#and how aziraphale finds such joy in those tricks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thesherrinfordfacility · 6 months

Note

On the topic of dark grey Crowley though, I agree, and I think actually being seen as some sort of gallant hero type who makes mistakes but ultimately is good is the sort of reading of his character that would frustrate him. Crowley genuinely likes to fuck with people sometimes. When Muriel shows up Crowley can barely resist having a little fun at Muriel's expense and mocking them for being naive, and he's so excited to do it. Like I think that is the happiest we see Crowley all season. He does the paint-gun trick just for fun and can barely contain his laughter when Aziraphale freaks out, and bragging to Hell about his evil deeds constantly is a facet of his personality and something Aziraphale even scolds him for. That isn't all just for show, Crowley has a conscience, but he can still be a stinker. That said, in the same way Aziraphale has a hard time going a week without doing a good deed, you can tell Post-Retirement Crowley is also trying to refrain from some of his meaner habits in S2 with his "count to ten" stuff, and especially in his interactions with Jim. Like he's working on being better, but having a hard time not letting his temper get the best of him, or not being a little bit evil sometimes. That's how I read that quick look in the Bentley after his fight with Aziraphale when he takes off his glasses and looks exhausted. It to me reads a bit like; "I didn't handle that well." You can also see his growth at the end of the season. Like he actually listens to Nina and Maggie and takes them seriously when they tell him he needs to be more communicative, and he makes an effort to follow their advice. S1 Crowley would not have done that.

hi @oatmealaddiction, sorry for taking so long to reply to you!!!✨

this is... brilliant - you're absolutely right and i completely agree with you; he definitely seems to try getting a handle of himself in s2. there's a lot that he does in 2023 that shows that he's trying to be more gentle, conscious of his words/behaviour, and all-round a softer person. you've highlighted "count to ten" (and i'll add his immediate recognition of 'my bad' when he restores power to the coffeeshop), and how he interacts with jim, but also the way that he gently questions aziraphale about his 'naked man friend', how he interacts with muriel in the backroom and in heaven, and putting the shop back together before aziraphale comes back (firmly believe that this is the stress-cleaning as alluded to in the book, but it's still a measure of kindness and respect to aziraphale and the shop).

he still occasionally falters in all this though, which is a nice touch to show that it's all a work-in-progress (he still mocks muriel slightly in ep3 as you say, still violently loses his temper, still shown to treat aziraphale's things with a degree of disrespect, and still handles aziraphale quite abruptly on occasion), but the common denominator throughout all of that, relapsing so to speak, is him being under a good measure of stress and threat - so once again, completely understandable that he does so!!! i also like your remark on the conversation with maggie and nina; even if he doesn't necessarily listen to/act on the key points of that conversation that he possibly ought to have done, the fact that he does at all - even considers what they have to say as being worthy of his attention, as wise and insightful - is another mark of how he begins to evolve in s2, compared to s1 where he seems to be stuck in a state of inertia. crowley seems to spend a good deal of s2 anchorless (and not just in the literal 'hes living out in his car' way), and therefore seems to be grasping for routine, purpose, and/or connection wherever he can find it...?

i do wonder if its wholly to do with being out from under hell's thumb, though. as you say, and ive suggested in previous asks, crowley does seem to get some joy out of being a demon and doing demonic things, and acts in those instances with - as it seems to me, anyway - very little conscience... but these all largely occur before he breaks away from hell, even if some bad habits (?) remain in s2. im also of the (i think) widely-shared belief that crowley begins to fear hell from 1827 onward, and that his disappearance for however-long-a-time/his obvious fear and paranoia in 1862 is directly linked to how he reacts to aziraphale calling him nice/good/thanking him.

so with that in mind, his emerging willingness, as it seems in s2, to be 'nicer' and 'gentler' correlates directly to the threat of hell being removed; that would be a fairly logical conclusion. but we know that he's not out from under hell's thumb... i would like to think that crowley isn't naive enough to believe that shax is simply a harmless, innocuous protégée... but if we consider how he seems to underestimate other fellow demons in the show, it's entirely possible.

but then again, the time that beelzebub drags him from the bentley does seem to be the first time they've interacted since armageddon... so did crowley truly think that he was safe from hell? that they wouldn't dare to fuck with him again, after the bathtub ruse? did he see it as freedom to start being nicer, without fear of repercussions that - we can assume - he suffered beforehand? is he doing it for himself, because he wants to be nicer, or is he doing it to build further on the 'us' he and aziraphale were tentatively creating in the four years we didn't see?

sorry that the above is a ramble - this is basically a transcript of my brain talking itself in circles, but i think it's nonetheless interesting to think about; how much of crowley developing into this character, that seems to purposefully try being a kinder/nicer/more patient and conscientious person, is because he personally wants to, had wanted to all along, and is now free to do so, and how much is it because he thinks it's a compromise on meeting aziraphale's assessment of being 'at heart, just a little bit, a good person', so that he's more... idk, likeable - agreeable? - to aziraphale directly? wants to live up to what aziraphale thinks of him? how much of this is all the same thing?✨

#good omens #ask #god knows what im rambling about in the second half im so sorry 😂#this was so good to think about tho so thank you!!!#crowley meta #s1 meta #s2 meta

14 notes · View notes

aphroditesmoon · 8 months

Text

♤- ALL THINGS END

CROWLEY X AZIRAPHALE

SUMMARY; a series of unsent letters from a demon, to an angel.

warnings: angst, set after events of S2.

A/N: this is my first aziracrow fic, also i haven't gotten an ao3 acc yet so tumblr it is

♡ "IF SOMEONE ASKED ME AT THE END, I'D TELL THEM, 'PUT ME BACK IN IT' " ♡

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○.-

DAY 1

Dear Diary,

Dear Aziraphale,

It’s been a whole 24 hours without you. I see that Muriel Has been trusted with the bookshop. If you want my opinion, that’s just jolly fucking better. After all, it’ll need an owner who actually cares for it more than you had. ‘Nothing lasts forever?

Well I’ll prove you wrong today, tomorrow and forever. When you’ve realized how wrong you were, and how right I was, I assure you that you’ll come back to a bookshop that’s exactly the same as you left it. I’ll make sure of it, alongside Muriel of course. And we will revel with the deepest joy in ourselves, watching you do the apology dance. You and I can both agree on the fact that your punishment fits the crime. I will not wait for you. Because I know you’ll be back soon enough when you realize that I was, again, right.

DAY 7

Dear Aziraphale,

How’s life as supreme archangel? I bet you’re already on your last straw with lot of them by now. If you’re waiting for me to save you again, you can stop. You have made your bed when you thought you could change Heaven it’s natural course.

You’re probably remembering now, how not even I, not even Gabriel, could change that place. What makes you think you can? With what power? You and your tiny miracles, your insufferable terrible magic tricks that never work, you and your sweet tooth craving a forbidden crepe and some coffee. Some rules like that just can’t be changed, eh? Let alone the big ones, like going against God’s great ineffable plan. The books and I look forward to your groveling.

DAY 30

Dear Aziraphale,

Do you remember Maggie and Nina? You must surely. I’m sure your new job have not been giving you such a power rush that you’d forget those two inevitable lovers. Speaking of inevitable, I thought I’d let you know that they’ve started going out together. Not a surprise, I know. Just some sheltering together from rain, and Vavoom! Works every time. Except with us it probably didn’t. No, the rainstorm had been too strong, hasn’t it? Strong enough to have taken you away from me. Well, when you finally wake up and realize you have free will, you’ll know where to find me. Take your time though, I reckoned the books prefer me over you anyways.

DAY 90

Angel,

I thought I’d inform you that your three month trial has officially ended. The punishment has been upgraded to 2 apology dances. That’s right, you’ll have to do it twice. I also thought I’d let you know how much I hate you. I hate how stupid you are. How incredibly naïve can one be to be sold to a lie, already printed in history. I found your ridiculous magician hat yesterday, yes I ransacked your room. I smashed your special painting by Van Gogh, the ones with the yellow flowers. It can’t have been that important if you could just easily leave it behind.

I also burned your bedsheets. It’s ugly, just something you’d like. Why did you ever need a bed anyways, you read there more than you sleep. And yet I could still smell you all over it. Speaking of smell, I also smashed all of your perfumes together. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea, too much whiskey maybe. Because now I can smell you even stronger. Every second I would stop in my tracks, mistaking the scent for you coming back to me. It’s stupid, just like you.

DAY 320

Angel,

I see that Muriel has been promoted. Good for her, best one of the lot, I see a lot of you in her. Or rather, the old you. Maggie and Nina are moving away. Apparently they’ve been saving money to move away, get a nice condo, open up music store with a café installed inside, a genius idea if you ask me. Good for them. I found your diary. Don’t know how I missed it when I first moved in. You write your feelings conspicuously, you write the same way you talk. Sometimes it feels like you were telling me a story as I read it. I read them with your voice at first, But as I reach the rest 500 pages left, I’ve realized that I had grown to forget how you sound.

The people from the streets must think I’m insane, by the way I’m going around places, mocking your voice as I speak, so I’d never lose it.

DAY 600

My angel,

I lied when I said in my much earlier letter, that I hated you. I could never hate you. Not when you’ve done nothing wrong. You are good, and you were chosen to do more good. I might never understand any of it, or agree with Heaven’s choices and definitions of good. But that’s because I’m a demon, surely. I could never understand you, or love you as you should be loved, no matter how much I wanted to. You have always been, the light by the end of my door, that I can’t seem to reach no matter how hard I’m running. I should not be allowed to say this, but I love you. Despite the fact that I’m barely worthy to. I know, I could try with all my might to know you, know your voice, your smell, to recognize the sound of your footsteps and to feel you even before you make yourself known. I am still not worthy. And yet, all the rules be damned, I love you. I love your silly magic tricks. I didn’t burn your hat. I could never, after all, how would I tell you of it if you ever came back.

DAY 700

My angel,

Funny how life works doesn’t it, I’ll give your boss that. We’ve known each other for more than 6000 years, and here I am, less than two years, out of my mind without my best friend. You’re no longer obliged to come back to me. I free you from my obsession. I will always be yours. I’ve been living as just that, now I’ll die the same way.

I was so sure when I fell, that it can’t get any worse than that. But as you fall further from me, I realized I’ve jinxed myself then. Because this, this is worse than anything. But perhaps it’s all part of God’s ineffable plan. Perhaps loving you is my punishment for asking her questions. To love but not to have. That is my vow to you. That I’ll love you anyway. Despite what I’ve said. Despite what you’ve said.

Despite everything.

DAY 3000

Aziraphale,

If you do one day decide to stop by here one day, You’ll find your bookshop no longer existing. And you’ll find me no longer existing either. If I could pray for one thing, as a fallen angel, owned no debt from God. I’d ask to see you one last time, even as glimpse of scattered dreams, I’ll take it. One last time before I destroy myself for good

#aziracrow fic #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #good omens season 2 #good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic

14 notes · View notes

forineffablereasons · 5 years

Text

the first time crowley makes aziraphale laugh, he sort of, well. startles it out of him, crowley thinks. like aziraphale weren’t quite sure how to do it properly before they were doing it together, and that’s a real shame, because aziraphale’s got one of those faces that’s a bit prone to be laughing, one of those mouths that fits so neatly around a smile with the lips and the teeth and the lines that form in his cheeks.

crowley doesn’t remember a whole lot about laughter, doesn’t remember whether he learned it in heaven or in hell, and it’s not until much, much later that he wonders whether he learned it right there with aziraphale, at exactly the same time.

he likes laughing. he likes smiling, actually, which he knows is not exactly cool and never has been. he likes sarcastic little jokes and pranks and tricks and quips - which came first, the joke or the laughter. he likes wit and he likes satire and he likes banter and he likes parodies, farces and gags and hoodwinks and mischief.

but best of all, he likes laughing. he likes laughing with aziraphale.

some centuries are better than others, for laughs. some centuries it seems like aziraphale is full up of it, like he’s spilling over with it, frothy sea-foam chuckles and wine-slowed giggles. like he looks at crowley and something in him just opens, and he can’t help himself.

some centuries aziraphale doesn’t laugh at all, though, and the years drag on and on.

he doesn’t laugh much in the years that they follow around little warlock dowling. oh, he chortles and he guffaws, but it’s all part of the act aziraphale is wearing around his neck like an albatross. his eyes don’t glitter and his belly doesn’t move, and crowley never thought he’d be the one to be teaching a child how to find joy in the world. “he won’t turn out for your side if you don’t get yourself sorted,” he hisses at aziraphale. “i’m teaching him about laughing while he trods on slugs and ruins cook’s best desserts before dinner. you need to step up your game.”

