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ijustwant2write · 3 years

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Stalkers-Aziraphale x Reader x Crowley

(GIF credit to @fuckyeahgoodomens)

Requested by anonymous: ‘Would you do a platonic Good Omens imagine where Aziraphale & Crowley become close to human graduate student and they follow her on a date (and she notices them) because their protective (you can decide if the date goes good or bad)?’

Characters: Aziraphale x Reader (platonic), Crowley x Reader (platonic)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Mentions of break ups and cheating, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(Y/N) strolled around the corner of a book shelf, arms swinging with a book in one hand as she approached the till, where Aziraphale was waiting with a customer. She held out the book to him, a big smile on her face.

“(Y/N), that’s the wrong book dear.” Aziraphale awkwardly said.

“Oh!” the young woman gasped, looking at the cover. She was meant to find a novel about a dystopian future, with conflict and struggles of hierarchy. Looking at the cover, she realised she had picked up a romantic tale.“I am so sorry, I will go and find the other one-”

“No!” Aziraphale blurted out.“N-no, don’t worry. I’ll go find it.”

“OK, sorry again.”

Once he had finished with the customer, Aziraphale went to find (Y/N), who was stacking books on the shelves. She smiled at him as he approached her, and he copied, but it was clear to see that he was uneasy.

“I just want to talk about what happened earlier.” he started.

“I’m really sorry about that again. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“It’s not that, I’m not concerned about embarrassment. I’m more worried about you.”

“Me?”

“You know this bookshop back to back. You’ve worked here since you started university. It was just a shock that you picked up the wrong book, and took so long to get it.”

“I wasn’t that long was I?”

“You took fifteen minutes.”

“I mean, people make mistakes.”

“Of course they do, nobody is perfect. But it’s so out of character for you. Are you feeling well?”

She nodded, returning back to her job.“Absolutely fine.”

“Because you know you can tell me.”

“I know.”

“If anything is wrong, I am always here-”

“I’ve got a date tonight.”

He hadn’t expected that answer.“A-a date?”

She nodded.“Yeah, uh, it’s with this guy from one of my lectures. We’ve been friends...well, sort of friends for the last year, but he asked me out the other day and obviously I’ve said yes. So I’m freaking out a little bit.”

Aziraphale was shocked by her quick rambling, stumbling over his own words as he processed everything.“O-oh, well, that is very exciting! Why are you worried?”

“Because I haven’t been on a date since...well you know.”

“Oh, of course. You are going though, aren’t you?”

She sighed.“I was-”

“You should! This is great news!”

“But what if I’m awkward? If I’ve forgotten what it’s like to date?”

“Tell you what,” he started to take the books out her her hands,“you take the rest of the day off. Go relax, get ready for tonight, and enjoy yourself!”

“Aziraphale, I really shouldn’t-”

“I won’t take no for an answer. You need to relax and calm down before tonight. I think you’re going to be surprised with how much fun you’ll have.”

“If you’re sure...I mean, I am a bit excited.”

Aziraphale grinned at the sight of his friend blushing.“Good! Keep in high spirits and you shall have a great evening.”

(Y/N) put on her coat, saying her goodbyes to Aziraphale as she slung her handbag over her shoulder before putting her earphones in. The angel kept the smile on his face until the door shut, then his true feelings were unleashed. Panic struck him, mumbling to himself as he stressed over his friend. He knew he needed help on this, instantly calling Crowley to the bookshop.

Crowley had been bored out of his mind that day, so when the phone rang, he answered far too quickly, having to put on a reserved attitude as he spoke. Hearing Aziraphale’s tone made him agree to come straight away, even though he didn’t know what the problem was. Bursting into the bookshop (thinking another Armageddon was approaching), he called out for the angel, who popped out from nowhere, his eyes wide.

“Oh thank God you’re here.” Aziraphale sighed in relief.

“Well, I wouldn’t be thanking him-”

“It’s (Y/N).”

Crowley didn’t care about his smooth persona anymore, not when it came to (Y/N).“What? What’s happened?”

“She’s got a date.”

Crowley stared at him, mouth open. After a few seconds, he spoke,“That’s what you called me here for?”

“Yes! How are you not worried?”

“Because it’s a normal thing for young adults to do?”

“But this is (Y/N)! You remember the last relationship?”

Crowley softened at that.“Oh, you have a point.”

(Y/N) had not been attending university for long when she first applied for the bookshop. She was just eighteen when she started, much quieter and shy back then, but Aziraphale decided to take her under his wing (no pun intended). He and Crowley had become friends with her, watching her grow as she studied hard, not without stressing herself out at times of course. However, they had also been there when the first boyfriend came onto the scene. (Y/N) had been so excited, infatuated with this boy. They had dated for a year and a half, it had been so lovely at the beginning. Even the angel and demon liked him; until he made the fatal mistake of breaking her heart.

That boyfriend had all but ripped her heart out of her chest, torn it to pieces in front of her face before stamping on it. After all the dates, the presents, the studying together, supporting each other through their studies, the cute pictures and talks about their future, he randomly decided to sleep with someone else. The man (Y/N) thought she could see a future with had never showed any signs of leaving her, or no longer having an interest. He flat out admitted it when she confronted him, suddenly expressing how he didn’t find her attractive anymore and that she had been a waste of time. It broke (Y/N), and although she wanted to believe that someone would come along and cherish her just as he did in the beginning, it was extremely hard to imagine such a thing after those harsh words.

“I know I shouldn’t judge others, especially since I don’t know the man...” Aziraphale said.

Crowley removed his glasses.“Well, how did she look when she told you?”

“Happy, she was nervous but giddy. She’s worried that she’ll embarrass herself, though I could see the excitement in her eyes.”

“Well that settles it then.”

“What?”

“We have to follow them.”

“How did that make you think of following them?”

“(Y/N) has mixed emotions, she may not think straight because she’s overwhelmed.”

“She’s a smart young lady, she’ll be able to tell if she likes him or not.”

“Still, we don’t know this guy. I think to be on the safe side, we should tag along.”

“A-a double date?”

“What? No! We need disguises, we need to follow after them.”

“So, stalk them?”

“Stop making it weird. Come on, let’s figure out what we’re wearing.”

(Y/N) couldn’t stop staring at her reflection. She had spent more time than needed on her hair and makeup, picking out her jewellery before putting on the outfit she decided on (which also took a while to pick out). Although she always presented herself well everyday, she hadn’t dressed up in a long time. It was almost refreshing to see herself like this, she felt beautiful. Smiling at herself, she was broken out of her trance as her phone buzzed. Quickly grabbing it, she saw her dates name pop up, stating they were on their way to the restaurant they chose to go to. It was now or never.

Crowley and Aziraphale waited down the road from (Y/N)′s student house, seeing her leave and head in the opposite direction. Crowley was more confident sneaking around, purposefully walking quickly so Aziraphale would keep up with him and not think about backing out of this. For disguises, they decided they needed to dress young, blend into the crowd; Aziraphale wore an oversized jumper with an equally long striped scarf, his usual bow tie still on, as well as jeans and converse. Crowley had on a black denim jacket with a black and white patterned silk shirt, black jeans with boots definitely meant for hiking, as well as blacked out circular glasses and a beanie. Aziraphale felt ridiculous, hating how people stared, but Crowley was too focused on the mission to notice.

They followed her to the restaurant, casually leaning against a building across the road as they watched the man and woman embrace. He kindly held the door open for her, gesturing for her to go ahead.

“He seems gentlemanly.” Aziraphale pointed out.

“No, this is their game you see. He wants her to think he’s a gentleman, when he’s the total opposite! I’ve seen it happen many times before. They’re all ‘Mr Nice Guy’ just so she’ll go home with him.”

“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think-”

“Come on!” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, dragging him across the street.

(Y/N) thanked her date as he tucked in her chair for her. It wasn’t a high end restaurant, and it was only late afternoon, but this is how they wanted it to be. They were already friends, it would be awkward if they were properly dressed up in a posh place. He had already complimented her, making her blush, and they were able to slide into a conversation. It was like any other time they had been hanging out, except there was a romantic element to it all.

“There they are.” Aziraphale whispered to Crowley as they entered the building.

Not waiting to be seated, Crowley guided the pair towards the couple, finding a table close enough that they could watch their every move without being spotted. Sitting down, Crowley shoved a menu into his friend’s hands, holding it in front of his head with his eyes peering over the edge.

“He tucked in her chair for her, that’s sweet of him.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Remember what I said.” Crowley frowned.

“Perhaps we’re being a tad dramatic. I was paranoid this morning, but seeing them together has calmed me.”

“I’m not sure. He could be pretending.”

The squabble was disturbed when (Y/N)’s laugh rang out, along with her date’s. Her friends turned to see her covering her mouth as she continued giggling, her eyes still on the man across from her.

“That doesn’t count.” Crowley quickly protested.

A waitress came over to their table, surprised by how quickly the men ordered their food and the lack of eye contact. What shocked her the most was when she tried to take the menus away, but they gripped onto them with their lives. It was the only way they could hide from (Y/N). She backed away, not too phased because when you work in this sort of service, you do get your weirdos.

“Maybe we should just leave...” Aziraphale felt less stressed, he had a good feeling about this man. She looked much more calm, more natural with him than she did with her ex, and this was only the first date.

“But we’ve ordered.” Crowley moaned.

“I feel like we’re imposing. I know we wanted to check on her, but (Y/N)’s an adult, she knows how to handle herself.”

“Let’s at least wait for our food-”

“But what if they spot us! We can take it to go.”

“It’ll be cold by the time we get back, and we’ve ordered drinks!”

(Y/N) tried to concentrate on her date’s words, she had been invested in his story until a couple on another table started bickering. It was just human nature to pry, and she had glanced a few times over at them. They were an extravagant pair, wearing clothes that made them stand out. It wasn’t a bad thing, people were allowed to express themselves.But there was something about them that made her keep staring.

“Hey, I’m just going to quickly pop to the loo.” (Y/N) said, smiling at her date just as he did, before she stood up, heading towards the odd couple.

Aziraphale and Crowley were too caught up in their argument to notice that (Y/N) had left the table, and was headed right towards them. She suddenly appeared at the table, crouching down on the other side so her date couldn’t see her.

“What are you two doing?!” she harshly whispered.

They were shocked by her, flinching in their seats. Aziraphale sighed.“I knew this would happen!”

“Are you two following me?”

“It was Crowley’s idea!”

“You were the one who called me!”

“Enough you two!” (Y/N) quietly exclaimed.“Do you know how much you’re invading my privacy right now?”

Aziraphale had a calm tone to his voice.“We just wanted to make sure you’re alright. And how did you know it was us?”

“Have you seen your outfits? You stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I thought these were very on trend?” Crowley said.

“In 2013 maybe.”

“We’re sorry. We were only thinking of you, your safety, your happiness. And we were going to leave, but Crowley is complaining about the food-”

“It’s good food here!”

“As long as you two don’t interfere with my date, you can stay. Just don’t stare, or watch.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Aziraphale smiled.“He seems like a lovely gentleman.”

Crowley groaned.“Stop calling him that.”

(Y/N) relaxed a little.“He’s...he’s a sweetheart. I feel comfortable with him, happy too. I’m having a great time...was having a great time.”

Aziraphale placed a hand on her shoulder.“We promise we won’t do anything. Honestly, I’m quite hungry and parched now that I’m thinking of our order.”

(Y/N) pondered for a moment.“Fine. You’re right, the food here is pretty good, I can’t take that away from you. But next time you do a stake out, try to blend in, yeah?”

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amuseoffyre · 4 years

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Last night I got to thinking about Aziraphale from the perspective of someone raised within a pretty strict religious household. I didn’t realise it at the time, but it’s astonishing how much it warps your behaviour when you are away from the influence of said household.

Brief summary: religious family, going back generations. Raised in it from infancy. Never missed church/sunday school etc. Lived in a walled community entirely populated by Our Kind of People. Always had to look our best, dress our best, behave our best. If we made friends beyond our circle, we had to try and... entice them to join us. Anyone who was not Us was Them and we had to be cautious.

Which brings me to Aziraphale. And this got hecking long, so I’ll spare your dashes.

From that moment, that first meeting on the wall, the Us-or-Them paradigm was strong. He tries to cling to the views of the Us, but the words of the Them sneak into his consciousness. For someone raised in a world where the Us is always right, questioning is not an option, but sometimes, those questions are like water dripping on stone. It doesn’t seem like much, but if it continues for long enough, it’ll wear the stone away.

It’s made clear as early as Mesopotamia that the questions from outside his safe little bubble are starting to wear at Aziraphale’s certainty, but even when it’s the case you can’t let that be seen. You have to maintain the status quo. You’ll notice that Aziraphale rarely ever phrases dangerous ideas as questions. he skirts them, circles around and alludes to them, giving the latent shape of them without actually saying them because saying them aloud would be wrong. Passive phrasing to suggest someone might think something, rather than declaring outright that “I think”.

When you’re stuck on the inside you learn that as a defence mechanism: do not make yourself a target, do not be too direct in your views. In the scenes in Heaven, when he tries to explain about the misplaced Antichrist, he’s trying to negotiate the precarious path of giving away enough information without giving too much and getting himself in trouble. How would he know the Antichrist is fake? Because he knew enough to identify him because he’d spent too much time around the wrong people. He can’t give himself away and risk putting himself in danger of becoming one of Them. We’ve seen what Heaven does to Those People already.

Simple conversations became a landmine of caution. You have to censor yourself, second guess yourself, monitor what you’re saying for fear you might Fall from grace. And when that world is all/everything you know, the concept of losing it, even for good friends you have made beyond it is a thing of absolute, mind-melting terror.

So you conform. You practise visible compliance, smile, sit, sing from the same songsheet. You do what you’re told, although when you’re away from watching eyes, you... may stretch the bounds of this obedience. You find loopholes. You tapdance across a bed of nails, trying very, very hard not to hurt yourself.

If you like something seen as inappropriate or ‘wrong’, you have to keep it secret or find reasons for it - Aziraphale with his food and his books is a perfect example. He has to excuse them, give reasons for having them. It’s a cover, a disguise, part of his role. He has to do it, don’t you see? Has to blend in with the Humans. No choice. Needs must. It can’t be as simple as “because I want to”.

And the worst part of it all is that even when you get out, the habits and instincts are so ingrained, you can’t stop doing them, not at once. I stopped being actively involved with religious stuff 20 years ago and yet I still am Aziraphale in Heaven when I visit my family. I self-censor, I monitor what I’m saying, thinking or doing. I’m getting better at it now, but there has and will always will be that niggling, anxious, gut-churning little voice that tells you you’re Not Fitting In at the back of your head.

I’m just saying Aziraphale’s swan-dive out of Heaven isn’t just out of necessity. It’s the culmination of years of quiet, gentle, subdued rebellion against a force that has been holding him back and I can not overstate how liberating it feels when you can make that leap.

#aziraphale #good omens #meta #thinkie thoughts #organised religion

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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The Rules

(Ok my Good Omens Lockdown fic is complete! And not at all what you were expecting! Check tags for brief TW for one of the final scenes.)

Dear Crowley.

The black ink flowed across the yellowed paper, trailing behind Aziraphale’s pen.

He frowned, and scratched it out.

My Dearest Friend.

He barely finished the final letter before crossing it out even more frantically than before.

Anthony.

Now that was just absurd. Another sharp line across the page.

Crowley.

Aziraphale all but threw the pen into the inkwell. He grabbed the paper in both hands and tore it in half – in half again – and again – and again, ink smudging and staining his fingers.

Stupid, stupid, stupid idea.

When he was finished, he dumped the confettied remains of the letter onto his desk and glared at them until they started to smolder, the first wisp of smoke twisting into the air.

Then, with a sigh, he waved his hand, returning them to a single sheet of clean parchment paper.

How long had he been in lockdown now? Six weeks? Seven? Eight?

Long enough to start coming up with foolish ideas. Long enough to begin questioning things that he knew were probably better left unquestioned and unsaid.

He took himself over to the shop’s kitchen and started the kettle boiling again. Cocoa? No, tea. And a nice slice of cake, that’s what he needed. The red velvet this time, he thought.

Crowley liked red velvet cake. Not that he admitted to it, but he never turned down an offered bite. And he would smile, just a bit, as he chewed it, eyes hovering across the top of his glasses...

When he’d gathered his treats, Aziraphale settled again at the desk, carefully restacking his books to make room for the cake and mug. He dimmed the lights around the shop, put on a soothing record, tried to find that calm center that allowed him to think clearly. He’d never actually found it before, but he’d read about it in books on meditation, and it sounded jolly useful.

