays any mind as Crowley drops to his knees in front of Aziraphale and curls his hand over the angel’s thigh.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice is gentle but slightly panicked. “Angel, it’s fine. We’re fine.”
He shakes his head, sniffling. “No, I was awful to you.”
Crowley’s grip on him tightens. “It was a stressful few days for everybody. Neither of us were at our best, yeah? It’s forgotten. Look at me.” He strokes his thumb soothingly over Aziraphale’s leg and waits for him to glance up warily. When he sees Aziraphale’s tear-filled eyes, he groans. “Don’t — don’t cry. You know I’m useless when you cry, angel.”
Aziraphale chokes out a wet laugh and says, “Yes, I know.” He sniffles. “You’re my best friend too, Crowley.”
With a tired smile, Crowley nods. “I know.” He looks away suddenly and Aziraphale blinks the tears from his eyes, watching with concern as that tiny smile fades. “I’ve always been able to feel you, angel. Out there in the world somewhere, doing your good deeds.” His lip curls and he shakes his head. When he speaks again, his voice is almost as unsteady as it had been in that pub. “And all of a sudden it just…disappeared. Like a light going out.” He sighs and it comes out more like a hiss as he grits his teeth. He looks up then, his mouth a grim, angry line. “You scared the heaven out of me, Aziraphale. Don’t ever let me catch you with those fucking candles again, got it?”
Lips pursed tightly together, Aziraphale nods and blinks back another wave of tears. “Yes, darling.”
Crowley’s eyes widen at the endearment and Aziraphale can see it even through his dark lenses. His mouth goes slack for a moment before he snaps it shut again and firms it into a tight line. He sniffs and when he speaks, his voice is a soft rasp. “Did you know, Hastur’s trademark is setting fire to things. Regular pyromaniac, he is. S’like his calling card.”
Aziraphale frowns, puzzled by the sudden change in subject but willing to go with it. “Oh?”
“Hmm.” Crowley doesn’t look at him, staring somewhere far off and to the right. His face betrays nothing of his thoughts, a blank mask that does little to put Aziraphale at ease. “And right before I drove to the bookshop and found it in flames, I’d just succeeded in royally pissing him off.”
With a sharp inhale, Aziraphale feels his world tilt again and this time, there is nothing to hang onto. “You thought-”
Crowley finally looks up and his mouth quivers so dangerously that Aziraphale can only stare, longing to brush his thumb over his lips to quell their trembling. “Yeah. Thought I’d killed you.”
“Oh, my dear Crowley. Of course you didn’t.” He lifts a shaking hand and when Crowley nods hesitantly, he slips the sunglasses from his eyes. The fear and adoration shining in equal measure through Crowley’s naked gaze is breathtaking. Aziraphale swallows but the lump in his throat won’t leave this time. “Quite the opposite, really.” He breathes in deeply, forcing the confession past his numb lips. “With you I’ve always felt terribly…safe.”
Crowley doesn’t take the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended, sighing wretchedly instead. “You’ve never been safe with me, Aziraphale. That’s the bloody point. I was so busy pushing you I didn’t stop to think what might happen if anyone actually found out-”
“You were right to push me.” Aziraphale strokes a gentle hand over Crowley’s sharp cheekbone, watching fondly as he shudders at the contact. “In fact, I wish I’d listened to you centuries ago.”
Crowley shakes his head, swallowing. “I could’ve gotten you killed, angel. Or worse, disgraced.”
“It would have been worth it.” Aziraphale smiles tearfully when Crowley lifts his head to stare at him, lips parted in stunned silence. “Crowley, I-”
Crowley shakes his head again, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Don’t,” he says, his voice strangled and desperate. “Not unless you mean it.”
“I always meant it, Crowley,” Aziraphale promises. “Even when I was too afraid to say it.”
Crowley breathes out shakily, a sigh that turns into a quiet, disbelieving laugh. His eyes crinkle at the corners and Aziraphale can see that elusive dimple in his cheek as he presses a gentle, reverent kiss to his palm. He pauses briefly to nose at Aziraphale’s fingertips, dragging his hot mouth over the angel’s palm and stopping at the inside of his wrist to press another lingering kiss just over the erratic pulse there. And when he turns his head and leans up on his knees, Aziraphale meets him halfway.
They sink into each other with ease, as though they’ve had thousands of years of practice instead of longing in silence and trying not to touch too often. Crowley is warm and trembling against him, his mouth carrying a searing heat the likes of which Aziraphale has never known in the stark coldness of heaven. He still smells faintly of brimstone and burning rubber and when Aziraphale lifts a hand to cradle his cheek, he feels stubble and the smudge of ash beneath his fingertips.
And it’s perfect. Better than any fantasy Aziraphale has managed to conjure over the years because it’s real and Crowley wants him and Crowley loves him. Crowley had sat in a pub determined to drink himself into oblivion instead of facing the end of the world without Aziraphale. Crowley had driven a burning car through the M25 because Aziraphale had asked him to. Crowley had stopped time because the idea of never talking to Aziraphale again had frightened him more than even Satan’s fury.
Still kneeling before him, Crowley curls his fingers tightly around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and arches closer as though terrified of losing him even now. Lost in his kiss, Aziraphale makes a silent promise. Before Crowley and the Almighty herself, he vows that with whatever time they have left, he’ll make certain Crowley feels every bit as loved and cared for as he has always made Aziraphale feel.
Without breaking their kiss, Crowley rises sinuously to his feet and almost slithers into the chair until he’s straddling Aziraphale’s lap. His lanky legs bracket Aziraphale in, knees digging into his hips. He barely weighs anything at all, a slight weight against Aziraphale’s thighs and oh, he adores it. Wants to cradle his fragile, darling demon in his arms and keep him safe and happy always.
“Crowley,” he breathes, trembling. “I love you. I love you so-”
“Shh.” Crowley strokes his knuckles tenderly over his cheek, his eyes half-lidded and gleaming golden in the soft light filtering in from the corridor. “I know, angel.”
Aziraphale huffs out a shaky laugh into the hollow of Crowley’s cheek. “Long before I did, I’m sure.”
“Nah. Figured it out eventually though.” Crowley licks his lips and Aziraphale stares, following the movement of his tongue with interest. “And…uh, you know, don’t you?”
Aziraphale blinks and it takes him a moment to stop staring at Crowley’s mouth and realize just what he’s referring to. And then he smiles brightly, thinking of a revelation in the middle of a ruined church. “It’s as you say, my dear. I figured it out eventually.”
Crowley laughs and when he leans in again, they’re both grinning like fools. Fools in love, Aziraphale thinks dizzily, and curls his fingers into the soft material of Crowley’s black shirt. Crowley drapes his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, leaning heavily into his chest — kissing him and kissing him and kissing him until Aziraphale feels like crying again.
They stay there, curled around one another and trading soft, wondrous kisses for a short eternity before Crowley finally drops his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder and shudders. “Been imagining this for thousands of years,” he grumbles, ignoring Aziraphale’s surprised little noise. “And when it finally happens, I’m too knackered to even take you to bed.” He groans, equal parts frustration and exhaustion. “Want to ravish you.”
A little thrill shoots down Aziraphale’s spine at the idea of Crowley leading him to bed. Of being ravished. He wriggles a bit in his seat, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s snake tattoo in apology when the demon whimpers miserably. He clears his throat, silently telling his corporation to behave itself.
“Not to worry,” he says, stroking a hand over Crowley’s back. He can feel the notches of his spine over his thin shirt and thinks fleetingly again of how fragile Crowley is beneath all that bluster and the prickly words. “Plenty of time.”
“Is there?” Crowley hides his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, defeat in his tired voice. “You and I both know they’re coming for us, angel.”
Aziraphale thinks of the prophecy tucked away in his pocket and says with confidence, “Then we’ll be ready. Trust me, my dear.”
Though he would probably deny it to Satan himself, Crowley nuzzles at Aziraphale’s ear and mutters, “Always have.”
Wishing he could say the same but knowing deep down that there were very early days when he’d wondered when the demon Crawley would turn against him, Aziraphale doesn’t try to lie. He can only try to be better now, to trust Crowley as implicitly as he had always trusted Aziraphale. It isn’t much but at the moment, it’s all he has to offer.
Clearing his throat softly, he ventures, “We could… move somewhere more comfortable if you’d prefer to sleep.”
Instead of actually replying, Crowley makes a hissing noise Aziraphale assumes must mean move at your own risk.
He huffs, settling in as best he can in Crowley’s straight-backed throne. “Yes, yes,” he says, tutting. “All right. No need to be dramatic.”
Crowley mumbles something that might possibly be insulting and settles more firmly against him, his fingers stroking the hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. And Aziraphale sits completely still beneath him, marveling at the feel of Crowley’s fingers in his hair and Crowley’s warm breath against his neck. This is happening. He is holding Crowley and unafraid of the consequences. If this truly is his last night alive, he must admit it’s a rather marvelous end to things.
“Crowley?”
“Hmm?”
“Earlier, you said…you said it smells like me in here.”
“Yeah…”
Aziraphale bites his lip, turning over the question that’s been on his mind since Crowley had mentioned it days ago. “What do I smell like to you?” Crowley had mentioned that he smelled holy and Aziraphale cannot help worrying that perhaps it pains Crowley, like stepping into that church in 1941 had burnt his poor feet. “Does it…hurt you?”
“Hm, course not.” Crowley slurs, a hiss slipping into his words. He must be nearly asleep by now. “S’just you. Sort of…bookish and soft. Like, dunno, sunshine in a dusty library. An’ cocoa.”
Knowing Crowley would never admit such a thing out loud if he were even a bit more awake at the moment, Aziraphale swallows back a radiant smile and closes his eyes. “Oh,” he breathes, inexplicably relieved. “Good.”
He wraps Crowley tighter in his embrace and as he settles in to wait for dawn, Crowley turns his face into his neck and breathes him in one last time. “Home,” he whispers. “You smell like home.”
Aziraphale feels his fragile human heart swell. “Sleep, darling.” He smooths his palm over Crowley’s back, pressing a firm kiss into his fiery hair. “I’ll still be here when you wake.”
He holds vigil for the remaining hours until daybreak, a demon asleep in his lap and a scrap of ancient paper burning a hole in his pocket. By the time the sun rises over Mayfair, slanting in through the windows in warm yellow stripes, Crowley is just beginning to stir.
It’s the first day of the rest of their lives and as Crowley lifts his head to blink at him sleepily, Aziraphale is loathe to break the hush of dawn. But he’s been waiting hours for Crowley to wake up, sitting in the dark and missing him despite holding him as close as their human bodies will allow. In a giddy whisper, he says, “Good morning.”
Crowley grunts.
Undeterred, he confides, “My dear, I do believe I have a plan. How do you feel about… Oh, what do the humans call it?” He beams. “Roleplay, I believe.”
Suddenly far more awake, Crowley offers him a slow smirk and drawls, “Got a safeword?”
Blinking, Aziraphale begins, “What-”
“I’ll explain later, angel.” Crowley slides gracefully from his lap, his swagger returned, but there’s no concealing the hint of pink in his cheeks. He stretches lazily, yawning. Aziraphale doesn’t bother trying not to stare. “Think I can manage some crepes if you’re hungry. Then you can tell me all about your clever plan.”
“Oh. Yes.” He’d been so wrapped up in the prophecy and well, Crowley that he’d entirely forgotten to eat a thing last night. “I am a bit peckish.”
“Right. I’ll just-” Crowley jerks a thumb over his shoulder, already beginning to retreat.
“Darling?”
Crowley pauses mid-step at the endearment and he lifts a hand to adjust his glasses, realizing belatedly that he had allowed Aziraphale to take them off last night. Right before they had kissed. Crowley stares and Aziraphale takes great delight in watching the previous night return to him all at once. Running a hand through his rumpled hair, Crowley mutters under his breath, “Not a dream, then.” He clears his throat, straightening from his usual slouch. Slowly, he says, “You and I - we…”
“Yes.”
“And you’re…” He squints at Aziraphale, possibly looking for some hint of angelic guilt. “All right?”
Aziraphale smiles serenely. “For the most part. Though there is one thing that could do with improving, if you’ll indulge me.”
Crowley’s reply is immediate. “Course. What?”
He arches an eyebrow expectantly. “I haven’t much experience in the matter, but I’ve come to understand most lovers exchange a certain type of greeting upon waking together.”
Mouth dropping open, Crowley stutters. “Ngk. Oh.”
And then he’s there, crouching in front of Aziraphale again and crushing those chocolate biscuits he’d dropped last night. For the second time in his very long life, Aziraphale couldn’t care less about the fate of a few biscuits because Crowley is wrapping his strong, slender hand around the back of his neck and swooping in to kiss him heatedly. He licks into Aziraphale’s mouth with that talented tongue and the angel is silently grateful he’s already sitting because his knees go utterly weak.
They part slowly, reluctantly. Their noses brush and when Aziraphale blinks open his eyes, Crowley’s gaze is fixed on him. In the morning light, his eyes are a soft amber and his red hair seems to glow. Voice a low murmur, he asks roughly, “Better?”
