#FUCK I FUCKED UP IM DEHYDRATED AND IM SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING AN ESSAY WHAT THE FUCK
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"I forgive you."
It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming.
Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.
And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud.
"Don't bother".
And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.
So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.
Fuck it.
He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better.
At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.
It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore.
And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.
Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.
The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.
Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air.
Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him
"Crowley!"
A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward.
"Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news."
His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat.
"Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—”
"No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please."
"My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"
"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.
"Yes, how did you know? I—"
"No."
The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?"
"No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt.
Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—"
(Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.)
"I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.
There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner.
"I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven."
Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry.
Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late.
"Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders.
Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".
His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock.
"Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw.
Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that."
"But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command."
"Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face.
"Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you."
The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire.
His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it."
He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest.
But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything.
He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all.
"I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you."
"Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed.
A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do."
Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached.
A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare.
"I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you."
And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest...
It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart.
Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution.
"Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second.
Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of.
"I forgive you."
#did i steal some lines from one of my own fanfics??? yes. yes i did#because im tired and i don't want to come up with more metaphors for time warping rn. so hush <3#good omens fanfiction#good omens angst#THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE 300 WORDS LONG#FUCK I FUCKED UP IM DEHYDRATED AND IM SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING AN ESSAY WHAT THE FUCK#idek what this is i literally have not edited one tiny little bit of this. i just came up with everything as i went along so i apologize#ignore the fact that the dialogue/pacing/ideas diverge from canon shhhhhh im too tired to look at source material#ehhh dunno how i feel ab this but whatever here's something (???)#take a shot every time i say chest or heart or ache or tremble#good omens#crowley#ineffable husbands#good omens 2#aziraphale#aziracrow#go2#ineffable lovers#ineffable wives#good omens season 2#crowley angst#final fifteen#aziraphale x crowley#crowley x arizaphale#david tennant#michael sheen#ineffable divorce#good omens fic#good omens fanfic#gomens
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Cycles
January
& she looked at him, wide eyed and innocent,
like he held the answers to why her heart bled every time she fell in love
his eyes looked everywhere but into hers.
because he knew - very well -
that he was the reason for her tears when she cried waterfalls at night, wondering why she wasn’t enough for love.
If only she could see
She was much more than enough; Yet she emptied her love into those undeserving, as if she had infinite love for everyone but herself
she was beautiful… not just in the way she dressed but in the way her thoughts came together when she poured ink on her journal, trying to piece together heartbreak, the kind that dulled the gold sparks in her emerald green eyes when she spoke of her passions, of her father, of the last book she read.
She felt every ounce of goodness, of kindness, of compassion on this earth until her bones were shaking with the existential understanding of what it meant to be human.
And in that intrinsic wisdom, he was never the answer to her roots of humanity.
February
Coffee- Tinted Breath
he took me to breakfast on a Wednesday at a quiet little cafe in the middle of town but
he orders his coffee the same way you did
two cream, one sugar.
and his kisses tasted like yours
As my head swirls in a cream- colored mess of forgotten jokes and unspoken memories I faintly hear a whistling in the background- my tea kettle is boiling.
March
Found: My First Love
If you look hard enough, you will find him.
he is tucked in the folded corners of my favorite novel, he is in the bottom of the wine bottle that I finished in the bath
he is curled up in my covers, and stuck to my teeth he is crawling on my skin and dripping in the sweat down the back of my neck
you won’t find him in my smile, or in my laughter, or in the sun
but i promise if you look hard enough you’ll find him: For he is the one.
April
maybe i hold onto the way i loved you because i like who i was back then better
May
I am 15 years young. A cool rain drenches me on a warm spring night. The sky tells me it should be dark, but the lights on the stage are projecting at just the right angle to illuminate the beautiful details of your face: the lopsided grin, the brown, all-knowing eyes - you are all I see. There are thousands of people in this stadium, but at this moment there was just two: you and I. My body gravitates towards you like you are the Earth and I am your Moon. Through an endless crowd of screaming souls, you take my hand and lead me away, until we find an empty space (Row 15 - Section 9.) You begin to spin me, to the rhythm of the bass player on stage, and suddenly the crows goes quiet. It is like the seconds before an ocean waves crashes the shore. The entire stadium watches us in silence; two young lovers moving together with such fluidity and ease that its hard to distinguish where his star dust separated from mine in the creation of the universe.
This is the moment my mind falls on when rain drops hit me or that song plays on the radio. That moment will always be ours.
June
kisses aren’t meant to hurt.
they’re supposed to wake sleeping princesses, or melt into a delicious chocolate puddles, or ease the pain of the scrape you got when you fell of your bike.
kisses aren’t meant to hurt.
but when you grabbed my hair with your red stained teeth and sucked on my neck like my blood gave you life, the black and blue you left said otherwise.