Finally, with a deep breath, he carefully picked up the pen again, tapping it against the glass of the inkwell so that it didn’t drip, and tackled the paper again.

My dear Crowley,

I hope these strange new days see you well, and that you are not causing too much trouble on your side of London. Things have certainly been quiet over here, but you know that’s how I prefer it. Perhaps I should close the shop more often!

I finally had a chance to read that author you suggested, and while I couldn’t locate any of your recommended titles, I’ve found Chesterton’s “Orthodoxy” to be quite a fascinating read…

…and so I find myself with rather an overabundance of time! While the baking has been going exceedingly well, I feel that something is missing. I can’t quite put my finger on

The sound of breaking glass at the back of the shop. Aziraphale frowned. He didn’t keep anything breakable back there, just boxes of newly arrived books, supply storage, and of course the back door –

Ah. That probably explained it.

He stood up, pausing to wipe the crumbs from his face, and retrieve his favorite umbrella from the hat stand. A soft thump from somewhere in the back room put a little more speed into his step.

“Watch where you’re going,” Dru hissed, jerking his foot free of the box Tommy had knocked over. Books spilled out across the floor.

“Sorry,” muttered Tommy leaning over to restack them. They were those old books with weird hard-cloth covers, stamped with the names of dead poets he half-remembered from school. They smelt like dust. The whole shop smelt pretty gross, actually, like someone had hidden old cheese in a corner and let it sit there since Christmas.

“Don’t bother with that.” Dru kicked over the books. They slid across the floor, mixing with the broken glass. Tommy scrambled back. Dru was much bigger than him, over six feet tall, taller when he was angry. “I told you, look for the cash box. It’s gotta be back here somewhere.”

“Says who?” Jack was on his hands and knees nudging his way through more boxes towards the corner wall. “I’ve been looking forever and there’s – look, nothing again.”

“Shhh.” Tommy shrank back towards the broken window, glancing into the alley outside. He could still hear the scratchy old record playing at the front of the shop, and he didn’t think he could jump out the window quickly enough if they were caught. “This was a stupid idea, Dru. There’s someone here, and he’s going to hear us –”

“Just some old bloke,” Dru waved his hand angrily. “He’s run the shop forever, gotta be a hundred years old. You scared of him? Just find the safe.”

“What safe?” Jack crawled back out of the corner. “I told you there isn’t any bloody –”

“There’s always a safe in the back. It’s a rule.”

“I’m afraid it is not, in fact, a rule. Otherwise I would have one.” Tommy spun, and there, not ten feet away, stood the old bookseller. He was dressed in an ancient suit, hands resting on a tartan umbrella, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. “However, I’ve always though the logical place to keep money is in the till, so that’s where it is.”

Dru whipped out his knife, pointing it at the bookseller’s face. Jack followed a moment later, fumbling with the unfamiliar blade.

The bookseller just watched them, lips pursed. With a sinking feeling, Tommy realized he was nowhere near a hundred. The white-haired man looked barely older than Tommy’s dad, and at least as strong. Tommy had a good sense for when someone was not a person to cross, and this man set off every alarm bell.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly afraid the bookseller might recognize the dust from the brick Tommy threw into the window.

Dru waved his knife, trying to recover. “You just stay over there, right? We don’t want to hurt you.”

“No,” the bookseller said seriously. “You don’t.”

Jack lowered his knife and shuffled his feet.

“Shut it,” snapped Dru. “Right. We know where it is now. Tommy, go get the till.”

“Thomas do not get the till,” the bookseller snapped. His eyes flicked down, studying the mess all across the floor. When he looked up again, pulling his glasses off, his gaze pierced Tommy like a pair of blue icicles. “Did you knock over my books?”

“Yessir,” Tommy muttered, flinching away. He never liked arguing. Easier to go along with what people told him. Normally, at least, he would just agree and keep his mouth shut. But today, he felt the words bubbling inside him, fighting their way free. “And I broke the window. But Dru kicked the books over. I tried to clean, honest.”

“I see.” The blue eyes studied Dru, then drifted over to Jack. “And you?”

“I just moved the boxes, I didn’t break anything.”

“Well.” The bookseller took a step towards them. “I hope you all feel very ashamed of yourselves.” Tommy immediately did, though that wasn’t too unusual. He always felt ashamed of something. “Don’t you know there’s a lockdown going on just now? Pandemics are very serious business. You are breaking the rules – rules that are put in place to keep you safe. People could die from your carelessness, do you understand that?”

“Look,” Dru stepped forward, waving his knife a bit more urgently. “I don’t give a shit about that. You need to –”

The bookseller swung his umbrella like a sword, knocking Dru’s knife across the room. “I wasn’t finished talking. Now you go back over there and listen for once in your life. And mind your language in this shop.” Dru blinked, and shuffled back towards the wall. The bookseller’s eyes turned to Jack, who was already hastily putting his own knife back into his pocket. “Much better. Where was I?”

“People could die,” Tommy prompted.

“Right. Thank you, dear boy.” He smiled, just briefly, and for the first time in a long, long time Tommy felt that maybe there was more to the world than a steaming pile of garbage. He almost wanted to smile, too. “Now. You three being out right now is against all the rules, not to mention breaking and entering, and putting your hands – and feet – on my books. These are all very serious crimes.” He put aside the umbrella and folded his hands behind his back. “I want you to tell me what, exactly, brought you here tonight.”

“Money,” Tommy said quickly, but he could feel more words twisting their way up his throat, secrets threatening to spill across the floor.

Jack beat him to it. “Bored. Nothing to do. Just sitting at home, watching my folks grow old, and everyone gets angrier and angrier and I can’t think inside that room anymore, I don’t feel anything –”

“What are you talking about?” Dru demanded, stepping forward again. He didn’t look as confident as before, but much, much angrier. “Look, we’re here for your money, not to tell our life stories. I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull here, but just hand it over and I won’t have to get medieval on your ass.”

“Really? What a curious turn of phrase.”

“Dru always gets angry when he’s not in control,” Tommy said, not really knowing where the words came from. “I don’t know if he’s ever killed anyone but he always acts like he has.”

“Does he indeed? I’m afraid I know the type.” The look he gave Dru could have broken through a concrete wall. “And what do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

“That you’d better fucking watch yourself, old man.” He’d managed to get right up to the bookseller’s face, and now jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “Or you’re gonna regret what comes next.”

“Yes, I’m rather afraid I will.” The bookseller turned and picked up an ancient telephone, spinning a little dial on the front. “I want you to know that I tried very hard to keep it from coming to this.”

“Who you calling?” Dru sneered. “The cops?”

Frowning, the bookseller pressed the telephone to his ear. “No, Andrew Morgan, I am calling your grandmother.”

For a moment, there was no sound in the shop but a strange, strangled noise coming from Dru.

“Ah, yes, is this Delores Morgan? Yes, I’m afraid there’s a rather angry young man in my shop. Tall, rude, really using the most atrocious language – ah, yes, I’m afraid so. Yes. With a knife. Oh, of course.” He held out the telephone. “She’d like to speak to you now.”

With a shaking hand, Dru took it from him. “Nana?”

Half an hour later, Tommy was sitting at a little round table in the back of the shop, nibbling on a scone. Jack sat next to him, dipping his own in a mug of tea, trying to eat it quickly without dripping.

“I’m not saying I don’t understand,” the bookseller started, coming over with another plate. “Sourdough?”

“Yes, please,” said Tommy, taking a thick slice.

A thump echoed from the back room. “Just stack them up neatly like they were, there’s a good lad,” the bookseller called cheerfully. Dru grumbled, but not so that they could make out the words.

“As I was saying. This is a very difficult time for all of us. Financially, yes,” he nodded to Tommy, “but it can also put a strain on our mental health. I really do think you should talk to someone.”

“Where am I supposed to find a doctor at a time like this?” Jack complained.

“I have been led to believe the Googles can provide these things.” Tommy fought back a laugh. “What? What did I say?”

“It’s…uh, it’s not called the Googles.”

“It isn’t? Oh, dear. Regardless, I’m sure you can use your computer to find what you need. There are resources. But you must follow the rules. They are here to keep you safe.” He picked up a tray of muffins and carried them back towards the hidden kitchen. “In the meantime, perhaps you should try revisiting an old hobby. What is it you like to do?”

“Dunno,” muttered Jack. He started glancing around the room for inspiration.

Tommy had already studied their surroundings pretty thoroughly. Tons of trinkets, some of them cheap looking but almost all of them old. Pieces of art, some of them framed, others carefully laying across tables. Statues. One statue wore a bit fancy medal around it’s neck. The plates of cake and pastry on literally every surface. And the books. So many books.

Granted, he’d expected those, but the shop seemed bigger inside, crammed with more books than a person could even take in, never mind read. And the titles. The other table nearby was stacked with books called Forbidden Rites: Necromancy in the Fifteenth Century or Magic: An Occult Primer.

Tommy took everything in as quickly as he could. Jack, meanwhile, seemed to stop at the strange old drawing of a dark-haired man with his hand on a book, hanging from one of the shelves. A smile flickered across his face. “I guess…I liked to draw. When I was little.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Yes, drawing is a very useful talent.” A moment later the bookseller emerged, carrying two enormous plates filled with cakes, breads, and something covered with cream and fruit, all wrapped carefully in plastic. “Now, this one is for you, Thomas, and mind you share with your sister. And this is for you.” When Jack took his tray, the bookseller placed a pile of printer paper on top, and two pencils. “And these. To get you started on your drawing again. It takes time, but I suppose that’s one thing we all have in abundance now.”

The bookseller clapped his hands and beamed at them. Jack muttered a thank you, but Tommy couldn’t even bring himself to do that, just stared at the tray, blinking back tears.

“Oh, and I’ll expect you both to bring the plates back when the lockdown is over. Not before! Remember, the rules are there to keep you safe.”

“Yessir.”

“Erm, excuse me.” They all turned to face Dru, who stood with his head bowed, and an expression Tommy had never seen him wear before. “All the books and glass are cleaned up. May I have some cake?”

“Well,” said the bookseller, pursing his lips. “I suppose one cake, now that you’re finished.” He walked back to the kitchen to start another tray.

After the lads had left, Aziraphale settled into his armchair, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. It took a lot out of him, reading people like that. Nudging them to tell their secrets. Perhaps he was just out of practice.

It had felt good, really, helping people like that. He forgot that, sometimes, how much he enjoyed giving people that little push towards solving their problems. Perhaps he should get out there and try it a little more often. After the lockdown was over, of course.

He glanced at the table, where the letter to Crowley sat half-finished. He’d quite lost his train of thought now. Oh, dear. He was sure he’d been on the cusp of something important, but his mind was too heavy. Perhaps after another glass of brandy or two…

Three days later

…It occurs to me, my dear fellow, that we’ve never exchanged letters. Not properly. And no, I will not include those ridiculous coded missives you used to send, although I did appreciate the book ciphers. But throughout our long

The pen hovered in the air, bead of ink poised to drip. Aziraphale knew the word he’d been planning to use. He could see it, trace the letters with his mind. But…

No, once again, he lost his nerve.

centuries, we’ve never used this method to simply exchange pleasantries. Well, what is this time for, if not to finally accomplish that which we had long planned to do? Research. Baking. And finally writing a proper letter to my

Another moment of panic, as his mind twisted around the one word he desperately wished to write.

Someone knocked at the back door, quick and sharp.

With a sigh, half disappointment and half relief, Aziraphale placed his pen in the inkwell and went to investigate.

Tommy wrapped his arms around his stomach. “Come on, Emmy. This is a terrible idea.”

His little sister scowled. “You kidding? He’s an old man who bakes cakes. What are you afraid of?”

“It’s not…there’s something off about him.” He shivered as she rapped against the door again. “He’s going to figure it out, as soon as he looks at you.”

“I think you’re just chicken.” She tossed her head with a grin, short fringe of dark hair hanging in front of one eye.

“Shut up, Emmy, you don’t know –”

The door opened.

The bookseller looked a little smaller by daylight. Plump, pleasant, almost harmless, except that his frown still cut sharply across Tommy’s heart. “I’m certain I told you not to return until the lockdown ended.”

“Sorry. I just –”

“You!” Emmy stepped forward, waving her finger at his buttoned-up waistcoat. “What did you do to my brother?”

The bookseller blinked. But today his gaze seemed soft, almost normal. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did. He was fine before he came here, now he sits around talking about responsibility.” She gave him a dirty glare. “Tries to make me do my homework.”

“Ah. Well, you really ought to do your homework, my dear.”

“You’re joking, right? The whole world’s gone to shit and I’m supposed to be doing math problems and reading Shakespeare?”

“Oh, I love Shakespeare!” The bookseller’s eyes lit up. Tommy felt a strange wave of delight that almost loosened the knot in his stomach, before the anxiety crashed back into place again. “Such a wonderful man. Not particularly charming, but oh, he had his moments. Are you reading Hamlet? It’s my favorite, you know.”

Emmy snorted. “It’s everyone’s favorite.”

“Yes, it…it is, isn’t it?” For a moment his entire demeanor changed, eyes drifting down, face turning rather pink. “Well, I did rather hope…er, never mind. What brought you two here today?”

“Emmy thinks you put a spell on me, or cursed me or something.”

“I know you’ve got magic devil books in there. Tommy saw them last time, he told me and Dad.”

The bookseller glanced between them, smiling. “Oh, good. You told your parents what you were up to.”

Tommy shrugged, hunching his shoulders, waiting for what came next. Obviously the bookseller would see right through him. “He was really pissed off.”

“Yes, my boy, I’m sure he was upset at the time, but you’ll find that honesty is…” he trailed off as Emmy and Tommy exchanged a look. She was smirking, smug, while he just felt confused. “What? What is it?”

“I thought you knew,” Tommy muttered, shuffling his feet. “Cuz you can, y’know, read minds or whatever.”

The bookseller looked at Tommy until he was ready to burrow into the ground and die. Finally, the old man said, “I can’t…always. I think you’d better come in and explain things.”

“Whoa,” Emmy said, grabbing a slice of thick, red cake covered in icing. “I thought you were kidding about the damn cake. Look at all this!”

“Emily,” Tommy hissed. “Behave yourself.”

“At least I’m not trying to rob the place,” she pointed out, stuffing her face. “Oh, you’re right! Look at these books!” She reached for one, but the bookseller got there first, snatching it away from her frosting-covered fingers.

“That is quite enough of that. Take a seat and mind your manners or I will send you straight home.”

Tommy sat quickly at the table, putting his hands on his lap, trying to force his fingers to stay still. Emmy, however, kept staring at the book, tilting her head to study the title.

“What’ve you got a book on necromancy for?”

“You don’t even know what that is,” Tommy pointed out.

“Do too! Its magic that brings people back to life. Like zombies and stuff.”

The bookseller sighed and tucked the book onto a shelf. “It’s a treatise on fifteenth century necromancy, if you must know, and it’s rather more complicated than that. The word at the time referred to many types of magic, including divining the future using the bodies of the deceased, and spells and incantations to control demons.”

“Oh,” Emmy nodded. She grabbed a cupcake off a tray and shoved it into her mouth whole as she sprawled across a chair. “How come they don’t teach us that at school? And why do you want to control demons?”

“I don’t,” he said simply, grimacing at the crumbs she sprayed as she spoke, as if trying to track each one through the air. “And I’d like to make sure no one else can, either.”

“You got more magic books?” She reached for another that was lying nearby, but again the bookseller got their first, gently pushing it further away.

“This is a book shop. I have many types of book. But we aren’t here to talk about that.” He pursed his lips and studied Tommy, settling into a chair across the pastry-laden table. “I believe we’re lucky your sister wasn’t here the other night. She is almost worse than your loud friend.”

“Dru’s not my friend,” Tommy muttered. It still made him cringe inside to contradict an adult, even when the bookseller wasn’t angry, but he didn’t like being associated with Dru. “And Emmy was here.”

“Was she?”

“I was the look-out.” She reached for another cupcake, this time licking the frosting off so it smeared across her mouth. “You had them in here forever, then they all come out, carrying cake and things. Dru was acting like a baby. I thought he was gonna cry.”

“But you can’t be more than thirteen years old!”

“I’m not.” She jumped to her feet again. “Got any more of that angel’s food cake? Tommy ate all the stuff you sent home.”

The bookseller looked at her, and Emmy gave her winning smile, the one that never fooled Tommy for a second. With a sigh, the bookseller pointed her towards the kitchen. “Please be careful with the dishes. If you break one –”

“I’m not going to pay for it,” Emmy snorted, wandering off. “Do we look like we have money?”

The bookseller frowned, watching as she took a plate out of the cupboard and started piling it with food. “Well, I suppose that brings us back to the question at hand. You said you came here for money. Was there more to that story?”