“i know,” aziraphale says, weary, watching warlock as he picks aziraphale’s tulips and giggles, brandishing the flower in their direction. “i know.”

some days it’s okay. aziraphale shows warlock a few of his magic tricks, inserts a few gavottes into a sunny afternoon, and aziraphale smiles like he means it, but most days, it’s just crowley, trying desperately not to turn the antichrist into, well. the antichrist.

the days leading up to the apocalypse are the worst. aziraphale doesn’t laugh - he barely smiles. he puts on a paper-thin show with his magic tricks and hates himself when he’s done. he smiles the worst smile - the fake one - and laughs the worst laugh - the anxious one - and crowley wants to bundle him right up and take him off to alpha centauri where he can zing oscar wilde’s best one-liners into the atmosphere until aziraphale learns to do it properly again.

afterwards, there’s nothing but silence in the hollows of crowley’s flat.

“we’re going to die, aren’t we,” aziraphale says.

“well, erm,” crowley says, “yes. probably.”

“you know, i’m a bit relieved. it’ll all be done with, finally. the pretending. the fear.”

crowley looks at him, really looks at him. he’s exhausted, and crowley hates it. there are no laugh lines in his face, no ready suggestion of a smile, and crowley hates that more. “bollocks,” he says. “we can’t stop now. we’ve come this far, haven’t we? we’re so close, angel. one last sprint ahead of us and we’ll be clear of all this, you can’t give up now.”

“i’m tired of running away from them,” aziraphale says.

“so stop running away from them. run straight at them. barrel them over, knock ‘em down like nine-pins.”

aziraphale doesn’t smile, but his eyes change, just a little, like he’s remembering about smiling. “how do you suppose we could do that?”

crowley knows his face so well. he knows how aziraphale wears it, how he holds it. he knows how aziraphale shines out of it. he thinks aziraphale probably knows his face just the same. “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he’s not sure that it’ll work. even as he’s walking back out of heaven’s doors, he’s not sure that it has worked. even as he’s walking back across london, he’s not sure.

then there’s aziraphale, wearing crowley’s face, scowling as he walks back. he sits next to crowley on the bench and holds out his hand.

and aziraphale looks at him, and he laughs.

he laughs, and he laughs loud and big and strong, his mouth open and his cheeks flushed. he laughs all the way down into his chest, and yes, crowley knows what what would feel like now, in that chest. he knows what that feels like in that throat, in that voicebox, on that tongue.

it feels like freedom, and it feels, all of a sudden, like the very first time: standing on the gates of eden, having a laugh. simple. easy.

it feels like finding something, and being found in return.

“can i tempt you to lunch?” he asks, in a silly voice, hoping to tempt aziraphale into laughing again.

aziraphale does, bright and quick. “temptation accomplished.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #LAUGHING #darcy writes ineffably

5K notes · View notes

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

Note

Angst Prompt 18: “Don’t you remember me?”

You ask for angst, you get the angst! ;)

Prompts chosen from this list. Send me an ask or @ me with your requests!

There are rules, you see.

Things you aren’t supposed to ask, places you aren’t supposed to go. No one ever says them, of course. Angels just know these things.

They aren’t the same for everyone. It depends on your rank.

Ranks are strictly enforced, naturally. Limits to how you interact, what you can talk about, how much time you can spend together. Even during those brief moments together, it’s never equal. Lower-ranked angels are submissive, obedient. It’s hardwired in.

No one has to outline it for us. It all comes naturally.

So when we started breaking the rules, at first, it was accidental. Lingering too long after one meeting, seeking each other out in the next. Letting our conversation drift to more personal matters. Smiling just a little more than we were supposed to.

It felt natural.

Soon we were slipping off together, finding moments alone, little hidden corners at the edges of creation. Sometimes our wings would brush each other by accident; later, on purpose. Then our hands, our faces, our everything.

We poured out our hearts to each other, everything we felt, everything we hoped for. You told me your fears, I shared my doubts. We said things that should never, ever be spoken, wrapped in the dark cocoon of our wings.

We knew it was wrong. But it never felt wrong.

There are things we never even should have contemplated, and one by one we did them all. Every time we met, I had a new suggestion. Each one made your eyes light up like hearth fires. How was I to resist that?

We walked the unfinished earth, leaving our footprints burned into stone. We danced between the stars, reshaping nebulae, sending comets on new paths. We stole knowledge from the deepest vaults of Heaven and released it into the winds.

We mingled our forms, and experienced joys no angel should know.

We could have stopped. I could have stopped us. But you never asked me to.

And obedience never came naturally to me, anyway.

I suppose we knew it couldn’t last forever. We just never thought it would end so soon.

As we drifted on the stellar winds, forms pressed against each other, I whispered an unbreakable oath. You accepted it, without hesitation.

It was the happiest I’d ever been.

That must be what signaled them, I suppose. We’d never been caught before, but an oath of that power causes ripples, draws attention.

They dragged you away from me, your cries of pain filling the whole of space.

I don’t remember all of what happened next. They locked me away in a dark corner even I didn’t know existed. They shouted questions, demanded answers. Hurt me.

All I wanted to know was where you were. I begged, I pleaded. And when I realized they would never tell me, I cursed them, in words never before heard in Heaven.

In the end, I was expelled with the other rebels, thrown from paradise to fall into the roaring chaos below. Before we even reached the ground, we fought, clawing at each other, ripping each other apart. We didn’t even know why, it just felt right. It grew worse once we reached Hell. Once we realized all that had been taken from us.

A great, gaping emptiness that we filled with new rules, new instincts. Violent ones.

I did things I’m not proud of. But I had to survive. I had to find you.

But you weren’t there.

I searched all of Hell, from end to end, countless times. Asked anyone who would listen. I even looked among the dead. You weren’t there. You’d escaped their wrath. Somehow, you’d escaped.

Perhaps you betrayed me, made some sort of deal to save yourself. Perhaps you were the reason I was trapped in Hell. I didn’t care, as long as you were safe.

My memories of you were all that kept me going. When they chased me into hiding, over and over, I pictured you crouching in the dark beside me. When they tore at me until I screamed, I let the sound of your laughter blot theirs from my mind. When they left me bleeding on the ground – to recover or to die, they didn’t care – I recalled the softness of your touch, and the things you whispered to me when no one else could hear.

These memories kept me alive.

Until one day, I was given the orders to come to Earth. To infiltrate the garden and cause trouble. I’m good at causing trouble.

I don’t know what I expected to find in the garden. Earth had changed, flourished, filled with new sights and scents and sounds.

I didn’t notice any of them. My eyes scanned the top of the wall and there – sun shining off white hair, wings held wide, flaming sword in hand—

It was you.

After all this time, it was you.

But your eyes slide off me without recognition. When I speak to you, you become nervous, confused, then angry. When I reach out to touch you, you pull away, you flinch, you raise your sword and the fires reflect off the fear in your eyes.

“Please! Don’t you remember me?”

“Begone!” Your sword drives me to the edge of the wall. “Don’t try your tricks on me.”

“Just listen—”

“Silence! You’re a demon. You know nothing but lies and deceit. I won’t let you corrupt me with your cunning words.”

“Stop! I don’t know what they told you, but—”

“I know from my own eyes and ears, I fought in the war.”

“What war?”

Realization falls on me, a fall greater than the one I took as punishment, more painful, more horrifying. A cold drip of dread running down my spine.

You were never safe.

All the time I was running and fighting and bleeding and surviving, they were working on you. Feeding you lies. Creating a new story that would bind you to their power, would stop you from ever questioning them again.

Removing all your memories of happiness, of freedom. Of me.

I was always good at causing trouble. Too good.

I am so, so sorry, Aziraphale.

#good omens prime #good omens fanfic #ineffable husbands #good omens angst #pov crowley #hurt crowley #fallen angel #whump #prompt fic #sads #prompt #my writing #tumblr fic

22 notes · View notes

ambular-d · 4 years

Text

Walking Man’s Road - Good Omens/The Last Unicorn Ficlet

Gen - Rated G - 1182 Words - Aziraphale, Crowley, The Last Unicorn, No Beta We Die Like Man-Shaped Beings

(Link to AO3 version will be in the comments)

---

"I thought the same thing myself, once," said the Unicorn to the demon. "Or at least, I feared it might be true."

Crowley smiled, running a hand idly through her silky mane. "I'm glad we were both wrong, then."

"So am I." She turned to nudge his shoulder gently with her nose. "So, you've made your choice at last. You have chosen humanity over your own kind."

"I made it a long time ago," he said, leaning back companionably against her snowy-white flank, squinting a bit with his sunglasses tucked into his pocket. All that any but the most perceptive human passer-by would see was a man relaxing in the sun alongside a petite white mare--a bit of a peculiar thing to see in St. James's Park in this day and age, maybe, but anyone who might be inclined to investigate would find themselves oddly reluctant to do so, and would quickly forget they'd seen anything at all. "It just took a near-Apocalypse to push me those last few steps."

"I understand," she said. "I became human, and mortal, once, for a little while.”

“What?!” Crowley twisted around to gawk at her, outraged. “Point me at the tosser who did that to you. Was it a demon? Hastur's the type who'd pull a nasty trick like that just for laughs...”

“No, not a demon.” The Unicorn shook her head, nuzzling him gently. “It was a magician named Shmendrick—a friend. He cast a spell to protect me.”

As Crowley subsided, mollified, she continued, a little wistfully, “That is a story in itself. Perhaps one day I will tell it to you. But I was human for some time. I recall how it felt to love. And to wish to die a mortal death with the one I loved--and to weep. It was strange, and frightening. But there was a sweetness to it that I remember still."

He nodded. "It's not the sort of thing you forget, once it's happened to you. But you chose differently."

"I had to. For my story to end there, happily, with him, my kind would have had to pay a terrible price," she said, a little sadly. "And I have heard it said that there can be no happy endings, for nothing ends.

“But I am not certain that is true,” she went on. “I have found joy again since. And your story is your own. You are more like them than I ever was."

Crowley straightened up and turned to regard her with a bemused half-smile. "I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment."

"It was not a compliment," she said, "and not an insult. It's only the truth.”

“Hm. I suppose.” Crowley had to admit it was a fair point. It wasn't as though she was the first person who'd made that observation.

"Tell me, fallen angel," the Unicorn said, holding his serpentine gaze with her great luminous eyes, "Do you know what it is to feel regret?"

"Regret? Nnnnyuh..." Crowley made a noncommittal face and turned away, contemplating that. "I dunno. Maybe, a little." He glanced upward. "Heaven wasn't always the way it is now. Back in the Beginning--before you came along, even--it was my home. It really was a good place, back in those days. I was happy there for a long time. I miss that, every now and again.

"But the place I remember doesn't exist anymore. Everything's changed. Everyone I cared about there is gone now, or they've long since forgotten who they were." He looked to his right, where a plump angel dozed contentedly against the Unicorn's soft coat. "And maybe that had to happen, so that we could have everything we've got now. Not just me and him, I mean. The humans, too.

"So, no...” He shook his head. “I wonder, sometimes, what might have happened differently. I s'pose most people do. But regret? Nah. Not really."

"I am happy for you. I wish you joy," she said, turning her great head to look over them both fondly. "And I hope that this world does not change too much more, or all our stories may end sadly."

"Here's hoping." Crowley smiled somberly as she gave her hindquarters a little shimmy and Aziraphale startled awake, peering around blearily and rubbing his eyes. "Time to go?"

"I'm afraid so." She rose gracefully to her feet. "I can no longer protect my forest as I once did, but I do what I can. If I am away too long, I fear there may be nothing left for me to guard."

Crowley frowned slightly as he stood, helping Aziraphale up as well. "Don't say that." Though he knew well enough that once again, she spoke only the truth.

"My goodness.” Aziraphale said, abashed. “Did I nod off? How dreadfully rude. I am so sorry."

"It is all right." The Unicorn nudged her head briefly against his shoulder. "Peace is rare enough, these days. I did not mind sharing a little of it with you."

The angel smiled, giving her neck a respectful pat. "Thank you so very much for inviting us, milady. It's been truly an honor. Will we see you again soon?"

"Perhaps,” she said. “I would like that. But for now, farewell.”

Backing up a few steps, she tossed her nose into the air and gave a loud whinny.

Around them on all sides, beds of blooming white flowers and brilliant patches of sunlight scattered across the grass exploded into graceful, shimmering forms that reared and pawed and neighed to one another, then wheeled and galloped off in every direction; for all their size and power, flowing around and over obstacles in their paths as easily as a gentle breeze.

Human visitors to the park, absorbed in their phones or conversations, took no notice at all, or paused and blinked at what might seem to be a flock of birds startling into flight, or a bicyclist moving a bit too fast with pedestrians about, or perhaps the sun randomly reflecting into their eyes off some shiny object.

Only a very few--a tiny toddler girl who laughed and squealed and pointed excitedly, mystifying her parents; a young Russian agent who was already running late, and whose British counterpart (and their regular contingent of ducks) were going to be very cross with him for the time he lost stopping and staring agape at the spectacle; a bored middle-aged lady selling ice lollies, who promptly burst into tears all over her customer's Cornetto--saw anything out of the ordinary. It was safe enough that they did; no one they might tell would believe such a fantastical story. (Except the ducks.)