Overwhelmed and wanting, Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s neck. Lanky arms wrap tight around him. Recalling Crowley’s soft, sleepy confession the night before, he breathes in with a tremulous smile. Leather and brimstone and potting soil. “It’s very good to be home.”
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Crowley took to writing when the moments without Aziraphale seemed to stretch into infinity. There was something about the repetitive scratch of the quill against the parchment that seemed to calm him; maybe it was just the way it seemed to drown out the part of him that had (unforgivably) learned to miss someone.
At first, he was just writing down his thoughts, not bothering with any sort of organization. It was just a way to silence the part of his mind that always managed to drift to the angel.
But then he discovered poetry. It wasn't the art itself that drew him to the craft, but rather the way Aziraphale had smiled when he had shown off his latest acquisition. And, oh, his voice, the way it seemed to flow with the words when he read a sample to him aloud. It reminded him of the way the universe had sang when it was born.
He thought, maybe, if he could imagine Aziraphale's voice caressing his own thoughts in such a way, it might alleviate the ache in his soul, just a bit.
My love is the horizon,
Where blue sky meets the Earth.
Forever in my sight,
But never mine to hold.
It was simple, and it didn't rhyme, but it said more with four lines than Crowley would ever be able to express out loud, and wasn't that the point?
So, he kept at it. Whenever that certain piece of his heart felt the loss of Aziraphale's presence, whenever visions of a bright smile and the sweetest eyes became too much, he'd write down a couple lines, and it brought him a brief sense of peace.
And things were fine that way, until they weren't.
It happened when they were at lunch. Crowley was rearranging the meal on his plate into complicated patterns and shapes, (moving it around and around so it seemed that he was doing something with it, so it seemed that food were the reason he were here, it was an act and one he played well) when Aziraphale pulled out a thin little book, that its cover claimed was a collection of poetry 'lost to time and memory' whatever that meant.
"Crowley, dear, listen to this," Aziraphale said. Then he cleared his throat and began to read.
"By your presence, I am come undone.
By your absence, I am torn asunder.
Free me or keep me,
What difference could it make?"
Crowley stopped listening. The words. He knew the words. He had written the words. But how?
Someone must have found one of his poems and, presuming the author to be long dead, had it published.
Crowley came back to himself just to realize that Aziraphale was expecting some kind of response from him. "Oh, yeah," he muttered at his plate. "Very nice."
Aziraphale looked affronted. "Nice?!" he echoed. "It's terrible!"
Crowley cringed. He knew he was an amateur, but 'terrible' seemed a little harsh. "Oh, yeah," he agreed anyway. "It's rubbish."
Now Aziraphale looked offended for some reason. What did he want from him? "It's beautiful!" the angel declared.
Crowley blinked. "But you said-"
"It's heartbreaking! The writer loves this person so much it's consumed them entirely. It's- It's- Don't you know how that feels?"
And Aziraphale was looking at him now, a hopeless desperation in those beautiful eyes. But how could Crowley possibly answer that question?
The truth was, he didn't know how it felt, not the way it was written in the poem. It had always been one of his biggest shortcomings, he thought. Try as he might, no matter what words he used, no matter the grandiosity of the metaphors, it was never enough. His feelings could never quite be put to paper. Not in any way that mattered.
"Erm..." he said instead, and Aziraphale's face fell.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that. I don't know what came over me."
"'S fine," Crowley mumbled, because his mind was still reeling, and the conversation drifted back to whatever they had been discussing before.
From then on, Crowley was utterly lost. He had written the poems imagining them being read by Aziraphale, but now that he had actually witnessed it, had an actual taste, he became like a man possessed.
Poem after poem poured out of him. Knowing that Aziraphale could read his words, could be moved by them, was intoxicating. If he could just get the pages to match what he felt, then maybe, maybe he had a chance.
I walked the halls of heaven
So very long ago
I stood within the Presence
I lived with grace bestowed
And though it’s true I fell
Into darkness from the bright
On this loss I do not dwell
For you keep my soul alight
And there isn’t any question
Believe me, yes it’s true
All the glory that is heaven
Is nothing next to you
He started gifting his poems to Aziraphale. Not in person, of course, but he'd slide them through his mail slot, he'd tuck them between two books on the shelves in Aziraphale's shop, he left them anywhere the angel might find them and hoped that he'd know they were for him.
I bend my knees in worship.
I lift my hands in prayer.
I cry out before your altar,
But you never seem to hear.
He didn't even know if Aziraphale found them all. But this was all he could do.
My true love is an angel,
So perfectly divine
I spend my days in worship,
Kneeling before his shrine
My true love is an angel
Wrapped in heaven’s sweet embrace
I'd give my all to serve him
And be worthy of his grace
My true is an angel
And for this blasphemy I crawl
Yet I surely cannot conceive of
Any sweeter way to fall.
And then he was handed the Antichrist. And what good were words when faced with the end?
He stopped writing and focused entirely on just keeping Aziraphale by his side. He could live with Aziraphale never knowing of his feelings so long as things could remain as they were.
So, when they did the impossible, when they stopped the apocalypse, he decided to be thankful for what he had, and shoved all those feelings deep, deep down, resigned to never wanting more. He could spend more time with Aziraphale, now, without either of them having to check over their shoulder, and wasn't that enough?
Wasn't it?
No.
But if lied to himself enough, maybe he could start to believe it was true.
Until Aziraphale, with that same determined look on his face that he had gotten when he decided he was going to learn close-up magic, sat him down on the couch in the back of the bookshop and stood before him, wringing his hands nervously.
"Crowley, I need to read you something, and you have to promise not to laugh."
Crowley blinked. "Okay?"
"You have to promise!"
"Okay, I promise!"
"And- And could you take off your sunglasses?"
"What?"
"Please, Crowley, I really need-"
"Okay, okay!" Crowley did. "Better?"
"Yes." Aziraphale frowned. "Actually, no, it's much worse, now I can see what you're thinking, put them back on."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Angel!"
"Alright, alright!" With shaking hands, Aziraphale reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his reading glasses, which they both knew he didn't actually need, but Crowley decided to let that fact go for now. After he had situated them on the end of his nose, he reached into his waistcoat and procured a worn sheet of paper. His fingers trembled as he unfolded it and began to read:
"I fear the way I love you,
It's too much for me to bear.
I fear the way I love you,
It hurts how much I care.
I fear the way I love you,
Your presence is all I crave.
I fear the way I love you,
But, now I'm ready to be brave."
Crowley wasn't sure what to say. It had been a while since Aziraphale had shared his favorite poems with him, and he couldn't quite remember how this was supposed to work.
"It's lovely," he said.
"You think so?" Aziraphale asked hopefully, suddenly looking a little less terrified. "It's not as good as yours, of course, but I thought I did pretty well."
Crowley's mind blanked. "Mine?" His voice may have squeaked, but he couldn't be sure over the pounding in his ears.
"Well, yes. They were yours, weren't they?"
Should he deny it? No. He was done hiding. "Yes."
Aziraphale looked... relieved. And that was when Crowley's mind caught up to the second thing Aziraphale had said. "You wrote that poem?"
Aziraphale nodded.
"For me?"
Aziraphale nodded again. "Like I said, it's not much, compar- you promised you wouldn't laugh!"
But Crowley couldn't help himself. The joy and love bubbled out of him in such a way that had to be given form, and laughter seemed to be it. Aziraphale didn't seem to mind, though, once Crowley swept him into his arms and pressed their lips together.
And this? This was poetry.
---
AN: Remember that AU I talked about? I decided to finally put my money where my mouth is. I feel like I should apologize for the awful poetry, so, uh.... sorry.
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I imagine you'll get a few of these, but may I request Ineffable Husbands for either 1. a sweet kiss or 17. a love bite? Thank you!
Heads up, this gets a little naughty. ;) Also published on my Ao3.
Taste
Crowley has never been one for eating.
Oh, he’s tried a number of times over the millennia, but no amount of effort can make him derive joy from the act. He can’t quite tap into the endorphin rush Aziraphale so relishes, and the thought of a lump of mashed-up organic matter sitting in his belly, slowly chewed into pulp by acidic juices before moving down to the plumbing, as it were… well, it all makes him get a bit queasy. Drinking is one thing, mostly made tolerable by alcohol, but eating is quite another.
No, Crowley is not a one for eating. But he does love tasting.
“This is absolutely delectable,” Aziraphale murmurs, licking a dollop of tiramisu off his fork. Sitting on the other side of the table, chin propped on the heel of his hand, Crowley watches intently. The angel cuts off another piece of the dessert and pops it into his mouth with an appreciative hum. “Utterly divine.”
It’s obscene, really, the way Aziraphale eats. The little sighs and moans, the pink flicker of his tongue, the rapture that toes sacrilegiously close to religious ecstasy. It should be classified as public indecency. The angel should be locked up.
Crowley can’t stop staring.
“Give it here, then,” he says, pleased when his voice emerges in a convincing charade of insouciance.
Aziraphale sets down his fork, eyebrows arched. “Really? I thought you didn’t care for… well, this sort of thing.”
“I don’t,” Crowley says. “But you seem to be having a grand old time with that tiramisu, so…” He trails off, hand outstretched. Aziraphale hesitates and he smirks. “What? Scared about swapping a little saliva, angel?”
Aziraphale hands over the fork and nudges the plate across the table. The tips of his ears have gone strawberry shortbread-pink. “Of course not.”
Crowley laves his tongue over the tines. He is glad for the concealment of his sunglasses, for as he licks up traces of dusky coffee and feather-froth mascarpone, he keeps his gaze fixed on Aziraphale. And when he tastes it at last – a trace of fresh apple and unsullied desert air, the angel’s taste, a six-thousand-year-old savor of Eden – his eyes slip shut.
-
It becomes something of a game, chasing Aziraphale’s taste. Crowley tells himself it’s because he’s got nothing better to do, now that Armageddon has been cancelled and Adam Young has decreed that Messing People About should be kept to a minimum. It’s boredom, it’s Hellish mischief, it’s the latest sally in Crowley’s eternal battle against his Adversary.
Most of all, it’s a pity, because Crowley has learned enough self-awareness to see a list of denials when he’s the one writing it. Fortunately, he also has just enough of a sense of self-preservation left to keep on denying. Peter the Apostle could have learned a thing or two from Crowley.
He starts small. Crowley might prefer to terrify his houseplants into verdant beauty, but he does know gardening. For a temptation to truly work, you must plant the seed, tend the soil. With patience, care, and just the tiniest infernal nudge, you can reap a bountiful harvest.
“Funny, how humans worked that out,” Crowley remarks one day, as they sit in a posh little café in Mayfair.
Aziraphale licks a smudge of crème brûlée off his spoon and sets it down, cocking his head. “What do you mean?”
Crowley waves a hand at the dish. “Well, how, way back when, some brilliant bugger thought, ‘huh, what happens when I add heavy cream and sugar and egg yolks together and torch the top?’ It’s clever, that’s all.”
Aziraphale considers the cracked crust of his dessert. “Well. I suppose I never considered it.”
Crowley says nothing more on the subject, but he doesn’t need to. He can see the light of curiosity burning in the angel’s gaze long after they leave the café. Seed planted.
Later, giddy with his own sense of spontaneity, Aziraphale invites Crowley to the little flat above the bookshop. They walk into the kitchenette, Aziraphale bubbling with excitement, Crowley feigning confusion. The angel gestures to the ingredient-laden table with a flourish.
“What’s all this?” Crowley asks, perfectly aware of what it is.
“Ingredients!” Aziraphale exclaims. “We’re going to try baking!”
Crowley affects a long-suffering groan. “This is pointless. We can just miracle biscuits onto your plate, and besides, I don’t even like—”
“I know, I know,” Aziraphale says, “but this is more fun!”
It’s a simple recipe for chocolate biscuits. Well, it’s simple in theory, at least. Aziraphale and Crowley have never bothered to learn how to bake, not with the power of Heaven and Hell at their fingertips. They soon discover the trials of eggshell in the batter, whisking too quickly, and goodness, Crowley, are you certain you greased the pan? The first batch looks more like charred lumps than biscuits, exiting the oven in a putrid cloud of smoke, but Aziraphale will not be deterred. They start a second batch with infinite care. Crowley is so preoccupied learning how to break an egg without getting shell shards in the bowl that he almost misses Aziraphale raising the spatula to his lips for a languorous lick.
Almost. But not quite.
“These will be better,” Aziraphale says, certain in a way that means the biscuits will be delicious even if they mucked up every direction in the cookbook. As he turns to put the pan in the oven, Crowley snatches up the spatula, still smeared with chocolate batter, and steals a taste.
And there it is again – hidden beneath sugar, butter, flour, chocolate – the faintest trace of apple and garden air. His eyes close and a sigh gusts out of his chest.
“Crowley? What on Earth are you doing?”
Crowley startles, the spatula slipping from his fingers. The utensil tumbles to the floor in a spatter of chocolate. “Ngk—nothing.”
Aziraphale slants him a dubious look. “Were you tasting the batter?”
“Maybe,” Crowley mumbles.
The angel’s lips stretch in a grin. “You’re becoming fonder of food than you let on, dear boy. Don’t worry, I shan’t tell a soul.”
“Shut it,” Crowley grumbles, stooping to pick up the spatula.