Tommy nodded, forcing himself to stare at his hands. He didn’t have any appetite this time, even though the bookseller gently pushed a plate of bread towards him. “Yeah. Dad threatened to kick me out a few years ago. Makes me pay rent. Says I’m old enough to have a job.” He shrugged. “So I dropped out of school. Started working.”

“Ah.” The bookseller sat back, nodding slowly. “I take it you no longer have a job?”

“Closed. Cuz of the lockdown.” His knee was starting to bounce nervously. That strange calm that had come over him the first time...it was there, hovering around the edge of his mind, but he didn’t really feel it. “But Dad still wants the money.”

“How much?”

“Six hundred pounds.” Tommy stood up, leaning on the back of the chair, trying to meet the shopkeeper’s eyes. They were warm, trusting, and once again he felt that tug in his gut to say more than he wanted. “Look, I know, I could move out for that. Probably could have already if I was smart. But I’m not. And I can’t save because Dad takes everything and…” He watched as Emmy walked behind the bookseller, tearing into an enormous slice of cake with gleeful abandon. “You know. I gotta watch out for my sister.”

“And how does your father expect you to produce six hundred pounds in the middle of…ah.” The bookseller stood and walked around the table to stand next to Tommy. “He wants you to steal.”

Tommy shrugged, keeping his eyes on his feet. Trying not to meet the booksellers eyes, not to watch his sister wandering around the shelves, to ignore the awful knot inside. “We hit three other places this month. But I’m still short.”

“You needed the money, and I gave you pastries instead. I take it your father didn’t like the exchange.”

“He, uh,” Tommy tried to smile. “He wasn’t impressed.”

A soft, well-manicured hand landed on the back of the chair near Tommy’s. “Look at me, please, Thomas.”

Clenching his jaw, he looked the bookseller in the face. And gasped to see the hard, sharp glare back in those eyes.

“What brought you back here today?”

To his horror, Tommy found he couldn’t lie to the bookseller.

While he was still trying to choke out an excuse, the old man’s eyes narrowed, and he spun, grabbing Emmy by the arm. The plate clattered to the carpet.

“Oi!” She shrieked, jerking her arm, trying to pull free. “Let go of me, you pervert!”

“Put. Them. Back. Now.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about, you loon!”

“Young lady.” And though his voice didn’t get any louder, suddenly the bookseller seemed ten feet tall. Tommy scrambled back against one of the pillars. He knew he should help, should defend his sister, some instinct in him screamed to do so. But he was completely frozen in place, barely able to breathe. “That book is over two hundred years old. For that alone I would throw you out in a heartbeat. But if that drawing has one rip – one wrinkle on it, you will regret the day you ever set eyes on this shop.”

Emmy reached under her shirt and pulled out a rolled-up paper, trying to dangle it out of the bookseller’s reach. “So it’s valuable, then?”

He held out a hand, waiting. “It is priceless. And you will never find someone to pay you even a fraction of its value. Now give it back.”

Snarling, Emmy slapped it against his palm. “What the hell, old man? We need the money more than you.”

“Leave my shop.” He let go of her arm and cradled the roll of paper like it was a baby.

“Fine. Whatever.” She stalked towards the back door. “And stop hiding Tommy, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to be the adult.”

“Emily.” The bookseller’s voice echoed through the shop. Shadows seemed to stretch out from every shelf and corner, reaching for Emmy. “Leave that book.”

She scowled back at him, but he wasn’t even looking in their direction. She out the ancient leather-bound book she’d tucked in the back of her trousers and started to throw it on the ground. At the last moment she seemed to lose her nerve, and tossed it onto a chair instead.

Once it was out of her hand, Tommy felt the strange grip on him vanish. The shadows snapped back to where they belonged. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath of the strange shop air. Before, he’d thought it stank. Now he thought it was charged with electricity.

“I gave you a chance, Thomas,” the bookseller said coldly. The bright blue eye looking over his shoulder seemed almost to glow. “This is how you repay me. Go. Now.”

He didn’t have to be told again.

With shaking hands Aziraphale unrolled the scroll. The five-hundred-year-old parchment felt crisp under his fingers, and he gently massaged a miracle into it, softening it, freshening it just a bit. There were no rips or bends, but to be safe, he pressed it flat against a table, weighing each corner down with a stack of books.

From the center of the paper, Crowley’s face looked back at him, smiling just a little, serpent eyes almost visible behind those glasses. Da Vinci had really captured his look. Not the face, though it was a very good likeness, but something more. The beauty mortal eyes could not quite perceive, something almost ethereal yet at the same time, quite the opposite. It hovered over the page, captured in the simple linework.

Crowley had kept this portrait, in secret, for five hundred years. Aziraphale had never known his own was part of a matched set, until a few months ago, when Crowley presented it to him, saying, “They’re a pair, you know. Supposed to be together. Displayed together. So I thought you should have this.”

He’d been too flustered to say anything at the time. He wanted to, though. He so very desperately wanted to say something.

But Aziraphale was a fool. He’d always been a fool. Trusting the wrong people. Ignoring those he shouldn’t. He’d probably never change.

Three days later

…There are many things that have stood unsaid between us. Perhaps it is our way. Perhaps it will always be our way. But for all that, I truly hope there will never again be silence between us. Conversation with you might be the thing I most miss just now, and is surely what I most look forward to when this strange time has passed.

Until then I remain,

Yours

The pen hesitated one last time. Yours what?

Yours respectfully?

Yours sincerely?

Should he try to be funny? Profound? Was there some clever play on words he could put in?

Or.

Perhaps, for once, he could let the unsaid word speak for itself.

Until then I remain,

Yours

Aziraphale

A drop of deep green wax. Was that too forward? Too subtle?

He pressed new his signet stamp against it, sealing it shut with an emblem he’d designed with such good intentions. Would Crowley see what it meant?

Too late for doubts. Too late for second thoughts. The front of the letter was already written, perfectly neat: Anthony J. Crowley, Esq. Now all he had to do was get a stamp from his desk and –

He pulled open the left drawer. Empty.

The right drawer. Nothing but pens and scraps of paper.

He dug around the endless stacks of receipts and tax documents, destroying his neat piles in a desperate search.

No stamps.

Burying his face in his hands Aziraphale said, for only the second time in six thousand years, “Oh, fuck.”

He sat like that for a long moment, then slowly lifted his gaze to stare at the telephone.

“You know, I could…hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle of…a case of…something…drinkable.”

Something rose up in Aziraphale, a terrifying fear he couldn’t begin to name.

“Oh, I-I-I-I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules. Out of the question. I’ll see you…when this is over…”

“Right. I’m setting the alarm clock for July. Goodnight, Angel.”

Aziraphale set the receiver back into the cradle, trying to stop his hand from shaking. His heart – which really, didn’t need to beat at all – was doing something altogether unexpected in his chest.

No, he told himself firmly. This is the right thing. Wait out the lockdown. Like you’re supposed to.

The rules were there for a reason. They told you what to do when the world stopped making sense, when your own mind was ready to betray you at any moment. When you couldn’t trust yourself, you trusted the rules.

He’d followed that philosophy his entire existence and look where it had gotten him. A lovely shop, a home, filled with books and art and cake. And no one else. No friends. No Crowley.

Just himself, alone, bent over a telephone.

And a heavy, frantic knocking at his back door.

Tommy pounded on the door, echoing the pounding of his heart.

“I told you, this is a stupid idea,” Emmy grumbled.

“Well, we tried your way last time and look what happened.” He slammed his fist against the door again. “So just…just shut up and follow my lead.”

“I think I liked you better when you were scared of everything,” she said, trying not to smile.

“I’m still scared of everything,” he snapped. “But what else am I gonna do?”

He started knocking again, just as the door jerked open, and he nearly fell into the bookseller. The old man looked paler than before, and somehow even less happy, but maybe that was the evening light playing tricks.

His eyes weren’t gentle or sharp this time, but something new, something that made Tommy’s heart ache in his chest.

“You two. I told you to leave.”

“We did leave. And. Um. Now we’re back.” Tommy cringed but rushed ahead. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I was an ass. I shouldn’t have tried to lie. And Emmy’s sorry for everything, too.”

“Well,” she grunted, not looking at the bookseller. “I’m sorry for some of it.” Tommy shoved her arm, and she rolled her eyes. “Most of it.”

“That is something, I suppose.” The bookseller pressed his lips into a line, and settled behind the door, looking completely immovable. “But I’m afraid I’m still not going to allow you in this shop.”

“Fine, right, I understand. I just need, um, a hundred and twelve pounds.” The booksellers jaw dropped, but Tommy rushed on. “I’m not just, it’s not charity, right? I brought stuff. Here.”

Emmy handed over the backpack and he dumped it out on the ground. “There’s some books, and a couple of these weird trinkets, I saw you had some around the shop, and this jewelry…”

“This is a bookshop, not a-a-a pawn shop!” The bookseller gave them an indignant look. “And I am most certainly not a-a fence for your stolen merchandise.”

“It’s not stolen. Look.” His fumbling hands grasped the thick computer programming textbook and flipped it open. Thomas Finch was scrawled on the inside of the cover in smudged, faded ink. “I bought this a few years ago. Trying to learn enough to get a better job. Only I’m real thick and I couldn’t follow it at all. So – so you can have that, right? It cost a lot, so it’s gotta be worth something now.”

The bookseller tilted his head, a look of vague disgust on his face. “Well, I don’t really have much use for a computer book…”

“Fine.” He tossed it aside and rummaged through the pile again “Or, look. This necklace. I don’t think it’s gold-gold but it’s really nice. It doesn’t rub off or turn your skin green or anything.”

With obvious reluctance, the bookseller took the chain and studied it up close. “I suppose it does look…Is this yours, young lady?”

Emmy turned her face even further away, arms crossed over her stomach. In the evening shadows, she seemed almost to disappear. “It was our mom’s. Before she died.”

“Ah.” He held out his hand, but Tommy didn’t accept the necklace back. “I wouldn’t take such an heirloom from you,” he tried again, and his voice was surprisingly gentle.

“We don’t want an heirloom, alright?” Tommy could feel the panic rising in him, but he had to force it down, force past the tightness in his throat and the wetness in his eyes. Had to get through this. “We want a hundred and twelve pounds, by tomorrow, or my dad’s going to throw me out. In the middle of the lockdown, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I’m sorry, truly I am, but you’ve already tried to rob me twice.” The bookseller let the necklace fall to the ground, joining everything of value Tommy and Emmy could find. “And once again you are here, outside, breaking the rules –”

“Shut up about the fucking rules!” Emmy spun back, glaring at him from behind the fringe of her hair, swept across her eyes. “How are the rules supposed to help Tommy now? He can’t get a job, or a loan, or anything. It’s all shut down. So what’s he supposed to do?”

“Emily.” Tommy knelt down and started putting everything into the backpack again. He kept dropping things, his hands shook so bad. He was out of ideas. “Fine. You won’t help me. But, look, Emmy’s just a kid. She’s made some mistakes, but…when my dad throws me out, can she stay here?”

“What –”

“What?” Emmy shoved him so hard he nearly fell over. “That’s not the plan, shit head! You can’t just dump me on some…some random –”

“Yes, I can.” His chest ached as he tried to meet her eyes. “I’m not leaving you with Dad, and I can’t take you with me if I don’t even know where I’m going. I don’t see another option.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“You’re twelve, Emily.” Tommy stood up and put his hands on his sister’s shoulders. She wore her usual tough expression, but she trembled, fighting back tears. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” said the bookseller in an overly bright voice. Tommy started, guiltily realizing he’d forgotten the man was there. “I seem to be missing some information here.”

Tommy looked at his sister, saw all the fear that he’d been carrying for years echoed in her eyes. He took her hand, squeezed it tight.

Emmy took a deep breath, and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Showing the large, half-healed bruise on her face.

The bookseller was quiet for a long moment. “Your father did that?” His voice seemed to be very carefully balanced.

“Yeah. Um.” She cleared her throat. “I’m. I’m trans. So my dad. I guess he thinks if he hits me. Um.” Her gaze fell to the ground. “Fuck that guy, though, right?”

“Ah.” Another long silence. Tommy clutched at her hand, neither of them breathing. Emmy hated coming out to strangers, to anyone really. Lots of bad experiences. He could see her remembering them now, in the way her shoulders hitched, her jaw clenched. “And does your father hit you, too, Thomas?”

“Um. Yeah. Different reasons. But yeah.” He shrugged. “Since I was younger than her.”

“I see. Wait here.”

The bookseller stepped away from the door, disappearing back into his shop.

“I say we run,” Emmy said, reaching for the bag. “He’s probably going to call the cops on you, right?”

“I don’t know. Are you ok?”

She wiped at her eyes. He could see her jaw was still tight with tension. “I’m fine. Just. I hate telling people my shit.” She sniffed and glared at her feet. She still pretended most of the time, at school, even around their dad if she thought it would make him less angry that day.

She hated it. She pretended it was fine but watched that hate and pain eat away at her for years, just another thing he couldn’t protect her from.

“Look, Emmy, I’ll figure something out, I promise. We’ve got time. Another day, yeah? I’ll...I’ll think of something.”

“Shut up,” she shook her hair back in front of her eyes before turning her glare on him. “Just go if you have to. I’ll be fine. I’m used to being alone. I can take care of myself, and –”

“Oh, good, you waited. It’s nice to see you finally listening to me.” The bookseller stepped through the door to stand next to them, and the smile Tommy had glimpsed that first night was back on his face, warm and open. It made the evening seem just a little less miserable. “Here.”

He pressed an enormous wad of banknotes into Tommy’s hand. More than a hundred and twelve pounds. A lot more.

“That should be enough to get you started in a flat of your own. It won’t be easy during the lockdown, of course, but by some miracle there are a few places available in the north of London that should suit. Please be careful with that, it will likely need to last you some months.”

“I…” Tommy stared at the pile of money. It was more than he could have imagined such a crummy shop would hold. “Why…how…”

“I believe this is when you usually say thank you, although I’m not very good at that part myself.” Before Tommy could even find his words, the bookseller had turned to Emmy. “As for you, young lady.” He reached to put a hand on her shoulder, then quickly pulled back when she flinched, instead tilting his head down to try and meet her eyes. “I wish I had some advice for you, I really do. I don’t think I even know where to begin.”

“It’s --” Emmy started.

“Do not say it’s ‘fine,’ my dear, because it’s not.” There was a sharp edge to his tone, but it quickly softened. “It’s never ‘fine’ to feel alone. And if you’re suffering, that’s all the more reason to reach out.” There was a moment of uncertainty - Tommy saw the bookseller bite his lip, and his eyes grew distant, lost in his own thoughts. Then he turned back to Emmy and smiled, holding out a small stack of business cards. “And there are organizations you can reach out to. I’ve put the ones that specialize in teenagers on top. Support groups. Hotlines. Legal aid. Which reminds me,” his eyes shot over to Tommy again, “you should probably call the police on your father, but I’ll understand if you want a stable living situation first.”

He pressed the cards into Emmy’s hand. “I know you might not be ready to talk, but when you are...there are people ready to listen.” She stared at the cards in her hand. “You aren’t alone, my dear, and you don’t need to take care of yourself. Let the people who love you take care of you. Especially your brother.”

“I don’t…” Emmy’s fist closed around the cards. “I’m not…”

“Not quite what you need? I have a few books on gender identity. I always find that a bit of reading helps me think about what I’m going through. You’re welcome to look through them any time, under strict supervision, of course. I’ve seen the way you eat.”

“So…we’re allowed back in?” Emmy wondered.

“Yes. Any time.” He patted her hand, then stepped back. “Especially now, if you need a place to go for a few hours. Just please come to the front door next time, this alley is horrendous.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to be on the streets,” Tommy mumbled, still feeling dazed. But he felt his lips twisting into a smile. “You know. Against the rules and all that.”

“Well. I suppose…sometimes the rules do sort of get in the way, don’t they? I can…make an exception.” He beamed at both of them, the sort of smile that made it impossible to think of anything except smiling back. “Well. Jolly good. Now I think you two will need a bit of time to come up with a plan. What do you say we discuss this over cake?”

Two hours later

Aziraphale pressed the phone against his ear, listening to it ring. He had only rehearsed his conversation twice this time. He hoped it would be enough.

“Now what? Don’t you know I’m trying to sleep?”

“Hello. It’s me. Aziraphale.”

“For the last…I know.”

“Er, right. Ah. I just wanted you to know. Um. That is.” Drat. He really should have rehearsed more.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice turned very serious. “Is something wrong?”

“No, w-w-well, yes, that is…” His eyes drifted over to the table, the stacks of books, the cakes, the bottle of cognac. “Yes. Dreadful emergency. I’m nearly out of brandy.”