"Aren't they magnificent," Aziraphale breathed as one by one, the majestic creatures faded into sparkles in the distance. "And to think, all this time we believed there was only the one left."

"Yeah...I still feel a proper idiot," Crowley said, shaking his head as he took out his sunglasses and put them on. "Can't believe it took me five thousand years to figure out that unicorns can't drown."

#Good Omens #The Last Unicorn #Aziraphale #Anthony J. Crowley #Fanfiction #Non-SPN #Ambular's Artifacts

27 notes · View notes

lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Confirmation

When a strange mark shows up on Aziraphale's palm, the angel takes it as a great gift from an even greater source. But Crowley may not see it the same way ...

When Aziraphale first sees it, he thinks it’s a smudge.

He’s been filing taxes, filling out paperwork, and inventorying books all day. Those are all tasks he can miracle, of course, but he doesn’t need to draw attention to himself over frivolous things. Besides, there’s something relaxing, and oddly satisfying, about tackling the minutiae of daily life by hand the way mortals do – no magic involved.

It catches his eye once, maybe twice, but he thinks nothing of it, wiping his hands with a handkerchief and going back about his business, periodically glancing at the clock to read the time.

Nearly five in the afternoon.

His demon should be by soon.

Giddy as a newlywed, he scampers to get ready for Crowley’s arrival.

He shelves the rest of the books, tidies up the papers, and with a flourish of his hand, freshens himself up. He steals a second to examines his hands, checking to see how much damage stacking his latest acquisitions have done to his nails, when it finally hits him that the mark on his hand – dark black with a strange gold shimmer, dead center of his right palm – isn’t just a smudge.

It’s a name.

Anthony J Crowley.

And Aziraphale hasn’t a clue how it got there.

At first he thinks it must be a trick by the demon himself – some new dramatic way of announcing his arrival, which should be (Aziraphale checks the clock again) within the next twenty minutes. Aziraphale puts his left hand over it, assessing it for traces of demonic power, but there isn’t any - no Evil energy within it whatsoever.

What Aziraphale feels in the letters imprinted on his skin is love.

Only love.

And suddenly, Aziraphale realizes he knows this.

Isaiah 49:15 – 16 I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.

Love has been used to write Crowley’s name upon his hand.

Not his angel name. Not his demon name.

But the name Crowley chose.

Aziraphale’s heart swells. He takes it as a sign. No matter what has happened before or since, what Aziraphale and Crowley have together is not a mistake. It’s not sacrilege.

It’s not wrong.

And though he doesn’t claim to know God’s plan, maybe, just maybe, their union such as it is, has been acknowledged by God.

The sense of relief that fills Aziraphale creates a blinding light around him of pure joy.

His first instinct is to ambush Crowley the second he walks in and show him, but this name on his hand has more implications than just the love he and Crowley share. It means that God has not forgotten him, and that might not be of any comfort to Crowley.

Crowley doesn’t want to be a demon. There are aspects of it that appeal to him, namely in the power and immortality departments. But he doesn’t want to be an angel, either. If he could find a middle ground where both sides left him alone indefinitely, he’d choose that.

But this - this could mean something huge in the future that he may not appreciate. If nothing else, it takes his entire past, the honor he once held and the pain of being cast out, and shoves it in his face. Being around Aziraphale probably already reminds him of everything he’s lost.

This might end up like lemon juice in an open wound, one that refuses to heal.

Crowley doesn’t need God’s acceptance. He’s said as much a hundred times. But not until now did it dawn on Aziraphale that he may not want it, even if it’s offered to him freely.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to lose Crowley because of this. He can’t lose him now. Not after 6000 years!

He has two choices – none of them ideal: lose Crowley or dishonor God.

He chooses the latter. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before (according to Gabriel). Why should today be any different?

So Aziraphale hides the name.

He starts with simple logic and scrubs his hands with the strongest soap he has, but that doesn’t help at all. It actually makes things worse. With his hands so clean they’re nearly white, the black mark on his palm becomes a beacon, so crystal clear he can read it in the reflection of his shop window from ten feet away!

He lengthens his shirt sleeves so that the cuffs fall over his hands, but no matter how many times he miracles them, they seem to ride up just enough to uncover his palms.

He starts wearing gloves - leather ones he’s owned since the early 19th century. They’re conspicuous as heck, and earn him some weird looks from customers and Crowley alike, but they do they trick … for about a week. By the following Friday, the palm has worn through, but only on the one hand.

The hand with the name written on it.

The name prevails, and he begins to realize, it wants to be seen.

So he resigns himself to telling Crowley, explain how this happened and what it could mean. He wants to have it planned out, do it right, reassure him in every way possible.

But for the name on his palm, he’s taking too long.

It wants to be known, and it goes about it violently.

And with Crowley’s help.

But to be fair to the powers above, Aziraphale asks for it.

“Crowley, dear, can you help me open these boxes?” Aziraphale groans when his gloved fingers fumble the box cutter for the fifth time. “I can’t seem to … urgh … get a proper grip on this blasted thing!”

“Why don’t you miracle them open?” Crowley asks, busy reorganizing Aziraphale’s books to his own liking. “Or take off those stupid gloves you’ve been wearing non-stop? You know, for someone who pampers their hands as much as you do, those musty old things can’t be good for your skin.”

“I have … ngh … my reasons.” Aziraphale sighs. “Please? Then after this, we can take a break. Go to lunch. My treat.”

“Fine. But I’m picking the restaurant,” Crowley says, popping the box cutter off the ground with the toe of his shoe and catching it without even looking. “Someplace with a no glove policy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale bends at the waist to hold the bulging, uneven box steady for Crowley to make a clean cut without slicing through the contents inside. “I don’t think such a place exists.”

“I could always miracle them off you,” Crowley says sternly. “I don’t like that you’re keeping things from me.”

“I’m not keeping anything from you,” Aziraphale lies … badly. And he knows it. “Besides, you wouldn’t do that because you’re not that cruel.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Crowley mumbles, sticking the tip of the box cutter into the five inches of sloppily applied tape. “On the count of three, all right?”

“All right.”

“One … two …”

But Crowley doesn’t make it to three. The blade flies through the tape, slicing through as if of its own free will, straight to the other side … and through the palm of Aziraphale’s gloved hand.

“Shit shit shit!” Crowley drops the box cutter and reaches for Aziraphale’s wrist, but Aziraphale pulls it away.

“It’s okay,” he says, sucking in a breath. “It’s only a scratch.”

“Scratch my ass! I’m sorry for this, but …” Crowley snaps his fingers and the gloves disappear.

Aziraphale gasps. “Crowley!”

“Don’t Crowley me! You’ve been acting downright bizarre this past week, so excuse me for wanting to get to the bottom of what’s going on with you! I happen to care about you, you idiot!”

“I appreciate that,” Aziraphale says, dodging and weaving through the crowded space to avoid Crowley’s eyes. “I really do! But I have this handled. I promise!”

“It’s not about you having it handled, it’s about you keeping secrets! Secrets I suspect may be dangerous if you’re this eager not to tell me!”

Aziraphale searches his shop, trying to find a way to clean up the mess, seal the wound, and hide it from view in one fell swoop without Crowley seeing. When he comes up with a plan, it’s a second too late. Crowley predicted Aziraphale’s next move, guarding the door to the lavatory before Aziraphale even thinks to go there. Aziraphale spots a possible solution – another set of gloves lying on his desk. It’ll cost him a valuable second to yank them on, but after he does, he may be able to bless them so that Crowley can’t miracle them away, not using demonic magic.

It’s a little underhanded, but so was miracling away his gloves in the first place.

Desperate to be done with this, Aziraphale swipes his uninjured hand over the wound to clear away the blood, but when he reaches for the gloves, his hand turns and the name shines, even with his fingers curled over it. No miracle can cloak it, and he’s not fast enough to hide it. Crowley launches at him, reaching him in three strides of his long legs. He grabs Aziraphale’s wrist before Aziraphale can squirrel it out of sight, and just like that, the name gets its wish.

Crowley sees it.

Crowley knows.

“What … what is this?” he asks, raising the angel’s hand to his eyes and examining the mark from all angles. He runs his thumb over it, checking to see if it’s a human made tattoo or something more, thoroughly baffled by its presence.

“I … I didn’t do this,” Aziraphale says, not knowing before he does how insulting it will sound falling from his trembling lips. “I mean … it just showed up one day, and I …”

“This is what you’ve been hiding?” Crowley shakes his head, his voice sullen, laced with disappointment. “Why didn’t you show me this sooner?”

“I wanted to but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to hurt you. Or make you angry. But it’s a good thing, Crowley! It’s a really good thing … I assume.”

Crowley raises a fiery brow at him. “You don’t know?”

“I know scripture. I can guess what it means, but I’m not entirely sure I’m right.”

“So, how do you know it’s good?”

“Because I feel it in my heart,” Aziraphale says, his words rising up to reach Crowley’s ears with his eyes following, watching his skeptical demon soften. “And my heart hasn’t led me astray yet. This mark – it’s full of love, nothing else. Just love.”

Crowley runs his fingers over it to see if it will shift, or perhaps burn him. “I don’t want to assume, either,” he says, covering the mark with his hand, holding it gently against his palm, trying to feel it against his skin, “but I think it means I can do this …” His free hand he puts to Aziraphale’s cheek, running his thumb along his cheekbone. Aziraphale watches Crowley move towards him with curiosity and awe, relishing the change in his expression, how his face seems to go from stark angles to subtle planes as he gets closer.

When their lips touch, that light of joy that’s been simmering beneath Aziraphale’s skin with the arrival of that name shines so brightly, Crowley has to shut his eyes. He breathes in deep, breathes Aziraphale in as he pulls him closer. Heat surrounds them, starting at the point where there palms touch, joining at the place where their lips meet, weaving in and out of them, then in to one another, like a fine golden thread sewing them together. It flows up every one of Aziraphale’s limbs and settles in his heart, filling him with a sensation of peace and happiness so sweet it’s almost too overwhelming to bear. He hears Crowley gasp, hears him hold his breath, then feels him jerk away, as if something just occurred to him that he needs to share before he forgets.

But when Aziraphale looks at him again, he’s stunned speechless, his usual mask of cynicism transformed to something a little more … dare he say … angelic.

“Are you okay?”

“I …” Crowley swallows “… yes?”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” Crowley flexes the hand pressed against his angel’s palm. He turns it over, expectantly, splaying his fingers wide for Aziraphale to see. A mark blossoms there, too, the script flowing before their eyes as if written by an invisible pen, the ink white and silver instead of black and gold. And it reads:

Aziraphale

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #frankie writes

327 notes · View notes

dream-wreck · 4 years

Text

A Song to Suit Yourself

It feels so good to write fanfiction again. Heck, it feels good to write again. This little thing started last summer, inspired by this post, and I’m finally sending it afloat upon the internet’s temperamental waters. Good Omens fandom, I hope you receive it well. Enjoy!

AO3

Title: A Song to Suit Yourself Rating: G Word Count: 2,186 Description: Crowley fixates on a new type of music, though Aziraphale can’t quite figure why. What would a demon want with lullabies?

Neither knew exactly how they ended up in the same Scottish field at exactly the same time beneath the same lonely apple tree, but it probably had something to do with their impending assessments.

Hastur and Ligur would be around soon to check in and report on Crowley’s Deeds of the Day, which were quickly becoming Brief Surveys of the Deeds of the Decade, as they hardly ever popped around anymore. Crowley didn’t dare complain. But he’d been putting off his Evil Deed -- you know, the Big One, which made up for a long dry period of demonic activity -- and it was time to get on that. So. Scotland.

Aziraphale still received regular unscheduled visits from Gabriel, “just checking in” to see that all was going smoothly. Aziraphale had begun to question his own understanding of omnipotence. Or, at least the Head Office’s ability to communicate sporadic schedule changes to literally the only active angel they had on Earth. In biding his time -- and seeking some overdue meditation -- Scotland.

So much for that.

“They’re calling them ‘lullabies’,” Crowley said. “They sing them at children. To make them fall asleep.”

Aziraphale considered this news while he cut off another slice of red apple. He offered some to Crowley. The demon curled his upper lip at the clean white disk.

“Humans have always sang songs to their children,” Aziraphale said once he realized that the news was not news at all. “Remember Babylon?”

They both smiled self-pleased smiles. You’d almost think they were sharing the same memory, but for Crowley baring considerably sharper teeth. “Oh yes,” he said.

“That poor woman you tormented for a spell,” Aziraphale recalled. “I was the one who recommended that she write her composition down. It was a beautiful tune...in spite of its inspiration.”

Crowley shrugged. “I did not ‘torment her.’ She adopted me as the house god, what was I supposed to do? I was on assignment. Besides, she had a lovely home. It was nice to settle down for a bit. The point is, now they have a new word for it.”

“For tormenting?”