When the biscuits are done, Aziraphale takes a bite and declares them to be scrumptious. Crowley wouldn’t know. Compared to the taste of angel, they are dirt in his mouth.
-
It becomes a ritual for them, the baking. Aziraphale claims it calms him after a long day at the shop, that he likes making things with his hands. They actually become not-rubbish at it, churning out batch after batch of increasingly complex biscuits before graduating to other sweets. Bars follow the biscuits, and are in turn trailed by tarts and pies and cakes. Despite Aziraphale’s insistence on doing things the proper way, miracles join the mix as often as not, a spice no kitchen in the world could replicate.
Crowley becomes adept at stealing tastes of Aziraphale. He hoards them, pilfering used spatulas, bowls, and stray spoons.
Time passes. When you are immortal, time does that – slips through your fingers like flour through a sifter, each dust-fine speck a day, a week, a month. And then, years later, Aziraphale invites Crowley over to work on a lemon curd cake.
“Curd’s almost done chilling,” Aziraphale says. “How’s the batter coming along, my dear?”
“Nearly there,” Crowley says, preoccupied with folding in the whites. “Oven up to temperature?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He snaps his fingers and the oven chimes in agreement, a whoosh of hot air filling its belly.
Crowley lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s cheating, angel.”
“Oh, hush. I’m only speeding the process along.” As Crowley slides the pans into the oven, Aziraphale opens the refrigerator and lifts out the dish of chilled curd. Crowley turns to watch, frozen, as the angel dips a finger in and lifts a yellow dollop to his lips. Pink lips, pink tongue. A divine sigh. “Perfect.”
“Stop that,” Crowley says, voice thin in his ears. “You’ll eat it all and we won’t have any for the cake.”
“Oh, tosh,” Aziraphale says. He dips his spit-slick finger into the curd, and Crowley should be mortified, he should be disgusted – but instead he’s striding forward, body leagues ahead of his mind. His hand shoots out to close around the angel’s wrist. Aziraphale makes a noise of protest. And falls silent.
Crowley lurches back, the tang of lemon curd and angel skin leaping on his tongue. Aziraphale is staring at him with wide eyes. “Angel, I’m, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was…”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, already reaching for him. “Oh, Crowley.”
-
Aziraphale is still trembling, still panting like he truly needs his lungs when Crowley lifts his head. He crawls across the angel’s naked body, smearing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the way – the crease of his thigh, the mound of his belly, the center of his chest, the column of his neck. Aziraphale shivers out a laugh at the brush of Crowley’s tongue on his skin. “Stop—stop that, you rogue.”
“Nah,” Crowley murmurs, rasping his teeth to redden the skin, memorizing the savor of his sweat. “Never. Love how you taste.”
Aziraphale’s fingers thread through his hair, soothing and inciting at once. “Come here, then. Let me taste myself on you.”
Crowley shudders and tilts his head up for a kiss. He has never been one for eating, but this is a hunger he will never sate.
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Reflections- A Good Omens Fic
This is madness… In a certain bookshop in Soho, a certain angel sat across from a demon sipping wine.1 None of this was unusual. In fact, it had been going on for as many decades as the bookshop had been established. Decades had come and gone, automobiles clogged the once quieter streets, and bebop continued its attempt to permeate the windows of A.Z. Fell & Co. to no avail.2 And A.Z. Fell and Anthony J. Crowley or as they were more occultly and ethereally known, Aziraphale and Crowley, had spared a few hours for each others’ company. More often, in recent years, given their mutual investment in the boy, Warlock Dowling. Warlock, for his part, had had a rather unusual childhood of influences, including an imposing nanny, a gardener, and two tutors.
Aziraphale reflected on those days as he stared at his wine, swirling it to slow his consumption. Back then, they had had to spend more time together. Even the Arrangement had been more cooperative from a distance. Though of course, they had always offered each other help when needed. Or rather, Crowley had. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t help with any sort of temptation that would require the aid of two metaphysical beings. He simply couldn’t. The Arrangement was simply a matter of convenience.
They had grown familiar, so that by the time they had elected themselves for the upbringing of the Warlock, their time together felt almost natural. Certainly more natural than his time Above. He shivered slightly. It contrasted every written record, but Aziraphale found heaven cold, almost sterile in the never ceasing white walls and windows. And then there were his comrades-in-arms. Aziraphale’s gaze lowered further. He knew he wasn’t a proper angel. Not given his preferred company, the joy he took in human indulgences like food and books and wine. To him, the bookshop seemed a more enjoyable world than heaven had ever seemed. And now the clock was ticking. He had declared a side. Or rather refused what should have been his side. Aziraphale had been glancing above for some sign of Divine Wrath for the past twelve hours. If I’m already on Earth, where would I Fall? He had wondered where Crowley had Fallen. Had he simply landed on Earth? Or had Hell swallowed him once the sulphur had done its work. He glanced back woefully where he knew his wings lay hidden. I really do prefer white to black. “It would work...” Crowley’s voice jolted him back to the present. It had a way of doing that. In fact, sometime between the Blitz and discovering the actual antichrist child, Crowley’s presence had started something he was pointedly ignoring. Or trying to. I’m an angel. He argued to himself, there is no difference in my feeling for him than any of Her other creatures. Aziraphale sighed, he’d never been good at lying to himself for very long. Centuries at most. “What Dear?” Crowley hissed softly by way of reproach, leaning closer, “Look, Above and Below will be looking for blood, a whole vat of it in my case, and that’s just a start.” Aziraphale had been more focused on the Fall 3, he hadn’t given much thought to an execution.”It’ll be Holy Water for me...” HIs oldest friend shrugged, “Oozing about in the Underworld for Eternity.” Crowley took an unceremonious gulp of wine, “Hellfire.” Aziraphale replied glumly, “That’sss my point!” Crowley always did hiss a little more when he was stressed or drunk… or drunk because he was stressed. Aziraphale found the tone slightly comforting. He then dismissed the thought. “They can throw me in a vat of the stuff, won’t do anything. I’m already burning.” “Yes but they wouldn’t do that to you.” Aziraphale said tartly, “You’ll get Holy Water,” Crowley leaned even closer, and it was all the angel could do to not look at his lips. Dear Lor- On second thought, probably best not to call the attention of the Divine. He failed miserably as Crowley pulled that sinful smirk of the Serpent thinking of something terribly clever, “My body will.” Crowley’s eyes roved his body and he felt his decided to beat pulse quicken. Aziraphale frowned, What was he- His eyes widened as he realized what Crowley intended, the precise way the snake was looking at him. Not as a meal, as an assessment. Like deciding on a suit. “You mean...” The color rose on angelic cheeks, he stood abruptly, “No.” Crowley stood to follow him, “You’ve possessed people before-” “That was an emergency and she willingly shared-” “So’s this. And it won’t even be body sharing. More like body swapping.” “No.” Oh the thought of what Crowley would could do, what he would see of himself, well his given body. “There must be another-” “Can you think of a better idea?” He couldn’t, “You don’t even know if it will work.” “But it might. Besides,” Again, that smirk crossed his lips and Aziraphale failed miserably at ignoring his lips, his gaze drifting lower to a long lean neck. “You must’ve wanted to take this for a drive,” Crowley was simply teasing, but his thoughts were too flustered of late. “I-I-” “We’ll get to stay on earth...” There it was, that softer tone he’d always worked so hard to ignore. “We’ll get more time. More bookshops. More music. More everything.” Everything. It reminded him of when the demon had said they could go off together, and how much it had taken to say no. He’d never felt worse. He swallowed harshly. “I-I- suppose it’s worth a try...”
The first thing he noticed was the silence. Aziraphale was so used to the continuous drone of God’s Love and Divine Will, it was simply the background noise of his existence. The constant hum telling him what to do, what his purpose was at all times. It was still there, but Aziraphale realized for the second time in as many days, how much his body had become an echo chamber for the pressures of the Divine.4 With Madame Tracy, it was quieter. This was near silence. He had to focus to even register the drone. He sighed in relief, or rather he would have, had his clothes not constricted his breathing. Just how tight are these jans?5 Black nail polish coated the tips of slender, almost feminine hands. He touched them carefully, He has such lovely hands. A throat cleared, “Right, see you tomorrow,” Crowley was nodding him out of his own bookshop. The nerve! Though the wink tempered the gall of it quickly, “Tickety Boo,”
Shaky breath, he’d tried to go to his private rooms quickly. Longer legs provided a faster stride as he reached the cold stark reality of his counterpart’s quarters. He froze as he passed a full length mirror. Something he avoided as a general rule. He liked his clothes, he made sure they were straight and rather ignored what was underneath. He claimed out of avoidance of vanity. That wasn’t entirely true. The echoes of a thousand ethereally voices sniping at the state of his form, rang in his ears. He’d rather thought there was no harm in making his appearance more comforting. Humans made such lovely food, and his rounder shape had made people more comfortable than the harsh angels that existed in most angels… and demons… and most of the occult and ethereal universe. Over time, the voices had been added to the echo chamber of his form, noise he chose to try to ignore. But today… hands that weren’t his own, ran over thighs that weren’t his own nervously.... Today his reflection would show his spirit. But above it was something more, something beautiful. Urgently stripping off demonically summoned garments. He drank in every inch of his not his own body. Long lithe muscle, a flat abdomen, and fiery hair. Aziraphale shakily ran a hand along not his lips. Touching the mirror pensively, “I love you,” His soul shivered at the voice that formed the words. Wiping tears as he realized he had caused Crowley’s form to cry. Mortified, “No no, this won’t do.” It was overwhelming, the amount of love he felt surging through his veins. Selfish love. Love without borders, love without end. Not a service to the Purpose or the Plan. A love that was his, alone.
Across town, in a bookshop more familiar than the Gardens of Eden, an occult filled body was currently in a state of shock. Love. Divine love. And Purpose. The ultimate torture of Falling was experiencing the hole left from God ripping Her Love from your soul. The fire and brimstone bit was nothing compared to the void. Most demons forgot it to cope. Unfortunately for Crowley, he’d orbited the only ethereal being on earth for millennia. Aziraphale simply oozed with Love, he reeked of it. The angel truly adored all God’s creatures, excepting, of course, for the Evils he had to thwart and occasionally keep as company, given their arrangement. Angel had given the poor serpent such emotional whiplash over the centuries. A thousand nos, twice as many yeses. Each played in his mind like a broken record, each given with no regard or reason for the methods of the last answer. And yet, simply being near Aziraphale had forced his Falling to remain fresh. A wound constantly reopened by virtue of accompanying the virtuous. And now, a gambit that neither side would approve of. A plot that was both so Heavenly and Hellish it could only be described as Human. Crowley had anticipated some slight discomfort, missing his familiar body and so on, but what he hadn’t counted on was the residual traces of Love as he walked across a rug in the bookshop. It hit him like a ton of bricks and he dropped to the floor as though Falling again. It ate at his being 6, but for a moment, he felt it again. The Divine Purpose. The desire to create and give… the feeling of the stars at his fingertips. A portrait for all to see, but all in Service. All according to Divine Will and Power. Will... Free Will. Crowley sat up, remembering precisely why his wings no longer glowed a pearlescent sheen as he stared in the mirror. “Bastards.” The word sounded less guttural in Aziraphale’s soft posh voice, but the tone reminded him of his purpose. None so Divine, but perhaps focused a bit on the ethereal. Or specifically, one part of it. He pushed himself off the floor. “I only ever asked why.” Dusting off Aziraphale’s coat, because he knew he’d want it so, he busied himself around the shop. Not moving so much as a page to a different position, because he knew he’d have Hell to pay from a certain angel.
1. Not so much sipping, as “drinking as fast as was angelically and demonically possible to do”.
2. Not for any practical reason. Aziraphale simply believed his bookshop should be quiet, unless he chose to play music. Therefore, it was.
3.And the things he’d prefer to do beforehand.
4.The first time had been with Madame Tracy, which had felt rather like the volume getting turned down to a tolerable level after constant shouting.
5. Or jeans as the rest of the universe would have told him.
6.What Crowley didn’t know was the feeling he was currently suffering through would have killed nearly any other demon.
#good omens#fanfic#ineffable husbands#ineffable spouses#slight angst#crowly x aziraphale#crowley x aziraphale
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Before The Fall
lePairing: Aziraphale x Crowley/ Genre: Fluff & Angst/ Words: 6,986
Summary --->
Crowley tries to explain to Aziraphale what he remembers before the fall. God takes a moment to speak to Crowley.
I seem to have jumped onto the bandwagon that is Crowley as Raphael and I am actually very very pleased with what I've written. I also took inspiration from this lovely post ----> https://femmeaziraphale.tumblr.com/post/185875052879/shut-up-aziraphales-true-form-is-scary-as-fuck
You can also check my work out at AO3 ( Lexitennant2) or Fanfiction.net (leximia)
Crowley paused, looking down into the rich, red wine, as if it had the answers to the question. He squinted harder into the liquid, trying to think through the haze of a drunken stupor as to what the question even was, that his dear angel had asked.
" 'M sorry now, what did you say?" He slurred, allowing himself to sink even further into the soft, worn leather of the couch he had occupied for more than several decades in Aziraphale's bookshop.