“You’re. Are you serious?”

“I am extremely serious, Crowley.” He took a deep breath. “And what with the lockdown on. Well. I would need someone to…to break all the rules in order to get me more.” He bit his lip. “And-and possibly some Merlot, or a nice Riesling. I have ah…rather more red velvet cake than I can eat.”

A long pause, Aziraphale tugging at the cord of the phone nervously.

“I thought you wanted to wait out the lockdown.”

“I did. I just…” He started to sit down, then sprang back up again, too anxious to hold still. “I realized, well, I can take care of myself, but that…that doesn’t mean I have to. And the rules…um…they…”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted softly. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

The smile trembled across Aziraphale’s face. “Ah. Yes. Good. I have some new neighbors to tell you about, I think you’re going to like them. And. Uh.” His fingers fell on the folded-up parchment, sealed with a drop of wax, green for hope. “And I have something for you, Crowley.”

(Thanks for reading! I apologize the OCs got so much of this fic. I’m trying to work on better OC-husbands balance, though in this case I hope you can see the parallel I was going for. I’ll probably write another Lockdown fic more focused on just Aziraphale and Crowley, but I really wanted to answer the question: who were the lads who tried robbing AZ Fell’s???)

#good omens prime #good omens lockdown #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale #aziraphales bookshop #ineffable husbands #who robs a book shop in the middle of quarantine #my writing #bastard angel #outsider pov #ocs #quarantine fics #Ill Omens #tw: mentioned child abuse #tw: implied transphobia #aziraphale x crowley

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animeangelriku · 3 years

Text

Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down Swinging

[Sugar Daddy Aziraphale receives a surprise from his Sugar Baby Crowley, a surprise he very much likes.]

[Also read on AO3!]

Aziraphale takes a sip from his scotch and lets out a long, relaxed breath.

Spring is finally starting to give way to summer. It gives him the chance to take advantage of the chairs by the pool, where he can sit down and read to the quietness of his private property. He doesn’t usually care much for the pool or its nearby chairs, but Crowley mentioned an interest in swimming, and Aziraphale hopes that being here rather than indoors will entice him to go for a swim… or at the very least sit with Aziraphale with as little clothing as possible.

His darling boy has such bad heat tolerance, poor thing. Even this weather might prove too hot for him.

Aziraphale takes out his pocket watch and frowns slightly. Speaking of Crowley, he should have been home by now. Aziraphale isn’t sure where he went, as Crowley just told him he was ‘going out,’ but he usually doesn’t take so long. Could something have happened to him? Surely Crowley would’ve called him if that were the case—

He shakes his head to himself. Crowley owes him no explanation for anything: not for where he goes or what he does or what time he comes back. That has always been their Arrangement, and it has worked wonderfully so far, and Aziraphale will not be the one to make a mess of it.

He places his glass of scotch on the table beside him and gently turns the page of the book on his lap.

Just then, he hears, distantly, Crowley’s car pulling into the property.

Aziraphale feels his heartbeat increasing, and he wills himself to calm down. He’s not a schoolboy with a bloody crush on the pretty boy in his class, he’s an adult man in a mutually beneficent sexual relationship with the most brilliant, cunning, stunning, beautiful man he has ever met.

Another shake of his head.

You’re an adult man, Aziraphale reminds himself. An old man, to be precise. He knows better than this.

With great effort, he forces his attention back to his worn copy of Four Quartets and waits for Crowley to call for him—hoping he will, really.

It’s eight minutes and thirty-three seconds (not that Aziraphale kept count) before he hears Crowley’s voice behind him.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Oh!” The next words sound closer, like Crowley has stepped outside. “There you are! Getting some fresh air?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says. “How were your errands?”

“Productive,” Crowley answers, and Aziraphale smiles to himself, thankful that Crowley can’t see it. “Actually, are you busy?”

Aziraphale lifts his gaze from his book. He’s never too busy for Crowley, never, much less when his tone has begun shifting into a coy sultriness that would be impossible for anyone else to pull off. For Crowley, it comes like second nature.

“No, not at all,” Aziraphale replies, gently closing Four Quartets and setting it down next to his glass, ready to stand up from his seat. Crowley has presented him with an invitation, and Aziraphale will always accept it.

He has barely clasped the arms of his chair when Crowley says, firm and commandingly, “Stay right there.”

A shiver runs down Aziraphale’s spine. He sits back down and folds his hands on his lap.

Crowley is not often in charge. It’s not that he doesn’t like it, and it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t like it—he has simply noticed that his darling boy prefers to be taken care of, looked after, even though he will never admit it out loud. He will say that he wants to be bent, broken, fucked, claimed, and Aziraphale will happily oblige, but he has also learned to read between the lines, both the spoken ones and the ones on Crowley’s handsome face. He knows when Crowley would rather they take it slow despite his pleas for Aziraphale to “just get on with it,” and he’s not above holding him down to give him exactly what he needs.

But Crowley has set the scene. It’s only fair Aziraphale lets it unfold.

“I’ve got a surprise for youuuuu,” Crowley singsongs, the pitch of his voice slightly lower than usual.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale asks, and he really shouldn’t be surprised at how ragged he sounds already. It’s ridiculous, truly, what Crowley’s voice does to him on a regular basis, let alone when he plays at seducing Aziraphale.

“Mh-hm,” Crowley hums. “Will you close your eyes for me?”

I’ll do anything you want me to do, Aziraphale thinks and closes his eyes, biting his tongue lest the traitorous words rip their way out of his throat. Perhaps he’ll speak them later, when he has Crowley begging and shaking apart on his hands.

Good lord, heat is beginning to build in his pelvis, in his belly, his fingers curling on his lap, his mind racing with images of what this surprise of Crowley’s might be. A new outfit? Aziraphale loves watching Crowley try on clothes, especially if his dear boy decides to give him a show and parade himself as if he were on his very own runway.

Oh, he can perfectly picture Crowley twirling in front of him before he loses his patience and pulls him forward, desperate to have him gasping and writhing on his lap, his open mouth hot and damp as he begs for Aziraphale’s touch.

Aziraphale swallows a moan and presses the heel of his hand to his cock through his trousers.

Breathe, he orders his terribly weak body. Calm down, for Heaven’s sake.

It’s frankly outrageous how much he desires Crowley, how much he craves him, all the time. He hasn’t even seen him yet!

His eyes still closed, Aziraphale inhales deeply. Now that he has pulled his thoughts to the present, he can hear the soft click-clack, click-clack, click-clack of Crowley’s footsteps, and saliva pools embarrassingly in his mouth. Crowley is so frustratingly breathtaking no matter what, but he has a way of wearing heels like they were made for him, like they were designed and tailored just for him.

The click-clack grows louder until it comes to a halt and Aziraphale can almost feel Crowley standing in front of him. His skin itches with the anticipation.

“Right,” Crowley says, and… That’s odd. He sounds nervous. Aziraphale’s first instinct is to reassure him, which is impossible given his current situation. He can’t think of anything that would make Crowley sound even remotely close to nervous. What could possibly be the matter? “You can open your eyes… now.”

Aziraphale does as he’s told, and he subsequently feels like the breath has been knocked out of him.

“Oh,” he exhales. “Oh, my dear.”

Crowley is wearing heels indeed, a pair of black stiletto pumps that accentuate his slender legs. His chest is covered by thin, black elastic straps forming a sort of bodice around his gorgeously pink nipples and upper torso, dropping into a mesh gown that flows all the way down to his heels, with a slit at each side of his adorable bellybutton to let him show off his mouthwatering thighs, the long expanse of his lithe calves. Underneath the gown and harness, he’s wearing lace knickers that are not even knickers, they’re just a black band with a strip of lace around it and a piece of mesh fabric covering Crowley’s half-hard cock, decorating it with two small pink bows, like a present.

And sweet God Almighty, what a present it is.

Crowley… He has never worn lingerie around Aziraphale, for Aziraphale, but Lord Above, he had nothing to be nervous about. As if Aziraphale would ever judge him or express distaste for something Crowley acquired for him, as if he would ever judge him for anything he did or wore or fancied.

Crowley doesn’t seem to know what to do with his arms, having no pockets where he can hide his hands, so he ultimately raises them above his head and bends them back, letting Aziraphale see all of him.

“So?” he asks, the seductiveness in his voice betrayed by the nervousness still lingering there.

As if Aziraphale would ever not want him.

“Oh, Crowley,” he breathes. “You are stunning.”

He always is, a masterpiece of flesh and muscle and bone, but now he looks like he has manifested himself directly out of Aziraphale’s dirtiest, most indulgent fantasies, displaying himself like a goddamn feast to be praised and subsequently devoured.

Crowley’s golden eyes, free of the sunglasses he often wears everywhere but here, darken with hunger, the loveliest, softest of blushes pinkening his cheeks.

“Yeah?” he asks, almost timidly.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, reaching for his glass of scotch, because his throat is parched. “Won’t you turn around for me, my boy?”

This Crowley excels at. Having regained his ego, he stands tall and twirls slowly, a peacock showing off his plumage, his heels click-clacking against the tiled floor with every step he takes. Each peek at his bare skin through the slits of his gown makes Aziraphale take another sip from his scotch. Good. He won’t even have to waste time undressing Crowley.

“Simply magnificent,” Aziraphale adds as he watches Crowley turn his back to him and sway his hips, his pert, biteable arse bare beneath the so-called knickers and gown. How he wants to press his fingers to the flesh, knead and tug and pull at it until he has left bruises.

“You think so?” Crowley asks, the question dripping with faux innocence.

“Positively sinful,” Aziraphale snarls, fingers tightening around his glass.

Crowley looks at him over his shoulder, and the way he bats his eyelashes, beckoning, is almost enough to force Aziraphale out of his seat and over to him. But he waits. Crowley told him to stay put, and unless he’s commanded otherwise, Aziraphale intends to do just that.

“D’you really like it?” his darling questions, barely louder than a whisper, lowering his eyes before he glances up at Aziraphale again. As he turns back to face him, his cock strains against the mesh fabric covering it, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to have it in his mouth.

Well. Just because he was told to stay put doesn’t mean he can’t do a bit of beckoning of his own.

“Why don’t you come here,” Aziraphale murmurs, grabbing his book from the small, round table beside him and placing it and his glass on the floor next to his chair, “and let me show you how much I do?”

It only takes Crowley a few steps forward to be within Aziraphale’s reach, and as soon as he is, Aziraphale grabs him by the hips and hauls him up onto the table, sitting him right on the edge. He knows Crowley likes being manhandled every now and then, evident even now by his parted lips and lust-filled gaze, and while Aziraphale enjoys teasing him about it when the mood strikes him, this is not the time for it.

“Azirapha—” Crowley begins, only for Aziraphale’s name to turn into a scream when he leans down, pushes the front of the mesh gown aside, and mouths at the line of Crowley’s cock. “Oh, fuck.”

Crowley falls back against the table, arms thrown over his head, and Aziraphale takes this opportunity to run his hands over the skin of Crowley’s thighs, his fingernails scratching the thin red hair as his teeth graze the mesh fabric of the lace knickers.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispers, his breath hot and damp, and he can’t help smiling at the small shiver that courses through Crowley’s body. “You should not have been so worried.”

“W-worried?” Crowley repeats wobblily. “I—I wasn’t—”

“I always find you extremely delectable, darling,” Aziraphale goes on, because he needs to reassure Crowley that nothing could ever change how he feels about him, how much he hungers for him, and he refuses to let Crowley believe otherwise. “And how could I not find you even more so now, when you went and prepared this surprise just for me?”

He hears Crowley stuttering through a response, but he’s grown quite desperate, and he wants to taste the gorgeously red, thick cock in front of him right now, please. So Aziraphale grabs the elastic band around Crowley’s hipbones between his thumbs and slides the lace knickers down his legs.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley whimpers as Aziraphale gently places his legs over his shoulders, his back arching off the table. He hears Crowley’s stilettos clacking to the floor, and his heels dig into Aziraphale’s back. “Aziraphale, fuck, please, please…”

Really, how can Aziraphale resist such lovely begging, especially coming from his darling boy’s sweet, sweet mouth?

Taking Crowley down to the root is no hardship. Aziraphale loves pleasuring Crowley any and every way, but he rather fancies feeling the weight of Crowley’s prick on his tongue, feeling the head graze the back of his throat, pushing his nose against Crowley’s pubes and inhaling the scent of him, of his sweat, and he hollows his cheeks and swallows around him and sears every single sound Crowley makes into his memory.

“A-Angel,” Crowley gasps, one of his hands curling in Aziraphale’s hair. That’s quite all right—Aziraphale has no qualms about having his hair tugged, and if the sting on his scalp brings a moan out of him and helps him bring Crowley closer to his release, then all the better.

He can tell Crowley won’t last much longer if the way his cock twitches and spills beads of precome on Aziraphale’s tongue is anything to go by, and he’s about to redouble his efforts when Crowley thrusts his hips up into his mouth.

Aziraphale pets his thighs. His poor dear gets so desperate when he’s this close, but Aziraphale will get him there, and he translates this message by skimming just the tips of his fingers over the skin of Crowley’s hipbones. They have gotten quite efficient at communicating without words, which serves them well in this kind of situation, where Aziraphale is otherwise occupied and Crowley cannot muster anything other than random combinations of letters Aziraphale shouldn’t find as endearing as he does.

But then Crowley thrusts his hips up again, this time harder, and Aziraphale has known him long enough to recognise when he’s being challenged.

Oh, naughty boy.

Aziraphale pulls away, letting his lips suck around the head of Crowley’s cock before he regretfully releases him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groans, his sinuous hips continuing to thrust up into the air, his flushed prick resting long and curved against his belly.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says sternly, and relishes Crowley’s whine and the fast, heavy rise of his chest. He wraps his hands around Crowley’s waist and presses his thumbs into the dips of his hips over the mesh gown, almost hard enough to feel the bone beneath the flesh, and fuck if Crowley’s hiss of both pain and arousal is not the sexiest thing he has ever heard. “Do be still for me, please.”

Aziraphale wraps his lips around Crowley’s gorgeous cock and slowly bobs his head, letting his tongue press against the veins on the underside, swallowing around him, hollowing his cheeks as he makes slurping sounds, perfectly aware they drive Crowley nearly to blindness with desire. He pulls away just for a second to lick at the slit on the head of Crowley’s cock as if it were a lolly, and he pushes Crowley’s hips down with his thumbs when he feels him trying to thrust up into him.

“Fuck, angel, you’re—ah!—y-you’re killing me!” Crowley moans, using his grip on Aziraphale’s hair to push Aziraphale further down until he’s almost gagging. His own cock twitches in his trousers, painfully hard and smearing the fabric, but he focuses on Crowley, on his beautiful boy, who is almost there, so close to the edge, and Aziraphale so desperately wants him to come down his throat that he tightens his mouth around Crowley’s prick and sucks like he was born for it.

“Oh!” Crowley screams, and his fingernails scratch Aziraphale’s scalp, and he groans delightedly. “Fuck, f-fuck, FUCK, Aziraphale!”

And then Crowley’s coming, spilling in his mouth, and Aziraphale swallows him down, sucking his cock until Crowley mewls, pushing at his shoulders as he trembles with the aftershocks.

When he finally straightens, gently lowers Crowley’s legs from his shoulders, and glances at the stunning man beneath him, the breath is nearly knocked out of him again.

Crowley’s exposed skin, the bits of flesh that are not covered by his harness, is flushed and hot to the touch, dewy with sweat. His mouth is parted as he struggles to even his breathing with big, damp puffs of air. His gown flows beneath him and down to the ground. His hands slowly loosen their grip on Aziraphale’s hair, moving instead to wrap around his shoulders and pull him down for an open, filthy kiss.

Kissing is something Aziraphale has always been a big fan of, but he has never liked it as much as he does when it’s Crowley he’s kissing. Their mouths fit perfectly together. Crowley often pouts his lower lip so that Aziraphale can suck it between his, swiping his tongue across it until Crowley tugs it into his own mouth and nips at it, all the while making wet little noises that go straight to Aziraphale’s prick.

Still holding Crowley by the hips, Aziraphale pulls him up and sits back down on his chair with Crowley’s legs straddling him, the front of the gown pushed to the side showing off his cock, slick with Aziraphale’s spit.

“My dear,” he begins, tucking one stray lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear, but then Crowley grips his shoulders and grinds down against him, forcing a choked-off moan out of Aziraphale. His neglected cock makes itself known again, straining against his trousers, and Crowley smirks wickedly, an enticing gesture that quirks up the corner of his equally enticing mouth.