“No. The music. Keep up.” He let the pieces of the word roll off his tongue. “Lull-ah-bye…”

Aziraphale was occupied with his apple, plucked from the branches above. In his humble and learnéd opinion, few tastes in the world yet rivaled that of a fresh-picked apple. Being an angel, he also had an extensive understanding of the art of Music. Angels invented it, after all, but its purposes were rather limited in Heaven. If Crowley had come to him with news of a new kind of Music, or a new purpose for it, he would have been ecstatic and fully enthralled. But he hadn’t, so he wasn’t, and was therefore only mildly interested, though he tried his best to humor his associate. “Singing to babies helps them grow, you know. It teaches them new sounds, new words. And I personally don’t believe you’re ever too young to discover the joy of Music.”

Crowley chose not to tell him that he was missing the point, but he wasn’t entirely sure of his point to begin with. Something about the word struck a strange chord with him (all puns unintended and unrecognized). It had a sound like a plucked lute string and the curve of a lifting chin.

For a while, in silence, the two continued their survey of the Scottish countryside and a hundred miles beyond. Serious business. The evening began to settle in a comfortable calm, the sun yawning out a stretch of gold before its final disappearance beneath the hills. The angel and the demon each wondered what the other was thinking. Aziraphale wondered why Crowley had become so caught up in a single word. Crowley wondered why Aziraphale hadn’t.

The angel bit into another slice of apple. The satisfying crunch in the silence finally whet Crowley’s own appetite. He flicked his wrist and a bright red replica of the angel’s supper fell into his hand.

Aziraphale looked hurt. “I hadn’t realized this tree’s fruit dissatisfied you.”

“What, did I hurt its feelings?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, taking a moment to examine himself, not wanting to lie. “But I’m quite proud of this tree.” He sat a little taller. “I planted and raised it from seed myself, you know.”

Crowley -- who had been leaning against the apple tree’s trunk since the early morning -- sat up and scrutinized the bark as though he’d just noticed it were there.

“Well what’d you go and do something like that for? When you could just --”

He snapped his long fingers. A few paces off, a plum tree that had not been there before shivered in a gentle breeze that had not been caused by anything but a general notion.

Aziraphale flushed. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. They’ve been cracking down on miracles that are not meant for a heavenly purpose. Besides, I found that I rather enjoyed the process of raising a living thing. You might try it, learn a thing or two. Watering, trimming, revisiting the little sapling now and again to encourage it out of the ground. And it clearly paid off. It took time and it took patience. And it was beautiful. The way God intended.”

Crowley gagged. Time and patience. The plum tree disappeared, but a pile of fresh, dark plums remained at his arm’s length, the skin so deeply purple they were almost black. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just seems a waste of time.”

“Of course you’d think that,” Aziraphale said. “You know, it’s your constant need for excitement that gets you into trouble. You never sit still.”

“I do!” Crowley defended through a mouthful of bleeding plum. “I am now! And I do when I...you know, when I...you know.”

Aziraphale did not know, but he waited patiently for Crowley to realize that. Crowley did not elaborate.

He tossed his half-eaten fruit into the field, grumbling, “Who came up with the name ‘lullaby’ anyway? They’ve been rubbish at naming things from the Beginning. I’ll never forgive them for the turtle dove...Lullaby. Luhll. Ahhh. Bye. Stupid from the start. Lull....”

“For a dissenter, it sure sticks to your tongue easily.”

“So does mud. Doesn’t make it worth the taste. They think they’re so clever. If they’re so clever, switch things up a bit, do. All those songs, all lullabies ever talk about are dreams and trees and all the pain coming your way if you don’t fall asleep right this instant. All these languages since Babel and not a single one has whipped together hardly anything to move me to tears. Frankly, I’m just not impressed.”

He stopped. Not because he was finished. He felt eyes on him. Angel eyes, confused and concerned, and certainly out of their element.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Perhaps if you let them know that you have been their target audience all along, they’d show improvement. Better yet, put all that wealth of yours to use and commission one to your liking. Lord knows why you care in the first place.”

Aziraphale’s apple had finally been reduced to its core. The knife he was using ceased to exist.

“They’re too much like you lot,” Crowley continued. “Or at least you. Moving so slow. Doing slow things and inventing things that make them move even slower. Want to put the goblins to sleep? They’ve got spells for that. Spoon o’ brandy will do the trick. Or a knock upside the head. Practically instantaneous.”

Aziraphale bristled. “I thank God no one has put a child in your care.”

“On that, angel, we assent.”

The angel stood up, brushed out his jacket and tights. “I best get a move on. Several evening miracles to perform in the next town over.”

Crowley didn’t move, but he was suddenly standing. “Likewise. Which way are you headed?”

Aziraphale pointed to the north.

Crowley jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the south.

“Will you be in Scotland long?”

Crowley looked out to the empty fields. “Depends on what I can find here. I suppose if you’ll be around, I’ll be around. You know. Cancel --”

“Cancel each other out. Yes,” Aziraphale said, low and bristling, turning to the north. “Well, good evening to you.”

He paused. “I hope you find a song to suit your heart.” And he started north across the field, leaving Crowley, who did not turn to the south, alone beneath the apple tree.

Crowley slumped down against the trunk with his legs stretched toward the setting sun.

Sunsets start to look the same the more you see and the longer you live. There had been only a handful of truly extraordinary sunsets that stuck in Crowley’s busy memory since the Beginning, and few of them were memorable without their contexts. Context is everything. He’d given up long ago on watching sunsets for the hope of an explosion of color to beat the rest. But he still appreciated the thrill of witnessing night stretch over the world like a lumbering dragon splaying out for a nap.

He missed dragons. Not many of them left, nowadays.

As darkness settled in, Crowley began a meditation of his own.

All around him, he felt history’s fine threads weave through the air. Ghosts and imprints left on the surface of the earth and the face of Time itself that had disappeared from visual perception, but lingered as golden strands only few could ever see. Battles and laughter, deaths and creation, all tangled together and tumbling, just above the ground and through the rich soil. Threads thick as vines wrapping around the trunk of the apple tree. The eternal, distant echoes of screams and songs looping round and round the earth like Saturn’s rings, and if Crowley squinted hard enough, he could see their harmonies gleaming.

“I do sit still,” he said to no one in the dark. Or maybe, not to no one.

“Why do they get songs?” he wondered aloud. “What do they have to be comforted about? Everything is given to them, handed to them. All they do is sleep. Bet no one sings their parents songs. They’ve got the hardest of the lot. They’ve got all the troubles. No one writes lullabies for the ones who need them most.”

And he knew in his heart -- or the swirling matter he’d begun to think of as the place where part of his not-soul lived -- exactly why children got all the songs. Because children need distractions from all the Unknown they float in, until they can lift their heads and start finding answers for themselves. The Unknown is a terrible thing to dwell on, even for the youngest minds, whose curiosity more often than not sustains them.

And for the ones who know? Are there no songs for them? The Unknown scrambles the mind, yes, but the Certain, the Absolute, whittles the mind to a rounded end. Fixation on the Certain can be as maddening as floating in obscurity.

Crowley was falling back into fixation. Such was often the case whenever he sat still, so he tried to avoid it whenever possible. But true to pattern, his mind eventually numbed to the humming of the world, to the whispers of Time wrapping like gossamer around this green earth, invisible to all but the eyes of those who have seen more, who know more, and carry the burden of the Certain. And the boiling lake sloshing deep within the earth grew hot against his calves and the heels of his feet.

He tilted his head up to the sky and squinted into the cobalt. The harmonies of history came into focus, golden ribbons rippling in tired dance.

He hadn’t slept in nearly a century. When he last awoke, he’d missed a lot, and wasn’t anxious to miss any more. But now, unnamed weight rested on his head, a heavy fog that stings the eyes and confuses the senses. The kind with its own eyes lurking just beyond the haze. Not a comfortable Saturday morning fog, by any means.

He wanted to lie down forever. He wished this field were safe enough to do just that, but sensed beyond the hills the warm bodies of beasts waking up to hunt by dim starlight, and he fancied this body too much to risk its demise.

Suddenly, there was a snake, long, dark, and terrifying, and if someone were to notice this creature as it slithered around and up the wide tree trunk, they’d see its scales shimmering impossibly through the pitch black eve, reflecting an invisible light. It curled up on a scooping bough like an endless coil of shadowy rope, and it was thankful for the tree being there tonight.

Snakes cannot hum. That’s impossible. But many impossible things had already happened that day, and the snake, feeling safe enough to do so within the dense shelter of leaves, tried his hand at melody, content for the words he deeply felt to remain unformed, unspoken, as the song was for him alone, and he was -- as he knew and feared -- quite alone for now.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #scotland #lullaby #lullabies #a song to suit yourself #neil gaiman #Terry Pratchett #infp-dreamwreck #fanfiction #fanfic #anybody catch the hadestown easter egg?#improperly proper nouns are so much fun #no wonder those two went crazy with em

57 notes · View notes

ourownsideimagines · 5 years

Text

Love A Working Woman (Crowley x Fem!Reader)

Characters: Aziraphale, Fem!Reader, Crowley

Requested: Yes

Requested by: Anon

Point of View: Second Person

Summary: You’ve been working at the bookshop for a few months now, and you decide it’s time to confess to Crowley about how you feel.

Warnings: Minimal editing.

Words: 934

A/N: Hey, this one only had me up til 10:20 lol

---

You had known the Angel Aziraphale for quite a while. It had taken you a full month of pleading for him to hire you at his bookshop. He had been against the idea at first, insisting you could find better jobs. He reminded you continuously that he was never actually trying to sell the books, and after a bit of convincing you became his book disorganizer.

You were one of two people who knew where everything in the bookshop went. Aziraphale had his own little system which, in your opinion, wasn’t very difficult once you learned it. But it was utter chaos for anyone who didn’t.

There were certain books Aziraphale would have you move on a daily basis, some that were to be moved every other day, others on Tuesdays only. Very few books stayed put for very long, and those were usually ones that nobody had ever heard of, or really wanted. Less desirable editions of books Aziraphale kept in the back. Those books you were never allowed to move from his desk, or really touch unless you were trying to organize his clutter.

It only took a couple of weeks for Aziraphale to trust you alone in the shop. You had become an expert in avoiding sales - it was one of the many perks of working for Aziraphale. In all of your retail experience you’d never had the genuine pleasure of denying a customer what they most wanted. What brought you the most joy was when one of the regulars he’d warned you about came in and attempted to trick you into selling the book for way less than it was actually worth, and you would kindly tell them that “Mr. Fell” had priced the book as way higher than he had actually priced it at. That seemed to ruffle a few feathers.

It was in your second month of working for him that you met Crowley. You’d thought he was a persistent customer at first when he’d forced his way into the back room. You’d practically screamed at him to leave, even threatened to call the cops. But you had quickly realized that he, like Aziraphale, was not what he seemed at all.

“Why do I seem to attract the supernatural?” You’d asked Aziraphale one evening after helping close up. He’d hummed in consideration before shrugging.

“I’m unsure. But it is fairly strange, I might say. I’ll be honest when I say I’d hoped you wouldn’t meet him - at least, not this soon.”

“Why’s that?”

“Crowley can be… a bit much.”

And a bit much he was. He came in a lot more often after your first encounter. He seemed to enjoy coming into the shop and lazing in the back room, as if to taunt you. At first he had gotten on your nerves, but much like mold on bread he had grown on you - suddenly and unfortunately.

You were well into your third month of working for Aziraphale when you decided that, yes, you liked Crowley. You really liked Crowley and it was starting to distract you. You’d had more than one customer yell at you because you’d been to distracted by the demon, or the thought of the demon.

You decided it was time to get it out of the way, regardless of how he might feel about you. He probably thought you were another strange human. But if you were going to continue to work at the shop, you’d have to tell him. And with all the bills you had, and all the loans you had to pay off, you desperately need the job. You’d never been paid better, and it was a job you loved.

So you’d decided to close up while Aziraphale was out (you knew he wouldn’t mind, he didn’t have an actual schedule), and prepare yourself to confront Crowley and admit to your feelings.

You had been pacing the pack room for fifteen minutes when you heard the front door open.

“(Name)? Aziraphale?” Crowley called out. You took in a deep breath, and brushed off your outfit, muttering reassurance to yourself before exiting the back room. “Ah, there you are. I was worried I might have broken in for nothing.”

“We need to talk, Crowley.” You weren’t going to beat around the bush. If you didn’t do it right then, you weren’t going to do it at all.

“We do?”

“Yes,” You nodded. “About me and you.”

“What about… You and I?” He asked cautiously. You let out a deep sigh, eyes screwed closed before you opened them again, bringing them to stare into the dark lenses of his sunglasses.

“I like you Crowley,” You spilled. “A lot, actually. As in, like-like, and it’s… It’s distracting.” You weren’t sure if he was surprised or not. There hadn’t been much change in his expression, and you wondered what emotions were hidden in his eyes. “Look, I understand you don’t feel the same about me, but I needed to get this out there because if I didn’t I was going to explode-”

Crowley surged forward, cupping your cheeks in his hands and bringing your face closer to his own. There was a tense moment where your eyes widened, and you held in your breath, hands grasping his wrists, but not trying to pull away. You could feel his warm breath of your face. Then, he spoke.