"I asked, whether you remembered anything before the fall." Aziraphale said timidly, and definitely not as drunk as Crowley.
Crowley moved his gaze towards the angel and noticed immediately that the other had sobered up. He pondered for a moment if this situation would be better if he stayed drunk, or followed Aziraphale's steps into sober-dum. He decided on the latter, willing the alcohol out of his system, and took a minute to try and get rid of the awful aftereffects of said action.
"I suppose I remember just as much as anyone else does." Crowley told a half-lie, straightening up as much as a man of his form could do. It was enough to make Aziraphale raise an eyebrow at the no longer lounging snake, and more tense teenager with terrible posture.
Crowley had made a habit of not lying to the angel straight on. It made him feel horribly guilty afterwards, and he was a demon and should not be feeling guilty about lying to his ang- fri- adversary....oh who even knew anymore what the angel was to him.
As for a half-lie, Crowley was a demon so he couldn't be fully exempt from shying away from the truth - unless it was horrible truth that would bring upon misery - and this moment was no exception. He was certain that the other fallen remembered just as much as he did, but not more, for he was far older than them, and had done so much more. The memories from before the fall, before the garden, were stained into his brain forever. Being an immortal being, sometimes memories would disappear with a flicker and it would take some time to get them back, but there was no way he could ever forget what his life had been before.
There was nothing he could compare those memories to now.
Aziraphale miracled a mug of cocoa, and as a second thought, made one appear in front of Crowley on the table. A little coaster peaked out from around the bottom of the mug and Crowley regarded it apprehensively.
"Its not poisoned." Aziraphale said mildly, though a tad offended.
" 'Course not." Crowley made a big show of drinking from the mug to appease the angel, and let the hot liquid distract him from how Aziraphale was watching him with curious eyes.
When Crowley said nothing more, Aziraphale huffed a sigh.
"I was hoping you could talk to me about it dear."
"Talk about what?"
Aziraphale gritted his teeth with annoyance and drank some cocoa, aware of how Crowley was looking everywhere but him.
"Talk about what it was like before, who you were-"
"Why does it matter?" Crowley snapped, setting down the mug of cocoa harder than he needed to onto the table. "Why does it matter who I wasss before, or what I did, or any of that." He spat out, shoving his sunglasses more firmly over his eyes as they began to slide down during his tirade. "I am who I am now. Demon Crowley, no more no lessss." The hisses were becoming more and more pronounced the more worked up he became.
Aziraphale had opened his mouth several times to try and interrupt him, but when Crowley fell silent he couldn't think of a single thing to say.
"Crowley..." He hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts, form a plan of how to approach the demon.
Aziraphale knew Crowley like the back of his hand. 6,000 years will give you that benefit. The demons emotions were coming at him from all different directions, irritation, hurt, fear, shame. Aziraphale cursed whomever made the first tinted glasses that hid Crowley's eyes from him; cursed the idiotic self righteous town folks that had almost burned Crowley at the stake.
In a bold and empowered move, and moving faster than even he knew he could, he got up from his chair and grabbed the sunglasses off of Crowley's face and contemplated throwing them across the room now that he had them, but submitted to just setting them down besides Crowley's cup of cocoa because he knew the demon was fond of his Valentinos, or whatever over priced, showy, brand they were.
Crowley's eyes were shocking up close, filled with even more emotion than his body language. It was like looking into the sun, bright yellow and painful. But Aziraphale loved those eyes as much as he loved the demons quick wit, and fiery red hair, and ridiculously thin body.
"My..You took my.." Crowley trailed off, stunned by the sudden turn of events. He should be mad, but instead all he could do was stare down at Aziraphale as blue eyes looked deeply into his own.
"Just tell me Crowley. I know it's painful for you, but it's better to let it out. And it doesn't matter per say who you were then but it would be nice to know dear. Please."
Crowley was a creature of habit. Yelling at his plants even though he'd long since scared them into submission; only Queen in his car (which was partially his own fault and not so much the Bentley's), and of course, not being able to turn away Aziraphale.
He reluctantly sat back down on the couch, suddenly aware of how close Aziraphale had been standing in front of him, and looked quickly at his sunglasses and tried a last ditch attempt to grab them, but Aziraphale was blocking them and suddenly he was sitting so close to Crowley that their knees were touching.
Crowley flicked his tongue out in a nervous habit, and stared at where their bodies met. He could see Aziraphale's hands twisting in his own nervous tell out of his peripheral vision, and Crowley tried to relax a bit. Which was quite hard given the topic of discussion they were about to dive into.
"I don't know if you'd remember, you were in a different sector than I, but Lucifer was very bright."
Aziraphale was looking at him dumbfounded. Crowley didn't know why he was starting his story this way either but it seemed to be coming from somewhere deep within and he just let it out. 6,000 + years and he'd never said anything besides a nonchalant "I asked to many questions," or "I just hung with the wrong people."
"I faintly remember." Aziraphale said unsure of himself. "It is true that as a principality I wasn't around you...or was I?"
Crowley shook his head and Aziraphale continued.
"I remember the fall quite well." Aziraphale stopped twisting his hands and Crowley pressed his knee closer to Aziraphale. This was as much his story as it was Aziraphale's. "Lucifer being bright? Not so much." He said bitterly.
Crowley huffed with sudden amusement.
"He was almost brighter than the damn sun at the time. He was warmth, and happiness, and he was filled with enough love to match God." He smiled slightly, the memories flowing back to him as if they'd never left. Aziraphale stiffened next to him.
"Surely not more than God herself." He stuttered.
"Close enough." Crowley said keeping himself in an amused state.
"Out of all of us, he was her favorite really, though she denied it from the beginning." He suddenly rose higher and straightened his spine, making his voice a soft, feminine, croon. "I have no favorites my dear child. I love all my creations equally."
Aziraphale furrowed his brows. "Is that what she sounded like?"
Crowley looked at him confused.
"I have heard her before, back with the whole sword fiasco...but she never sounded so-"
"It was a long time ago angel." Crowley cut him off.
"Lucifer, being so bright, handsome, kind, the whole nine yards, was what drew us all to him. I guess I could claim I was second favorite, for she allowed me to make stars and nebulas and worlds of my own." He trailed off. "There's a reason I have such an affinity for Alpha Centauri you know?"
"You?!" Aziraphale jumped back a little in his seat. "You did that?" There was such awe and wonder in his tone that Crowley could feel his corporeal form blush.
"Oh shush." He hissed lightly, motioning for the angel to calm down. "You can ooh and aah afterwards."
Aziraphale gave him a look that practically screamed I-do-not-ooh-and-aah, but returned to his previous spot, now with a little bit of their thighs touching added to the mix. Crowley decided to take it a step further and leaned back into the couch, throwing one arm along the back, so that if the angel just unclenched and let go, and leaned into the sofa, the demon could have his arm around him. Leaning further back also made sure there were no more gaps between their lowerhalfs.
"As I was saying," he pointedly stared at Aziraphale before focusing his attention on the mugs of cocoa - that were now long forgotten, " he had a certain light about him, even before we were given corporeal forms, that made him easy to trust. One day, almost out of nowhere, but it had probably been going on for much longer and we were too blind to see, his light had changed. It hurt to be around him now. He was still kind to us, and filled with warmth, but his light had changed so significantly that we were all becoming wary of him. He also began talking to other angels that he had never talked to before. He wouldn't give us straight answers when we asked him." Crowley wondered how he could convey to the angel through words how what Lucifer had been like back then. How it had been so easy to just get swept up in it all.
"I was always inquisitive as an angel, everything I made was made after asking myself a series of questions. So when She revealed her great plan, I of course asked questions."
"Wait." Aziraphale held up his hand. "She only told a few angels the great plan, the ineffable plan-"
"Not the same thing-"
"and they were archangels."
Crowley shrugged and looked into Aziraphale's eyes. They were the sort of blue that shifted from a deep lagoon blue, to a sort of green in the right lighting. Right now they were closer to the first option because the lighting in the shop was dim, but Crowley became lost in them all the same.
"You're an archangel." Aziraphale breathed out.
Crowley flinched. "Wasss. Was is the key word."
Aziraphale looked sheepish and offered up a sincere apology.
"I never would have thought, but I can see it now. I think I saw you once."
Crowley raised an eyebrow at this. He had spied the principality many times, often after he'd finished creating a new star he'd go to rest, regain his strength, and during those times he'd spy on the other angels. He had become infatuated - even more so now - with the angel that looked every bit of the stereotypical angel as one could. Soft white-blond curls, dazzling blue eyes, and soft, slightly rounded body. He had never been aware the other had ever seen him.
They were all rather close in the start, but as more and more angels were created, and God began to retreat, they stopped mingling outside their factions so Aziraphale and him had never had proper introductions.
Crowley had never even seen Aziraphale's true form, for God had given them corporeal bodies to match the new creations she was starting to make.
"I saw you once, watching me and the others. You had a look on your face that I- well- It'd be too forward of me to assume I know what that expression was but.." He trailed off and slowly brought one hand up to cup Crowley's cheek. The demon took in a breath he didn't need and all but melted into the soft hand that felt so warm on his face.
"Assume away angel." He trilled at the alliteration. The angel blushed and bit his lip as Crowley used the arm not laying on the back of the couch to wrap around the angels hand that was cupping his cheek, and tugged gently so the angel was curling into his side and their faces were only a few inches apart. Crowley moved his grip from the hand upward so his longer and slender fingers covered Aziraphale's smaller and pudgier ones.
"You were looking at me the way you are now." Aziraphale sounded breathless.
Crowley smiled slightly and curled the arm drapped over the back of the couch into Aziraphale's hair. His fingers sinking into the soft curls as Aziraphale's eyes fluttered at the contact.
"I only asked questions angel." His voice hitched and Aziraphale scooted closer, almost settling into Crowley's lap, his breath mingling with Crowley's.
"I took one look at Her plans and I couldn't stand it. I was supposed to be a healer for all and I was to do nothing as she tested them to destruction." His voice had acquired a whine that Aziraphale had never heard from the demon before. It was a sad whine that was asking Aziraphale why was he being punished for caring.
"She told me not to question her, that it was Her creation and how She knew what she was doing because she's God. But tell me angel, how were we supposed to love these creatures that she made in her image, and then sit back idly as they destroyed themselves. It is not in my nature to watch children be thrown away after they have served their purpose." Crowley's eyes were becoming glassy as he struggled not to let the tears out.
"I'm sure She didn't-"
"Oh ssshe did Aziraphale."
The use of his full name startled the angel slightly and he pulled Crowley close to him, so the demon's face was tucked in the crook of the angel's shoulder and neck. He breathed in sharply, taking in the smell of old books, vanilla, and something so utterly home that he let out a small sob. But only a small one as he was a demon now and demons did not cry.
Ten days after the apocalypse that wasn't, Crowley had found himself wondering about the great plan and the ineffable plan. The great plan had been the end of the world after 6,000 years, and he didn't want to think about it, but if he hadn't fallen, if he hadn't lost his rights to be an angel, an archangel, the great plan might have been the ineffable plan for their would not have been anymore days. But here they were, curled up together on the couch, Crowley spilling bits of his past to the celestial being that held a special place in his heart that no one else could occupy.
He didn't think he could ever forgive her for tossing him out, for tossing them all out. Lucifer may have become corrupted, absolutely unrecognizable now, but his light had never completely never gone away, just like Crowley's love for humanity and compassion for the hurt never dwindled. But it wasn't really his place to forgive Her. But in a way it was and it was all so confusing, because he'd been the betrayed one, not her. He hadn't done to her what Lucifer had done, but somehow he knew that he'd almost done worse by questioning her every move. He hadn't been outright about it, always asking the questions when they were alone, and he wondered if that had made it worse, rather than going the Lucifer route and shouting out to the world that he mistrusted her judgment.
"Out of all the questions I asked, there were only two that I could really contribute to my fall." He said softly into Aziraphale's neck as the angel rubbed soothing circles on his back. "Well, really there were multiple questions piled up onto each other that led to it all but there were two that I think really dug into Her."
"Why can't you forgive Lucifer? That one was right before the fall, as chaos rained in Heaven and everyone was fighting."
Aziraphale clutched him closer and Crowley felt a light kiss to his forehead.
"And the other?" Aziraphale prodded.
"You created them in your image- in our image," Crowley sounded as if he was reciting from a notecard, his voice dull, "what does that say about usss, that these creatures modeled after usss are to be tesssted to destruction." He fully sobbed now, letting the tears he'd pent in for thousands of years soak into Aziraphale's shirt. "Do you even really love usss?"
"Oh, Crowley." Was all Aziraphale could say, for his own faith had been shaken during the whole apocalypse, and here he was now with Crowley clinging to him, a tearful mess, unloading such heartache and hurt that the angel was filled with enough grief to fill another 6,000 years. He had never questioned God, happy to follow along with her plan, and even now he still believed in her, that even when she was cruel she was doing what was best for them. And he had the same thought that Crowley had, had much earlier in the day. That without the fallen, without Crowley losing his place in Heaven, there might really have been an end to the world.
"Can you say it?" Crowley pulled back and wiped away the wetness from his face with a shaky hand.