“Can’t have all the fun myself,” Crowley pants, breathless. The movement of his hips is serpentine, a dancing sin, the artwork of a tempter, and Aziraphale has fallen like a shooting star, fast and headfirst, into the jaws of the snake, and he would not have it any other way.

He grabs Crowley’s pretty arse, kneads the flesh on his hands, sinks his fingers on his cheeks and pulls at them to hear Crowley moan shamelessly, grinding down harder against him.

“Aziraphale,” he whines, and his cock is starting to harden again, and Aziraphale’s mouth waters.

“You’re so beautiful, darling,” he mumbles, pressing his lips to Crowley’s pulse point to suck a bruise onto his neck. It is such a contrast to feel both Crowley’s arse on his hands and the mesh fabric of his gown brushing against the backs of his palms, but it is a contrast that only heightens Aziraphale’s arousal.

Crowley whimpers, a high-pitched sound that makes Aziraphale shiver. He realises, suddenly, that he has not paid attention to Crowley’s chest, to his cute nipples, and that will simply not stand. He does so love to lave them with his tongue, pinch them between his fingers, tug on them with his teeth until they are hard and flushed.

Reluctant to let go of his arse, Aziraphale uses one hand to scratch lightly over Crowley’s right nipple and wraps his lips around the left one. Crowley’s response is immediately, canting his hips upwards with such strength, Aziraphale is tempted to hold him down again, to keep him still while he thrusts up against him, giving his cock the friction he desperately craves. Oh, but it’s not Crowley’s fault, and Aziraphale knows it. His darling has such deliciously sensitive nipples, he knew what he was in for.

“Hngh, ang—Aziraph—ngh!”

“Hush, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, trailing kisses from one nipple to the other and then to his breastbones, his collarbones, every bit of skin that is exposed and bared for Aziraphale’s mouth to mark.

Crowley pushes back against Aziraphale’s hand on his arse, and one of his fingers slips and presses slightly, just barely, really, completely unintentionally, to his slick rim.

Crowley lets out a wounded noise.

It can’t be. It can’t possibly… But it is…

Aziraphale pulls back from Crowley’s chest and stares at him. His dear boy’s eyes are closed, his brow furrowed in ecstasy, one of his sharp canines fiercely biting down on his lower lip. Could it be…?

He grabs Crowley’s arse with both hands once more. His finger pushes tenderly between the globes of his cheeks and finds his hole, tracing the outside of it before pressing so easily, so smoothly inside.

Aziraphale gasps, the sound deafened by Crowley’s broken moan.

“Oh, my dear,” he breathes as Crowley pushes back against his finger, trying to pull him deeper, sucking him greedily. “Is this part of your surprise?” he wonders, and he asks the question with his teeth grazing the sharp line of Crowley’s jaw. “Were you hoping for this?”

“Fuck yes,” Crowley growls, not even pretending to deny it. He’s flushed all over, the exposed patches of skin painted pink and bearing the purpling, blossoming marks left by Aziraphale’s mouth. His nails dig into Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he hisses with the pleasure of it. “Wh-why else would I—ah—w-wear this if I wasn’t gonna s-show it to—ngh, fuck, fuck, angel—”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Crowley’s chest. He glows at the words, at the thought of Crowley buying and wearing this for him, at the mental image of Crowley preparing himself before changing into his pretty lingerie. Did he tease himself open on the bed they share, his legs spread wide, feet against the mattress, moaning Aziraphale’s name? Did he stroke himself, picturing Aziraphale above him muttering words of praise and encouragement? Was he on his knees, perhaps, wishing Aziraphale were pressing him down to the bed, draped over him as he thrust into him?

Crowley shoves his hips forward, and Aziraphale is so close himself, half a second away from coming in his trousers. He slips a second and then a third finger inside Crowley, scissoring him open, curling the tip of one of them until Crowley keens, his back arching beautifully.

“Angel,” he whines, sweat dampening his hair and beading down his temples. Aziraphale wants to lick it off him. “Angel, fuck me, please fuck me…” Crowley’s hands move down to Aziraphale’s trousers, nimble fingers undoing the button and zip to pull out his cock soaked in precome, and Aziraphale swears. “Want your cock inside me, I’ll take it so good, make you feel so good, please…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale moans. “I know you will, sweet thing.” He pulls his fingers away, shushing Crowley’s hiss with a kiss. He strokes himself, smearing his own precome and what slickness stuck to his fingers over his prick, and then he takes Crowley’s lovely, finger-bruised hips through slits on his gown and drags him forward.

Crowley does not need to be persuaded. He lifts himself up on his knees, holding Aziraphale’s cock in one of his hands, and sinks down without any patience whatsoever, immediately taking Aziraphale to the hilt.

They both groan out loud, pushing their mouths together as Crowley begins to move, fucking himself on Aziraphale’s cock. He’s so tight, so hot inside, his body clinging to Aziraphale like a vine, and Aziraphale thinks—a bit hysterically, and certainly not for the first time—that he would like to spend hours like this, letting Crowley ride him or fucking him into the bed or having Crowley fuck him, whatever Crowley wants, as long as their bodies can remain entwined like this, joined together with the sole purpose of bringing pleasure to each other.

Crowley swivels his hips, impaling himself on Aziraphale’s prick until the head grazes his prostate, and he arches into Aziraphale and does it again, over and over and over again, driving Aziraphale mad with ecstasy.

He’s not going to last much longer, and he has a feeling Crowley won’t, either. Oh, how he wants to make Crowley come again, wants to watch him come undone this time, and he grips his hips and thrusts into him hard and fast, at Crowley’s preferred pace, relishing the slap of the back of Crowley’s thighs against his, the sound of his darling boy’s short, panting breaths.

“Will you come again for me, Crowley?” Aziraphale licks his palm and wraps it around Crowley’s cock, spreading the beads at the slit over the head. Crowley screams, and although his hips stutter, he does not stop, simultaneously fucking himself on Aziraphale’s cock and into his slick hand. The blush on his cheeks is so breathtaking, so sinful, and Aziraphale leans forward to pull his pouting bottom lip between his teeth. “Will you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Crowley whimpers, his arms wrapping around Aziraphale’s neck so he can grasp a fistful of his hair and tug him into another kiss. “Ngh, Azir—angel, I’m—fuck, ‘m gonna—”

“Yes…” Aziraphale strokes him faster, fucks him harder, his own climax rapidly building in his pelvis, but he wants Crowley to come first. “Come for me, you gorgeous thing.”

Give me all of you, he doesn’t say.

Crowley nods his head fiercely and grunts a series of consonants from the back of his throat, and with one more thrust into Aziraphale’s hand, he comes with a cry, spilling himself over Aziraphale’s fingers and waistcoat, still perfectly, neatly done up.

It is the most erotic sight in the world: Crowley’s pink, flushed skin beneath his harness, his mesh gown pooled behind him and at his side, exposing his softening cock. He is beauty and temptation incarnate, as alluring as the forbidden fruit—Aziraphale never stood a chance.

It only takes him one, two, three more snaps of his hips, and then he’s coming inside Crowley, biting Crowley’s shoulder to try (and fail) to lessen the intensity of his moan. Crowley lets out a needy whine, and Aziraphale cannot possibly deny him, and he cups the back of Crowley’s neck and brings him down to swallow the noise.

They stay exactly like that for several minutes, exchanging wet, lewd kisses, tongues licking inside each other’s mouths and their teeth clacking together, their breaths hot and damp over the other’s lips.

Eventually, Aziraphale helps lift Crowley off him, petting his thighs when he winces with oversensitivity. Crowley sits back on his lap, his hands clasping Aziraphale’s shoulders to steady himself, and his eyes are still dark with arousal, and his smile is soft and so terribly kissable, and Aziraphale loves him.

Oh.

Aziraphale loves him.

He kisses Crowley again. There’s no room for those feelings in this Arrangement, but if he can go on pretending nothing has changed, it will be fine. It must be. He’ll make sure of it.

He pulls apart and can’t help smiling at the content, relaxed hum Crowley exhales.

“Y’liked your surprise, I reckon,” Crowley mumbles smugly, sated.

“Oh, yes, quite,” Aziraphale says, nuzzling his neck. “I very much enjoy you in lingerie, my boy.”

“Good,” Crowley sighs, shivering at the first press of Aziraphale’s tongue to his throat. “’Cause you paid for it.”

“Did I?” he muses, sucking lovebites onto the flesh.

“Technically.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t care what Crowley spends his money on. He has plenty of it, and if he’s not going to spend it himself, he might as well give it to someone who will. It’s part of their Arrangement—Aziraphale does not ask questions, and Crowley is in no way obligated to tell him anything. He owes him no explanations, and yet he often gives them, most times bringing Aziraphale a book or trinket he “came across” on the way.

Fuck. Aziraphale loves him.

“I also got some other stuff,” Crowley adds when Aziraphale moves to the other side of his neck.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Wanna see?”

Aziraphale has never said no to Crowley, and he’s not about to start now.

~~*-*~~

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insincerelycrowley · 4 years

Text

Setting The Alarm Clock

Summary: Crowley has finally woken up from his Lockdown nap, only to find that something very strange has been happening in his flat.

Word Count: 1980

Warnings: N/A

A/N: My contribution to to #AwakeTheSnake

Crowley hated mornings. So, it was particularly irritating that it happened to be a morning when he woke from his nap. At least, he thought it was morning, judging from the noise of birds nesting outside his window – annoying little buggers.

Crowley was just about to roll over and check what time (month?) it was, when he noticed something…odd. There was a strange smell to his flat. It almost smelled like someone had been - baking? That couldn’t be right though, could it?

Finally opening his eyes and levering himself out of bed, Crowley found that the smell was just the start of some unusual occurrences. Taking a good look around his bedroom he saw…almost nothing. All his furniture and belongings were gone apart from the bed and the bedside table. The table itself held nothing but his phone and a glass of water (which had not been there before he went to sleep).

Confusion mounting, Crowley left his bedroom, and promptly tripped over a pile of boxes left just outside the doorway. This was another thing that had definitely not been there before his nap. Peaking inside the box at the top of the pile, he saw that it was filled with some of the smaller items from his office. His globe, various astronomy books, and his prized sketch of the Mona Lisa were all stashed away inside. Something weird was going on here.

Intending to check his office for himself, Crowley stopped as he passed his plant room. Something was wrong. There was a distinct lack of fear coming from inside. Peeking into the room, he was horrified to find that it had been completely cleared out. There was nothing left but a few (still pristine) leaves on the floor. Something that felt a lot like anger clenched in his gut at the sight.

Pushing away from the door, Crowley entered his office and felt the clench in his stomach grow tighter. His throne was gone. Someone had taken his throne. If he was angry before, he was furious now. Gritting his teeth Crowley stomped back out of the office, and immediately doubled back when he noticed yet another empty space from the corner of his eye. Staring at the bare hallway floor where his statue of good and evil…wrestling…had once been, Crowley found himself thoroughly perplexed at how anyone had managed to get something like that out of the building without him noticing.

He was broken out of his confused musings by the sound of humming originating from his kitchen (absently he noted that it resembled Beethoven’s Symphony no. 6). Snarling and just barely resisting the urge to summon hellfire, Crowley went to confront whoever had invited themselves into his flat.

Striding into the room with as much swagger as a demon in silk pyjamas could muster, Crowley’s eyes widened when he found almost every available surface covered in cake. Looking around what had once been his kitchen, his gaze landed on the figure facing the oven.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale jolted at the sound and turned around. Catching sight of Crowley, he broke into a brilliant smile that made the demon’s heart stutter in his chest.

“Crowley! Oh, my dear I’m so glad you’re finally awake!”

Crowley stared for a moment, willing his brain to switch back online. He tried desperately to make sense of the scene in front of him, but after a few moments had to admit defeat and ask “Angel, what’s going on?”

Aziraphale’s smile only seemed to get brighter.

“Well I did tell you I’d taken up baking before you went to sleep dear.” Seeming to notice the state of the kitchen he chuckled and added “although I admit, I may have gotten a little carried away.”

Crowley blinked. “Yes, I can see that, but what are you doing here?”

Aziraphale seemed unfazed by the question.

“Oh, of course – well, it occurred to me that you’ve acquired a lovely collection of plants over the years. I was dreadfully concerned about what would happen to them in your absence, so I just popped in to check on the poor dears. I fully intended to go straight back to the bookshop when I was done, but…”

“But?”

The angel fidgeted slightly. “I may have become a little distracted, and never actually got around to leaving…”

Crowley fought hard to push aside the warmth blossoming in his chest. “So, you’ve just been living here while I was asleep then?”

“For the most part, yes. I have been out once or twice to attend to some important business, but I’ve always seemed to find my way back here.”

“I thought you said visiting was against the rules?”

“It was! The rules have been somewhat relaxed now. Households can meet under certain circumstances…and…I got worried when you didn’t call. I had to make sure you were safe.”

There was that warmth again, it was harder to push aside this time. Crowley sniffed and tried to appear nonchalant. “I left you a message.”

“I know, but I had to make sure – if only for my own peace of mind. However, once I was here, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Crowley felt a lump come to his throat. As he was trying to swallow past it, a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Wait – did you pack all my things?”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Crowley blinked again. The angel admitted it so easily, as though turning up to someone else’s flat and packing up all their belonging while they slept was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. “I-I’m gonna regret asking but –”

“Well I didn’t exactly know how long you would be asleep for dearest. I thought it best to just make a start and hope everything would be ready for when you woke up.”

Crowley had the impression he was missing a vital piece of information. “What – Angel, what on earth are you talking about?”

Aziraphale seemed to consider his answer for a moment. “While you were asleep, I started thinking about how there’s still so much that can keep us separated. This lockdown is just the latest in a long list. I know we’ve been apart before, and this shouldn’t be any different – but it is different now Crowley. I want it to be different now.”

“Different how?” The words felt heavy on Crowley’s tongue.

Aziraphale smiled. “The solution is obvious when you think about it my dear. After all, no one could ever object to us seeing each other if we lived together, now could they?”

The angel looked immensely proud of himself as he finished speaking. Meanwhile Crowley was having an extraordinarily hard time processing what had been said. He let out a string of cut-off noises before finally forcing out “So, what? You’re planning on moving me into the bookshop then?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Of course I’m not moving you into the bookshop my dear – the living space is much too cramped for both of us. No dearest, the bookshop wouldn’t work at all I’m afraid. Although I’m not sure that I can bare to part with it completely…no, I think I’ll keep hold of it as extra storage for my collection. Oh, and it would be awfully convenient for us to have somewhere to stay for night or two on the occasions we come back to London. You should certainly have the option of not driving back straight away if it’s late. Of course I suppose we could just as well stay here on those occasions – if you want to keep hold of the flat that is.”

Crowley felt like he and Aziraphale were having two vastly different conversations, but he was making a valiant effort to piece them together. “Whoa, Whoa, Angel slow down – what do mean when we visit London? And If I keep hold of this place? I’m trying to keep up here, really I am, but you’re gonna have to help me out a little.”

“Well I just thought that we’d need a little more space, and it might be nice to get out of the city – go somewhere quieter. Here.”

Aziraphale produced a travel agents’ brochure from underneath a plate of scones. Flicking the brochure open, he turned it towards Crowley, showing him an advertisement for a beautiful cottage. Voice brimming with enthusiasm, Aziraphale continued. “It has a garden, and plenty of space for my most treasured books - the view is simply breath-taking! It’s just down the road from the most delightful little bakery! Oh, and it’s close to a valley called Devil’s Dyke – I thought you would appreciate that.” He gave Crowley a wry smile.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times Crowley tried again to grasp where the angel was going with this. “Angel – I still have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Why are you showing me pictures of a cottage?”

“Well because it’s ours of course!”

“What do you mean it’s ours?”

“I bought it.”

“You – you bought a cottage?”

“Well – yes.”

“For us?”

“Yes.”

“To live in – together?”

“Yes, obviously to live in together Crowley, I wouldn’t buy a cottage just for myself, now would I?”

Crowley was silent for a long time, just staring at Aziraphale. Long enough that Aziraphale’s smile faded and he began to fidget under the scrutiny.

“You’re not happy.” The angel stated bluntly. “I knew I should have waited – and I definitely should have asked before just packing up your belongings! I had no right to do that. I shouldn’t have just assumed you would want the same thing. I’m so sorry…I-I just got excited, and I fear I’ve gotten rather carried away…”

“Angel, Angel, stop – I didn’t say I wasn’t happy, did I?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands together. “You’re not upset with me?”

“Of course I’m not – I’m just…. surprised. It was a surprise, that’s all.”

The angel hesitated for a moment before venturing “a good one?”

Crowley smiled softly. “The very best.”

