#but if you for one second try to convince me aziraphale did not INVENT heart eyes i don’t know what to say to you | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mygalfriday · 5 years

Text

All’s well that ends well to end up with you

{ao3}

The sun is just beginning to peek over the London skyline and creep its soft pink rays across the floor when Aziraphale slips from Crowley’s bed. Knowing how much the Crowley likes to sleep and how utterly unbearable he can be when woken before he’s ready, Aziraphale navigates the bedroom as quietly as possible.

Quite uncharacteristically, his clothes are scattered across the floor without much care. There had simply been no convincing Crowley to let him fold them properly and put them away. To be fair, Aziraphale hadn’t really tried very hard to convince him. Such as task would have involved far less kissing as they stumbled toward the bed and…well. Aziraphale quite likes kissing. Especially when it includes Crowley.

Unwilling to endure the petulance of a sleep-deprived demon, Aziraphale decides not to forage for his things and instead scoops up the nearest article of clothing - which happens to be Crowley’s dressing gown draped over an armchair in the corner. He slips it on and ties it at the waist. It fits a little too snug but a small smile tugs at his mouth at the intimacy of wearing something that belongs to Crowley. He rubs a fingertip over the black silk sleeve and casts one last fond glance over his shoulder.

Crowley sleeps sprawled on his stomach, one arm outstretched as though reaching for Aziraphale in his sleep. His lips part slightly as he breathes, his cheek pressed into the pillow. His freckled shoulders are bare and the sheet has bunched around his narrow hips. There are red marks along his exposed throat, lasting evidence of Aziraphale’s mouth. All the worry lines and prickly defenses have disappeared from his face. Crowley looks as carefree as he had the day Aziraphale had met him in the Garden, as though one night has erased six thousand years. He looks, Aziraphale muses, like a painting. The rising sun setting his auburn hair aglow and tinging all his lovely bare skin a warm shade of pink.

His heart full of wonder that such a creature would want him, would love him as fiercely as Crowley does, Aziraphale turns away with a secret, besotted smile and slips silently from the room. The kitchen is his first stop. They’d had quite a meal at the Ritz last night, celebrating their newfound freedom from the pressures of Heaven and Hell, but after what they’d got up to after their meal, Aziraphale feels peckish again. A cup of tea and a few of those biscuits Crowley keeps around for him will do nicely.

He has been to Crowley’s flat before, of course, but he never stayed long and certainly never overnight. It hadn’t felt safe. To be quite honest, Aziraphale hasn’t felt truly safe since the Arrangement began. He’d always been convinced discovery was right around the corner. Some nights he’d simply paced his shop and wrung his hands, wondering how he would protect Crowley when the time came. And now here he is, roaming barefoot throughout Crowley’s flat with a cup of warm tea cradled in his hands. The irony of feeling safe inside the home of Hell’s best demon is not lost on him but Crowley has never been a threat to Aziraphale. Even in the Garden, he’d known that somehow.

His aimless exploration of Crowley’s flat eventually leads him into the atrium. He’s only ever seen Crowley’s plants in passing before and he breathes out an excited hum as he steps inside, surrounded by vibrant green plants of nearly every variety. There are Chinese evergreens and English ivy, and even Saint Helena Heliotrope - which he’s quite sure has not been grown anywhere since sometime in the early 19th century.

Gently petting one brilliant leaf, he murmurs a delighted, “Hello there. Aren’t you beautiful?” The plant seems to tremble at his touch, leaning almost hungrily into his hand and the quiet praise. Aziraphale beams. “He takes such good care of you, doesn’t he?”

At this, the heliotrope droops a little. The tremor of leaves sounds like a complaint.

Aziraphale tuts. “None of that now,” he murmurs. “He’s all bark, you know. Showing affection is difficult for him so we must be very patient, mustn’t we?”

The plant straightens at this gentle admonishment, the leaves perking up a bit in reply.

With a wide smile, Aziraphale offers it another gentle pat. “Very good, you lovely thing.”

He takes another turn about the room, cooing over the succulents and giving the philodendron a bit of encouragement, before he finally wanders out and across the corridor, finding himself standing in Crowley’s office. Unlike the atrium, this room is just as stark and cold as the rest of the flat. Aziraphale briefly considers the prospect of shopping for new furniture with Crowley to make the place a bit more inviting, a bit more…them and has to shove such thoughts aside before he gets ahead of himself. It’s been one night and he’s already mentally redecorating.

Steady on, old bean.

Tossing a wistful, admiring glance at the da Vinci portrait on the far wall, Aziraphale moves further into the room and runs a hand over the back of Crowley’s chair. Really, more of a throne — his sweetheart does love to make a statement. Aziraphale pushes the chair back and settles into it, placing his teacup on the desk. Crowley doesn’t have many books but he’s rather hoping there’s something here in his office to read as a way to pass the time. Knowing Crowley, he could be asleep for days before he gets hungry enough to stumble out of bed.

Sliding open the top drawer and hoping to find a secret stash of cheap romance novels or even a wayward copy of National Geographic, Aziraphale instead blinks down at a scattering of black and white photographs of himself and Crowley. All of them have been taken at a distance and at various points throughout history, long before the humans had even invented cameras. There they are feeding the ducks at St. James Park, watching rehearsals at the Globe, and sharing an umbrella outside of Aziraphale’s favorite little patisserie in Paris.

There’s something troubling about the photos, almost voyeuristic in nature. Aziraphale frowns, stroking a fingertip over Crowley’s profile in one of them, and wonders where all of these strange photographs had come from and why Crowley had them stashed away in his desk.

Which is just how Crowley finds him moments later when he comes skidding into the room like something half-mad. The wild, panicked look in his eyes fades the second he spots Aziraphale standing behind his desk but it’s quite clear that he’d been under the impression Aziraphale had gone. Though his heart aches to reassure Crowley he doesn’t plan to go anywhere, Aziraphale only smiles, allowing Crowley the dignity of rearranging his expression into something a little less stricken.

“Good morning,” he says warmly. “Sleep well?”

Crowley only grunts, running a hand through his rumpled hair. There’s a crease on his cheek from his pillow and he still looks a bit rattled as he saunters into the room. It’s only then that Aziraphale notices he’s barely dressed, wearing only a tight pair of pants — no trousers or shirt anywhere to be seen. His long, lanky legs and bare chest are on full display. Beautiful. Aziraphale licks his lips, forcing his eyes not to wander before he realizes he doesn’t have to anymore. After last night, there are no more secrets between them.

His gaze drifts.

Catching his stare, Crowley smirks. “Morning, angel.” He pauses when he reaches the desk, scrutinizing Aziraphale’s face. Perhaps looking for permission or trying to discern if his affections are still welcome in the light of a new day. Whatever it is, he must find it in Aziraphale’s smile because to the angel’s delight, he bends to press a soft kiss to his mouth. As Aziraphale hums and savors the sweet-sleep taste of him, Crowley strokes a fingertip over the collar of the dressing gown. When they part, he murmurs, “Suits you.”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale replies, blushing. “But you made certain my own clothes were quite difficult to find.”