"Say what dear?" Aziraphale asked, not willing to let go of the demon now that they were finally embraced. It had been too long, much too long a wait. Aziraphale had himself to thank for that partially but he was done waiting now.
"Can you say my name?"
Aziraphale was confused for a moment before it dawned on him.
"Raphael."
The first time he said it Crowley flinched, looking ready to cry again. Aziraphale leaned in and placed gentle kisses to the demons cheeks, and then his nose and forehead. The demon moved his arms further down Aziraphale's body til they were holding Aziraphale's hips.
"Raphael."
The second time he said it, he maneuvered himself to straddle Crowley's lap, so they were in a more comfortable position, with Crowley's hands tightening on Aziraphale's hips, and Aziraphale cupping the back of Crowley's neck with one hand, the other wiping away a few stray tears before settling on the demons shoulder.
Aziraphale leaned forward slowly, his heart feeling as if it were going to leap out of his chest. His eyes never left Crowley as he pressed himself against the other. Their bodies touching everywhere. Soft upper body molding against the harsh and bony angles.
Their noses touched, just like the week before when Crowley had practically body slammed him agains the wall of the former church.
And as Aziraphale breathed out another "Raphael", their lips brushed. It was a chaste kiss, and simply much too short.
They both pulled away slightly, taking in this new change in their relationship.
"Angel?" Crowley's hands shook has they wrapped tighter around Aziraphale, slowly making their way up into his hair and around his waist.
"Crowley."
The name change was enough, and Crowley surged forward to capture Aziraphale's lips again. This kiss was filled with passion and lust that had been trapped for 6,000 years. Aziraphale clung to Crowley as the snake made absolutely wonderful sounds that made Aziraphale's corporeal form flash hot. Aziraphale clenched his eyes shut even tighter as his body all but exploded with a feeling he'd never experienced before. It was a warm feeling that was flaring from his lower belly, making him squirm in Crowley's lap.
There was a white flash behind his eyelids as he brushed against Crowley's cock and oh this is what humans felt.
Crowley was slipping his tongue into Aziraphale's mouth as the angel made opened his mouth to let out a soft sound that seemed to make Crowley hungry for more.
They could have been making out from anywhere between a few minutes to a few weeks. After all they were a celestial and an occult being and time didn't much matter anymore now that the the apocalypse had been thwarted.
Aziraphale pulled away reluctantly and smoothed the front of Crowley's suit where the angel had rumpled it up from grabbing it. "I just want you to know." He started, licking his lips, pleased as he saw Crowley's slitted eyes follow the movement.
"I'm not going to treat you any differently now that I know who you were. I know you Crowley, I know that deep down you're scared of my reaction, I'm not as oblivious as you think I am." Aziraphale cut Crowley off before the demon could object.
"But I love who you are now, not who you used to be." He softly kissed Crowley again, loving that hot rush he was starting to feel in his lower half. Staying celibate for 6,000 years, and just reading romance novels had definitely not prepared Aziraphale for the way his body was reacting to Crowley's.
"I love you too." The demon said against his lips. He frowned suddenly, and broke the kiss. "But don't expect me to say that all the time," he rushed, "I'm a demon, I don't do mushy." He said the word as if it were a nasty looking piece of gunk on the sidewalk.
Aziraphale gave a small laugh, the previous moments contradicting the huffy demons claim.
"Of course love." And Aziraphale pulled him back into a kiss.
It was later in the evening, the two were laying in bed, both flushed and pleased at the recent turn of events.
Crowley, true to the serpent side of him, was entwined around Aziraphale with a pleased hum vibrating throughout his entire body.
It was a true miracle that the bedroom that Aziraphale had squandered onto the floor above the bookshop had been dust free; but then again, the angel had expected the room to be in tip top shape and so it was.
Crowley was in that blissful place between being awake and sleeping when Aziraphale's voice floated out to him and he groaned.
"What is your obsession with this." He muttered into his lovers pale neck.
He at once regretted and didn't regret telling the angel about himself. While it had led to the best experience that Crowley had ever had before, Pandora's box was now open and unwilling to be shut.
"Well its just, I never saw Heaven the way you did. I was born into my corporeal form. She had decided before then that our other forms shouldn't be exposed as much. I have no clue what I look like or you. I was also separated from you, I didn't get to create parts of the universe, what was it all like?"
"Careful not to ask too many questions." Crowley teased, ignoring Aziraphale's worried look. He could joke about it now, he had 6,000 years to come to terms with what had happened.
"Creating was one of my favorite pastimes." Crowley pulled out of Aziraphale's embrace and flopped onto his back. He waited patiently for the angel to get the hint that he wanted to trade positions, and after a few minutes the angel cuddled up to Crowley, re-entwining their legs.
"It's hard to explain, but when I was creating I could feel each and every star or planet that I brought to life. The visions were in my head and then bam they were up in the air surrounding me, all kinds of colors and shapes and sizes." He frowned up at the ceiling as he thought back on those times. "Michael wasn't as excited to create as I was, and Gabriel was much as he is now, but I was thrilled to be given the task of making such beautiful things for all the angels to see."
He placed an absent-minded kiss onto the angels curls and lazily trailed his finger up and down Aziraphale's shoulder with the hand that was holding Aziraphale to him.
"As for my form well, it was much prettier than the other archangels." He puffed up slightly to Aziraphale's amusement.
"Lucifer, as I said before was always bright and beautiful, but I like to think I had a gentle beauty. Not overlooked, but only those who were deserving would know I was truly beautiful to behold." He continued with a fake air of haughtiness that made Aziraphale giggle.
"All the angels looked the same back then actually, we were all just various shades of light with little bits here and there that made us different. Michael was a pale blue light and she had these enormous looking antlers that hovered over her eyes. I guess to a human seeing us would be horrifying, but having multiple eyes was and little extra bits was to show our status, our celestial worth."
"So, we're all just balls of light with billions of eyes and extra bits?" Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.
Crowley laughed. "Believe me, it's a beautiful sight." He allowed a big smile to cross over his face, and oh boy was he over his quota for smiling. " I was a bright red light, not this darker maroon red that my hair is now, but a proper fiery red, and I had billions of golden eyes and two small wings." He squeezed the angel tighter to him.
"Gabriel used to always be jealous of my little wings. He was all purple, his light, his eyes, and he had a tail similar to a lions. Would have done anything to trade me for my wings, though even now I don't really understand why."
"You sounded lovely." Aziraphale said smoothly, stretching himself up a bit so he could gently kiss Crowley.
Crowley hummed into the kiss and they stayed like that for a few minutes, before Crowley felt Aziraphale's finger prodding at the tattoo right by where his side burns would be if he had any.
"I've noticed that some of the demons have creatures on their heads. You can turn into a snake, but Beelzebub has a fly on their head, and that nasty Hastur has a frog on his."
"Its a kind of irony I suppose." Crowley shrugged with some difficulty. "Some of the angels helped God create the creatures in the Garden. Except Hastur. He was quite fond of the frogs, didn't actually help create them but formed a sort of attachment to them and well, now he's got one on his head and he eats whatever flies fall off of Beelzebub." Crowley shuddered at that.
"Do you know their names? Their true names." Aziraphale asked quietly.
"I know Beelzebub's. They used to be Gadreel. The one that everyone thinks really tempted Eve. I guess all that matters is I was given the proper credit from my superiors. Never understood how the humans credited Gadreel to it but, they saw a fallen angel and chose him. I'm technically not fallen to them." He said bitterly. "I'm still up there with Michael, Uriel, Gabriel, the rest of them, creating more universes or something."
They stayed quiet for a moment, and Crowley must have gone back to sleep because when he woke it was dark outside his window, when it had just been early morning. What had woke him was a weird prickling on the back of his neck, and he snapped his head to look down at Aziraphale, and was startled to see that the angel was completely passed out. The angel had never been one for sleeping, claiming that he could do much more worthwhile things than sleep, but here he was snoring away.
Crowley never thought he would find snoring cute until his angel gave a little snore.
The prickling was intensifying and he slowly untangled himself from the angel, wanting to find the source of his unease. It was a feeling so very familiar, yet so forgotten that it scared him. He slid out of the bed and padded quietly out of the room, down the stairs, and hesitated at the doorway of the kitchen. The light was on, and the feeling intensified even more.
He suddenly wished he still had the tire iron he'd salvaged from the Bentley to use as a weapon as he stepped into the kitchen.
His snake eyes took a moment to adjust to the harsh brightness of the kitchen lights that he could have sworn were much dimmer, before he focused on the fact the light was coming from the being that was sitting on one of the mismatched chairs Aziraphale had salvaged from possibly the 14th century- it was uncomfortable and dull enough to be from then.
The being of light dimmed and suddenly he was facing a middle aged woman..or well no a teenage girl- his eyes closed shut of their own violation as he felt a dizzy spell coming upon him. The beings was flicking through faces faster than he could keep up.
There was a soft throat clearing that boomed in the small kitchen and he opened his eyes cautiously.
The dimmed kitchen lights didn't do justice for the woman in front of him. She had finally settled on a form he was very familiar with. He could sense underneath the corporeal form that she had taken who it was.
God was sitting in the kitchen of his lover and if that wasn't the start to some weird metaphor for life Crowley wasn't sure what was.
She had chosen a form that to any one else would have made them think she was Crowley's mother. Well she was, in a way, but they had never looked as similar as they did now. She was middle aged, with smile lines and crows feet. Her face wasn't as gaunt as his, but she was still slender and dressed simply in a lavender colored tux. Her red hair was the same shade as his, and curled neatly around her shoulders, and her eyes were as warm and golden as his used to be.
"Hello." She said softly.
Crowley wondered if he was having a heart attack. His demonic form normally wasn't usually influenced by his corporeal form, but he'd been going native for a long time so he wouldn't be surprised if his body keeled over right now and Aziraphale would have to call a human healer for him. Imagine that, the first healer not even being able to heal himself.
"Won't you sit." She commanded more than asked. The chair closest to him backed up a few inches and he almost fell into it.
"I think we should talk." She began.
"Talk?" He squeaked out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I think the time for talking is way overdue."
An expression flitted over her face, but it was gone seconds before he could decipher it.
"Now Rapha-"
"Crowley." He interjected, not caring that he could be smited for his rudeness, or maybe she'd make him fall again. He didn't think that was possible, but this was God.
"Crowley." She pushed her tongue against her teeth as if tasting the word before nodding her head. "I know you have not forgiven me for what I have done, and I'm not here for forgiveness. It will be a long time for what I did to you to truly be forgiven. Crowley."
Crowley sat in the chair stunned.
She waved her hand and two cups of tea sat before them, wisps of translucent smoke curling up from the small china cups.
God took a delicate sip from hers before putting it back on the table.
Crowley didn't want to bother with his, but she was looking at him expectantly so he took a sip just as delicate.
"I'm sure now, that you have thought about the connection between the fall and the great plan." She took another sip of her tea and Crowley remained silent.
"I had to do what I thought was right for the future of creation. The fact that you questioned me once I shared my plan hurt a lot Crowley."
Crowley felt himself become angry, but with one look from her he stayed silent.
"My plan was supposed to be built on trust. But I was misleading myself for trust needs to go both ways. By not explaining everything I caused duress within my children, I caused the fall without even really meaning to." Her eyes were boring into his soul it felt - if he still had one - but he couldn't contain his anger for much longer.
"Then why couldn't you just bloody tell us what was really happening! You lead me to believe that you would kill your creations!" He was shouting but he couldn't care less if it woke up Aziraphale. If the angel were here maybe he'd finally understand what Crowley had gone through.
"You and your ineffable plan." He was practically hissing now, knocking the chair back as he stood.
"All your plans, the great one, the ineffable one, if you had answered any of my questions back then with the truth I would still be up there and not here." The anger was trailing out of him and all he felt was tired, this argument was useless. What was done to him had happened so many years ago that he knew deep in his heart that if God offered him a second chance, he would not take it.
"But you can already see Crowley." She spoke calmly, as if he hadn't just shouted at her.
"Sssee what." Crowley hissed. Oh great, even she had gotten him so worked up he was fucking hissing.
"That without you falling, without you being able to give Eve the apple, and meeting Aziraphale, none of this would exist. I know you miss the stars and all you have created, but there would be no world as it is now if you had not been up here with your angel."
Crowley allowed a quick pout before he scratched at the back of his neck.
He hadn't been aware until now that he was only in black boxers and socks that had little succulents on them. He knew it mattered not to God what he was dressed as be he was longing for his sunglasses to appear on his face, and for proper skinny jeans and a silk shirt to cover him up under her gaze that peeled layers away from him.
Something about being in the vicinity of her love again was draining him - also the yelling and pent up emotions of talking to God - and he doubted he had the energy to miracle up clothes and his glasses, so he crossed his arms trying to cover as much of his body as he could.
"That may be very well true." He admitted begrudgedly. "But to make us fall, there wasn't any other way? It hurt so much." He had a pleading edge in his voice, trying to make her understand.
She stood up, the cups of tea vanishing as she made her way to him. He tried to take a step back but she was suddenly nose to nose with him and he couldn't retreat. She made herself slightly taller and wrapped her arms around him in such a loving and warm embrace that he cried for the second time in less than twenty four hours.