Aziraphale visibly sagged in relief. He smiled at the demon before jolting upright with a sudden realisation. “Oh! I completely forgot – you’ve only just woken up. You must be hungry. Sit down and I’ll get you some cake.”

“I’m fine Angel.” Crowley tried to protest, but Aziraphale was already ushering him to sit at the breakfast bar.

“Nonsense – you’ve been asleep for months; you may be a demon, but you still need to eat something.” Aziraphale said placing a slice of sponge cake and a cup of coffee next to him. Crowley instantly lifted the cup to his lips to hide the ridiculous smile forming there at the Angel’s fussing.

“So, when did you want to move in?” The demon asked.

Aziraphale froze for a moment. “You’re sure Crowley? You’re not just indulging me? Because if you need more time…”

“I’m sure Angel, there’s nothing to think about. Just say when and we’ll go.”

Aziraphale lit up at immediately. “We can go whenever we want. I’ve been popping out to the cottage whenever I can to get it ready and move things over – there’s barely anything left to do. We could go now if we wanted!”

Crowley chuckled – “Well maybe we can wait until after breakfast, but if you want to go today then we will.” He paused. “So, go on then – I know you’re just dying to tell me all about it down to which curtains you’ve picked out.” He teased.

Aziraphale was all too happy to comply, and launched into excited chatter about their cottage as the demon felt the smile he’d been holding back break free.

Crowley didn’t need to see the cottage to know that it would be perfect. Anywhere the angel picked out for them would have been. The building and the location didn’t matter, Crowley’s home had always been Aziraphale.

#GoodOmens #good omens fanfiction #good omens #AWAKE THE SNAKE #Aziraphale #crowley #crowley's nap #fanfic

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ineffablegame · 5 years

Note

Can you do a fic for the road trip prompt?

@art-takes-time I feel I owe you an apology for three reasons. 1) I picked some of the worst possible destinations for a road-trip. 2) The jokes in this are simply awful. And 3) this is so incredibly cheesy.

Also published on my Ao3.

Road-trip

When they are finally properly married, Crowley insists they go on a honeymoon.

“It’s tradition,” he says, firmly. “Otherwise, the marriage could be annulled.”

Aziraphale skews him a skeptical glance over the top of his book. “I think we quite thoroughly dispelled that possibility, Crowley. Multiple times. In swift succession.”

For a moment, Crowley must make a heroic effort not to get distracted by fond memories. “Still,” he soldiers on, “the honeymoon is paramount. Think of all the places we could go.” Aziraphale dithers, looking like a turtle that’s been asked to vacate its shell, and he adds, “All the food you could eat.”

Aziraphale lowers his book and narrows his eyes with grudging curiosity. “What… where did you want to go, precisely?”

“Somewhere far away,” Crowley says. This path must be navigated with care, not a foot out of place, or Aziraphale will refuse in a heartbeat. “Somewhere with wide spaces and open roads and—and grand vistas.”

Aziraphale raises the book again in a pointed manner. “If you aren’t going to come out and say it, the answer is no.”

“Apple pie,” Crowley says, relentlessly. “Sourdough bread, biscuits and gravy, gumbo, lobster…”

“Out with it, Crowley.”

“Beignets.”

Aziraphale winces as that well-aimed missile punches through the chink in his armor. “I’ve never cared for the colonies.”

“Think of it,” Crowley insists, gently slipping his hands around the angel’s wrists, tugging them down. Aziraphale scowls, lips pursed. Crowley leans in until the tips of their noses touch. “A road trip holiday. Could be fun.”

“I grow weary of your wiles, old serpent,” Aziraphale mumbles, and kisses him, the stern line of his mouth already softening.

In the end, Crowley suspects it’s the beignets that did it. Aziraphale acquiesces, provided they make a stop in New Orleans. “For the history, of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley says, because he knows when how to quit when he’s ahead. He’s curious about the Voodoo scene, anyway.

It is, broadly speaking, a road trip. But when the only two occupants in the car (the Bentley, of course, miracled over the Pond in a staggering feat of occult power) are ethereal and infernal beings, roads as they appear on the map are more like friendly guidelines than concrete (or asphalt) rules. The road goes where Aziraphale and Crowley want it to go, and the time on the road lasts exactly as long as it takes them to wonder, are we there yet?

Aziraphale has acquired what is perhaps the world’s last disposable camera. He’s very proud of this technological wonder, Isn’t it amazing, Crowley? Look, you simply wind the dial and—

Crowley puts on an exasperated front, but he is secretly quite proud of the angel. Disposable cameras are roughly twenty years out of date, which is a fair sight newer than Aziraphale’s typical fifty.

It’s the little things, he decides, and flashes a sardonic smile when Aziraphale points the camera at him.

In New York City, they attend a Broadway musical about one of the nation’s Founding Fathers. Aziraphale is initially skeptical – oh, I don’t know about this, it’s nothing like Sondheim – but by the end of the first act, he is leaning forward in his seat, eyes rapt on the stage. By the middle of the second act, he is weeping. Crowley threads his fingers into Aziraphale’s, thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

Their last stop in New York City is at the Statue of Liberty. They stare up at her, disconcerted; towering, beautiful, pitiless, she bears a distinct resemblance to Someone Else they both know.

In Maine, Aziraphale gorges himself, cracking open lobster claws with the sort of zeal Michael reserves for smiting demons. Crowley watches, tension mixed with gut-molten wanting, as the angel luxuriates in the tender flesh greasing his fingers and lips. The demon’s mind is a welter of temptation and sin, and he cannot wait until he gets his husband back to their lodgings.

In South Dakota – of all places! – they stop at Wall Drug. After seeing all the signs peppering the highway, they couldn’t not stop at Wall Drug.

“Well,” Crowley mutters, “this is a distinct disappointment.”

“I think I recall you inventing this,” Aziraphale says.

“Nah. I never.”

“You did. We were very drunk.”

Crowley huffs a sigh. “Had to’ve been. I can’t decide if I’m proud or ashamed.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It does have a… a quaint, folksy charm, if you will.”

“Nnngh.”

“Oh, look!” Aziraphale points. “That giant horned rabbit fellow. You can take pictures sitting on it.”

“Angel, I swear to G—to Somebody—”

But Aziraphale has already swanned off to pester a pair of tourists, waving his disposable camera in their faces. After a blank moment of studying the ancient technology, one tourist nods. Aziraphale drags Crowley over and pats the jackalope’s white rump. “Up you pop.”

“I will kill you for this,” Crowley vows through gritted teeth.

His anger is short-lived, for Aziraphale scrambles up behind him and winds his arms about Crowley’s waist. The demon tries valiantly to glare at the camera, but – feeling Aziraphale snug against him, comfortable and ridiculous and radiantly happy – he can only muster a little frown.

They expect to be in New Orleans at some point, and so they are, geography be damned. Aziraphale, to his credit, remembers his excuses about history and leads Crowley through the French Quarter. He murmurs his appreciation at the colorful buildings, the intricate latticeworks of the balconies, the ghosts and shades steeping the very pavement beneath their feet. The air is a fug of garlic, seared sausage smoke, and sautéed vegetables. Occult energy sings through the city, the magic a spice on Crowley’s tongue.

Aziraphale turns into the first café they come across and orders a plateful of beignets. Crowley watches, later, as the angel licks fry grease and powdered sugar off his fingers. Later still, as they leave the café to wander the streets under humid starlight, Crowley tugs Aziraphale into a quiet alleyway and presses him up against the bricks. He kisses him, tastes the sweetness of his lips, his mouth.

They go to the Grand Canyon. Staring out across the vast expanse, Crowley suddenly feels very old and very small. But the look of amazement on Aziraphale’s face is well worth the reminder.

“It’s so… Oh, it’s just so…”

“Grand?”

Aziraphale gives him a quelling look. “Yes, all right, be flippant.”

“I would never.“

Aziraphale purses his lips, but his gaze softens as he studies Crowley. “Thank you. For all your wiling.”

“Knew you’d like it,” Crowley grumbles, aiming for surly. Sounding simply besotted.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand. The brush of his lips on Crowley’s palm is a blessing, an offering, the sweetest pain Crowley can fathom.

In San Francisco, they go for cookies in the Castro District. Crowley, who has been sneezing and sniffling ever since they set foot in the city, is marginally cheered by the sight of Aziraphale with an extremely phallic macaroon cookie. Bless him, the angel even ordered one with white chocolate and red sprinkles on the scrotum.

I love him, Crowley thinks, helplessly, as Aziraphale tucks in.

When they arrive back in London, Aziraphale finds perhaps the last shop on the planet that will send disposable cameras out for development. The angel expects the pictures to be beautiful, and so they are – exquisitely shot, each vividly colorful, each of a resolution that would make Sony and Nikon and Apple weep with envy. He puts them in a scrapbook, carefully labeled “Our Travels” in block letters, and gives it to Crowley for their first anniversary.

An inscription adorns the inside cover. ‘To my husband,’ it says. ‘I look forward to seeing all the wonders of the world with you.’

#art-takes-time #good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfic #long post #good omens word prompt #warning for naughty humor

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themanicmagician · 4 years

Text

Future GO Fic Snippet

Hey Folks~

Since this oneshot is taking a bit longer then I thought, here’s a sneak peak of a pair of scenes (subject to further revisions) to tide you over until its completion. We start out on an angsty note, but I tucked some smut below the cut 😘

~*~

Aziraphale is falling.

That must be what this is. It makes sense. He gave away his divine sword. He fraternized with the enemy instead of smiting him on sight. And, perhaps, his worst transgression of all: he lied to Her.

The humans are long gone, far from the gates of Eden. The serpent slithered after them. Aziraphale had watched him leave, a ribbon of black twisting along the dunes of sand. The angel had intended to follow—just to make sure the snake wasn’t going to stir up any further mischief, that’s all—when he was suddenly struck to the ground by an unimaginable pain.

He fought in the Rebellion, led a platoon of his own. He’s not new to physical pain. He all too clearly recalls when an unholy sword dug into the meat of his thigh, the excruciating torture that was battlefield surgery.

This is so much worse. His chest is searing, burning, like he’s being carved open. Is that what’s happening? Is God ripping her Grace out of his soul, wresting it back by force? He wants to apologize. To beg for mercy. Anything. But agony clogs his throat, and he writhes in the sand, clawing at his chest, trying to keep himself whole. The pain crests, and he loses all sense of time and space, dumb to anything outside of the hot lashes against his skin.

The sun vanishes and rises four times before the pain finally slopes off, and his mind is his own again. Aziraphale drags himself upright, and hobbles through the eastern gate, into Eden.

God’s despair has soured paradise. The flowers are wilting, foul-smelling clumps. The trees have all shed their leaves, and insects ravage their insides. Aziraphale stumbles to a stop before the nearest pool of water. It hasn’t yet dried up into crusted mud, but it won’t be long, surely.

Aziraphale reluctantly looks down at his reflection.

He staggers back. “Oh, God.” He chokes. His wings are white, pure white, as they’ve always been. He twists every which way, to be sure, and there’s not so much as a lone black feather, no clinging ash or sulfur. He hasn’t Fallen, after all. So then, what—?

With fumbling hands he unknots his robe and steps out of it. The pale flesh of his chest has been carved open with a molten gold, a single word branded across his skin in flowing Enochian:

Liar.

Aziraphale’s heart thumps with fear. She knows. Of course She does. Did he actually think he could get away with it? She’s omnipotent and omnipresent. She gave him the opportunity to redeem himself, to confess that he’d given away Her sword, and he’d lied about it.

Aziraphale traces a hand around the lettering, and winces at the residual sting. He should be grateful. He could’ve Fallen for his many transgressions. How many had been cast from Heaven by his blade, or on his orders? As demons, would they remember him still? Would they torture him for the eternal damnation he’d sentenced them to? Better to never be among them, to never find out the answer to that question. Things are better like this, certainly. Better to branded (like a beast), than Fall. He is grateful for Her mercy, he thinks, and almost manages to convince himself he believes it.

~*~

After the Ritz, they go back to Crowley’s. It’s Aziraphale’s choice. Once they’re in the Bentley, Crowley begins driving in the direction of the bookshop until Aziraphale, emboldened by his escape from Hell and perhaps three glasses of celebratory champagne too many, places a plump, manicured hand on Crowley’s knee and asks to be taken to Mayfair instead.

Crowley sobers for the lightning-fast drive, and Aziraphale follows suit before long. As lovely as the pleasant fuzz of mild intoxication is, he wants to remember every second of tonight.

The front door of Crowley’s flat is barely shut before the demon presses him up against it. He peppers kisses up Aziraphale’s neck, his jaw, before crashing their mouths together. It’s sloppy and frantic—they can’t get enough of each other. Crowley’s glasses go askew, and he irritatedly rips them off his face. They clatter off to the floor. Aziraphale groans into Crowley’s mouth, and drags his demon closer still.

He can feel Crowley’s need pressing hot and insistent against his thigh.

“Take me to bed, Crowley.”

Those wonderful amber eyes darken further with lust.

“Yesssss.”

Crowley scoops him up like he’s a damsel on the front cover of a bodice ripper. The romantic gesture steals Aziraphale’s breath, and he huffs incredulous, happy laughs into Crowley’s neck as he’s carried into the bedroom.

After placing Aziraphale reverently upon the bedspread, Crowley attempts to extricate himself from his stylish, too-tight pants.

“Nhrght—stupid—blasted, shitty, nrgah—”

Aziraphale watches him flounder and hop about for a moment, a fond, amused smile on his lips, before he scoots over to the edge of the bed, in front of Crowley.

“Let me help, darling.”

He finishes unzipping Crowley’s trousers. He hooks his fingers in the belt loops and eases the fabric down, slowly, inch by careful inch.

“Angel,” Crowley whines with barely-leashed impatience.

He’s wearing black briefs beneath. There’s a visible damp spot in the fabric. Aziraphale leans forward and mouths around the obvious bulge, his breath hot and wet. His tongue presses fleetingly against the fabric, tasting.

Crowley bucks, pressing himself against Aziraphale’s open mouth. “Fuck, angel. What you do to me.”

Then he’s kicking off his pants the rest of the way before tackling Aziraphale onto the bed. Aziraphale rolls his hips, and they both groan as their clothed erections brush together.

“Let me—I want to—”

Crowley’s hands dive beneath Aziraphale’s shirt, stroking his skin, squeezing the rolls of his stomach. They creep upward, closer to the brand.

Aziraphale goes rigid.

“Why do you wear so many blessed layers?” Crowley complains.

His hands retreat from Aziraphale’s stomach, but his relief is short-lived, as Crowley’s nimble fingers dart up to unbutton the front of Aziraphale’s dress shirt.

“No!”

Aziraphale clamps his hands around Crowley’s wrists. Crowley stills, one button undone around Aziraphale’s collar. Aziraphale’s heart pounds so loud he’s sure Crowley can hear it.

“Angel?”

“I just—not that. I’m not ready. Yet.”

He never will be, but Crowley doesn’t need to know.

“Alright,” Crowley says, withdrawing.

Aziraphale has fooled around with humans before (rather difficult to go 6,000+ years without being a little curious what all the fuss was about) but that’s all it ever was—fooling around. They were always furtive, illicit fumblings, where both men remained fully clothed, ready to straighten their ties and button their collars at the first sound of an unexpected interruption. He wasn’t thinking—love and lust had clouded his mind—and he’d nearly given away his darkest secret, just like that.

Once he’s calmed, he realizes his panic poisoned his arousal. Moments ago he’d been eager as anything, prepared to hilt himself on Crowley’s cock and ride him with abandon. Now, he just wants to bundle himself up again, and soothe his frayed nerves with a good book. Crowley sits cross-legged on the bed, more than an arm’s-length apart. He’s watching Aziraphale with unveiled concern.

Aziraphale fidgets with the balding velvet of his waistcoat, and bites his lip. “Oh, I’ve gone and ruined it, haven’t I?”

Everything had been going so well.

“No!” Crowley denies, sharply. Quieter, he repeats, “No.”

He extends his arm towards Aziraphale’s, reaching slowly for his hand. Giving him ample time to pull back if he wants. Aziraphale instead meets him halfway, and their fingers thread together.

“Whatever you want, angel.” Crowley says, his thumb stroking the side of Aziraphale’s hand. “Whatever you need.”

Aziraphale is awash with gratitude—and shame.

“I’m sorry. You’ve waited so long for me to...catch up, so to speak.”

Crowley let slip a low, wounded noise. “Aziraphale, you don’t owe me anything. You’re not obligated to do this—” He gestures to their current half-dressed states. “—if you don’t actually want to.”