Crowley doesn’t look even a little bit guilty, perching lazily against the edge of the desk. In fact, he looks rather proud of himself. “Just didn’t want you going anywhere, angel.”

“Well, no chance of that, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale reaches out a hand and cups his cheek, rubbing his thumb tenderly over the snake tattoo at his temple. “You’re quite stuck with me.”

Though he looks pleased to hear it, Crowley isn’t the sort for sentimental speeches. At least not yet, anyway. Eyes warm and soft, he leans in for a kiss instead and Aziraphale has no choice but to sink into him with a sigh of quiet, giddy contentment. This belongs to him now — this intimacy, this longing finally met, this demon he has loved from afar for centuries. The thrill of it, still so new, makes him dizzy.

Crowley’s hand wanders across his shoulder, bare where the dressing gown has slipped amidst their embrace. Touching a reverent fingertip to the bite mark there, still a vivid red against the pale of Aziraphale’s skin, he asks, “All right?”

Warm all over under his attentions and the memory of exactly when Crowley had bitten him last night, Aziraphale breathes, “Oh, tip-top, darling. Perfectly perfect.”

Crowley looks only marginally less poleaxed by the endearment in the light of morning, avoiding Aziraphale’s affectionate gaze by leaning in to nose at his cheek. “Yes,” he murmurs, as though safe without eyes on him. “You are.”

Aziraphale blushes, his heart thrilling at the smallest hint of sweet nothings from Crowley. As he stares over Crowley’s shoulder and tries to hide a smile, his eyes fall on the photos still scattered on the desk. Remembering his curiosity, he says, “I was looking for something to read and I found those. Where did you get them?”

Crowley turns, following the line of his gaze. “Oh. Gabriel had them.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and avoids Aziraphale’s expectant stare. “I nicked them on my way out. Turns out they’ve been keeping an eye on us all along.”

“Well… I’m quite glad I wasn’t aware of that.” Aziraphale grimaces, imagining the nightmarish panic it would have induced. He probably would have agreed to run off to Alpha Centauri just to protect Crowley and who knows if poor young Adam would have had the courage to stand up to Lucifer without a couple of hands to hold. If Aziraphale had known about the existence of these pictures, the Earth might very well have been destroyed. Unsettled by this, Aziraphale turns to frown at them. “But…why take them, my dear?”

With a sniff and a careless shrug, he says, “No reason.” And then, as though sensing Aziraphale’s disappointed stare weighing heavily on him, he sighs and waves a hand he probably intends to look careless. “Oh, you know…thought I’d add them to my collection, that’s all.”

“Collection?”

Gritting his teeth — possibly to hold in something sentimental on the tip of his tongue — Crowley lifts a hand and snaps his fingers. A long, slender black box appears on the desk beside the surveillance photographs. It looks full, the lid on top askew and the mysterious contents beginning to peek out over the edges. Crowley gestures at the box wordlessly.

When Aziraphale glances at him, his cheeks are a bit more full of color than usual. The sight of Anthony J. Crowley, suave demon extraordinaire, blushing is so distracting that it takes Aziraphale a moment to register the words coming out of his mouth. “Open it.”

Hesitantly, Aziraphale reaches out a hand and lifts the lid off the box. And blinks.

Inside is a diverse conglomeration of paraphernalia — mostly photographs and all of them featuring Aziraphale, either alone or with Crowley. Aziraphale reaches out, sifting curiously through them. He moves aside a black and white polaroid of himself standing outside the bookshop sometime in the 1950s; a sepia-toned photograph of him and Crowley posing in their suits and top hats just days before their argument over the holy water; and another Crowley had taken on his mobile just a year or so ago, a closeup of Aziraphale’s face when a butterfly had landed on his nose in St. James Park, his smile wide and his eyes creased with laughter.

There are even a few miniature portraits from the days before the humans had invented cameras. Other little trinkets are nestled inside the box as well, theatre ticket stubs and wine corks from bottles they’ve shared, a few brittle envelopes with handwriting Aziraphale recognizes as his own, and a very old advertisement for the first showing of Hamlet.

Taking it all in, Aziraphale feels a lump begin to form in his throat. Crowley has been hoarding little mementos of their time together. And for quite a while by the look of things — long before the Arrangement even began. Aziraphale spots an oyster shell sitting atop a stack of photographs, thinks fleetingly of Rome, and his trembling hand gently sets it aside as he sifts through more their memories.

Standing beside him but refusing to look at either Aziraphale or the box on the desk, Crowley crosses his arms over his bare chest and frowns into the middle distance. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale notices that his cheeks and the tops of his ears are still flushed. Crowley doesn’t say I love you the way others might. He may not ever say the actual words but Aziraphale hears it when he shows up at the bookshop with tickets to a new play Aziraphale mentioned wanting to see once. He hears it when Crowley orders dessert even though he barely eats any, just so Aziraphale can have a taste. He hears it when Crowley says things like little demonic miracle of my own and we can go off together. And he hears it right now, staring at their whole relationship tucked tenderly into this little box.

With an achingly fond glance at his dear one, Aziraphale plucks a shard of sea glass from Crowley’s collection. Admiring the way it catches the light, he asks, “Might I inquire when-”

“That weekend we holed up in Vladivostok and worked on our reports to Heaven and Hell together.” Crowley risks a glance at him, finds Aziraphale watching him intently, and makes a noise like he’d very much enjoy turning into a snake and slithering away. “It was the first time we’d spent more than an evening together and I…wanted something to remember it by.”

Aziraphale thinks briefly of the tattered, singed volume of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies and Crowley sitting in a pub drinking himself into a stupor. His heart tightens and swells in his chest as he whispers, “A souvenir.”

Caught, Crowley looks away again. “Yeah.”

Rubbing his thumb over the glass, smoothed and worn down by waves and time, Aziraphale asks delicately, “Weren’t you afraid all this might fall into the hands of…the wrong sort?”

Crowley shrugs. “Kept it in the safe with the holy water but…” He sighs, lifting his head and finally really looking at Aziraphale for the first time since the box made its appearance. “Yeah. All the time.”

The sea glass grows warm in Aziraphale’s palm and he curls his fingers around it, swallowing. And it feels like the glass is in his throat, cutting sharply on its way down. “But it didn’t stop you.”

With a sniff, Crowley pokes at a photograph of the two of them dressed as Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth, Warlock cuddled between them and beaming at the camera. “Couldn’t bear to part with any of it.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, the deep well of tenderness within that has always been for Crowley rising up to war with the sharp disappointment he feels at his own cowardice. “You’ve been so much braver than I, my dear.”

Crowley lifts his head from inspecting the contents of the box and frowns. As if he truly doesn’t hold it against him. He really is so much better than he’ll ever believe he is. “I didn’t have anything to lose, angel. You did.”