July
this year i learned that even kind people can be toxic.
when you have a soul filled with aching wanderlust, bursting with emotion,
mediocre doesn’t satiate you.
your lips will always be parched, no matter how many times he kisses you, no matter how many times you say you love him.
he is kind, but he is not enough for you.
and maybe you’re too much for him.he might dehydrate you, but you might drown him.
August
Dear Brian, its always been you.
Dear Kyle, you kept the gum you were chewing the night of our first kiss in your dresser drawer for six years. You still adore my scent with trembling lips.
Dear Peter, im sorry for biting your lip. i am still learning how to be a woman.
Dear Ryan, im sorry I used you as duct tape, but your heart kept mine from breaking countless times.
Dear Brian, its always been you.
Dear Nick, i only liked you because you reminded me of him
Dear Brandon, I wrote my college essay on the night you took me to watch stardust disintegrate and planets spin from millions of miles away
Dear Chris, I though I loved you because you walked me home
Dear Brian, its always been you.
Dear Austin, we were at church camp. the only one I was getting on my knees for was Jesus
Dear Andres, fuck you
Dear Ethan, thank you for loving me enough to let me go.
Dear Ethan, im sorry for fucking your best friend,
Dear Colin, I only kissed you to make him jealous. it worked.
Dear Brian, its always been you
Dear Anthony, i cared more about your little brother’s dreams than your own
Dear Cole, I hate that you tried to save yourself inside of me
Dear Lucas, I enjoyed hurting you
Dear Zack, we will only ever be friends
Dear Shane, I don’t care how many times we prayed together those hands don’t belong in my pants
Dear Tommy, I never thought I could connect intimately with a drug dealer
Dear Kyle, I hope you learn to love yourself
Dear Brian, its always been you
Dear Qazi, you didn’t love me
Dear Oliver, you could’ve loved me
Dear Brian, but its always you
September
I still fuck my ex because it makes me feel unforgettable
the high I get knowing he still yearns for my naked body, knowing I can give it to him without reaching deep beneath ribcage and offering my heart as well
he might not remember the spring afternoon we spent laughing with frosting in our hair
but he will never forget the way I taste
the sweetest: that, I promise you.
October
in a drunken haze I pulled my black Honda into his driveway, I found him waiting for me, letting his perfect hair fall flat in the pouring rain. He pulls me inside and tells me its too cold for pretty girls like me out there, but instead of getting me a towel he takes me clothes right off my body and throws them in the dryer. Laying there naked on his kitchen table, surrounded by Italian liquor bottles and home made tomato sauce, he makes love to me. When he comes he screams in Italian, and for a moment I forget where I am. He is my little Italian getaway, his bed my escape.
November
Kate, my new, young, bright, flower-loving, effervescent therapist, told me I need to work on setting boundaries, letting go, and loving myself. She assigned me homework for this week: to write down ten things I love about myself. They have to encompass my internal and external features and qualities and must come from a place of self-love. So, here are 10 things that I truly do love about myself, body and soul.
1) I think that I have really pretty green eyes. I think that my eyes are unique, and that they really are a glimpse into the best parts of my soul.
2) I love that I have an innate ability to connect with and make friends with all walks of life. I am able to find friendship in all types of people, from stoners to geeks to athletes; I do not judge anyone and love people for who they are.
3) I love that I am a soon to be nurse; I think that I fit the role of a nurse well, and I can really see myself being a successful nurse, changing people’s lives for the better. I am proud of my profession
4) I love my heart. I think that no matter how many times people hurt me, and no matter how many times I am disappointed, I remain positive that there is good in the world and that people are innately good.
5) I like my smile. I think that my smile radiates positivity and that it shows my kindness.
6) I like my writing. I think that they way I put words on a page, especially when its about my own emotions and how I feel about things is articulate and I have a way of making sentences flow into analogies that make sense to me.
7) I love that I ask questions. I think that this is something that allows me to bond with people, and I know that my asking questions and being genuine with others is something that I should love about myself because it makes people feel welcome.
8) I love my butt :) I am confident about it
9) I love that I am curious about all aspects of life. I am a life long learner and this is something that I never want to lose.
10) I love my eyelashes; they are long and beautiful.
December
there are days when you have to celebrate the small victories
like not texting him on his 22nd birthday
like staying home with your best friends even when your heart is crawling out of your chest, inching its way to the bar he drinks at on Tuesdays
like taking the long way home so you don’t see him walking back from main street with a new girl in his arms
every small victory, no matter how small,
self love, self love, self love
they say it takes two weeks to create a habit
like not texting him on his 22nd birthday
like not spending the night in a man’s bed on his 22nd birthday
or drinking until I forget its his 22nd birthday
like choosing myself for once, on his 22nd birthday
a small victory.
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