“You talk too much.” He murmured before pressing his lips down firmly on your own.

Great, you thought as you kissed him back, almost all your worries melting away. Now I’ll be even more distracted on the job.

#good omens #good omens x reader #crowley x reader #crowley x fem!reader #crowley x reader good omens #crowley x fem!reader good omens #x reader #x fem!reader #reader insert #reader insert good omens #my writing #reese writes #the ineffable queue

379 notes · View notes

ednav · 4 years

Text

Keep Your Eyes Open

Aziraphale never sleeps. Virtue is ever-vigilant, he says. Words to live by.

Virtue is ever-vigilant, and Gabriel can pay a surprise visit any time.

Gabriel always looks dashing. How could you waste your time sleeping, when you have such a model of efficiency?

Gabriel could call — and Sandalphon would be with him, of course.

Sandalphon looks stupid, maybe he is stupid. He hasn’t read as many books as Aziraphale (he hasn’t read many books, period), that’s for sure. He doesn’t know many things that Aziraphale knows (he doesn’t know the Greek word for “revelation”, he doesn’t know the joy of eating a perfect macaron, he doesn’t know that Aziraphale has an Arrangement with a demon). But Sandalphon knows things that Aziraphale’s only heard in whispers — things about causing pain (Aziraphale was made to protect, that’s what a Principality must do), and doing it with the joyful smile of the righteous unencumbered by doubt (Aziraphale thinks of all the times he was ordered to hurt human beings, or worse, to just stand there and witness while others were hurting them. He did as he was told, he still feels like he’s missing something; maybe I’m as stupid as Sandalphon, he thinks, and then he asks Her for forgiveness, how can he dare compare himself to an Archangel?)

A voice inside Aziraphale keeps on repeating him that one day, if he’s not careful, Sandalphon’s going to hurt him. That voice reminds him that, if he doesn’t watch out, Sandalphon, and Gabriel, and Michael, and all the rest of Heaven, and God Herself, will find out that one thing that Aziraphale doesn’t want anyone to see— that one thing that Aziraphale himself refuses to see (he teeters on the edge of looking at it); that one thing that he has to deny three, ten, a hundred times (he breathes: in, out, and this time he hasn’t said the words yet, he almost didn’t think them); it’s that one thing that he knows that will make him Fall (but not today, today he’s been good), that one thing that could rip away his very nature of angel (but they haven’t found it out yet, he’s managed to hide it even to God Herself, or he wouldn’t be here).

So Aziraphale is careful. He spends his days and his nights with his eyes wide open. Even when he closes his eyelids to taste every drop of wine, to take in all the perfume of an old volume, to almost lose himself in the music that’s filling the concert room — those are just fleeting escapes. They’re a sleight-of-hand better than any trick that John Maskelyne ever conjured: look at this odd angel, fixated on his books and his earthly pleasures, don’t look there, don’t ask, I can’t tell —

Read the rest on AO3

#good omens #good omens drabble #good omens meta #aziraphale appreciation #it's a subtle metaphor for being in the closet #except that it's not subtle #the author is projecting like an IMAX

26 notes · View notes

samaraclegane · 5 years

Note

I saw your call for Good Omens prompts! What about if Aziraphale brings Crowley a plant as a gift and then we get some Crowley plant obsession (he’d be excited to show Az his collection but trying to still be cool)? Flirting in the plant room! 😍 Plus I like the idea of them over at Crowley’s flat for a change.

author’s note: what a sweet little prompt! thank you so much haha, I’ve been wanting to write about Aziraphale interacting with Crowley’s plants. hope this is good enough for you, I’m a little unwell at the moment so apologies if not! it was good fun for me to let my mind run regardless, so I thank you! (love the profile picture by the way! very cool :))

-it’s around five in the afternoon when Crowley hears a knock at his door. it takes him by surprise: he’s usually purposefully too rude to avoid getting visitors, especially those that would call at such a usual time. no demons are out and about before midnight, and angels... well, angels are entirely unpredictable.

-he’s hesitant as he walks over to the door, using the peephole to inspect the person stood on the other side. he can’t help but sigh as he recognises almost instantly at who stands there: Aziraphale.

-of course it is. this is the time that, presumably, is just after Aziraphale’s closed up the bookshop for the day, and he’s the only being in existence that would have the audacity to turn up out of the blue at Crowley’s flat. undoubtedly everybody else would assume they’d be obliterated in doing so.

-he reaches for the doorknob and turns it, swinging the door open, revealing an ever-pleasant angel. his friend’s gaze goes straight to him, looking at him through light eyelashes, and he’s never managed to look more positively angelic in their entire history together.

-”Aziraphale,” he addresses him, leaning against the door-frame as though posing for a Renaissance painting, “what are you doing here?”

-”oh, you know, I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I’d pop in,” the angel says sweetly, as though his appearance hadn’t interrupted Crowley’s long, gruelling plans of doing nothing at all, pretending to act malevolently, “may I come in?”

-”you and your... friend, I take it?” Crowley nods to the plant in Aziraphale’s hands, bright green and almost as healthy as his own. despite his natural cynicism, he moves aside to let the angel in, and closes the door behind him.

-”this,” Aziraphale moves towards him, then stretches out his arms, imploring Crowley to take the plant, “is for you.”

-”for me?” Crowley asks incredulously, unable to keep the patronising tone out of his voice, no matter how much he hates it when he hears it, “whatever did you do that for?”

-”I thought you’d like it,” Aziraphale sounds dejected and his arms fall a little, making Crowley’s stomach sink, as though he knows he’s hurt the angel, “I thought you kept them. I saw them the last time I was-”

-”yes, yes, alright,” Crowley pulls his usual trick of avoiding admitting his guilt by interrupting Aziraphale, then ushering him into the adjacent room, the one filled tastefully with flora.

-he follows soon after his friend and, though he’d rather bathe in holy water than admit it, he finds he rather likes the unusual presence in this room. this room, the one that he so often becomes protective over. this room that he takes so much personal pride in, yet never lets another soul see. this room that now contains not only himself and his plants, but a celestial body, too.

-he feels childish as he thinks it, but seeing Aziraphale in the hall of his famed plants makes him feel giddy. part of him hopes foolishly that the angel likes his work and, judging by how his blue eyes sparkle as he admires the perfectly green plants, Crowley believes he’s succeeded.

-”Crowley, this is...” he trails off slightly as he turns, his plant still in hand, gazing up at the vibrant, giant plants with their countless leaves - old and newly sprouting. he catches Crowley’s eye, then a slight smile spreads across his features. “beautiful.”

-it’s then that the demon begins to feel violently ill. well, perhaps it’s not so much violently ill as it is nervous with cannibalistic butterflies filling his stomach, but the two sensations feel rather similar to him then.

-to avoid this, he breaks their eye contact and saunters into the middle of the room, feeling the angel’s eyes follow him for a short while as he moves. by the time he turns back around, however, Aziraphale is once more occupied by the looming, leering plants that surround him.

-Crowley can sense that Aziraphale feels his gift is inferior. as soon as he receives confirmation of this in the form of the angel looking between Crowley’s plants and the one he can hold in one hand, the demon springs into action.

-”place it anywhere you like,” he tells him, casting a casual eye around the room to make sure there’s a sufficiently pronounced space for the potted plant. thankfully, there is.

-”oh, right, of course,” Aziraphale begins to move suddenly again and fumbles about the room, unsure where to put the plant. he first places it beneath one of Crowley’s prized shrubs, but realises soon enough that this will not provide it any light to grow. he then puts it across the room, then realises yet another one of Crowley’s plants is blocking the light from the skylight, so swings around and looks at Crowley for help, looking almost apologetic.

-the demon takes the hint. he crosses the room, shaking his head slightly, and plucks the pot from the angel’s hand. there’s a brief moment where their fingers touch and, with the way the pair of them flinch in sync at the touch, the plant almost goes crashing to the ground, dead before it had a chance to live and thrive.

-Crowley instantly knows exactly where the plant is going. there’s an unused table he’s been keeping for a reason unbeknown to him until that very moment. he pulls it from its hiding space in the corner and makes room for it in the centre of the room, then proudly puts Aziraphale’s plant atop of it.

-”oh, Crowley, are you sure?” Aziraphale sounds sincerely distressed by the choice. Crowley casts his eyes back over to him, in a questioning of what’s the matter? “I just mean- isn’t that a little too... important? for such a small plant, you’d better put a bigger one on that table.”

-”your plant fits there just fine,” Crowley insists, then looks over at the plant, that looks almost grateful at hearing his words. “it’s... good. it looks good.”

-”but look at it!” Aziraphale cries out, looking somewhere between bemusement and tears, “it’s so... small! you’d better move it, right away.”

-Crowley can feel himself about to break his own vow before he does it. he’s always sworn to be cruel to the plants, to show them tough love, to encourage them to grow better and instil fear into their very cores, because this is how he believes nature works best.

-however, even with this in mind, as he looks over at the look on Aziraphale’s face and how utterly embarrassed he looks, face flooding red as a tomato, he can’t suppress the kind words. without thinking any further, he speaks.

-”it’s lovely,” he declares, “it’s sweet, humble, and it fits the room perfectly. it’s the kindest gesture anybody’s ever shown to me, and frankly I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

-by the end of his brief monologue, he doesn’t know if he’s still talking about the plant or something else entirely. either way, the look of gratitude that spreads across Aziraphale’s features makes the sacrifice worth it. he smiles just slightly, tipping the corners of his lips upwards, then looks over at the plant. he could almost swear the plant has grown two inches since he started speaking.

-”oh. well, then, if you say so,” Aziraphale’s slight smile is evident in his voice, the joy oozing from his tone. he changes the subject, heading towards one of Crowley’s plants instead. he gently tips up one of its leaves and looks to him, asking, “what’s this one called?”

-Crowley quirks an eyebrow, so that his expression is visible above his tinted glasses, but responds, “I dunno, really. I don’t give them names. maybe I will do, one day, as a reward. that is, if it ever stops being miserable and grows how I want it to.”

-he’s only half-joking, but Aziraphale’s reaction is immediate. there’s no time between the words leaving his mouth and the angel’s face dropping. he looks truly distraught, and he turns his attention back to the green plant in his grasp.

-”no!” he cries out sincerely, “don’t say that, Crowley. oh, it’s a beautiful plant. how could you say such a thing?”

-Crowley shrugs him off, not quite believing what he says. “it’s good enough, I suppose. it does alright for now, but if it gets any sort of disease-”

-”oh, hush!” Aziraphale sounds almost like a mother scolding her rebellious child, “it’s a beautiful plant. it’s grown so well, hasn’t it? I think it deserves a name, don’t you? I think they all do.”

-Crowley can’t be certain whether the questions posed are directed to him or the plants in the room themselves, but he doesn’t respond. he merely nods his head, thinking that perhaps this is how Aziraphale loses his marbles, but absently runs a painted fingernail along a nearby leaf. he considers it, but doesn’t come to any sort of conclusion on the matter.

-”I do love them, Crowley,” Aziraphale suddenly speaks to him, and the directness with which he does so takes the demon by surprise. he looks over at his friend, who still looks angelic as ever, “even if you don’t.”

-Crowley couldn’t quite tell if the two of them really were moving closer together or if his mind was simply playing tricks on them, though it certainly felt like the former. it felt too real, to visceral to be the latter and, though he couldn’t feel his feet moving, he had to believe as such when the two of them were suddenly so much closer than they had been.

-”do you really mean that?”

-he’s beginning to highly suspect they’re speaking in metaphors and yet, because he’s not convinced, Crowley’s voice comes out barely above a whisper, as though if he’s wrong the angel would miss his words and not a single thing between them would change.

-Aziraphale’s smile is barely-there, but Crowley sees it. the angel looks up at him with kind eyes - much kinder than he deserves, and in a way that he’s certain Aziraphale will regret sooner or later, if he meant it at all.

-Crowley’s almost ready to let himself give into temptation (which, he recognises, is possibly the greatest irony in all of history) before he snaps back into himself and realises what he’s risking if he does so. he can’t let himself dip his head down and kiss the angel, not if it means losing a six thousand year old friendship.

-”thank you for stopping by,” he says, forcing himself to take a step back, fearing what he might do if he doesn’t. Aziraphale doesn’t look disappointed, at least he doesn’t think he does, so Crowley figures he’s done the right thing.

-”my pleasure,” Aziraphale smiles at him, and the demon chooses to ignore how it looks a little forced, “are you going to name your plants now?”

-”maybe just the one.” Crowley smiles at him, and feels the action reach his eyes. he hasn’t felt such peace in his entire life, even before he fell from heaven. he thinks the angel just brings that paradise to him.

-”it’s progress,” Aziraphale resigns, and the tangible, electric moment is gone. their connection dissipates into the air, leaving them standing silently for a moment, before Aziraphale begins to move towards the door, signalling him taking his leave while the going’s good, “I’ll see you soon, then.”