Carefully depositing the sea glass back into the box, Aziraphale turns to Crowley and shrugs the dressing gown up over his bare shoulder. Crowley follows the movement with his eyes, looking faintly disappointed, but Aziraphale won’t be distracted. “You can’t possibly believe I was afraid of losing anything but you.”

“You-” Crowley blinks at him, mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a moment. “What?”

With a patient sigh, Aziraphale reaches for his hand. “I tried to keep my distance for you, Crowley. Not because I was afraid of Falling or earning Gabriel’s wrath. Because I feared what hell might do to you if they discovered us.” In his grasp, Crowley’s hand trembles and Aziraphale squeezes his fingers, rubbing his thumb soothingly over one of Crowley’s sharp knuckles. “It was never fear for myself that kept me from you.”

“Angel.” Crowley breathes out unsteadily, a hushed reverence in his voice that Aziraphale has only ever heard in the prayers of the devout. Until last night, at least. Crowley is nothing less than worshipful when they’re in bed together — a strange contrast to the blasphemy dripping from Aziraphale’s lips when Crowley touches him.

“I’ve always been so afraid for you,” Aziraphale confides in a whisper, his breath washing warm over Crowley’s cheek as they stand together. “Forgive me, my love, for pushing you away to keep you safe.”

Crowley squeezes his amber eyes shut, swaying forward to press their foreheads together. His slender hand wraps around the back of Aziraphale’s neck to keep him close, his fingers digging in tight like everything will slip away if he doesn’t hold on with all his might. “I really don’t deserve you.”

Keeping his eyes open — all the better to admire him with — Aziraphale smiles fondly and points out, “Says the man who risked complete annihilation just to hoard a few keepsakes in a shoe box.”

Crowley scowls, eyes blinking open to glare weakly at him.

Aziraphale keeps smiling, lifting a hand to stroke his sharp cheekbone. “I believe it’s safe to say we deserve each other, my dear. For better or worse.”

Turning to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s touch, Crowley presses a kiss to his palm and raises an eyebrow. “That sounds a bit like marriage vows, angel.”

“Does it?” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, watching Crowley through his lashes. “Well, it has been six thousand years, after all.”

Crowley makes an incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat, lips parting wordlessly. “What - uh, what happened to going too fast?”

Tracing a fingertip over Crowley’s jawline, Aziraphale replies honestly, “I suppose I’m not afraid anymore.”

“No.” Crowley wraps an arm around his waist and as he gathers him close, Aziraphale feels a soft, careful kiss pressed to his temple. Like he’s something precious. A treasure to be tucked safely inside the box on the desk, right alongside old letters and photographs. As though he’s something Crowley doesn’t want to forget. “Neither am I.”

With a hopeful grin, Aziraphale leans back just enough to look into his eyes. “Might I take that as a yes?”

Crowley huffs out a laugh, his face softening the way it had as he’d slept - like all the stresses of Heaven and Hell have been lifted from his thin shoulders. “It’s been yes for a long time, angel,” he murmurs.

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale says, just before their lips meet.

As he melts against Crowley with a happy sigh, he smiles broadly into their kiss —giddy at the very idea of adopting such a human custom. Nothing thrills him more than the notion of belonging to Crowley and publicly declaring that Crowley belongs to him too. Perhaps they could even invite some friends.

Anathema and Newt would surely attend and Madame Tracy, of course. Though Crowley might balk if she insists on bringing Sergeant Shadwell. He’d been a bit tetchy about the man when Aziraphale had told him the story of how he’d ended up getting discorporated in the first place. But surely the children could attend. And Warlock, of course. It simply wouldn’t be a proper wedding without their godson.

Oh dear. Perhaps they have gone a bit native.

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the humans say.

Aziraphale breaks from Crowley’s warm, devouring mouth with a gasp. “I forgot something.” At Crowley’s soft noise of protest, he smiles and assures him, “Only for a moment, darling.”

Under Crowley’s watchful gaze, Aziraphale slowly slips the ring from his pinky finger for the first time in six thousand years. His hand looks strange without it - naked and vulnerable. No matter. Aziraphale suspects he’ll have another ring to wear soon enough.

“Angel,” Crowley begins, brow furrowing. “What-”

“I believe a ring is customarily presented along with the proposal.”

He takes Crowley’s hand, waiting patiently for approval. Crowley swallows audibly, his eyes wide. His hand trembles in Aziraphale’s reassuring grasp. After a long moment spent staring at the ring and then another moment studying Aziraphale, he finally clenches his jaw. And then he nods, once.

Pleased, Aziraphale slides the ring onto his finger.

And it fits.

The angel wings wrap snugly around Crowley’s ring finger and somehow, impossibly, the ring looks right there. As though it had never really been Aziraphale’s ring at all. It had always belonged to Crowley all this time and Aziraphale had just been keeping it safe until the proper moment. It’s a keepsake Aziraphale is only too happy to part with. “Look at that,” he whispers, smiling. “It suits you.”

Crowley stares down at his hand, at the ring on his finger, and blinks again. His throat works as he tries to speak but for a long moment, he manages nothing but a wordless noise of bewilderment. “Right.” He clears his throat, still staring at the ring. His voice comes out hoarse and unsteady as he asks with a drawl, “So… how do humans usually celebrate an engagement?”

Properly enamored with the sight of Crowley wearing his ring, Aziraphale beams. “Oh, with crepes, I should think.”

Crowley laughs, startled and fond and genuine. “Crepes,” his intended promises, his eyes warm and mischievous. “After we celebrate my way.”

“Your wa - oh.” Aziraphale yelps as Crowley grasps him by the sleeve of his dressing gown and tugs him emphatically in the direction of the bedroom. His new ring glints in the morning light, bright against the black of Aziraphale’s borrowed robe. Stifling a chuckle, he stumbles after him and agrees, “Yes, dearest. Definitely yours first.”

And as they tumble back into bed together, entwined and grinning, the rest of eternity promises to be very good indeed.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #gofic #my fic

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sesquipedalian-aficionado · 5 years

Text

Good Omens

Warnings: none

My first actual posted fanfic? I think? Based on this lovely post. Anyways there’s some angst but it resolves well and lovingly, I promise!

It didn’t happen all at once.

Crowley would be hard-pressed to say when the issue had actually started, mostly because - being an absolute moron - he had misinterpreted it at first. Because what didn’t he misinterpret, when it came to Aziraphale? He always thought he knew what the angel was about, and then something like this happened. After 6000 years, Crowley was always blindsided by his own stupidity.

The expected End of Days had in fact turned out to instead be the beginning of rather a lot of things. One of said things was a...well, a...well, something between himself and Aziraphale. He’d be damned (well, likely not, but he’d always been fond of the turn of phrase) if he tried to define this whatever-it-was and scared his angel off. Having been some degree of mortal enemies for several centuries, he felt qualified to decide that anything at all was better than no Aziraphale.