Aziraphale clasps Crowley’s hand between both of his, and draws him closer. “No, I swear to you, that’s not it. That’s not what this is about at all.” He pinkens. “I very much want to be with you in the....biblical sense. It’s just…”

Oh, what to say? Not the truth. What good would that do?

“It’s just…?” Crowley prompts him, softly.

Dear, kind, wonderful Crowley. How will he look upon him if he knows what Aziraphale really is? What he’s kept from him for so long, too long?

He casts about for a believable excuse. His hands land upon the slight swell of his belly, and it comes to him.

“I am aware, and there have been comments acknowledging the fact that I am not, erm. In perfect physical condition. That I could stand to, you know.” Aziraphale pats his stomach. Crowley’s expression darkens. “Slim down a tick.”

“Who said?” Crowley growls.

Aziraphale glances away. “No one important.” He lies.

It’s all a load of tosh, for the most part. Yes, Gabriel’s comment about him needing to “lose the gut” had stung. But the Archangels have always found something to nitpick about him and his choices—be it his weight, his hobbies, his miracles. The hurt he felt was more in that he constantly sought their approval, and never managed to earn it. He received acknowledgement and recognition only for those moments he despised; he got an accolade for helping Noah construct the ark, and then slam its doors to a sea of faces.

Aziraphale likes himself, his body. He can change it easily enough, if he really wants to spend the miracle, but he is happy with the image humans have of him, of a silly little bookseller who gives warm hugs. Someone harmless and squishy that you can come to with any problems, and expect a plateful of biscuits, warm tea, and earnest compassion from.

Aziraphale twists the ring on his pinky round and round, praying for Crowley to believe him.

“I still want to do everything—anything—with you. I just need this,” He tugs down his shirt. “To stay on, during. If that’s alright.”

“Of course. If that’s what you need, angel.”

Aziraphale flashes him a grateful smile, and tugs Crowley over to him for a kiss. It’s softer than the kisses they’d exchanged moments ago. There’s nothing sexually charged behind it; rather, it’s just meant as a reassurance, a comfort.

The brand itches. Guilt pools hot and heavy in Aziraphale’s gut.

#my fic #bottom aziraphale #top crowley #aziraphale whump #crowley #aziraphale #chubby aziraphale #these scenes aren't actually next to each other in the fic but theyre the most complete #this fic shouldve been finished already but crowley and aziraphale just keep talking lmao #good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands

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mourn-not-for-the-owl · 4 years

Text

ineffable confessions

in which crowley makes a ‘social call’ and aziraphale makes a scene in public.

“angel!”

aziraphale looked up with a start from where he was sitting in the back room of his bookshop, poring through a box of old books he’d bought recently, repairing damage such as water smudges, rips, and any defacing. upon hearing crowley’s familiar nickname shouted through the shop, aziraphale briefly wondered what could have happened, but he calmed when he registered the tone- more that of someone excited to see someone in a generally pointless visit then that of someone in need of urgent ethereal help. “in the back, crowley!” aziraphale called back cheerfully, picking up another book and mending a scratch in its leather cover. when crowley stalked into the back room, aziraphale stood up and straightened his bowtie. “hello, crowley. what brings you here?” never able to stand still, crowley shifted from one foot to the other. “nothing much, just a social call, really. how’ve you been?” aziraphale tilted his head to one side. “i thought you didn’t really do social calls? what are you after?” even though he knew aziraphale couldn’t see through the dark glasses, crowley rolled his eyes. “come on, angel, have some faith!” aziraphale shot crowley a look questioning that statement’s advice. “well, how about some lunch? my treat.” despite his suspicions, aziraphale liked the sound of lunch. “alright,” he finally agreed. “where to?” crowley tilted his head as if trying to read aziraphale’s mind. “the ritz?” if crowley had been trying to read the angel’s mind, he had been successful. “c’mon, then.” so the two left the shop, aziraphale still trying to decipher the meaning behind crowley’s ‘social call’.

half an hour later, the two were sitting at their usual table, aziraphale eating some crepes, crowley sipping a glass of wine, having still not said what was on his mind. “scrumptious,” aziraphale commented. crowley started, having spent the whole time there thinking about what he wanted to say, turning it over in his mind. “hm? oh, yeah. crepes. delicious.” looking a mixture of concerned and curious, aziraphale studied crowley. “what’s wrong?” crowley fiddled with the tablecloth. “nothing, angel.” setting down his fork, aziraphale eyed crowley sternly, making the demon wriggle under his gaze. “fine,” he sighed. “i have something to tell you,angel, so please don’t say anything until i’m done.” aziraphale nodded, realising the importance of what crowley had to say. “i…” crowley sighed, trailing off as he tried to just say it outright, then switched tack. “you remember when we first met? in the garden?” aziraphale nodded again, watching crowley steadily in quiet anticipation. “at first, i thought you were just another annoying angel, another being who hated me. but then you told me you gave away your flaming sword…” crowley laughed bitterly, removing his sunglasses to rub his eyes. “i knew you were different then. and i…” any trace of even sarcastic mirth had left crowley’s voice as he flicked his burning yellow eyes up to meet aziraphale’s, which glowed like secluded moonlight pools. “i fell for you that day, aziraphale. i’ve fallen before, but this… was different. for one, i haven’t stopped falling since. i’m in love with you, angel.” aziraphale blinked rapidly, stunned, and opened his mouth to reply. but crowley wasn’t done. “and i know you don’t feel the same. agent of heaven or not, you’re still a bloody angel. i’ll never be good enough.” shoving his sunglasses back on to hide the tears welling in his swimming saffron eyes, crowley stood up sharply and dropped some money on the ivory tablecloth. “so i’m assuming our friendship is over,” he continued, voice cracking heartbreakingly. “have a good life, angel.” crowley started towards the doors like he was trying to escape. “crowley, wait!” aziraphale called, having finally found his voice again. crowley spun to face him, obviously crying by now. “if you’re trying to let me down easy, i don’t want to hear it.”

“crowley, no,” aziraphale started to cry too. “i’m not trying to let you down at all. i love you too!” by this point, aziraphale knew they were both making a scene, but all that mattered in that moment was telling crowley how much he loved him. “you do?” crowley stuttered, bewildered. aziraphale laughed softly. “of course. i loved you when i met you in eden. i loved you when you saved me in paris. i loved you when you saved me- and all those books- in london. i have always loved you, crowley. heavens- i thought you knew.” crowley stepped forward, shaking his head and laughing too. “‘course not! look at the two of us. ridiculous.” the two fell into each other’s arms, laughing, crying, and whispering “i love you” as often as they could.

781 words

#crowley #aziraphale #ineffable boyfriends #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #crowley x aziraphale #good omens

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prettybirdy979 · 4 years

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Fic: Aziraphale/Crowley “You’ve shown me what love can feel like.”

So I’m not quite willing to give up writing fic prompts even if not daily. For now I’m working off this list in no particular order. Feel free to suggest prompts you wanna see!

Crowley wakes up alone, blinking himself awake in the darkness. He stretches out, groaning as some of his bones actually bother cracking. Taking up the whole bed, he manages to get some of the clinks out of his form so he can actuall go back to sleep. It’s clearly too early to be awake.

He’s rolling over before something about the situation sets off an alarm bell in the back of his head. He sits up, wide awake.

He’s alone.

Where’s Aziraphale?

Sure Aziraphale’s not one to sleep - even Crowley’s rarely able to tempt him into it - but he’s always happy to stay beside Crowley as he sleeps. Crowley’s mornings always start waking up to Aziraphale beside him, reading a book or some other thing to occupy his time. Even if he does get up during the night, he's always miraclously by Crowley’s side when he wakes.

And now he’s not.

Crowley’s on his feet in an instant, clothes snapping into place as he grabs for the mister kept by the bed. Full of harmless water, but in this house no demon would dare assume otherwise.

He keeps his footsteps quiet as he makes his way out of the bedroom and down the stairs of their cottage. There’s no lights on downstairs but he can see a figure illuminated by the light of the moon coming through the window.

‘Aziraphale?’ he asks softly and the figure turns to look at him. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale asks blinking. He clicks and the light beside him turns on, making Crowley hiss and drop his mister as he tries to cover his eyes with his hand.

‘Oi! Warn a demon next time!’ Slowly Crowley lowers his arm and takes in the scene. Aziraphale’s standing by their window and apparently has been looking out into the dark for an undetermined amount of time.

Crowley walks towards Aziraphale’s side with soft, measured steps. ‘Are you alright angel?’ he asks, glancing out the window himself to see what’s out there.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him. ‘I feel like I should be asking you that my dear.’ He snaps and the light goes off, plunging them back into darkness.

This time Crowley’s eyes adjust quickly and he’s able to see their garden - his garden really but Aziraphale had argued for the apple tree - lit by the nearly full moon.

‘You see something out here?’ Crowley can’t shake the parnoid voice that’s been screaming danger at him since the moment he woke up without Aziraphale at his side.

‘Just your garden.’ Aziraphale sighs and leans against the window sill.

Crowley glances over at him. ‘Our garden,’ he corrects. ‘Just ‘cause I do the most work doesn’t mean it’s any less yours.’ He nods at the apple tree, almost as grand as the one they left in Eden and lets the darkness loosen his lips. ‘Everything I have, I’d give you to in a heartbeat angel.’

Aziraphale makes a noise, a wounded noise that has Crowley pulling him close in an instant. ‘Aziraphale?’

‘I’m fine,’ Aziraphale says, clinging to Crowley. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

‘Oh angel,’ Crowley says as he places a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, ‘you deserve so much better than me.’

‘How can you say that?’ Aziraphale says, pulling back so he can look Crowley in the eyes. ‘You who waited six thousand years for me, who would have died at my side in the end of all things without so much as a kind word to show you were not alone in your feelings.’

Crowley shakes his head and kisses Aziraphale, pulling back to whisper inches from his face. ‘I would’ve died a thousand times at your side before living a day without you.’

Aziraphale kisses him at that, a desperate kiss that he is the one to break. ‘I’m sorry I left you alone,’ he says and turns his head to look back out the window.

Crowley turns his head too. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I... I was thinking,’ Aziraphale says in the tone of someone who is aware they’ve just overthought something but is going to keep doing it anyway. ‘Looking at you and thinking...’

After a moment, Crowley prompts, ‘And?’

Aziraphale moves his head, forcing Crowley to turn his until they are looking each other in the eyes. ‘I remembered the days before Eden... and how lonely they seem to be now. I... I don’t remember feeling lonely then but looking back all I can see is how alone I was.’

‘Aziraphale-’ Crowley tries to interrupt, his heart pounding at the distress in his angel’s voice.

But Aziraphale keeps talking, voice going up a note as it does when he’s panicked. ‘And then I met you and suddenly... I’m not alone?’ He sounds so lost and Crowley holds him tighter.

‘You were a light in the darkness of everything,’ Crowley says. ‘I couldn’t bare to leave you alone.’

‘I know dear.’ Aziraphale shifts, snuggling in closer. ‘I... I was thinking and I realised... over all those years you stood by me and... and you’ve shown me what love can feel like.’ He buries his head into Crowley’s chest, speaking so softly Crowley can barely hear it. ‘I think before you, I don’t know what it was like to be loved by someone who wasn’t God.’

‘Oh angel,’ Crowley says, glad that tears are something hard for his body even as he blinks back the first of them. He kisses what he can reach of Aziraphale. ‘Who could resist loving you?’

That gets Aziraphale to look up. ‘Everyone, apparently.’

‘Besides me,’ Crowley says proudly. ‘Knew I was the sensible type.’

Aziraphale laughs at that, a quiet one that lights up his eyes. 'Yes dear. I really think you are.’

He drops his head back onto Crowley’s chest and they stay there, holding another until the moonlight fades and dawn breaks over their little slice of the world. Only then, with the light to banish the worst of Aziraphale’s thoughts, can Crowley bear to let go.

For the moment at least. He has no intentions of ever letting Aziraphale be alone ever again.

And one day Aziraphale might even believe it.

#good omens #My Scribbles #My Story #ineffable husbands #i am finally allowed to write straight cute and i put angst in #whoops

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tiredandineffable · 5 years

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A Proposal

Now I’m Very behind on fictober, as this is still entry #7 (prompt: “Can you stay?”; I had to adapt this one slightly). This one just ended up being an immense entry for me with so much I wanted to throw in. It’s also quite possibly the longest single scene I’ve written in a good while.

This is a continuation of the past three entries (part 1, part 2, part 3). One part left, y’all!

A huge thank you to my amazing beta, @eunyisadoran, for all her amazing work! This chapter literally could not have been done without you!

Rated G.

Summary for the whole work: Aziraphale just wanted to get her parents off her back about her love life. She did not plan on falling in love with her best friend and fake girlfriend along the way. Nor did she plan on getting fake engaged. But such is life, she supposes. Ineffable wives, fake dating au that Escalates to fake engagement au. All around, a good time to be had.

..............................

2 Years Ago

“Did she say what she was looking for?” Mr. Eliot called, perching neatly on the stool behind the counter.

“Tolstoy. Zira dropped Sevastopol Sketches in the bath and she’s panicking because she teaches pre-Soviet literature this Monday, well before library hours,” Crowley explained, taking the stairs two at a time and all but throwing herself into the classic literature section. War and Peace, Anna Karinina, but where’s the rest? “Do you keep Tolstoy in Classic Lit, or is he under general fiction?”

“I’m afraid that whole second floor would be labeled classic literature if it contained everything I believed to be classic literature,” Mr. Eliot sighed. There’s the sound of another box of books landing on the counter and a smile tugs at Crowley’s lips. This place can’t fit any more books, but then he goes and buys them by the box full. “I keep popular Tolstoy works under classic literature, but Sevastopol Sketches is under politics. If it refuses to be found, I’ll come up. Can’t very well have you going home to Aziraphale empty handed, now can we?”

Crowley trailed her fingers along the spines, letting the warmth of the shop settle in as she worked her way to Politics. “Definitely can’t have that. I think the dissertation is already getting to her. You won’t believe how rude her advisor’s comments were. He claimed she was romanticising Oscar Wilde.”

When she found the book, the cover was torn and water damage had built up from what was likely years of reading in the rain, but it was legible and beggars can’t be choosers so close to a deadline. Knowing that nerd, she’ll probably just call it well-loved.

“Did the man not romanticize himself?” Mr. Eliot asked. “Was his entire life not one grand aesthetic movement? One decadence upon another?”

“Exactly!” Crowley wandered about the second floor, finding herself once again in classic lit. Victorian literature is comfortable, she realized, because it remains one of the only things she and Aziraphale share. She might never understand how a point in time so overstudied in literature could feel so personal, but it did, somehow. Ours, she thought, fingers trailing over a green spine with gold embossing.

“At times I wonder if this dissertation is about Wilde at all,” Aziraphale had said, closing her computer with the certainty of someone who has finished, but the sigh of someone who never will.

Crowley looked up from her book with a raised brow. “How is your dissertation on the translational history of Salome not about Wilde?”

“It’s so much more than that. The first English edition? Alfred translated it from Wilde’s French, even though Wilde could have easily translated it himself. To even accept its publication in Britain was to accept the censorship of its illustrations. It wasn’t true to the French version, the version Wilde himself had created. It was all a compromise,” she said. Aziraphale laid back on the carpet, short hair falling about her like a halo, and Crowley was acutely aware of the tightness in her own throat.

“But after Wilde’s death, Robert Ross took on the thankless job of purchasing back the rights on every one of Wilde’s works, including Salome," Aziraphale continued. "Cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars."

Crowley finally shut her book to lay beside her on the carpet, looking up to the ceiling to avoid staring right at her. Aziraphale was beautiful like this. Her usual perfect posture had been swapped out for a much more casual sprawl, a symbol of some unspoken trust. They'd seen the worst of each other, Crowley supposed, so letting her guard down made sense. "Seems like a lot of money to spend. Was he hoping for royalties?"

Aziraphale had lit up at the question, shaking her head and rolling onto her side to look at Crowley. "That's the thing. There was no promise the books would even still sell after the trial. But Oscar had hated some of the changes made for publishing and Ross decided to fix them after his death. Salome in particular. Robbie made sure the illustrations weren’t censored this time, confirmed that the cover was as self-indulgent in its beauty as Wilde would have wanted, took out Alfred's name. My dissertation focuses on the translation, sure, but it is a study in Ross’s choices, not Wilde’s.”

Crowley brushed her fingers along the cover, the floral pattern larger than life under her touch. A cover as decadent as Wilde would have wanted. The restored illustrations are in such direct opposition to turn-of-the-century rules of propriety that it's any wonder the uncensored form got published in Britain at all. From cover to cover, the only credit Crowley found was to Wilde; Alfred's ties to the play had been severed completely. Ross's choices.