-”see you soon,” Crowley responds as the angel opens the door, stepping through and closing it promptly afterwards. it feels stilted, somewhat awkward, but that’s not what Crowley is focusing on now.

-now, he’s looking rather intently - almost too intently - at the additional plant in his indoor-garden room. it’s petite, brightly coloured, emanating light as though performing its reverse role in nature.

-for some strange reason, even though it looks out of place and, realistically speaking, he shouldn’t like it, he does. he really does, instantly, and he has the overwhelming urge to protect it, as though something bad were immanently happening.

-it’s a passing thought, of sorts. he thinks he’s done on the topic, ready to return to his much-ado-about-nothing couch, but then as he passes the plant a name pops into his head. he knows it fits it, knows exactly why it comes to his mind, and even being who he is he can’t deny it’s the perfect title for it.

-Aziraphale, he decides to call it.

-and, perhaps it’s unoriginal, but it best suits it. perhaps it defies every code Crowley’s made about caring for the plants, but then again it’s only right for ‘Aziraphale’ to make him change his tone. after all, history does so often repeat itself, and that’s all this is, right?

#good omens #ineffable husbands #send me stuff #send me anything #send me asks #send me questions #SEND ME REQUESTS #send me prompts #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #mine #prompted writings #prompted work

105 notes · View notes

ineffably-good · 5 years

Text

Changes (3/3)

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale set out to see if they can communicate with their pet snake, with surprising results.

READ ON AO3

So,” Crowley said, later that afternoon, “should we try to see if Frederick is actually communicating with me?”

“Still thinking about that, then?” Aziraphale said, giving him an indulgent smile that made it all too clear that he still thought Crowley was hallucinating.

“C’mon, angel, don’t be like that,” Crowley said, annoyed by the implied dismissal. “When do you know me to be – well, fanciful? Prone to imaginings?”

“Well, now,” Aziraphale said. “when you put it that way, I suppose I -- I apologize.” Privately, Aziraphale thought that both of those things – fanciful and imaginative -- could describe Crowley rather well at certain moments, although to be honest Crowley only appeared to be fanciful when it came to Aziraphale, so perhaps he had a point.

“But really, dear,” the angel said, “how do we test it?”

Crowley had more than a few thoughts on that. First, he explained, they should test out Frederick’s ability to understand them. He laid out on the breakfast table a large piece of paper he’d worked up, with room for a snake in the center and the words YES and NO written in heavy black ink in the corners. Finally, he retrieved the little snake and put him in the center.

“Frederick,” he said, leaning down to eye level. “I want to ask you some questions. If you want to answer yes, move your tail to point at this part of the paper, and if you want to answer no, move your tail to that part of the paper.” Crowley demonstrated several times, pointing repeatedly at the words in question.

Aziraphale, fascinated despite himself, pulled a chair up close to watch. The snake, looking rather dubious, looked back and forth between them and then all but shrugged as he decided to put up with whatever this was.

“Right then, Freddie,” Crowley said. “First question. Are you a snake? Answer the question -- you can do it! Are you a snake?”

Frederick flicked his tongue out and looked affronted. Of course, he was a snake. He resolutely refused to move his tail even one millimeter in either direction.

“Hrm. All right, do you like living here?”

This also warranted no response. Although at the moment, the snake thought, the answer was edging towards a firm no.

Crowley huffed. He got the same lack of reaction on the next five or six questions, with Frederick refusing to move and looking increasingly bored by this whole affair. Crowley was intensely aware of Aziraphale watching him fail at this and, he suspected, beginning to look slightly embarrassed on his behalf, and he found his anger heating up because of it.

“Okay, fine!” the demon snarled, plunking his head down on the table. “Go ahead and say it, one of you! This was a stupid, ridiculous, moronic idea and I’m a total idiot for thinking this could work!”

Frederick flicked his tongue and quite deliberately moved his tail to the word YES.

“Crowley, look!” Aziraphale breathed. “He did it!”

Crowley lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at the snake. “Did you do that on purpose?” he asked.

Frederick rather insistently tapped his tail on the word YES again.

“Oh for – for Satan’s sake, you are the most unhelpful, irritating little reptile I’ve ever met!” Crowley shouted. “Do you have any manners whatsoever?”

Frederick moved to tap his tail on the word NO.

If a snake could grin, Crowley thought, Frederick was clearly grinning smugly at him right now.

Aziraphale couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing. After a moment of Crowley staring at him in shocked offense, the demon’s lips twitched up in unwilling levity and he couldn’t help joining in.

“Oh- oh – oh – “ Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his stomach and tried hard to get his breathing and his laughter under control. “Of course, Frederick will only communicate when there are insults to be given! How could we have expected anything less?”

They both couldn’t fail to notice the intensely self-satisfied expression on the face of the snake.

“This is good, though,” Crowley said, calming down. “He can actually understand us and answer simple questions! At least, if and when he decides to.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “That’s rather remarkable, really. I’ve never heard of such a thing! I’m fairly certain your average pet shop snake can’t do anything of the sort.”

DO I LOOK LIKE YOUR AVERAGE PET SHOP SNAKE, YOU GIANT MUPPET? Frederick shrieked.

Crowley whipped his head around and caught the snake’s eye. “What,” he said slowly and dangerously, “did you just say to him?”

Frederick looked at him cautiously and then decided to double down. YOU HEARD ME.

Crowley tried to look stern. “That is not at all polite!”

TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE, YOU WANKER.

Crowley frowned. “Now you listen here –”

He was cut off when Aziraphale pushed back his chair dramatically and leapt to his feet. “All right, enough of this charade. What in the blazes is going on right now? You’re carrying on a one-sided argument and acting like he’s talking back to you and if this is all just some trick to put one over on me, I will not have it!”

Crowley wagged a finger at Frederick. “See? Now you’ve upset him.”

Frederick gave him the snake equivalent of a raspberry.

“Crowley!!” Aziraphale all but shouted. He took a moment and visibly quieted himself down, tugging his cuffs back down into place and patting down his jacket. “Explain what’s happening, please.”

Crowley reluctantly dragged his attention away from the snake and back to his partner. “Sorry, angel,” he said. “Wasn’t ignoring you, just got caught up. He’s talking to me, inside my head somehow. But it’s pretty much entirely put-downs and attitude.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You can hear him?”

“Not exactly, but – yeah. I think our pet is a little bit psychic,” he said, “and all-around rude.”

They both took a moment to absorb that, staring helplessly at each other.

A thought occurred to Aziraphale. “What exactly did he say to me?” he asked.

Crowley mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“He – he called you a muppet, okay?” he said, his tone soft and apologetic. “If it makes you feel any better, he called me much worse.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he thought it over. “Well, that’s really not so bad! Muppets bring joy to children all over the world. I suppose he can call me that if he needs to.”

Crowley looked up, grinning, a comment on his lips –

“Only Frederick!” Aziraphale cut in sternly, “Don’t you even think about it.”

Crowley obligingly let it drop, but he did file the nickname away for later.

An angel, a demon, and a slightly psychic, eternally rude, danger noodle, Crowley thought. How fitting. But, really, it was just as well that Frederick was poorly behaved – he had as much of the compliments and general kindness and good behavior as any demon could handle just dealing with Aziraphale on a daily basis. If his pet were to add to the fray with endless loving comments and unwanted compliments, he thought he might just be driven over the edge into insanity. Better to have a snarky, disruptive, generally unpleasant beast who he knew, deep down, really liked him. Balance things out a bit.

Aziraphale sat back down and pulled up close to Frederick. “Can you talk to me?” he asked quietly.

Frederick stared back at him consideringly, and then clenched his jaw a little bit and looked like he was concentrating hard.

“Get anything?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Aziraphale sighed, looking crestfallen, “Nothing at all. Did you?”

“Faintly,” Crowley said. “Not as clearly as when he’s yelling. I think he said hello.”

Aziraphale smiled and looked a little heartened by that. “Perhaps you can hear him because you share some of his snake DNA. Or he shares yours, I suppose,” he said.

Frederick, looking a little sorrowful himself, gently moved his tail to YES. Honestly, he wished he could talk to the fluffy one. The fluffy one certainly talked to him all the time; there were moments when it would be nice to answer back.

But, he thought, his current situation was much improved over the prior day – yesterday he’d been sad to find he had no special powers, and today he had discovered he was psychic beyond the abilities of your average snake. He didn’t understand how that happened, but perhaps it came from living with two clearly supernatural entities? But either way, he was heartened by the news; it would surely come in useful. For a start, he could yell insults any time he liked at the pointy one and know for sure that they would land as intended, which was a highly entertaining prospect. And if he truly, truly wanted to, he supposed he could be bothered to be a reptilian Ouija board and answer yes/no questions from the fluffball.

If doing so worked out in his favor, that is. He had a reputation to uphold.

Educational mission completed for the day, Frederick curled up happily into a ball, right in the middle of the table, and drifted off to sleep with a small, reptilian smile on his face. Life was about to get interesting.

#good omens #good omens fic #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #snek fiction #my writing #my fics #ineffable husbands fic

32 notes · View notes

eturni · 4 years

Text

Day 26 - Cider

I’m running a little late and will hopefully have Day 27 for today as well but for now here’s Day 26 of @drawlight‘s advent calender prompt list https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been with Cider.

Fermenting apples has been a tradition as old as both fermenting and apples have been known. The apples from the last harvest have long been used to wake the trees ready for the spring to come. It’s also common to just get drunk around midwinter, and home made scrumpy is easy to come by when the ex-Antichrist has an interest in stealing from orchards.

Midwinter around Britain has old traditions around apples and the harvest. Crowley remembers the early days, the Gauls, later with the Normans and later still as the West Country and East Anglia set to each other on the right way to do cider.

Wassailing had been big in the early days as a gift to the green man and a way to start waking the trees ready for the next year’s harvest. Crowley still had some very fond memories of his first time wassailing and arriving back amidst the fires to a slightly baffled but surprisingly relaxed angel. Then the joy of a very short season in a house built by angel miracle that had made his superiors too uncomfortable to come in for his yearly check in despite not knowing why they were so put off by it.

It had grown from mead with roasted apples and spices into something more like the French cidre and Saxon aeppelwin with sour apples and plenty of honey. Aziraphale had been more of a fan of that than Crowley, who had a surprisingly sweet tooth compared to the angel. It still reminded Crowley of Twelfth Night and of poor families making their way up to mansions with the hope of warmth and sustenance.

Getting the sweeter apples in had made things much more to Crowley’s taste, given that it let the humans really lean in to the fermentation process without having to worry about balancing the sweetness of it. There may have been a little more encouragement (tempting) of it into an art form at this point; which had of course resulted in the usual British pass-time of making schisms out of the way your neighbour does things for argument’s sake alone.

This naturally had the knock-on effect on Crowley’s reputation in Hell, though it was definitely something that humans would always do on their own. Like fighting over where you put the cream in a cream tea.

In any case pressing down apples to get drunk was a long-standing tradition for both the Brits and the horses that they kept. And alcohol, especially warmed and with any spice that could be found thrown in, was always popular over midwinter.

It does not come as a surprise to a certain principality that Crowley makes ‘grudging’ attempts to stay in contact with the Antichrist post Armagedidn’t. Ostensibly it’s to ensure that the boy remains safe after refusing Satan as his father and that there are no issues from any residual powers that may remain. It would be a lot more believable if he hadn’t also made sure to locate young Warlock, or if he didn’t dote on the boy in his own way when they visited to ‘monitor’ him.

Crowley made a habit of ensuring the kids got a present each over the holidays and took no small amount of delight in the arguments that it had caused for Pepper to get hers first for the Solstice. The kids had almost rioted and decided to go pagan with Pepper’s family just for the earlier gifts.

When they arrive in the winter of 2022 they find that Anathema has installed a small press outside in the garden and was trying her hand at some traditional scrumpy.

Continue reading on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638803/chapters/52472869 or:

“The most traditional. As I understand, it’s supposed to come from stolen apples and Dog still has a habit of getting into the orchards and somehow leaving with enough apples for Adam to have an armful.” She smiles sideways at the young man who gives an offhand shrug.

He’s leaning against a wall with his phone out on some game and would look very much like any other teenager trying to be cool if he wasn’t also half a mirror to the 6000 year old being who was in a similar pose at the other end of the living room. Aziraphale is in two minds as to whether this made Crowley look like he’s trying to play the moody teenager or whether it said something about beings that came from Hell and chose otherwise. He’s certainly leaning towards teenager.

“You know, you really shouldn’t steal.” Aziraphale tuts, knowing that the young man won’t be listening to him regardless.

“Well, actually-” Wensleydale starts, to the groaning annoyance of Pepper “scrumping is technically an old tradition he’s keeping alive. It’s all in the books, and you really only take the apples that have fallen and won’t get picked for the harvest anyway.”

“I don’t think I’m quite convinced by that, but it’s amazing what you can do with fallen apples.” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, it gets Crowley to look up for just long enough to give him a sour look before he goes back to what he’s doing.