Nevertheless, what they’d had was something. Had been something. Or…something.

He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. He was flopped dramatically over his sofa, one leg on the floor, one over the back. He groaned loudly again into the empty room, just for effect. It was, he noted peevishly, much less enjoyable to sulk in his own flat, with no angel to bother into fussing over him.

He shifted restlessly and considered the facts again.

When things had...well, ‘begun’ seemed the wrong word, since for him they had ‘begun’ over six thousand years ago; perhaps ‘sped up’ was better, loathe as he was to use that terminology - anyway, when things had started to move in this direction, Crowley had begun to notice something. He wasn’t sure what was happening at first, but eventually he realized that Aziraphale’s bookshop (a stretch of the term, since Crowley had only heard rumors of his angel ever actually selling a book) was changing.

This was entirely unprecedented, and at first Crowley had been thrilled - a reaction he was now deeply ashamed of. To think he’d thought it was for him!

It had been a couple of weeks or so after the kingdom didn’t come, and he’d been slouched on Aziraphale’s sofa, glass of wine in hand. He’d tried to put the glass down, only to have his angel snatch it while scolding about how he was about to ‘ruin the cover on that book’ and ‘coasters are a phenomenal invention, Crowley, so stop glaring at me’.

Crowley had groaned and made a face.

“Honestly, angel, do you like not having any flat surfaces free? Or floor space?”

He hadn’t thought anything of the comment. He’d said similar before, affectionately of course, and Aziraphale well knew how different their apartments were, which Crowley did notice but did not mind in the slightest.

So he had therefore been touched - more than touched, honestly every time he thought he was as deep as he could go into love with this bloody angel it just got worse - when the next time he’d come over to find an end table entirely free of books, and with one plain brown square coaster on it.

He hadn’t commented, showing his gratitude by using said coaster and trying to keep his feet away from the books more than usual.

And then that second had, worryingly, become much less of a problem when those books, too, began to disappear. It wasn’t all at once, but after a couple of weeks Crowley sauntered in and found he suddenly had room to saunter. Because half of the books were gone.

Oh, it still looked like a bookstore, with the shelves all still full and in place, but the odd tables covered in first editions? The strange lamps? The knick knacks falling over each other? Gone. Or, if not gone, then organized and straightened and much more orderly than Crowley had ever seen them. And it was all very slightly wrong. At least, it had been very slightly wrong at first. Now, it was bordering on the beginning-of-a-horror-movie, nothing-was-as-it-should-be wrong. And the worst part was, Crowley didn’t know how to bloody mention it to his bloody angel! He’d thought it was sweet - had thought it was adorable, how his angel was making space for him.

He gritted his teeth in his flat and growled in frustration. His plants all shuddered.

This was what he got, thinking Aziraphale was making space for him. Honestly. Aziraphale had never needed to do that, and he certainly wasn’t starting now. This was something else, then. But what? Crowley was, underneath the frustration and self-loathing, utterly mystified.

And worst of all, Aziraphale wasn’t talking about it! When Crowley had gone very still one day, surveying the suspiciously spacious shop, he caught a glimpse of the most peculiar expression crossing his angel’s face. Something like desperation mixed with forced indifference. Clearly he was hoping Crowley wouldn’t notice it, or at least would have the decency not to mention it.

If he hadn’t known Aziraphale for so long, he’d have let it go. And that really was the problem. He did know Aziraphale. Had known him for 6000 years, as confusing as those years had been. And he knew, he knew how his angel felt about his books. He often wished Aziraphale felt about him the way he felt about books. The look Crowley’d gotten when he’d saved those prophecy tomes for his angel during the Second World War...well, that was a look he wouldn’t forget. Ever.

And now his infuriatingly confusing angel was just getting rid of books left and right? It made no sense. Well. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it. Aziraphale wanted him to ignore it, and his angel always got what he wanted.

Aziraphale had wanted Crowley to notice. He was trying to nest, for goodness’ sake! What was the point of it all if Crowley didn’t even notice? He’d been trying so hard! He’d spent nearly two and a half centuries on this nest! Admittedly most of that time was spent trying to convince himself that he was not nesting, and even if he was it certainly wasn’t for the charming demon he wasn’t even supposed to like, but all the same!

He was wandering around his shop, waving his hands in a flustered sort of way. He’d been faced with a rather overwhelming realization during the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, finally accepting that he’d been nesting for his demon ever since he purchased a nice little bookstore during the French Revolution. This realization had felt right, like something finally settled into place in his life. He could finally relax, finally let Crowley into this nest that was absolutely for him. Why had he even tried to lie to himself?

And then everything had gone wrong. They’d switched places, and Aziraphale had been dragged down into Hell to face Crowley’s trial. And Hell had been awful.

That seemed naive, and an understatement to boot, but it was true all the same. He’d never realized...he’d thought it was bad, of course it was bad, it was Hell, but it was...he was shuddering even at the memory. The trial was, comparatively, not even that terrible compared to being dragged through the crowd of demons, filthy and horrifically angry darkness crushing in on every side. It was everything Heaven wasn’t, dark and crowded and angry and loud and filthy, everything coming at one from all sides.

When he’d gotten out, he’d been relieved to roll his shoulders and stretch out his arms in the park, in the open sunlight, with space all around.

Even then, the other shoe hadn’t yet dropped. Everything was fine - he and Crowley had their own side at last. Aziraphale was almost giddy off the euphoric rush he got every time he was able to dismiss the reflexive obligation to distance himself from the demon. He didn’t have to do that any more!

And then Crowley had made a comment about the clutter in his shop.

It was a comment he made lightly, and a comment he’d made many times before. Which was actually quite a bit worse, because oh, no. And Aziraphale was abruptly thrust into memories of Hell, of the crushing and the claustrophobia and the feeling of having absolutely no escape from the dark.

Aziraphale was an angel. He knew that everything within his physical form was exactly where it was supposed to be, because he’d know if it wasn’t. But at that moment, Aziraphale perfectly understood the human phrase of having your heart ‘sink’.

What had he done? He’d tried to make something nice for Crowley, and look what had happened! His nest reminded Crowley of Hell, of course! Of course he hated it! Aziraphale had always assumed that Crowley’s barren flat was some sort of side effect of the demon’s apparently lack of materialism as well as the fact that the demon didn’t really spend much time on himself or his things (besides the Bentley, of course). But of course. He was trying, in his own way, to distance himself from that awful, awful place he had to report to. And Aziraphale was just dragging him back to it every time he came into the shop!

Aziraphale had immediately tried to clear off a surface or two around the sofa Crowley liked to throw himself over. And the demon had reacted. Okay, he hadn’t said anything, but Crowley never really did say anything in situations like this. And the little smile flickering over the corners of his mouth, like he was trying to repress it but couldn’t quite manage, made Aziraphale’s heart stutter in a wonderfully pleasant way.