His hand hung limply at his sides as she muttered unintelligible words into his ear, words that left him shuddering.
Finally, he raised his arms and returned her embrace loosely, and tilted his head so it was tucked under her chin.
"There was no other way, no other outcome that would not result in the end of this world. Even I am not as powerful as my creations sometimes." She pulled back to give him a knowing look, and he faintly wondered if this was her first time around.
"I'm so very sorry Crowley. Please know that I love you all very much, no matter how far gone some are than others." Her smile was bitter now and he knew who she was referring to.
"My time here is up, so please remember that I am always here, watching and loving you from afar. There is nothing I can do to make up for what I have done my star maker, but please know that I am always here. I will see you again." The last words were said with a heavy finality, and Crowley felt himself missing her warmth when she stepped away from him.
He knew that he couldn't forgive her yet, maybe not ever, at least not fully. But he wouldn't mind talking to her again, questioning her again. It was almost as if he hadn't fallen and they were back in Heaven.
"I don't understand mother, if these humans are to be made in our image, then why do they look like that?"
"Because soon you will look like them too. I have decided to give you corporeal forms, easier for you to feel everything I imagine."
"Are you not going to take a corporeal form?"
God chuckled and suddenly a hand landed on Raphael's new form. "I am every form for I am God."
Raphael nodded for this made sense to him.
"I am very proud of the latest creation you have made, you're taking after me." A blinding smile is turned towards him and he feels a wave of love.
"What did you name it?"
"Alpha Centauri."
Crowley let's her kiss her forehead and soon she's gone, the kitchen empty and silent. The light is off and he whispers into the darkness, a soft and sad "goodbye mother."
He stretches, his back cracking and he saunters over to the fridge, his body moving in the familiar pattern of swinging his hips as if he is still in snake form. A habit he has not kicked in 6,000 years of being in a human form. He opens the fridge, his eyes scanning the endless shelves of food, drinks, and condiments that had been miracled to be there if ever the angel wanted a snack, which was often.
Many of their nights drinking were accompanied by Aziraphale digging into the fridge and pulling out something salty or sweet.
His eyes caught on a milk bottle that had hardly any milk left inside and he shrugged to himself. He uncapped it, preparing to pour it into his mouth when he became aware of another presence. For a second he thought it was God again, for he felt a strong wave of love coming his way, but when he turned to the doorway of the kitchen where the presence was coming from, he almost dropped the milk bottle out of shock.
A brilliant golden blob of light was illuminating the doorway and part of the kitchen. More than twenty eyes were turned towards him and staring unblinkedly with a familiar deep lagoon blue, with a tinge of lighter green. Aziraphale had a crown of flames above him and Crowley fell for the angel for the second time.
"My dear boy, this is the final time you drink straight from the carton." Aziraphale said in a disembodied voice.
He was probably trying to sound foreboding, but the waves of light that were unfiltered in this form killed the affect.
Crowley stiffled a laugh. "Angel, I don't think the effect you're going for is working."
The angel huffed, and all of his eyes rolled upwards.
"And why in the world are you like this?" Crowley motioned with his arm in an up and down movement towards the being.
"Well you were not in bed, and I was thinking back to what you said. I was curious...and I thought something might have happened to you." The angel admitted.
"So you felt the need to try and scare me half to death by trying out your true form?" Crowley walked closer, not bothered by the brightness of Aziraphale. He stopped in front of the angel and allowed himself to look at his angel with all the fondness and adoration that he could muster.
All the eyes went to half mast as Crowley let a little bit of his true self appear and brush against Aziraphale.
Aziraphale was suddenly back in his human form, the kitchen light flicking on not that either of them really needed it to.
He was looking softer than ever, in an old fashioned white nightgown that nobody had worn since the 17th century and looking at Crowley sleepily. Crowley's heart was filled with enough love that it easily matched with Aziraphale's. He scooped the angel into his arms, his sharper body sinking easily into the plusher parts of the angel.
"Were you really down here for milk?" Aziraphale asked quietly, his eyes still half closed as Crowley kissed a pathway down his forehead, to the tip of his nose, and finally to his lips.
"Let's go back to sleep angel." Crowley ignored the question.
Maybe he would tell the angel one day what had transpired, but for now he was more than happy to just follow the love of his life back up the stairs and into the bed.
While he cradled Aziraphale to his chest, he felt a soft pressure running through his hair, as if someone was running their fingers through it. He pushed back into the disembodied touch for a bit before curling closer around Aziraphale, finally letting sleep over come him.
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@dragonquill requested 6, 14 and 19 from the good omens asks!
6: If you could change one thing about the canon what would you change and why? Do you think it would make the show better?
I'm going to start by saying that the novel is nearly 30 years old and Neilman had some serious editing to do in order to update a lot of important language. Reading the novel now, it has issues when compared to current standards, and I really appreciate the work that was put into not only fixing problems, but actively making the story more queer than it was before.
The big thing I wish had been changed, and the thing I would change if I could, is Anathema's story. I love her dearly but she deserved a better narrative. All the drama with her bloodline, all the studying and training she did, the pressure to find the antichrist and save the world, and in the end, she lost a book so someone else could figure it out and had sex with a stranger because ~destiny said so~. I'm not necessarily anti-Newt and Anathema - it seems quite unnecessary to me, but I personally believe their relationship was intended to be a parody of forced relationships - but there's no reason whatsoever within the story that sex was necessary, and in the end she became a tool for Newt to do the heavy lifting and that's just not a good arc.
I would put the emphasis on her bond with Adam instead, the way she encourages his curiosity and equips the kids to educate themselves. She tells them to question the way the world is and why it has to be that way. She tells them to change the things they can't accept and be who they think they should be instead of who others tell them to be. I think that's pivotal for Adam and likely a big part of why he's able to shake off the role of antichrist, and I wish we saw more of that.
14: What's your favorite scene out of the entire show?
Oh god oh fuck. I don't think I can narrow it down to one, I really don't. I'll try to do a top 5.
-The Blitz. I love everything about it. I love the point Aziraphale and Crowley are at within their relationship and their individual character arcs, I love the humor, I love the aesthetic and the swelling violins and Crowley rolling up looking fresh as fuck to save Aziraphale after a century of the silent treatment. Instant dopamine, that scene.
-I really enjoy the scene with Hastur and Ligur in hell, discussing Crowley. I think they're both quite underrated as characters. That's a fun scene to watch and they play off each other really well. "What's he up to?" "Nothing good." "Well that's alright then, he's not meant to do good." That's fucking gold.
-The M25. All of it.
-St. James' Park, the day after Adam is born. The bickering, 《celestial harmoniesss》, "we had crepes! :)))", Crowley's HAIR (really every single scene with the wavy shoulder length features me, screaming)
-You're expecting the bookshop burning, right? Well. That's an excellent scene, but what I love is the 15, maybe 20 seconds driving away from the bookshop. That's heartbreak babey!
-i understand you need a nanny
I don't even know that these are my ultimate favorites, they are just some that I adore. I'm horrible at picking one favorite thing, I just love so much. I have six favorite colors.
19: What impact has Good Omens made on your life? Has it made much of an impact at all?
Hoo boy. Short answer, yes it has. I'm going to share this in case anyone needs a friend who can understand.
The novel came out in 1990, when my older brother was almost 5. He died in 1997, in a very sudden and painful freak accident that nearly took my dad as well, and it left my family pretty traumatized. Probably 10 years go by and I find his copy in a waterlogged box in the back of our basement, dated 1995 and full of highlighted passages and notes, and while I couldn't read the damaged copy, I got one from the library the next day. The fact that he loved a book that encouraged hope and persistence and connection through catastrophe still makes me tear up. I have never spoken to my parents about the book so I don't know if they realize the connection or not. It was the kind of accident that you never get over, you just learn to cope with, and we try to make it easy on each other.
A couple years ago I heard they were making the show, officially, finally, and I was thrilled. Then I heard the cast and I was even more thrilled. Then, last November, I went through the worst physically and spiritually traumatic event of my life, directly following a deeply personal betrayal, and I'm fighting very hard to recover even now. It very violently turned my life on its head, and it's hard to figure out how to start over and how to be a person after something like that.
Six months later, Good Omens comes out. It changed fucking everything. I saw myself in Crowley, in his trauma and rejection and vulnerability and aloneness. (That's also part of why I so strongly hc him as disabled.) Aziraphale, trying to be good but being scorned by the people he thought he should trust, being soft and strong and fiercely protective. Anathema, whose circumstances were decided for her, fighting to be her best anyway. All of these wonderful people stumbling along with no more of a clue than the rest of us, trying to do right by each other and succeeding most of the time. Armageddon can come and the world will keep spinning. You can be happy in a world that's not the same as it used to be. It's such a beautiful sentiment for me personally and for all of us on the planet.
#i hope this is alright!#ive actually got a fix it fic for anathema in the works#good omens#asks#ineffable husbands
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I wrote my first-ever Good Omens thing, continue reading for Aziraphale being slightly better than Crowley at dealing with his feelings and admitting his feelings after Armageddon!
Under Pressure
The thing about life after then end of the world, Aziraphale thought to himself, was that the worst had already happened. Working for Heaven for 6000 years was rather like having a sometimes-unpleasantly-heavy monkey on your back at all times, one that would say things like “I don’t think Gabriel would like that very much,” or “what if the others were to find out?” at the worst possible moment.
In the Bentley one evening, a song had come on over Crowley’s radio, and, well, it hadn’t really sounded like any Bach Aziraphale had heard before, but the lyrics had embedded themselves in his mind and would pop up now and again, particularly after encounters with the other Angels. Under pressure….
Aziraphale liked his earthly pleasures, but while it was easy to justify having the last piece of sushi, or making sure that he won the bid for a particularly rare book, it was harder to justify-other things. Things like bringing a certain demon holy water (though he had in the end, done the deed), or even spending an evening with that same demon after his bookstore burned down. While he couldn’t deny he’d had lots of fun on earth, there were very few moments he could count in his history where he’d actually felt-free.
Free, like his actions had no consequences, or if they did they were benign. Free, like he didn’t have a quota to fill or demands to meet, and no lost sword that he wondered about every few centuries. Free, like, well…like humans.
It was part of the reason he liked learning the Gavotte so much. In the private club, tucked away from the rest of the world, whirling and beaming, he hadn’t worried that this would somehow-cause harm, or reflect badly on him somehow. When he turned on his toes into the next step, it felt exactly like flying, only he didn’t have to think about people looking at his wings.
He’d tried explaining it to Crowley, one night when they were both very drunk in the back of his bookshop, but Crowley seemed to take it as an invitation to show off his dancing skills, and the result was something so hilarious and distracting that by the time they had both stopped laughing and sobered up, Aziraphale had forgotten the point he was trying to make. He knew Crowley got it, though. He could see the way his job weighed on him, too, sometimes. After all those commendation for a nasty job he hadn’t done, or blanks stares for one he had, Crowley certainly understood the way their jobs could chafe.
That was part of the reason why Aziraphale didn’t understand why Crowley kept asking, in that perfectly innocent tone of his, when he knew Aziraphale had to turn him down. He must know how frustrating it was. Aziraphale sometimes thought, deep down, that he’d give up all the earthly pleasures and small sins he had indulged in over the centuries for a chance for one slightly more demonic one. But he couldn’t, simply couldn’t, and so he’d turn away from Crowley’s yellow, tempting, gaze, and go buy another book for his collection.
Under pressure….
Except that had been before the end of the world.
Before Heaven, and Hell, and everything in between had been thrown from its axis, left to the mercy of God’s Ineffable plan. And for the first time-for the first time since he’d lost his sword, long ago in that Garden, Arizaphale feels-free. Free to do whatever he likes. And watching the newly-restored Bentley pull away from his bookshop one evening, a rather good red still percolating through his bloodstream (or the angelic equivalent thereof), Aziraphale knows exactly what it is.
The next morning, that certainty, that freedom, was still there, but Aziraphale dresses hurriedly, afraid that if he waits too long, his courage will leave him. The walk to Crowley’s apartment doesn’t take long, and he pauses outside the door, suddenly feeling nervous and a bit foolish. What if he isn’t up yet? It’s still early, after all, and Crowley does like his sleep. What if he is up, but doesn’t want company? What if he-
“You’re being silly,” he reminds himself. Crowley’s said he’s welcome here anytime. Crowley’s said a lot more than that, but doubt is creeping slowly across his mind. What if he’s been misinterpreting things? He thinks of the time with the Nazis, or that time when they had crepes in Paris, or more recently, the end of the world, and wonders if he’s being selfish.
Well, so what if he is? Heaven certainly isn’t going to know. Only one person needs to know. Before he can truly lose his nerve, he knocks on the door, a little harder than intended.
“Be there in a moment!” Crowley calls from what sounds like his back room.
“It’s me, Aziraphale!” says Aziraphale through the door, then feels himself go a little pink.
The door opens a second later, and there stands Crowley, hair and shirt a little rumpled, one hip cocked to the side, holding a plant mister in one hand.
“I was just watering my-what’s the matter?”