“Well it’s all very interesting really.” Anathema smiles, going to pour out a couple of glasses. “Actually tried to see if it would work for something other than drinking at first. You know, fruit of knowledge picked from the fallen by the… by Adam. Seemed like it might have its own power of a kind but it just ended up being decent to drink.” She toasts over to them.

Aziraphale gestures back distractedly, watching Crowley closely as the other presses thin lips together and looks at the drink over the rim of his glasses. As though he were looking at the apples from beyond the grave and judging the trees wanting.

“The Them had a go of it yet?” He finally asked.

“Well, no. I mean, you can’t just give kids alcohol. Looks weird enough that they spend so much time over here anyway, never mind us getting them drunk.” Newton pipes up like the world’s nerviest meerkat.

“Y’know, as long as it’s with adults they’re legal to. We count as adults.” Crowley gave a half shrug, ignoring Wensley’s nervous glances around him in favour of the intrigued looks that Brian and Adam cast between them.

“They are children Crowley.” Aziraphale tuts in annoyance, mouth a thin line.

“Naaah. They’re teenagers.”

“And still not old enough to drink.” The angel glowers, flexing out his hands in a familiar gesture indicating ’And that’s final.’

Things were rarely ever final when Aziraphale declared them to be. In fact, Crowley took great delight in ensuring those words were the start of a great many temptations.

“Well-” Newton steps in uncertainly, almost stopping altogether when two sets of intense supernatural eyes settle solely on him. “They can with a meal. At home. We’re not really eating so much, though,-” he trails off, as though suddenly realising it was more of a couple’s argument than a discussion that he’d unwittingly wandered into.

“Little help in the kitchen, Newt?” Anathema calls through with impeccable timing, having disappeared back there at some point in the conversation.

Suddenly alone with four teenagers and a freelance demon with a bag of presents, Aziraphale doubles down. “It’s simply not right without their parents’ permission, Crowley.”

The demon huffs and pulls himself up to full height. “C’mon angel, it’s hardly more than apple juice anyway.”

“Then they can have some proper apple pressé. It’ll be hardly different from the real thing.”

“Aww c’mon. They’re hardly gonna get drunk, angel. ‘Tis the season and all that, I’ve seen younger kids go out wassailing.” Crowley points out, angling himself so that most of the table is obscured as a couple of cups appear on the table.

“That was with their parents and I can feel you doing that so don’t you dare think about playing coy with me you foul fiend.” Aziraphale huffs in exasperation as he steps around the demon only to find Brian most definitely flipping the cups upside down. “My boy, what on Earth are you-”

“Shh, trying out a magic trick. I’ve got to focus though. Doesn’t work otherwise.” Brian waves a little, face scrunching up in concentration.

“Oh! you’re learning magic? How wonderful, do show me.” Aziraphale practically vibrates, the glow of love from inside him that even Crowley could feel as a demon.

He settles himself in to watch the trick as Brian produces a partially melted chocolate coin from a pocket and slides it under one of the cups before showing off that he has nothing in his sleeves. Crowley watches in rapt attention as Adam uses the sudden distraction to gently pull the bottle off cider off the table.

Brian gamely keeps Aziraphale distracted as Pepper and Wensley finishes off their rather more innocent drinks and Adam refills the cups with cider. For a moment Crowley is the proudest he’s been since hearing that Warlock told Hastur he smelled of poo. He can immediately see how wrong this is going to go the moment one of them doesn’t like the taste and has a full cup left to drink and it only makes it all the more exciting for it.

Crowley has to force the grin down as Brian’s trick wraps up with a suitably encouraging clap from Aziraphale, despite mixing up the cups, and the cider bottle goes back into it’s place.

“Well,-” Crowley interrupts any further magic attempts with a brief clap of his hands, reaching to hand over the bag to Adam, who dutifully hands the presents out. “no use in just standing around then you’ve got presents to open. Happy holidays.” He raises a hand to toast and downs some of his own drink.

Watches Aziraphale’s smile around his glass quirk into an equally self-satisfied smirk as the Brian and Adam pull faces down into their cups.

“That might teach them to try things they aren’t ready for.” He murmurs, suddenly very close to Crowley’s ear.

This time Crowley has no hope of hiding the grin, faced with his beautiful, absolute bastard of an angel. “Oi, book girl. We’re toasting our health in here, you gonna come out or too busy snogging?”

Adam’s annoyed mutter that it’s gross and no one even calls it that anyway are ignored as the witch comes back into the room with Newton, and some spiced cookies, in tow.

“I hope you aren’t up to any mischief?” She asks knowingly, even as Adam vehemently shakes his head.

“Well then, Wæs þu hæl.” Aziraphale toasts warmly.

Crowley smiles with a shake of his head and leans in just for enough to brush a kiss against the angel’s cheek “Drinc hæl, and may it continue into the new year.”

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #ineffable husbands #mini fic

3 notes · View notes

enchantedchocolatebars · 5 years

Text

Good Omens Chibi Headcanons Part 1

Headcanons for if Aziraphale had his own little chibi. (Got inspired by cute chibi fanarts I saw on here made by artists with the usernames asunnydisposish and kimmigawa.) THANK YOU TO @luna-sheep FOR READING THIS FOR ME!👍 For space reasons, these headcanons are going to be split into three parts. First is Aziraphale, second is Crowley, and the last ones will interactions between both of their chibis. I’ll post the second and third ones later and link them all in each post.

Part2: https://enchantedchocolatebars.tumblr.com/post/186898556182/good-omens-chibi-headcanons-part-2

Part3: https://enchantedchocolatebars.tumblr.com/post/187062920297/good-omens-chibi-headcanons-part-3

Chibi Aziraphale:

• HE'S THE CUTEST SMOLEST MOST GOODEST ANGEL BOY EVER!!!😇👼❤️❤️❤️

• You can thank Aziraphale’s heavenly influence for that!

• The chibi gets little reminders from Aziraphale to be happy and to think positive.

• Chibi Aziraphale is happy to have formed a friendship with Aziraphale, and is very glad that both he and him get along so well!

• Aziraphale enjoys reading to him.

• Chibi Azi wishes the humans would invent books in his size so that he’d be able to read them.

• Chibi Aziraphale likes fictional characters such as Winnie The Pooh, Molang, Pusheen The Cat, and Moomintroll.

• Aziraphale takes Chibi Aziraphale to St. James park to visit the ducks by the pond and feed them. At first, the sight of the ducks frighten the little angel. They were much more bigger than he was! W-What if they tried to eat him?! Noticing the scared look on his small friend’s face, Aziraphale kindly reassures to him that the ducks were merely just water birds who enjoyed bread, and that the tiny celestial being had absolutely nothing to be afraid of. He even shows the chibi how to properly feed the birds by placing a crust in his hand and allowing him to toss it at the nerby drake who caught it immediately. This makes Chibi Aziraphale beam in delight as the two angels spend the rest of the afternoon giving food to the ducks.🦆🍞

• As a reward for helping him around the bookshop, Aziraphale miracles Chibi Aziraphale sweets.

• The angel had a love for food similar to his bigger counterpart. Chibi Aziraphale’s favorites include crepes and sushi, (of course) coffee cake, raspberry cream pie, and shortbread cookies.

• He’s not aware of it, but Aziraphale does indeed spoil his chibi at times.

• Aziraphale likes to dress his chibi up in 17th and 18th century male doll outfits/attire. (Imagine a clothing montage of Chibi Aziraphale trying on/wearing the outfits and looking adorable in them all while classical music plays. Aziraphale would squeal at how cute Chibi Aziraphale looks in each outfit, telling him that he looks like a wittle gentleman.)

•Chibi Aziraphale loved wearing the outfits when he and Aziraphale had tea parties. It made him feel fancy! The chibi's Harry The Stuffed Rabbit plush would also be at the tea party as well, dressed up in a 17th or 18th century outfit that was similar to his.

• I can see Aziraphale getting his chibi a pair of round lenseless doll glasses. There! Now he looks nifty too!

• Since he’s become fairly good at it, Aziraphale shows his chibi how to do the gavotte! It’s really cute to see the two angels both have ridiculous pleased expressions on their faces.

• Chibi Aziraphale really likes this song! Everything about it was just so pure and divine. (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=TWps8vw8oCo) Imagine during a cold, winter day Aziraphale happily knitting his miniature pal a sweater near a warm fire place all while this plays in the background on the wood metal gramophone sculpture.

• Aziraphale finally has a little assistant for his magic act!

• Chibi Aziraphale loves Aziraphale’s “magic” and was easily impressed by it, believing it to be real! His favorite trick had to be the ‘pull the coin outta the ear’ trick.

• Aziraphale gets one of those really big old doll houses for him (you know, something similar to the Astolat Dollhouse Castle) to live in so that he had a place he can feel at home in and be in control of.

• If someone or something new scares him, Chibi Aziraphale would quickly hide behind Aziraphale’s leg similar to how a timid child would hide behind their mother.

• At night, after Crowley drops him off at his bookshop, Aziraphale goes inside and immediately heads to the back room to check up on Chibi Aziraphale. He had miracled the angel sheets of paper and a pack of crayons before he had left to keep the little guy from being bored while he was away. When Aziraphale walks inside the room, he spots Chibi Aziraphale asleep on his desk. The chibi was nestled up near his Harry The Stuffed Rabbit plush and several sheets of paper and crayons. Aziraphale simply smiles. “Aw, he’s sleeping.” Just when the angel was about to attend to the papers and crayons that were on the desk, he notices a drawing on one of the papers. He picks it up and takes a look at it. It was a drawing done by Chibi Aziraphale! It was an adorable childlike drawing of Aziraphale and Chibi Aziraphale smiling with a heart above them. On the top of the picture the words “Friends Forever” was slightly sloppily written in crayon. Seeing this beautiful artwork made Aziraphale’s face melt into an expression of pure joy and happiness, tears welling up in his eyes. He sets the lovely art down on the desk and gently picks up Chibi Azi without waking him up. “You’re so sweet.” he softly whispers to him before walking over to the chibi’s doll house to get him to bed. As Aziraphale tucks the tiny angel in, Chibi Aziraphale smiles in his sleep and snuggles underneath his little blanket. Aziraphale can’t help but smile sweetly once again. After that, the principality returns to his desk to take care of the papers and crayons. When finished, he catches up on some late night books. Tommorrow he plans on finding a safe place to keep the drawing that Chibi Aziraphale drew for him.

• Aziraphale and Chibi Aziraphale have a sorta almost parent and child relationship.

• Chibi Aziraphale didn’t look so happy today. He seemed pretty sad in fact. The angel was currently sitting on top of a book that was on Aziraphale’s desk with a glum look on his face. Aziraphale sees this and now makes it his duty to cheer his little buddy up! Let’s see, he knows that Chibi Aziraphale really likes it when he performs fake old timey human magic, so, switching into his magician outfit that he wore at Warlock’s party, he tries doing just that. He does the basic tricks like the card trick, pulling Chibi Aziraphale's Harry The Stuffed Rabbit plushie from his hat trick, and even the coin trick, but it doesn’t seem to change the small angel’s gloomy mood. As a final act, Aziraphale makes a “pie” (which was really just a paper plate filled with whipped cream) “vanish.” (vanish as in he basically just shoves the “pie” in his face, pieing himself.) He then is all like “ta da!” and does the whole jazz hands thing. Chibi Aziraphale looks at him for a moment before laughing. Aziraphale then starts laughing too.

• While he does like Aziraphale alot and was pleased that the both of them were really good friends, Chibi Aziraphale does get…slightly envious of Aziraphale sometimes. Mainly because of his size. Because Aziraphale was so much bigger than he was, he didn’t have to ever worry about getting accidentally or purposely stepped on, he could reach for a book on the book shelf and read it without any problems at all, and he could eat all the crepes and sushi he wanted whenever he wanted. It’s not fair! How dare that angel be big enough to do all those neat things! (It’s meant to be a cute jealousy though so it’s nothing too serious. He still loves him.)

#good omens #aziraphale #live action shows #chibi au #writing #my writing #headcanons #not a cartoon

16 notes · View notes

alltheprettygirlsintheworld · 5 years

Text

Love and its decisive pain

My entry for day seven of @ineffablehusbandsweek

Day Seven Prompt: Eternity/Destiny/Ineffable

Words: 1248

Summary: Crowley had thought he was dreaming. That first night, the night the world hadn’t ended. Aziraphale, his never-make-an-unplanned-move, quiet, slow-paced angel, had sat down next to him on a bus that would not be going to Oxford.

On Ao3 here

---

Let me tell you about dreams.

The falling, spinning, twisting nature of them. The shifting from one place to another, from one person to another. The joy and terror that could come from a single night asleep was something that the real world hardly ever emulated. In the moment, as long as you can remind yourself not to think, everything makes sense, no matter how odd or confusing it should be. Whatever happened was just how it is.

Crowley had always dreamt, had always imagined.