So, the books had to go somewhere. The lamps, the tables, the odds and ends...he loved his bookstore dearly, but between books and his dear Crowley, he knew easily which he cared about more - and now that he was allowed to care in the way he did, nothing would stop him from giving Crowley anything he wanted. Goodness knew Crowley had been doing that sort of thing for him for ages.

And Crowley seemed to respond. Aziraphale had guessed correctly. Crowley was spending more time than ever at his bookstore.

Crowley was at the bookstore almost all the time now, increasingly worried about his angel. What was happening? This should have been excellent! Aziraphale was able to let him stay, and Crowley felt keenly that now, he was able to find a place in Aziraphale’s life without getting him into trouble.

He still shuddered at how flippant he’d been with Aziraphale’s life before. Well, not flippant, he’d never be that careless with the most precious thing in his life, but...They hadn’t even given Aziraphale a trial. That still made his every muscle seize with fury, still gave him screaming nightmares -

But that wasn’t the problem right now, he reminded himself. He had years unto infinity to kill Gabriel, slowly, for what that piece of muck had tried to do to his angel.

The problem right now was that Aziraphale was not acting like himself, and Crowley had six thousand years of experience to back that analysis up.

Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting in one of the shop’s back rooms, drinking. It was late, and Aziraphale was enjoying the feeling he got when he instinctively opened his mouth to suggest Crowley leave and then remembered he didn’t have to do that any more.

In fact, he decided to go and fetch another bottle, feeling rebellious and warm and excited. Probably that was partially the alcohol.

When he got back…

Crowley was holding a book, open, and frowning at it. He looked up when Aziraphale reentered the room, and, to Aziraphale’s mortification, held up a soft, downy white feather.

“Are you bookmarking your novels with your feathers?” Crowley demanded in amused bafflement.

Aziraphale blushed.

They were his feathers. They kept coming out, ready for him to line his nest with - some sort of physical-emotional response to the process, he supposed - so he’d been tucking them into his books as a sort of compromise. And now Crowley was holding one up.

For a moment, Aziraphale panicked - this meant Crowley would know, would guess, that this was for him, he’d just be leading the demon on, they wouldn’t ever be able to -

And then he remembered that they were able to, and the flush of joy gave him the confidence to admit the truth.

“I’ve been...or, rather, I am, nesting.”

“...nesting?” Crowley repeated faintly.

Aziraphale winced. Had he truly been so very bad at it that Crowley had noticed nothing at all?

“Yes, dear. I’m nesting. I’m...I’m really so very sorry,” he added suddenly, deciding to blame the alcohol for swaying him towards honesty, “that it took me so long. I’m sorry it was so awful at first. I didn’t mean to remind you of Hell, really I didn’t, I meant it to be nice and I was so awful, and I’m so sorry, my dear, really -“

Something in Crowley’s face stopped him. Or rather, a lack of something in Crowley’s face. Crowley had frozen, hand still holding the feather aloft.

Crowley himself was desperately trying to land a mental foothold in this information, but could find none. He was utterly confused and now slightly panicking.

Aziraphale was nesting? For him? And what on Earth did he mean, ‘remind you of Hell’?! And Aziraphale was calling himself awful!

That, more than anything else, popped Crowley’s mouth open again, but he only barely managed to croak, “Hell?” through his reeling thoughts.

Aziraphale flushed, sitting down on the sofa but not looking at Crowley. “I...I didn’t realize,” he began haltingly, “that it was like that. So...crowded, everything so dirty and dark and pushing in on you all the time, and...no wonder you didn’t like it here.”

Crowley thought he had found a handle on the conversation, but his handle made no sense. Was Aziraphale comparing his bookshop...to Hell? No. No, he couldn’t be. But then something else clunked into place.

“Is that why you’ve been getting rid of your books?”

Aziraphale hesitated, and then, in a very small voice, he admitted, “They’re not gone. They’re in boxes, in a closet in the back, I couldn’t bear to - but of course, of course I could,” he immediately back-tracked, “of course, if that’s what you wanted, they’re just things, and you’re…” he paused for a long moment before huffing frustratedly at the lack of an appropriate word.

“An idiot?” Crowley supplied without thinking, still trying to catch up in the conversation.

Aziraphale turned to him in shock. “No! Crowley, you’re...you’re…” his earnest expression spoke volumes, even before he finally picked a word: “everything.”

Crowley’s struggling thoughts screeched to a halt in astonishment.

Aziraphale continued undeterred. “You’re everything, Crowley! Everything! You’re here, and we’re us, and that’s everything!”

Crowley started to cry.

Not his best moment, not his smoothest, and certainly not his most charming. But he couldn’t help it, and before he knew it tears were streaming down his cheeks as he stared at his angel in awe.

Aziraphale, for his part, looked mildly panicked, but understanding. “I’m so sorry...for so long…”

“You...you chose...me? Over...over your books?”

Aziraphale smiled, a bit confused. “Yes, of course I did, dear. And it’s okay, I know better now-“

“It’s not okay!”

Aziraphale stopped talking, mouth snapping shut, red flooding his cheeks.

“Put them back!”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face was all that stopped him from his panicked and confusing shouts, as he realized that without some major rephrasing he was seconds from making his angel flinch into the sofa to get away from him.

“Angel.” This was softer in volume, but no less emphatic in tone. “I’m never...I wouldn’t…this is nothing like Hell!” He finally exclaimed, leaping from the sofa in an abrupt, adrenaline-fueled motion to wave one long arm wildly around at the shop.

Then his words caught up to him, and he winced. “I mean...for Satan’s - God’s - someone’s sake! Angel.” He sank back down onto the sofa, needing to explain, needing to make that pained and ashamed look on his beautiful angel’s face go away forever and never come back.

“Angel, this is nothing like Hell. This has never been anything like Hell.”

Suddenly, in a fit of helpfulness, his mind processed a lot of things all at once, and graciously provided him a reminder of what Heaven was like. A reminder of how Aziraphale must have felt, all up there and alone, treated as lesser in that frigid, empty place. No touch, no interaction. Nothing but cold white light and and colder orders.

Oh, hell. No wonder Aziraphale surrounded himself with small odds and ends, with light and words and fiction. There had been none of that in Heaven.

Crowley suddenly breathed out quickly, feeling like he’d been punched.

Aziraphale was watching him in complete, agonized confusion. “But...you said...crowded.”

Crowley paled. “Angel, angel, no! I never meant...no!” In a sudden fit of recklessness, he grabbed one of Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale didn’t pull away and oh I’m holding his hand oh no what do I - FOCUS!

“Aziraphale. I didn’t mean it. I mean, sure, I wanted to put my glass down, but I didn’t…” He trailed off. He could reassure Aziraphale of his real reasoning, but...that was definitely too fast. Much, much too fast for his angel.

Aziraphale was looking at him desperately. “Crowley, please. Please explain it to me. I don't understand!” That look - like he would just melt if only Crowley would say yes.

Crowley had never been able to say no to his angel. ‘Wait’ at times. ‘Not right now’ at times. But never ‘no’. And...Aziraphale had chosen him over his books. That one was still working its way through his head, but he’d heard the angel say it.