“I love you,” says Aziraphale, before he can stop himself. “I love you, and I think-I hope you love me too, and I’m tired of pretending that sides matter anymore! The world’s already ended and I-oh-”
Crowley’s dropped the plant mister, sending water spraying all over their shoes and slacks, and if Aziraphale was pink before it’s nothing compared to Crowley’s bright red. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except for a sort of “Egk” noise.
“Are you alright?” asks Aziraphale, and stoops to pick up the plant mister. “I didn’t want to alarm you, I just…I wanted you to know.” He still can’t tell what exactly Crowley is thinking, even after all these years.
“Aren’t you worried about-about Heaven? Or the other Angels? Or the Plan?” says Crowley finally, a little breathlessly, and Aziraphale feels his heart sink slightly, but still soldiers on:
“Well you see, I’ve sort of cracked that code-I mean, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before, but really-couldn’t this be part of the Plan. You know, if we choose it?”
“If we choose it,” echoes Crowley, and there’s an expression that Aziraphale isn’t sure he’s seen before on his face.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says timidly, “if I-you-we choose…”
“-each other,” finishes Crowley, and colours up again.
Drat, thinks Aziraphale, they are both terrible at this, but before he can go further with that thought, Crowley is stammering:
“Angel-I, Aziraphale, I do choose! Of course I do, I’ll always choose you.”
“I choose you too,” says Aziraphale, something more than relief flooding through him, and he steps closer to Crowley, gently reaches up and pulls off his glasses. Crowley makes no move to stop him, and when he meets his gaze, Aziraphale can see that his eyes are full of fear, and love, and freedom. Aziraphale is certain Crowley sees the same thing in his eyes.
“I love you,” he says again, and Crowley whispers “I love you,” and then he is being swept up in the most familiar pair of arms the world has to offer and two pairs of wings are beating and Aziraphale can’t tell if they are still on the ground, if they are on Heaven or Hell or Earth. Earth, he thinks, still Earth.
Crowley’s lips are on his and his hands are warm against his back and Arizarphale hears Crowley whisper “I love you,” again and pulls himself closer in the embrace.
This kind of pressure is far better than whatever Heaven could offer.
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Why Can’t You Be Happy, at the Emerald Bar?
Like any other, completely unremarkable London evening, the night outside is quiet and chilly-- any stragglers from the evening commute striding quickly along, hands stuffed deep into their pockets. Our scene, though, takes us inside the warm corner door of A.Z. Fell & Co which has, unsurprisingly, been closed since the mid afternoon-- if it was ever open at all.
The yellow shine of lamplight frames the ever familiar bookshop, distorting through several empty wine bottles on an end table, glasses red-stained and strewn haphazardly to the side. Demon and Angel alike are washed over with a warm, hazy glow. Whether such a glow comes from the old lamp and all the dust, the shine of a drunken evening, or good old ethereal energy is anyone’s guess.
Aziraphale reads aloud, sitting relatively straight at one end of the antique couch. Crowley is requisitely draped over the majority of the same couch, his head thrown back over the far armrest and his legs resting over Aziraphale’s lap. The thrum of Chaucer’s iambic pentameter pulses like a metronome, lulling Crowley’s mind to far away places, despite the grounding hand which rests on his shin in between page turns.
Its a month after armagedidn’t, and from the outside looking in, life is sublime. There are no miracles or temptations to trade, no reports to submit. Heaven and Hell have kept their word and Aziraphale and Crowley had been left alone.
And in that sudden calm-- in the realization that, for the first time in centuries on earth, angel and demon were free to do as they pleased and were more similar to each other than they’d ever be to their respective head offices-- the not-quite-so-much-a-demon Crowley had finally found the safety and the courage to tell Aziraphale the truth.
(Continued below the cut or on AO3)
Some weeks ago, in true dramatic fashion, Crowley had gotten himself positively sloshed, worked up his nerve, and then sobered up abruptly in mid sentence-- leaving himself no time to back out of a six thousand year old confession.
Crowley had admitted that he loved the angel. And really, after millenia of holding it in-- deep, passionate love coiled tightly and ready to spring forth at even a slightly too long brush of fingers or a bit too knowing smile-- finally saying it turned out to be the easiest thing Crowley’d ever done.
The words had been quiet, then blurted out, then stumbled over, smacking the angel in the face with something he probably already knew. There had been a split second of tension, an easy reply in kind. Then, a messy, bruising kiss, and the whole of it all had melted into, well, this. The same relaxed nature of life before Crowley had said those words, just with the knowing that he had, in fact, said them. And now he could relish in the feel of the angel absentmindedly stroking his leg as he read, instead of looking on from the adjacent chair.
In fact, pretty much every evening has looked just like this one, once the shock of it all had worn off. The ease which pervades the bookshop as Aziraphale continues to read has become incredibly routine, which, compared to the drama of the last eleven or so years is a welcome reprieve.
Though, if he really thinks about it, the lack of drama and adventure have been nagging at the back of Crowley’s mind. Not for his own sake, no-- he’d lived through the first betrayal and the fall of Lucifer, after all. But for that of his angel, quite a bit younger and only now at odds with heaven and his own faith.
A retired snake would be content to live out the rest of eternity in this warm, cozy book shop-- free of distraction and excitement-- but Crowley is smarter than to believe the same for Aziraphale. He knows there’s a certain power, carefully hidden under all that tartan and parchment. One which is young and well refined and which he once possessed, too, long long ago. A power that now, sitting unrestrained and uninhibited by the laws of Heaven or Hell, crackles and ripples just beneath the surface, aching to see the light of day once more.
So, if he’s being honest, it doesn’t surprise him when Aziraphale stops reading with a righteous huff at the end of The Pardoner’s Tale. Crowley cranes his head up, squinting hard before opening his eyes wide in an attempt to focus on what the angel is going to say.
Aziraphale closes his book with a quiet thud, turns vaguely to him and speaks in a whimsical tone which fails to hide the true, hedonistic ferocity behind his declaration.
“I want to go flying.”
*************************
Crowley gulps, scrambling slightly to withdraw his legs from the angel’s lap and sit up straight, the alcohol purging from his system with a slight gurgle as he rights himself and fails at an attempt to look level-headed.
“I’m… I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Angel,” he blurts then, forcing his voice into what he hopes is a low, pondering tone.
“Why ever not? It’s not as though the humans will see us and head office surely doesn’t care anymore.”
Aziraphale peers curiously at the demon, sitting far too rigidly an awkward distance away and working his mouth open and closed, trying to defend his statement with a reason that doesn’t come.
When he doesn’t respond, the angel continues on, shifting his weight to face Crowley and looking more and more alight by the second. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face, his eyes dancing with words the demon can’t properly hear and upper body wiggling ever so slightly with the memory of wind rustling feathers. He smiles then--bright and sure-- and closes his eyes, breathing deeply as though inhaling the smell of the sea from the top of a mountain.
The clarity of it is enough to pull Crowley back to reality some, and the angel’s voice swims back into audible tones as he continues reminiscing.
“Oh I remember how lovely the Pyrenees are this time of year! Gosh, which Autumn did I spend there? 1890? 91? Hmmm, of course we could just go for a short jaunt, tonight! St. James park is as good a place as any, don’t you think?”
Bright blue eyes peer at Crowley once again, wrinkling with confusion after a moment when he sees the demons face, yellow irises bleeding into white and the rest of him looking positively green as he hangs his head, breathing suddenly ragged.
“Are you quite alright my dear?” Aziraphale sobers up quickly and squats down in front of Crowley, looking up to him with concern and placing a gentle hand on his knee.
“It’s just, well… I’m not really sure that I….” He stops then, grimacing and turning his head to the side. He places a hand over the angel’s, squeezing lightly before releasing his wings into this realm with a dejected whump.
A small smile creeps back onto Aziraphale’s face as he looks around the demon, taking in the oil-slick shine of Crowley’s wings.
“Beautiful…” he breathes, twining his fingers with Crowley’s to keep himself from reaching out and stroking the ebony feathers.
Crowley’s eyebrows knit together tightly, his pupils drawn to tight slits as he takes stock of Aziraphale’s face, written over with unrestrained wonder.
“No, angel, they’re… just--” In one motion, he pulls the angel up to the couch and takes his place, sitting on the floor in front of Aziraphale’s knees, his wings spanning the length of the couch and then-some. “Look they’re… crooked.”
“Whatever are you talking about darling? They’re gorgeous!”
Crowley makes a small tutting noise in response to that, which earns him an affectionate “no, really!”
He shakes his head in disgust and out of the corner of his eyes, Crowley watches Aziraphale reach out, ever cautious, to touch the sleek feathers. He holds himself stock still, wings trembling finely with tension as the angel brushes his fingertips over a short, superficial covert, inhaling sharply at the impossibly smooth feeling.
“They really are lovely Crowley,” he whispers, nearly to himself. “If a bit tattered. Would it be alright if I…?”
He trails off when Crowley nods, all too quickly, tucking his head to his chest as Aziraphale sits up to the edge of the couch and puts both hands into the feathers, feeling at first and then starting to groom, smoothing down barbs and straightening out each primary on one side, then the other.
The angel politely doesn’t comment when Crowley’s breathing goes from tense to ragged to easy and deep, when he watches his wings transition from rippling to pliable under his ministrations.
He definitely doesn’t say anything when he switches from grooming to petting, then to the much more human task of working at the flesh of Crowley’s shoulders and upper back, the muscles become supple under his fingers.
Aziraphale, really, truly, actively says nothing when, upon leaning forward with his chest brushing Crowley’s now lax shoulders and pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck, the demon lets out a low sound only to be described as a moan.
The angel smiles against his skin, kissing the next spot and the next, making his way leisurely down one of the demon’s shoulders. Crowley’s head lolls back against Aziraphale’s own shoulder, and the angel smirks, assuming whatever insecurity Crowley held about his wings’ appearance has been well-assuaged.
He continues his ministrations, sliding his hands up the demon’s shoulders and out over the ridge of his wings. Aziraphale’s arms only just reach the alula, and he gives a light squeeze as---
“ NGK ” Crowley gasps, breathing in sharply as his head snaps back up and he lurches to his feet out of the angel’s reach, spinning around to face him and nearly upheaving the coffee table in the process.
His wings are gone with a harsh wind, stirring Aziraphale’s hair into a messed fluff and leaving the angel with a horrifyingly perplexed look on his face.
The demon looks wild, then, his eyes darting back and forth and chest heaving, looking for an escape and finding none.
Aziraphale wisely doesn’t move, for fear Crowley might miracle himself to the next continent. He takes a steadying breath, relaxing his features and peering at Crowley with soft, crinkled eyes, a completely honest, calming love written over his face.
“Did I hurt you my dear?”
The question is quiet, even keeled, and Crowley shakes his head slowly, sighing raggedly before answering. “No no not… not hurt, exactly. They don’t really-- anymore-- hurt that is.”
He looks to the angel and away, to the angel and away, willing him, hoping that he will somehow, miraculously just know everything that Crowley isn’t saying.
But of course, that’s not entirely possible, even with all of the actual miracles they can perform. So instead he eventually relents, taking the angel’s impeccably timed outstretched hand and settling back onto the couch with a small sigh.
He tries to explain, he really, truly does. But words don’t come-- its not as though they ever do-- and Aziraphale is being just so positively, intentionally patient that finally Crowley turns on the couch, his back to the angel, crossing his long legs underneath him and unfurling his wings again. Its slower this time, much of the tension that the angel had worked out re-entering his slim frame.
Without a word, he grabs the angel’s wrist from behind him and deposits his hand on the same spot along the wing ridge that had made him jump up earlier, flinching now but otherwise staying still.
The angel, turns, pulling his feet up as well, and grips the corner of the bend delicately, squinting a bit. “Crowley, I don’t understand what… oh... ”
He trails off as he feels it then, a band of bone the width of his fist-- hidden by a padding of feathers-- which is distinctly denser and thicker than the rest of the wing frame, placed just where the wings are meant to have some bend, to control one’s speed and direction while flying.
He places his hand gently on the middle of Crowley’s back before reaching over to the other side, feeling a similar, if not slightly larger, band of poorly re-formed scar tissue, just slightly more midline on the opposite wing.
Images flit before his eyes then, bringing explanation to a concept he’d never really tried to imagine. He’d seen renditions, of course, human depictions of falling angels-- body first, wings hopelessly slack, pools of burning sulphur waiting to singe pearlescent feathers to a permanent obsidian.
He’d never quite asked himself why though. Why does the angel literally fall to the depths of hell? He supposed it was just the feeling of the word itself. To fall. Powerful and poignant and unquestionable in any language. Certainly better than float or saunter or transition, since those begged the question of direction. No, fall was definitely the word for it, irrevocably and hopelessly cast out of heaven, cursed. Fallen .
Until this very moment, it had never occurred to Aziraphale that God might actually have been so righteously furious with the angels who’d questioned her that she’d rendered them flightless. That she’d been so heartless as to truly break their wings.
“Oh Crowley…” the words slip out before he can stop them, and this time Aziraphale flinches, afraid for how the demon will react to his obvious pity.
Frozen momentarily, the angel takes in a shaky breath when Crowley folds away his wings again, much calmer this time, and he only exhales when-- a bit to his surprise-- the demon leans back slightly.