He had chosen to dream of an angel. Of curled blonde hair and ethereal blue eyes, of white tartan outfits and old books. Most people didn’t remember their dreams- Crowley could never forget his. Could never forget the way that Aziraphale kissed him softly and called him “dear.” There had been other dreams too, of bare skin and lips and hands and so much more that Crowley would not think about while sober.

Sometimes though- sometimes the dreams were too close to reality. Too close to how Aziraphale’s eyes would light up when Crowley offered him the last bit of his dessert; to the slight smirk and flushed cheeks that accompanied an evening of drinking.

Crowley had thought he was dreaming. That first night, the night the world hadn’t ended. Aziraphale, his never-make-an-unplanned-move, quiet, slow-paced angel, had sat down next to him on a bus that would not be going to Oxford. Aziraphale had sat down next to him and taken his hand. Crowley hadn’t said anything, he had been tired and he didn’t want to say something that might ruin this. So, he stared straight ahead, tracing small circles on Aziraphale’s thumb as neither of them spoke, the silence heavy between them.

Let me tell you about time.

There is a story that was written in the eighteen-hundreds (Aziraphale would know the exact date, but Crowley only remembered hearing it). The story said that somewhere out there was a mountain of pure diamond. It takes an hour to climb and an hour to try and go around it. Every hundred years, a little bird flies up to the mountain and sharpens its beak on the tip. The story says that once the bird has chiseled the entire mountain away, the first second of eternity will have passed.

Crowley had been alive for an awfully long time.

He had pecked at the mountain that was Aziraphale for millennia. A bite to eat here and there, a temptation every once in a while, every peck a whisper of words that he dare not say aloud lest the angel turn from him.

How could Crowley go slow when every atom in his body had been telling from the first day they met that they belonged together?

He would say something about pulling the angel vaguely towards him, how he had temped Aziraphale into sin with lunches and late nights at the bookshop. But the reality was that he was only tempting himself. Only testing his self-control. Trying not to brush off the drop of wine on Aziraphale’s lips with a kiss.

Aziraphale was holding his hand and, while they had done that before, out of necessity and out of custom, it had never been like this. Not the I need you here with me, please don’t go away again, I don’t think I could handle it if I lost you again that Crowley tried to convey with a squeeze to the angel’s hand. Aziraphale squeezed back, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

Let me tell you about eternity.

The vast, spiraling infiniteness of forever. Too grand and large for any being ethereal, occult, or otherwise to properly comprehend. What was the essence of eternity, the essence of time? What or who determined how long was forever?

Crowley couldn’t answer that. Those were questions that Aziraphale would go into at length and talk about for hours, and still not be able to provide a solid answer.

What Crowley could say was this: a small eternity passed as they sat together. As they rested, joined at the hand and hip and shoulder, letting themselves be still together for the first time in the little of eternity that Crowley had experienced. The bus pulled up in front of Crowley’s flat, and they stood up together, walking hand-in-hand into the cool night air of the city. The door of Crowley’s flat unlocked automatically as he stepped up to it, opening itself so they could walk inside. Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand, trying not to quiver at the slightly disappointed look in the angel’s eye.

“I’ll be back soon, just give me a minute to change, clean up.” Crowley had whispered. Aziraphale nodded, understanding in his eyes. Crowley had gone to his rather large bedroom and miracled the ash and soot dirt off of his body and changed his clothes. He could have miracle himself a new set, but he needed the feeling of removing them, of removing the burned remains of bookshop and Bentley and replacing them.

Crowley returned and found Aziraphale standing in the middle of his plant room, staring up at the vibrant green leaves (they straightened up as soon as they saw Crowley at the edge of the room). Aziraphale gently stroked a leaf, an expression of wonder on his face. And to Crowley, well, Aziraphale looked every bit like an angel from a renaissance painting. Striking and beautiful in the dim light. Crowley cleared his throat, letting Aziraphale know he was there.

“Hello again my dear.” Aziraphale smiled at him, and the wall that Crowley had been holding up between them for the past fifty years crumbled. He strode into the room, took the angel’s face in his hands, and kissed Aziraphale they way he had wanted to for millennia, surprised and delighted when the angel kissed him back with a matched passion. Aziraphale reached up and removed Crowley’s glasses, letting them fall to the floor as he angled his head to deepen the kiss. It was not the first time they had kissed either, but it was the first one where both of them were free to feel and express everything that had gone unsaid.

Let me tell you about ineffability.

A plan too divine, too holy to be properly understood. A cosmic queen on a multidimensional chess board.

But love was also ineffable. A demon falling in love with an angel on the gate of Eden, an angel realizing he had fallen in love with a demon in the rubble of a church. Crowley apologizing, begging for Aziraphale to run away with him, and Aziraphale forgiving him, but refusing to leave. Crowley, heartbroken on the ground in the book shop and then racing towards his angel just to make sure that he was alive. Ineffable was a demon falling asleep with an angel in his arms, and waking up to find him still there, realizing that it wasn’t a dream. Ineffable was them tricking heaven and hell so they could stay alive, for themselves and for each other.

“To the world.” To you, to you and me and us together.

After dinner they Crowley had taken them for a walk in Berkeley Square, and when he was absolutely certain nobody was watching, had kissed Aziraphale underneath the branches of an oak tree. Why not, he had six thousand years of longing behind him.

And eternity to make up for it.

#Ineffable husbands week #ineffablehusbandsweek #ineffable husbands week 2019 #Ineffable Husbands #Aziraphale #Crowley #Day Seven Prompt: Eternity/Destiny/Ineffable #Dreams #eternity #destiny #ineffable #title from hozier #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #also on wattpad

6 notes · View notes

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

What Might Have Been - 9

(This one got a few re-writes and wound up not very connected to the prompt. Sorry! CW for some violent intrusive thoughts, but not very graphic.)

This is part of a single story for the @goodomenscelebration “Theme” prompts.

Parts 1-6

Part 7

Part 8

Doubt

It’s a trap. He’ll hurt you. Destroy him.

The whispers were starting again, but the Antichrist waved them aside. The first ones were always easy to ignore. Once, he’d been able to go weeks – almost a month – fighting them off, but the times when he could be himself were getting shorter and shorter. Maybe soon there would be no time at all.

He studied the demon crouched beside him for another moment. Dark clothes, red hair, sharp features. He’d been wearing a pair of sunglasses before, pitch-black lenses curved over his face to hide the glint of his bright yellow eyes from most angles. Now they were in his hand, the metal arms (black with bright red flames) hidden.

He didn’t look like a demon, not really. The eyes did, the black wings he’d briefly revealed, the sigil on the hinge of his jaw. But apart from that, he looked human. Demons didn’t usually bother to look very human.

“So,” he started, ready to teleport the demon as far as possible if he didn’t like the answer, “if you’re not supposed to bring me back to the war…why are you here?”

“Looking for an angel.” The demon glanced around, his eyes distant. “Not even sure where to start.”

The Antichrist nodded. Some of the angels and demons were sworn enemies, locked in eternal single combat. “Your Adversary?”

The demon grinned, but there was nothing bloodthirsty about it. “Oh yeah.” He stood up, brushing himself off, then held out a hand for the Antichrist. “Had him in my clutches this morning, but he slipped away. And now…” the grin faded.

Ignoring the hand, the Antichrist stood up. “The nearest fighting’s down by the coast. Brighton, when I ran, probably spreading from there. Th biggest is over America…” he closed his eyes to concentrate. “Yeah, New York. And smaller fights in what’s left of the Amazon, and somewhere over the mountains in Asia and…” he looked at the demon again. “Is this angel good at fighting?”

“The best,” he said, with some kind of strange pride.

“Probably America. That’s where I’m supposed to go next, but…”

“I don’t think so.” The demon wandered back to the inn, where a still-partially-green plant in a red pot sat in the box planter. Tucking the glasses in his pocket, he carefully picked it up and walked back. Was it some sort of weapon? He hadn’t heard of that type of biological warfare, but you never knew. “He was here, my Adversary. Or not too far, anyway. I And he doesn’t really like America. He’d stay close, I think.” The demon sauntered past the Antichrist with hardly a glance. “Just gotta keep looking.”

More whispers, destroy him, forget him, find your destiny, but the Antichrist pushed them away again, and found himself following after. “Is he on one of the Retrieval squads? They’re supposed to be some of the best fighters. The Guardian of Humanity only picks the best.”

“I don’t know about Retrieval Squads,” the demon said. “He doesn’t get on well with other angels. But Guardian of Humanity…that sounds like his kind of scene. They keep the humans safe?”

“It’s what they say,” Adam said darkly. “If he’s mixed up in that, I can’t help you.”

“Adam, if there’s anyone who can help me, it’s you.” The demon frowned, studying the buildings lining the road behind them.. “Can probably help me figure out what happened here, too. This…” He tucked the plant under one arm and waved a hand at the last house, bricks melted to mud. Across the street, the remains of a stone wall and a marker stone of some kind, broken down and scattered as if kicked over by an unruly toddler. “This is wrong.”

“Dunno. Same thing that happened to all the villages.” Rumor had it there were still a few holdouts, but they tended to be destroyed a few hours after the Antichrist arrived. Having an army of demons will do that.

He didn’t realize the demon had stopped until almost too late, and the Antichrist very nearly walked into him. “Look. This is going to be a lot easier if you just do your mind-reading trick. I give you permission.”

“No,” the Antichrist said firmly. “I don’t – not anymore.” He shuddered, trying not to remember the last time. The feel of maggots on his flesh, the voices in his head. Rip his arm off, one of them suggested, rising a little above the whispers. That’ll teach him some respect.

“Adam? What happened?”

The Antichrist knew if he looked up again, he’d see golden eyes watching him. Might even see an expression he’d never expected to find on a demonic face, on any face ever turned to him again.

He kept staring at his shoes.

“I…didn’t want to fight. Kept teleporting home, even though no one was there. They’d drag me back. One day I read their minds and told them their battleplans were stupid.”

The demon chuckled at that. “That’s my boy. Bet they were stupid.”

“They were glorious,” the Antichrist said, bitterly. “Battles that would rip apart the Earth, shows of power that would make everyone quake in fear. And more than half our forces would be lost in the first three years.”

A long pause while the demon glanced around, taking in the destruction, the boiling red rivers cutting across the field, the pond reduced to an empty pit with a black tar at the bottom. A swarm of locust rose from the dead grass, the only sign of life. “I take it you didn’t convince them to change their plans?”

The Antichrist raised his head to meet the demon’s eyes, but wasn’t ready for that. It was easier to stare at his shoulder. “They. They locked me in a cell with a pair of demons.” His throat grew tight. “Made me read their minds. Over and over. Every…nasty thing they’d ever done, all their awful thoughts…”

For days afterwards, he’d thought like them. Gloried in the idea of ripping people apart, destruction for the sheer joy of it. Even now, one voice whispered, Hurt him. Rip his wings off. Lock him in a church and laugh as he tries to escape. He didn’t even think there were any churches left, not around here.

“Hey. Adam.” The Antichrist let his eyes flick up for a second, meeting the golden eyes of the demon. Like a cat. Or a snake. “Let me guess. Hastur and Ligur?” He nodded. “Nasty pieces of work. And you were…all alone? No friends? No dog?”

The Antichrist shoved his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t really have any friends. All those rich kids, we just tried to outdo each other, you know? Who had the better toys, who could throw a cooler birthday party. Never really talked with any of them. When things turned bad…” he shrugged, frowning. “As for the dog, he finds me sometimes, drags me back to the fighting.”

The demon scratched his head, looking confused. “Your dog does that? ‘S not right. You should be able to control him. He was designed to obey you, be loyal only to you.”

“You’re kidding.” The demon didn’t look like the kind to joke around. “How’s a kid like me supposed to control a Hellhound?”

A long silence. The Antichrist wished he knew what the demon was thinking about, but he still refused to read his mind. Refused to allow another voice in. Finally, he stepped in front of the Antichrist, making it very hard to look away. “Call him by his name, Adam.”

“Killer?” His expression crumpled into pained disbelief. It would have been funny, if anything in the world could still be funny. “I know. The kids at the party suggested all these really violent names. Widow-Maker. Throat-Ripper. Luger. They said a bit scary dog needed a big scary name and…I didn’t want to look lame.”

“What did you want to call him?” the demon asked.

“Dunno. I had one I liked but…I mean…it was dumb,” he confessed. “Stupid kid stuff.”

“Call him that next time, Adam.” A hand with long, thin fingers fell on his shoulder, squeezed gently. “Every creature prefers to be called his real name.”

The demon started walking again, and Adam followed.

For those curious, Crowley’s new glasses:

I wanted something a bit more relaxed post-Apocalypse. He’s started letting the walls down a little, so we’ve lost the side-shields and gone for a Ray-Ban-style design. I think Aziraphale helped him pick them out, in that Aziraphale was there, saying vaguely encouraging things for each pair of glasses while not really having a strong opinion.

#good omens #adam young #good omens fanfiction #good omens celebration #goc2020 #Anthony J Crowley #POV Adam Young #post apocalyptic #post canon #fanfic #my writing

32 notes · View notes