Crowley sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Angel, this has never reminded me of Hell. Not even a little.”

He felt Aziraphale shift and continued, afraid he would lose courage to do so if he waited.

“Hell is...tight. You’re right. Crowded - everything pressing in on you, all the time. It’s loud and hot and dirty and angry, and it’s determined to force all of that through your skin and right down to your bones.”

He shook his head, eyes still closed. “Your bookshop isn’t like that.” He inhaled quickly. “Your bookshop is crowded. I do feel surrounded. But-“ he added quickly, opening his eyes despite himself to stare at his angel, “I feel surrounded with you.”

Aziraphale didn’t appear to understand, though he didn’t interrupt.

“You’re in every corner of this store, angel. In every book, every floorboard, every shelf, every ray of sun and mite of dust. I feel surrounded by you when I’m here. That’s why I love it. Why I’ve always loved it. It might not be my style, no, but it’s yours and that’s the best part about it.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, before he reached out and crushed Crowley into his waistcoat.

The angel chuckled. It sounded a little thick.

“I’ve been rather an idiot, it appears.”

Crowley huffed a quick chuckle, relieved but disbelieving that Aziraphale hadn’t pushed him away at his declaration, had instead pulled him closer. “Possibly, angel.”

“So...I can put the books back?”

At this, Crowley really did laugh, as he sat back up. “Yes, angel! You can put the books back.”

Aziraphale looked delighted, clapping his hands. “Lovely!” Then he got a strange look on his face, a sort of hesitant smile. He reached out for Crowley. “Come back?”

Crowley very nearly tackled him, but resisted and instead leaned down reasonably into his angel’s shoulder once more, pressing his grin into Aziraphale’s collar.

They stayed that way for a long moment.

Then Crowley sat bolt upright.

“Hold on! If this is your nest, this bookshop…”

Aziraphale suddenly started to look edgy. Crowley’s eyes widened.

“Hold on! You said I was going too fast! How long have you been nesting for me?!”

The angel went bright red from the tips of his ears all the way down to his collarbone, and Crowley grinned. Oh, Aziraphale was never going to live this down.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #a/c #ineffable husbands #nesting #good omens fanfiction #fanfiction #enjoy y’all this is over 3.3k words #that just kinda happened

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hekate1308 · 5 years

Text

Misunderstandings

In many ways, Crowley should have seen it coming. Clever as Aziraphale was, the angel could be oblivious to many things; and yet – Or, the one where Crowley was convinced they got married 6000 years ago and Aziraphale never realized.

Read it on AO3

Enjoy!

Present Day – One Day To The End Of The World

In many ways, Crowley should have seen it coming. Clever as Aziraphale was, the angel could be oblivious to many things; and yet –

And yet.

Well, he thought bitterly as he drove back to his flat to see which part of the universe he would go to, at least Doomsday will save me the trouble of getting a divorce. Not that one is necessary

4000 Years Ago – Mesopotamia

The world hadn’t been around for long when Crowley realized that Aziraphale was one of the few beings on it he could stand, or with whom he wanted to spend any amount of time. The other demons were annoying at best and vicious at worst; Crowley didn’t have anything against fomenting a little discontent, tempt someone to sin or cause some small inconveniences that would spread arguments, but what Hastur and Ligur got up to…

The point was, Aziraphale was probably the only decent being he’d met so far, not counting the few humans who actually knew the difference between right and wrong. But humans were mortal. Aziraphale, on the other hand…

Crowley knew perfectly well that them getting blessed was out of the question. Not only would every angel and demon probably have been able to tell upon seeing them what had happened, but he wasn’t very good with consecrated grounds, no matter what God they were supposedly sacred for.

But there were other things he could do.

A marriage contract was ridiculous, of course. What exactly were they supposed to plan for? That Aziraphale would end up in Hell fire or Crowley being melted by holy water? They’d have other problems then than who their worldly possessions went to.

But this gift-giving thing the humans did wasn’t a bad idea at all. Crowley had very early on in their acquaintance learned that Aziraphale liked to eat despite not needing to – Crolwey decided it must be like him and his fondness for sleep – and so he got him some dates.

It wasn’t difficult to find Aziraphale. He always took his job so seriously. Crowley would have considering it heart-warming if he had been allowed to.

“Aziraphale!” he strolled up to him. “What are you up to?”

“Crowley!” Unlike his brethren, the angel usually looked pleased to see him – when they weren’t busy thwarting each other’s plans. “Just the usual. A few blessings. Nothing, really. What about you?”

“Just like you, really, usual stuff – temptations and what not” Crowley said smoothly, trying not to appear to eager. “But I saw you standing here and I thought, maybe – you know – you’d like some dates. I happened by a street vendor, you see.”

There. That sounded perfect. Considerate but not too considerate, and he was doing none of those silly love confessions the humans – well, loved to give each other. He and Aziraphale had known each other a while, they were best friends; that was what was important, wasn’t it?

“You – oh, Crowley, you didn’t have to!” Aziraphale beamed as he took the gift.

He liked them, too; it was quite obvious. Crowley looked on proudly as he ate them.

So. That was part of the ceremony then. Aziraphale hadn’t known it would happen today, of course, and therefore didn’t have a gift for him; but when humans got married, only one of them gave gifts. Crowley had checked, although he still couldn’t remember whether it was the bride or the groom – truth be told, he always had trouble keeping them apart.

Then there was the other thing. Strangely enough, he felt more nervous about the ring than the dates – which was idiotic; he was a demon, he didn’t get nervous.

“I also got you this – you know, it being a tradition and all.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t think earth’s been around long enough to have traditions yet.”

“Just a figure of speech” Crowley hastened to correct himself. “But here –“

Maybe asking for wings on the ring had been a bit cliché, but then, Aziraphale liked his white robes and his symbolism, so why not?

“Oh, this is lovely! Thank you so much, Crowley!”

Yes, all in all, it was a very satisfying marriage ceremony.

And of course, Crowley invited him to dinner, then. It was the proper thing to do.

Present Day – One Day To The End Of The World

Really, how could he have been so stupid? He should have made it clear to the angel back in Mesopotamia that they were getting married.

Only he wouldn’t have said yes, would he? He doesn’t even think of you as a friend, apparently, the treacherous voice in the back of Crowley’s head whispered.

He swallowed ands concentrated on driving.

Rome – 41 AD

Despite being married, Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t see each other that often. Oh, they still met more frequently than they saw any other creature, except for their bosses, but he decided that didn’t really count.

And, just like he had thought when they had the ceremony, Aziraphale was usually pleased to see him – usually; now and then, he was a little annoyed, but that was rather understandable, if you asked Crowley. They were supposed to be on different sides, after all, even if they had chosen to be on their own side years ago.

Huh. Not years. Millennia. Crowley always heard from the humans that marriage was supposed to grow stale after a while. That had yet to happen to them. It probably hadn’t because they were immortal.