Taking his queue quickly, Aziraphale pulls Crowley to him, slipping his legs around bony hips and pressing his hands to a sternum, resting his chin on one sharp shoulder. Crowley’s body goes slack against the angel’s chest, tension draining out of him entirely for a few moments.
The quiet of the bookshop surrounds the pair, their so very human breathing coming in well-synced rhythms. An indeterminate amount of time passes peacefully before Aziraphale speaks again.
“I wasn’t lying before, you know,” he starts, murmuring in the demons ear and squeezing him protectively. “I… I guess I didn’t know exactly what… what falling entailed… but they are really beautiful and I still would like to go flying with you… the scarring really isn’t visible through the feathers there’s no reason you should be ashame--”
A sound so terribly close to sob wracks itself out of Crowley’s throat, and Aziraphale stops, feeling the familiar pounding of the demons heart under this palms.
“What is it dear?” He asks, holding him imperceptibly closer. “What am I missing?”
“I don’t think… I don’t think they work… anymore.”
Aziraphale lets out a small chuckle in spite of himself. “Why of course they do dear! They’re still wings! The laws of physics on this earth haven’t changed since the dawn of time. Air under feathers has always been air under feathers!”
Crowley pulls away minutely, but it’s enough for the angel to release his hold. Turning around to face him, the demon peers into Aziraphale’s blue eyes, silently pleading with him to just understand. To not make him say the hard part.
By the grace of God...Satan… Someone, this time the angel catches on.
“You… you don’t think … you don’t know, do you? You haven’t tried since… since you fell.”
It’s not really a question and Crowley’s nod of affirmation is just barely perceptible. Aziraphale closes his eyes gently, reaching up after a moment to brush the demon’s cheek.
He leans into the touch, clenching his eyes closed too, for a moment.
When he opens them, its with a sigh, and he clears his throat just slightly, making the angel look up attentively.
“Even if…” Crowley waves his hand in a vague motion that Aziriphale imagines is supposed to mimic flying. “Even if they do… They’re… I haven’t used them in so long I don’t even know if they’d… I could get tired or… And you… you deserve to have fun, if you want to. I know you’ve been holding back for years because they were watching… Please don’t… I don’t want you to be stuck because I can’t...”
“Do you trust me?”
The question cuts off the demon’s rambling and sounds terribly loaded, but Aziraphale’s face is genuine-- right and truly asking as though he’d said something as simple as ‘what’s for lunch?’
Crowley’s mouth goes dry nonetheless and he grapples, grabbing the angel’s wrists and stumbling over himself. “Of course Angel!! How could I not? You’ve been… We’ve been! For six-thousand years! I know it took me a bloody long time to say …. But shit! Aziraphale I…”
The angel smiles then as he grasps Crowley’s face in his hands, thumbing over his lower lip as the demon’s mouth hangs open slightly, having stopped mid-sentence as Aziraphale started to laugh.
The angel kisses him, once, gently and calmly. He slides his hands down, over Crowley’s neck and shoulders, placing his hands under his elbows. The demon’s hands rest over Aziraphale’s biceps and they sit like that for a moment, holding onto one another.
He’s sure that Crowley will scoff at him if he gives voice to his next thought-- tease him for being such a sap. And then, he realizes, it might just be the levity they need to return to the regularly scheduled programming of books and wine.
And so, the angel’s next words are said in a rushed whisper, hardly aloud and loaded with mock embarrassment, but genuine nonetheless.
To Crowley, they sound like a benediction.
“Next time, I’ll be there to catch you.”
He allows himself to smile at that, reluctantly, and Aziraphale smiles back. Just then, a hint of deviousness creeps into the expression-- a look of temptation and indulgence that an angel shouldn’t be able to make-- and one that Crowley doesn’t pick up on until it’s just a second too late.
His grip tightens on Crowley’s arms, fingers pressing in just a little bit too tight, and the demon feels true angelic power swirling around them, feels a bigger miracle than Aziraphale has even dared to think of in centuries being imagined and perfectly performed before his very eyes. The demon realizes precisely what’s about to happen just as it does.
****************************
The sun barely rises over shimmery white mountains, casting much the same light over the angel and demon as the bookstore lamp was, only moments earlier. A turquoise lagoon glistens far below the pair, just hanging there in the air, still linked at the arms, contrasting wings spread wide.
Aziraphale throws his head back momentarily, drinking in air that he’d only barely remembered the exquisite taste of. He looks to the demon across from him, face scrunched up and eyes clenched tightly shut. His body is tense, but black wings glisten in the morning sun and flap lazily, supporting his weight with ease, feathers rippling beautifully with the mountain breeze.
“Crowley love,” he starts, his voice resonant but gentle in the crisp air. “Open your eyes.”
He shakes his head hard, nearly childish in refusal, but Aziraphale merely smirks, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around his waist, then leaning back to press their hips together and take Crowley’s weight.
“Angel…” he rasps, eyes still screwed shut, scrambling some before throwing his arms around Aziraphales neck and burying his face in the angel’s shoulder.
Aziraphale shakes his head affectionately, pressing a kiss to the demon’s temple and whispering in his ear.
“I’ve got you, I promise.”
There’s one more still moment, and then he watches as Crowley’s wings flap with purpose, experimentally stretching and flexing once, twice, three times. Golden eyes glitter in the sun as the demon pulls away, floating a few feet from Aziraphale, who smiles thoughtfully.
Crowley looks down the length of one wing, then another, tilting to one side before smirking and twirling in a tight little somersault in mid air. He looks at the water below and, finding some satisfaction in the fact that its decidedly not a lake of sulphur, returns the angel’s mischievous look from the bookshop.
Bright white teeth beam at the angel for a just a moment and then Crowley is gone, curling his wings tight to his body and slipping into free-fall.
Aziraphale merely stares from above, mouth agape and momentarily stunned.
Shiny wings reappear at the last possible moment, hardly a sliver of black on the deep blue canvas, and before he knows it Crowley rockets past and is high above him, soaring through the sky with impossible strength and grace.
The sleek feathers reflect the sun and the bright, snowy mountain tops, and as Aziraphale watches on in wonder, Crowley’s wings glow white as heaven.
***************************************
NOTES:
The flying location at the end I imagine to be an incredibly lovely spot in the Pyrénées Mountains, known as the Pont d'Espagne, on le lac de Gaube. I suggest looking at all the photos on this tourism site, but this is the one that I had in my head the whole time.
https://www.lourdes-infotourisme.com/automne_modules_files/pmedia/public/r618972_9_11-2.jpg
https://www.lourdes-infotourisme.com/web/FR/128-pont-d-espagne.php
#good omens fic#good omens#wingfic#aziraphale#crowley#crowley and aziraphale#established relationship#wings#this was my first fic in a long time guys wow#my fic#christ alive again the italics#reposting for formatting
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For the prompt list, can I request "Is that blood?" for GO? Thank you so much! I love your work
Thank you so much for your kind words and your prompt. It got angsty, but I couldn’t think of too many fluffy ways to go with it XD I hope you like it :D
Battlefield Earth
Just a week after defying Heaven and Hell, Hell has decided they want their demon back ... (1206 words - Warning for mention of blood and injuries, angst)
“I thought you said they’d leave us alone!” Aziraphale scolds to keep his mind off everything going on right now – the buildings burning behind them, innocent victims of defensive magic gone awry; the sword in his hands, its fire blazing bright, but its weight becoming unbearable; and, most alarming, the searing pain in his chest, one that intensifies with every step he takes over the uneven ground, the coarsely broken asphalt.
“I said they’d leave us be for a little while!” Crowley calls over his shoulder, comparably in much better condition than his companion. Of course, the horde that attacked had been comprised of demons, not angels. They didn’t like Crowley. They considered him a traitor. But they feared and respected him more than they did Aziraphale. Plus, they weren’t trying to kill him. They were trying to wound him. They had orders to bring him back to Beelzebub alive.
That didn’t necessarily mean in one piece.
On the other hand, the angel is his weakness. They know that. Take him down and Crowley would falter eventually.
“It’s only been a week!” Aziraphale squeaks.
“Yeah, well, that’s a little while!”
Aziraphale stops talking, focusing his remaining energy on following Crowley to safety – if that even exists. They can’t go to Crowley’s flat, can’t get to his car. Nor back to the bookshop. His heart sinking in his chest, he had to come to terms with the fact that none of those probably exist anymore … again. If what the demons did to that poor restaurant he and Crowley had stopped to have lunch in is any indication, these demons aren’t playing games, they’re not being subtle …
… and they don’t care whom they kill in their efforts to get to him and Crowley.
Aziraphale came out worse off than Crowley because he tarried, lingering after the initial explosion to miracle the human patrons to safety. He didn’t tell Crowley, so Crowley took off without him.
If he hadn’t doubled-back, Aziraphale may have been discorporated.
No, Aziraphale thinks with a swallow that makes his bones ache. Worse. But he can’t ponder that too long.
Especially since his brain has stopped working, as has his legs.
He’s stopped running, but he didn’t notice.
He looks up, peers through the haze to see Crowley standing across from him, staring at him, mouthing something that looks like, “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Of course,” Aziraphale slurs, tipsy from exhaustion. “Why do you ask?”
“Is that blood?” Crowley steps closer, examines Aziraphale’s clothes. Aziraphale looks, too, trying to see what he sees.
Difficult with Crowley’s halo of black fire suddenly visible and searing his eyes.
“Well, yes. We seem to be covered in it, my dear.”
“I mean, is that your blood?”
“Quite possibly. I may have a nick or two.” He straightens with false strength, shooing Crowley away. If Crowley worries, then he’ll worry, and Aziraphale can’t afford to worry just yet.
“It seems we’ve come away victorious for the time being,” Crowley says, shrugging off his concerns. If Aziraphale isn’t worried, he’s not going to worry. He pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes down the sword he’s carrying. He doesn’t own a sword. He’d grabbed it off a fallen demon. Doesn’t want to admit how sick it made him to snatch it from their dying grasp. He suspects he’d better get used to it. There may be more of this ahead.
But Aziraphale and his flaming sword …
Aziraphale was magnificent!
Crowley has never seen Aziraphale fight before, never seen him get any angrier than fussed, usually when something he’s ordered comes out wrong.
But Aziraphale didn’t look angry – full of rage and fury like the angels fighting in the Great War of old.
He looked concerned for the safety of the humans. Eager to get away.
And tired. Oh, so tired.
He still looks tired. Dead on his feet.
Crowley has to get him somewhere he can relax.
“What do you want to do now?” he asks.
“Fuck!”
Crowley’s head pops up, a mixture of amusement and speedy acceptance coloring his face, a welcome replacement for the anxiety of an hour ago. “Are you saying that as an exclamation or a request?”
“As in fuck! I think something stabbed me in the chest!” Aziraphale’s knees buckle. He falls to the rubble.
“Oi!” Crowley drops his sword and rushes over, swooping in to catch the angel before his head hits the concrete. “Okay, then! I should probably fix you up!”
“Probably should … yes …”
Crowley carefully removes Aziraphale’s hand clutching a dark spot in the center of his shirt, struggling to remain emotionless when he sees the gash open in Aziraphale’s chest. “Oh … pfft … yeah,” he scoffs. “This isn’t … it’s nothing. Barely a scratch. Have that fixed up in a jiffy.” He presses his palm against it and concentrates. These wounds, they can’t be snapped away. They’re too massive. They’ve done too much damage. Besides, if he uses a demonic miracle as opposed to his own cultivated power, which seems to be separate somehow, paperwork will file.
And what’s left of the horde will know where to find them.
Aziraphale winces as dark magic seeps into his chest, sewing the ragged edges of torn skin back together and sealing them with fire. The mend will hold long enough for Aziraphale’s angelic powers to take over, pushing the demonic influences out before they can do any harm.
In theory.
It’s worked that way thus far on a few other occasions. For minor injuries. Nothing this invasive. Whether there will be any permanent effects, neither angel nor demon choose to think about.
Aziraphale groans, head rolling on his shoulders as he tries to ignore the burn that has started to invade every cell of his body. But the color in his face has gone from ash to pink, his pinched lips are no longer thin, his eyes clearer now as he blinks away the migraine brewing behind them.
“There.” Crowley exhales, barely relieved when he watches the last of the scars scab over. “How do you feel? Better?”
“It’ll do.” Aziraphale grins. It’s slighter than Crowley would like, but as long as it lasts, he’ll take it.
“I’m glad.”
“But after this, can we get drunk and have sex?” Aziraphale asks in that straightforward and nonchalant way that catches Crowley off his guard, makes him weak in the knees.
“Really?” Crowley chuckles. It sounds like a cough – the kind that hides the start of tears.
“It seems like it would be the thing to do in a situation like this, so yes. If that’s okay with you.”
Crowley looks into Aziraphale’s eyes and grins, overdoing the salaciousness of it, desperate to hide his concern. They’re fine for now but what about tomorrow? And the day after? If Earth becomes poison for them, they’ll have to leave, save their own skins. And this time, they won’t be able to save humanity along with them. He’d hate to do it, hate to abandon them and go, but they might not get a choice.
Crowley has to keep his angel safe. And as horrible as it sounds, he’d sacrifice the world for Aziraphale.
He always would.
“Absolutely.”
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