Crowley was having a drink and trying to forget about this boy Caligula. Really, they should do their research downstairs; there was nothing to be done about him. He was about as insane and evil as one could get already.

“Crowley!”

He turned around and found Aziraphale with a big smile on his face. His mood immediately brightened. At least he could have lunch with his husband.

And this time around it was Aziraphale who tempted him to taste oysters. Crowley smiled. He must be a bad influence.

The Kingdom Of Wessex – 537 AD

Really, one would think that after over 4000 years of marriage, Aziraphale would at least bother to learn his name; but that wasn’t what Crowley was currently pondering.

After all, they were married. Why shouldn’t they enter another Arrangement? Maybe Aziraphale had imbibed that rather stupid human notion that husbands and – husbands shouldn’t do business together. Sometimes Crowley really didn’t understand those mortal minds.

And they had had something of a fight once more. Ah well. They would meet again; they always did; and he had no doubt that this time, he would be able to convince Aziraphale that the Arrangement was a good idea.

He was proven right twenty years later, when Aziraphale had enough of the damp and the cold and being unable to find a good restaurants within a hundred miles.

London – 1601

Crowley, upon seeing it again – and complete this time – decided that he really didn’t like Hamlet.

But that didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he had done a miracle for his husband, and that said husband was currently next to him, munching grapes and being (or at least so Crowley believed) the happiest angel in the world at this very moment.

And that was what marriage was all about, wasn’t it? Making each other happy?

“I know you prefer the funny ones” Aziraphale told him, “But the language is beautiful, is it not?”

“Yes, and there is so much of it” Crowley sighed. “Have you heard that when he runs out of words, he just invents new ones? Who does that?”

“A genius” Aziraphale said, his face glowing, and Crowley felt – felt –

Jealous, that was the word he was looking for. Unless that – writer had already invented another one for what he was experiencing, in which case Corley would gladly help to –

“It just seems sad that he will not be around to see what else humans come up with in the next few centuries” Aziraphale added and Crowley realized he had just genuinely been admiring the human’s art. Oh well, in that case…

Paris - 1793

Aziraphale was lucky his lot had sent Crowley here with a recommendation, since he’d had no problem declaring the Revolution his work even though the humans had come up with it on their own.

At least the crepes they had were pretty good.

London – 1862

His first thought as he watched his husband storm off was that he should have just kept sleeping. This was the worst row they had ever had, and they had had their fair share of fights over the millennia.

But really, had it been too much to ask? Just one small bottle of holy water?

He supposed a human might have found it touching to think that Aziraphale didn’t want anything around Crowley that could harm him.

Not him, of course.

He’d just go back to his place and straight to sleep.

London – 1941

Crowley had decided early on during the Second World War that it didn’t bloody manner what his side – well, his official side – thought, he was not going to even bother and try with the Nazis. He’d once checked out the Spanish Inquisition, then got drunk for a week; he was pretty sure that if he did the same with what the Germans were getting up to, he’d have to drink solidly for at least a year.

So, instead, he had decided to work for British Counter Intelligence. If the higher-ups – downer-ups – asked, he could always tell them he was busy making sure the Brits were planning to commit war crimes once they got around to this D-Day they kept babbling about.

Plus, it never hurt to know when the next bombs were going to fall down; he definitely didn’t want to get discorporated. As his spouse – they still had to make up their fight, but really, what were sixty years? – would have said, the paper work would have been a nightmare.

And then came the night when an agent handed him a file about an undercover Nazi spy ring in London. Relay, they weren’t even that well organized, and they were mostly interested in prophecies, so even if they killed a few people here and there, they were not the worst of the bunch –

His first thought when he saw the picture of the bookseller the Nazis had tricked was that he should have known. Who but his clever yet sometimes very dumb husband would ever walk into such an obvious trap?

Alright, time to pit on his new suit and see what he could do. He made a mental note to save the books, too; Aziraphale would like that, and their fight would be forgotten.

As it turned out, the silly angel even thanked him for being kind. What else was he supposed to have done? Sit there and watch his husband be killed?

Soho, London – 1967

Truth be told, Crowley had mostly forgotten about his request after eighty years; it was only ever supposed to be an insurance policy anyway. And yet Aziraphale had remembered.

He smiled to himself as he drove away, despite the angel claiming that he went to fast for him. Really, how fast could they go, after almost six thousands years of marriage?

Present Day – One Day To The End Of The World

Good God, how many times had he been completely and utterly wrong about the angel’s intentions? But no – he couldn’t even say that; he’d been wrong about their entire relationship, from start to finish.

Still, though – Aziraphale was still wearing the ring he gave him, and certainly that was –

No. He stopped that train of thought. Alpha Centauri, that was where he was going to go.

The bookshop

Aziraphale should have been concentrating on the approaching end of the world, but instead, he was once more distracted by the fight they’d had.

An hour ago

“Go off together?” he repeated. The thought of leaving had never even crossed his mind. He was too fond of earth and the humans who lived on it. “Listen to yourself.”

“How long have we been married? 6000 years!”

Aziarphale opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Finally he managed, “Married!?”

“Well yes, you are still wearing –“ Crowley broke off before continuing, “What do you mean?”

“Crowley, we’re not married! We’re an angel and a demon! We are on different sides!”

One of the things Aziraphale had been sure he’d never see was a demon’s heart breaking, but he did.

“Right” Crowley said slowly. “fine. Right. My mistake.” He turned around and left, only calling out “Have a nice Doomsday!” over his shoulder.

Now

Aziraphale didn’t know when or how Crowley had gotten the idea into his head that they were married. They were hereditary enemies, how could he even imagine that –

And then he remembered.

“You are still wearing –“

He stared down at the ring on his finger. He vaguely recalled Crowley being the one to give it to him – he’d thought it was a joke at the time, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he?

Surely, there had to be some –

Mesopotamia, he suddenly recalled, he gave me the ring in Mesopotamia.

A moment later, he had miracled his book about ancient marriage traditions into his hands.

Five minutes after that, it became the first book Aziraphale had ever dropped and not immediately apologized to.

Crowley’s flat

Alright, so what should he take with him? His plants had been flourishing lately, it would be quite a shame for them to be wiped out, but it was just unpractical to –

A knock on his door.

He was rather surprised to find his – to find the angel standing there, wringing his hands. “Crowley, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Obviously.” A part of him wished he didn’t sound so bitter, but then he was a demon – bitter was just part of his job description.

“Crowley, I – “ Aziraphale hesitated. “I can’t say I would have said yes if you’d asked, 6000 years ago.”

“I hate to repeat myself, but obviously –“

“But – after thinking about everything we have been though – “ Aziraphale swallowed and Crowley realized he had never seen him so nervous before, not even in the Bastille.

“What I am trying to say is” and he held out his hand.

On his palm lay a ring that looked like a tiny snake.

Crowley stared.

“I think I found the boy. Maybe we should go check it out?”

Crowley looked right into Aziraphale’s eyes.

Then he took the ring to slip it on his finger.

#my writings #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #aj crowley

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mslanna · 5 years

Text

If I asked you now…?

Not getting any better but at least out there. Aziraphale learnt that angels asking for things will always be rejected. But now that the apocalypse didn’t happen and he has his very own demon, is that not something that should be unlearnt?

Also on AO3

One thing that heaven taught the angel Aziraphale, or at least tried to teach him, success as debatable, was that angels did not ask for things. Requests by angels were always rejected. Sometimes, according to an inscrutable system of ranking, they were also mocked. Angels were very good at mocking with words that would have made good praise if used sincerely.

It was a working system an in general, Aziraphale yielded to it. He did not ask for things. He did not ask for small things and thus they were not rejected. Sometime, when hope and the believe in the goodness of all angels overcame Aziraphale, he did ask for things. Important things. Requests that were all rejected with varying degrees of mocking involved.

So it was only natural not to ask Crowley for anything. It wouldn't do, asking things of a demon anyway. And also, how Aziraphale would bear a rejection in this very specific case was not a scenario he wanted to dwell upon. Ever. Also, he did not have to ask. A pointed look or two was always enough to prompt Crowley into action. The demon was exceptionally good at anticipating what Aziraphale was asking. Exceptionally good. It was almost worrying.

After the apocalypse didn't happen after all, Aziraphale wondered if not asking for things was maybe not the best way to go about things, though. Not because he had difficulties communicating what he wanted. These days he rarely wanted for anything. But the feeling that he could not ask anything ever did not sit with him right. It was wrong.

So he would do something about it. Somehow. Somewhen. It was not as if Crowley would stop liking him, just because he asked for something, right? Right. It was an argument that went in circles through his head and was rather unpleasant. Without any proof there would be no end to though.

The first time, was in the Ritz. They were having brunch and it was a wonderful day. Aziraphale felt elated, incredibly happy and strong. Strong enough to give it a try. It was nothing really. Just a few words, he had practised for quite some time and was, in theory, ready. Actually, his palms were getting sweaty. The heart rate was also on an unchecked acceleration.

"Would you pass me the butter, my dear?" There it was, hanging between them like an iron wall.

Crowley tilted his head slightly, but did as asked. No questioning, no nothing.

Aziraphale licked his lips, making an effort to beat down the heart rate and hide the shaking of his hand as he accepted the butter. That was difficult because Crowley was making an effort to have their hands touch as he handed over the requested item.

If he did notice the shaking of Aziraphale's hand, Crowley did not comment on it. Neither on the highly flustered expression and the angels immediate need to look somewhere very else and have about a gallon of Valium tea to calm down.

It took longer than expect to calm down. Everything was tingling. Crowley's presence increased the feeling. But he did not say no. And he did not mock. As far as proof went, that was a promising start.

Still it was hard work to remember actually asking. And Aziraphale made quite certain that it were small things only, irrelevant, things where a 'no' would not hurt. Which was progress but not really solving the problem.

With each small 'Yes' his confidence grew, though. As did the great pile of small affirmations.

The first time he asked Crowley to turn down the music in the Bentley, he got a raised brow. But no opposition. And softer music. The first time he asked Crowley to change the subject, big yellow eyes blinked at him slowly. But there was no objection. The first time he asked Crowley, if he could maybe not- Aziraphale never finished the question because Crowley took his hand, running his thumb down the angel's palm.

"This is difficult for you." His tone carried a ton of not-understanding. Crowley held Aziraphale's glance for a long moment, shaking his head slowly. But when he let go of his angel's hand, he did not. And Aziraphale, almost panting, profusely uncomfortable and about to bolt under the upcoming rejection, folded like a lawn chair.

"You needn't be so flustered about it." He waved his hand vaguely. "It's not as if the world ends even if I say no."

That was the wrong thing to say entirely as Pawlow's panicked bells set of in Aziraphale's head and he instantaneously decided to never ask for anything ever again. It was an excellent decision and held for about half an hour.

Crowley had decided in what was probably meant to be in a helpful way, to just not anticipate Aziraphale's wishes any longer and patiently wait until the angel had put his desire into words ready to send across the silence. The arrangement worked well enough. Crowley simply had to remember not to tap his foot, or his fingers while waiting when Aziraphale was phrasing an especially difficult question like 'can you return my pocket watch?' or 'did you use the first edition of 'Look Homeward Angel' to keep the fridge from wobbling?'

After a week of such highly entertaining incidents, the rash promise not to ask for things was forgotten again. When the asking became normal again, Crowley began to come up with increasingly inventive ways to almost say no. He never did, though. Aziraphale appreciated it very much.

IN the end there was only one kind of question Aziraphale never asked because a 'no' would have been the worst experience ever, even before unplanned discoropration, inquiries after the flaming sword by god herself and the apocalypse. Actually, the apocalypse had not been that bad all things considered. The only thing ranking higher in the worst things ever list was Crowley leaving. Obviously.

Not that he would. Also obviously. It was that kind of thought that finally convinced Aziraphale to try and ask for anything. Because what was the worst that could happen? Crowley was not going anywhere. Even if faced with such – requests. Probably even less likely if faced. Somehow, that did not make things easier.

Aziraphale mulled over this fact more than was wise. As he did now, when what he should be doing was enjoying a nice walk through St. James Park with Crowley. The sun was warm, the sky was blue. It was a perfect day. Fit for the occasion. The occasion not being, as one might assume, the six-month anniversary of the apocalypse not happening or Crowley gifting his angel with a signed first edition of

Instead, he was slowing down and fell behind a little. Crowley noticed, not the first time on this day and let out a string of almost words that amount to 'what now?'. It was the moment Aziraphale decided to act.

He coughed up a nervous little sound. "Could you hold this for a moment?"

Crowley did not even look back as he held out his hand, likely expecting the book he had only just handed over to his angel over a very nice lunch. He stopped short when instead, his hand found that of Aziraphale. In turn the angel almost ran into his demon, quite focussed on the successful manoeuvre and unable to take his eyes of the proof for that.

The demon's eyes started out at the same place but wandered up to Aziraphale's face that was almost pressed into his arm. "Look at you," he drawled. "Who taught you that?"

To Aziraphale's great relief, he sounded immensely pleased.

"Just experimenting, really," he replied flustered. He might have been holding on to Crowley's hand a lot tighter than necessary and called for, but the demon did not seem to mind. He just returned the pressure evenly, making sure their fingers were securely intertwined.

Crowley's face morphed into that grin Aziraphale had first seen in Rome and which he had learnt to read and appreciate it for what I was only much later. Mission accomplished indeed. His smile lost its strain.

"So." He stepped to Crowley's side again. "You were saying?"

Crowley was not sure what he had been saying, what subject they had been on or for a split second, even where they had been. But with his hand finally holding on to that of his angel, what did it any of it matter?

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