It's a tribute, Crowley realized. In her hands is a testament to Ross's self-sacrificing love. It is the product of countless fights against King, country, and publishing houses until Ross was sure Wilde would have been pleased. All this done in the memory of a man who had never loved him back. A man who never would.

An act of self-sacrificing, unrequited love.

She paid for both books quickly and tried not to read too deeply into the purchase on the walk home.

……………….

Present day

“Don’t see why this couldn’t have waited,” Aziraphale said, brow raised to emphasize the edge of doubt in her words. Part of the benefit of their agreement was that they could toss ideas for their theses back and forth without having to worry about classes the next morning or Crowley’s commute back to her own apartment. That’s where they should be, sitting on Aziraphale’s bedroom floor, brainstorming or complaining about whatever it was they had to write next.

Instead, she’s sitting at the front door, straight-backed despite her exhaustion and tugging on her boots for an excursion that is likely not appropriate for the time of night. “It’s nine PM, Crowley. The bookstore closes in less than an hour and I am very certain that you can simply download Jekyll and Hyde online instead of harassing the bookshop owner who, quite frankly, is likely already at his wits’ end with regards to our visits. And it’s very unlike you to go out of your way to purchase a book.”

Crowley rolled her eyes, reaching over Aziraphale for her bag. “Firstly, download? What kind of English student are you? There’s no romance in sitting around with my eyes burning, reading on my computer like some amateur. There are notes to be made through the margins, stolen glances to be had over the top.”

“This isn’t Dead Poets Society, Crowley. I’m rather certain your romanticism is not worth the trouble to Mr Eliot.”

“He likes us, Zira. He’s probably bored. It’s why he always asks us about our theses and gives us discounts when we go.” She pauses then, squinting down at Aziraphale as she tugs on her sweater. “Wait. Are those my boots?”

Aziraphale considered it, looking down at the boots before getting up to smooth her skirt out. There are so many things she’d borrowed and so many things Crowley had borrowed in turn. “Likely. I don’t believe I remember buying them. Although that sweater is mine, so I’d say we’re evenly matched.”

Crowley shrugged, lips curling up in a way that leaves Aziraphale’s chest aching with fondness. She’s fond of the way Crowley turns and steps through the door, swaying as if she has both too many bones and not nearly enough. She’s fond of how Crowley all but swims in that sweater, of how she’s rolled the arms up neatly to the elbows in order to compensate for the size. Most of all, she’s fond of the unspoken intimacy they’ve cultivated over the years. She rarely lets herself dwell on that last part; no sense in misconstruing friendly actions for romantic ones when her feelings are so clearly not reciprocated.

The sweater suits Crowley, she supposes.

God, Zira, don’t focus on that either.

……………….

She stepped into the bookshop and immediately forgot why she had protested this book run. It is utterly deserted and blessedly quiet, filled only with the dusty scent of well-loved books. She has spent countless hours sitting amongst the books with Crowley, debating the potential symbolism of some minutiae of Atwood’s latest novel or the relevance of Orwell in modern society. The bookstore holds both her most infuriating and most beloved memories of Crowley, tucked comfortably between its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

In the middle of it all, Mr Eliot sits perched behind the counter, passively accepting the shenanigans and arguments with learned patience. He looks up as she and Crowley step in. “Ah, such illustrious visitors at such a late hour,” he says, looking up from a pile of collectible Beatrix Potter paperbacks. “May I help you find anything?”

Aziraphale shakes her head automatically, speaking before Crowley can start up an inevitably long conversation. There’s no sense in holding up Mr Eliot more than they already have. “No, no. Crowley simply forgot a book and insisted she needed it tonight. Apologies for the late hour. I assure you, we won’t be a bother.”

“Nonsense. You two are always welcome to come in,” he insists, returning his attention to the books, while Aziraphale turns hers to Crowley.

Crowley, to her credit, has made no move to engage Mr. Eliot in literary conversation. Rather, Crowley is already halfway up the steps, bounding up the stairs two steps at a time. How could anyone still be so enraptured by the subject of their dissertation after so many years? Aziraphale sighs, ignores the pang of jealousy, and ascends the stairs at a pace better suited to individuals who were not long-legged beanpoles. Maybe I should have focused on Victorian horror too.

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale as she finally reaches the top, a handful of books already in her lanky arms. All are clearly too large to be the sought-after Stevenson novella.

“How are there no copies of Jekyll and Hyde under classic lit?” Crowley asks, her shoulders back, and hips tipped a little too far forward. Forced nonchalance. Crowley’s tension is clearly the result of far more than just a misshelved book. Between the kiss and the proposal, Aziraphale has put too much on her shoulders and this is the result. Guilt settles into Aziraphale’s chest, stamping out the bookshop-induced calm.

“You check horror and I’ll check general fiction? It has to be here, Zira. I have to get this shit emailed to my advisor by the morning or he might literally crucify me.”

“We’ll find it, Crowley.” She bites her lip as she walks through the bookstore, finding her way through on muscle memory alone as she worries. Crowley had insisted it was fine, even talking her into the not-proposal. But Crowley always did this, sacrificing her mental health to save Aziraphale, and in the grand scheme of that week, it all made sense. Crowley had listened to the “80’s Songs for Self-Pitying Dumbasses” playlist no less than 14 times in half as many days on their shared account and Aziraphale, perhaps the true dumbass in this whole situation, had assumed Crowley was beating herself up over her latest publication draft. Aziraphale has to call this off. She can’t keep taking advantage of Crowley’s kindness.

Book first, sort-of-breakup second.

Stevenson should be an easy find. She brushes her fingers along the spines as she moves through the horror section. Jackson, Lovecraft, Poe, Rice, Shelley, Wilde.

Wilde?

She looks curiously at the misshelved book, running her thumb over gilded letters. Salome. The warm bookshop lighting illuminates the delicate gold floral pattern of the cover, brightens its soft green background, and Aziraphale’s hands shake not out of anxiety but out of overwhelming excitement. She flips through it with quick, light touches to the first few pages and inhales the words just as she exhales the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She skips over decadent illustrations, over publication details. And, impossibly, there it is.

A Note on “Salome” by Robert Ross.

“Crowley!”

“Did you find it?”

Something drops out as Aziraphale flips through the book, and she reaches for it just as Crowley turns the corner. She looks...hopeful, worried. Aziraphale looked down at the small envelope and then back up to Crowley, tears forming in her eyes because this is it, isn’t it? The proposal, ineffably cruel in its perfection.

Because it is perfect. It’s intimate and thoughtful and literary. She has no idea where Crowley would have found this edition in such perfect condition, nor does she have a clue how Crowley would have been able to afford it.

And then there’s the bookshop itself. It has borne witness to their very history, from the earliest days of whatever this is, cataloguing every laugh and shelving every fight. If this were real, if Aziraphale and Crowley had actually been together for three years and Crowley had proposed right then, things would be fine. Because the library would have been theirs. Ours.

It’s where I fell in love with you. With your red curls and your too-loud laugh and the way you complain about books with bad covers. Its where I realized that every bookshop felt too quiet without your commentary. Did you notice how I dragged you here whenever I felt like shit, because I wanted my favourite person in my favourite place? How I snuck glances at you while you read because I’ve spent every school holiday over three years just fighting the urge to kiss you against the shelves? I have ached and I have ached and I have ached for any of this to be real, for you to feel even an iota of the love I do for you. I have done so amongst these books, these shelves, and these words.

And now you mock me with it.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sounds about ready to break and she knows it. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Watching Crowley’s face in that moment is like watching a person simultaneously go through the five stages of grief. She wets her lips, parting them to say something but seemingly not finding the words, her brows furrowing only to smooth out. Instead, she stands frozen, sharp edges barely held together, quiet as if deciding how to act without pushing Aziraphale any further. She finally takes a step, tentative and awkward with stiff knees, looking down at her feet.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Aziraphale almost laughs despite the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Dearest Crowley, how the hell was it supposed to be, then? Had you intended to hurt me more, to make things worse? Was there some silly detail you missed that would have truly put the nail in this coffin? I can’t imagine there’s much else you can do to toy with my emotions. You truly did your homework, checked all the boxes. Bravo. Perfect show. You outdid yourself with this one.”

“Is that what you think this is? Do you think any of this has been easy for me?” Crowley’s entire demeanor has changed, her shoulders rising not with their usual anxiety but with the frustration that comes with years of suppressed hurt, exploding all at once. “I almost drove home three times this week because the thought of doing this and seeing you react the way I had imagined was excruciating.” Crowley reaches for the envelope on the ground and pockets it, not looking back as she walked down the stairs. “Congrats on somehow making it fucking worse.”

“Can’t you stay and address your mistakes like an actual adult?” Aziraphale calls back. She won’t give her the satisfaction of running after her.

“My mistakes?” Crowley stops on the last step at the bottom of the stairs. “Want to hear about my mistakes? I fell in love with you. Not even a year into this. I stayed because it wasn’t fair that you’d have to deal with your parents just because I got a crush. Then I stayed because I couldn’t risk losing my one shot at doing all the dumb little romantic shit that I wanted to do with you, even if it didn’t really mean anything. Then I stayed because I thought maybe, one day, it might actually mean something.” Crowley sighs, tugging her coat on a little tighter with her hands clenched in the fabric, her voice too thick. “So no, I won’t stay.”

“Would you stay if I said I did too?” Aziraphale doesn’t know where those words came from, how she spoke them so confidently despite her wet lashes and shaking hands. She takes a breath as she slowly works her way down the steps, leaning on the hardwood railing. Now she’s the one being overcareful, stopping a few steps short of where a tightly wound Crowley still stands. Aziraphale is suddenly very aware of how ready Crowley is to run.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, angel.”

Aziraphale laughs, short and bittersweet. “We were here one night, just upstairs. Mr. Eliot said we could stay as late as we wanted so long as we locked up before going home. You wanted to power through, finish up some presentation in time to get comments from your advisor because you insisted we should get some time to ourselves on this trip. So you sat there and you worked, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, really, because I kept thinking of what it would be like to crawl over and just kiss you. Which is ridiculous, because we’d kissed a handful of times that day for show. But I wanted…” She feels the curl of her lips, a breath escape between words. “I wanted to kiss you until you forgot about that presentation entirely. Until it meant something to us both.”

Crowley turns a bit towards her, wiping roughly at her face with shaky hands and God, even looking like an emotional wreck, Crowley is somehow the most beautiful person Aziraphale has ever seen. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You could right now,” Crowley says, looking into the otherwise empty shop beside her in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact. The soft hiccuping breaths, a remnant of some shouting they’ve both come to regret, have squandered any attempts at looking cool and collected. Crowley is trying all the same. “Kiss me, I mean.”

“Could I, hmm?” Aziraphale steps forward, her pinky reaching for Crowley’s own. Crowley, to her credit, takes her whole hand instead.

“Better do it fast or-”

There’s a little choked sound from Crowley as Aziraphale finally presses in, letting her hand tangle up in Crowley’s curls, pulling her in as she’d only dreamed of doing for...God, too damn long. Her lips press in hard, a little too eager, but neither of them is up for complaining when this is so long overdue, and it’s all more than smoothed over by Crowley’s tender brush of a thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. She had imagined how this might feel before, extrapolating from the limited data of their meaningless embraces, but she’d never before noticed the little things: the cherry taste of Crowley’s lip balm, the way she somehow eternally smells like coffee, the way she miraculously manages to be tender and hurried all at once. Too much and not enough.

She pulls Crowley in tighter but miscalculates the trajectory, accidentally bumping their glasses together. They’re both laughing by the time they pull apart.

“Wanna get out of here?” Crowley asks. She’s a little a little dishevelled and a little breathless, but she’s still brimming with her trademark teasing and Aziraphale wouldn’t have it any other way.

Aziraphale hugs the book to her chest. “Wherever you want to go.”

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nancywheelxr · 5 years

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i know half the fandom is writing these but could you write something about aziraphale and crowley the night after the almost apocalypse? maybe they go back to crowley's flat together? i just need more content and your writing is always perfect

Ooh, anon, I love this, everyone’s take on the missing scene is so valid, but I’m so glad to try my hand on it! Thank you so much, and I hope you love this one too!

The bus ride back to London is quiet and ordinarily uneventful; as if the World itself had exhaled deeply and retreated early after being forcefully faced with imminent destruction and escaping only very narrowly.

That sort of thing really does take a toll on you, Crowley thinks.

It also takes a few more minutes than necessary wandering the streets of London; first towards Aziraphale’s bookshop before Crowley remembers it burned down, then a couple contradicting turns around downtown before Crowley realizes Aziraphale is also doing the persuading but seems to have no idea where Crowley’s flat is or how to go about it on wheels.

Finally, the bus does what it always does when faced with confused passengers that don’t quite know what to do with themselves– it takes them to the nearest hotel, leaving shortly after with half a dozen people still inside wondering why on earth they detoured so.

“Room?” Crowley asks the receptionist hopefully, and she gives them a key without asking for any personal information. She forgets why Room 308 is booked seconds after they slip past her desk.

The silence hangs on steady during the elevator ride; it does try to play its usual cheerful elevator song, but Aziraphale huffs once, reproachfully, and it ceases and desists, properly remorseful, taking them straight to their floor.

It’s only when he’s finally inside the room, staring blankly at the bed and the quaint wallpaper and the tacky curtains that it hits Crowley.

Armageddon came and went, and yet they’re still here.

Freedom is a tangy taste on the tip of his tongue, intoxicating as a good wine, and Crowley feels drunk enough as it is.

“D’you reckon they’ll look for us here?” He says, sitting down heavily in what he refuses to think as his side of the bed. The blankets are a bit rough and a ghastly green color, but Crowley has just seen Satan get told off by an eleven-year-old, so he supposes his worldview can shift enough to allow for a bit of ugly in it.

“No, we bought ourselves a small reprieve, I believe,” Aziraphale answers absently, in that soft voice of his that shouldn’t travel so well in the space between them but does. He stays there, standing by the small desk as if considering the merits of remodeling the whole thing. “For all that it’s worth,” he adds even quieter.

Aziraphale looks tired, unbearably so, and it’s ridiculous how much Crowley wants to reach for him.

It occurs to him then, suddenly and striking, that there’s no reason not to, not from now on; however long that lasts.

“It’s worth enough,” he decides. Somewhere inside his chest, an unnamed emotion unfurls– well, not unnamed so much as ignored, stomped on, and hid snugly between his ribs where he daren’t look. Now, it flutters, and Crowley doesn’t have to breathe but his lungs still ache terribly. “Come on, angel.”

He leaves the invitation intentionally open-ended, lets Aziraphale choose how to interpret it. In his experience, all six thousand years of it, it’s best to let the angel be at his own pace; Crowley may prod and push, but ultimately it’s always Aziraphale that sets the tempo to their dance.

And it would be so easy– he sees the possibilities playing out in Aziraphale’s eyes, laid bare by their shared exhaustion and bubbling nerves from nearly dying mere hours ago.

Aziraphale smiles, a small and quiet thing that illuminates the room. Ineffable, indeed.

It’s a good thing Crowley still has his sunglasses on.

“Should’ve asked for a bigger bed,” is his only comment before taking off his suit jacket, leaving it meticulously folded over a chair. Crowley twitches, coiled tight on his skin, feeling drowsy and wide awake at the same time. “Are you planning on sleeping?”

Crowley considers this. He’s tired, exhausted, really, dead on his feet and his body still smells faintly of smoke and grease. “Yes, possibly until the next century if I could,” he says honestly, following suit and discarding of his jacket and shoes. After a minute of deliberation, the sunglasses go as well. “You?”

“I don’t normally indulge– never quite seen the point, truly– but if there ever was an occasion,” Aziraphale trails off, perhaps realizing there was no need for an apology here, or even an explanation. It had been a simple question, yes or no, and the answer is, perhaps, both a given and not at all, like many things regarding them are. “I do believe a couple hours of rest would do us well.”

The mattress dips, creaking as Aziraphale gets under the ratty covers, and Crowley sighs– the full-body kind, the we nearly died for good and where do we go from here? kind. You see, it’s a very heavy sigh. “I’m assuming we’ll figure out things in the morning, then,” he reminds him, thinking of the displeased, angry snarl in Beelzebub’s face and the incredulous one in Gabriel’s. They’ll be coming for them soon, that’s a given. “Regarding the whole implied doom situation.”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” Aziraphale says, almost shushing him, the bastard, and Crowley would have things to say about that, capital letters Things, too, if he hadn’t shifted, hand closing over Crowley’s in that tentative sort of way Aziraphale gets whenever he ventures in taking first steps of any kind, and it all gets jumbled in Crowley’s throat. “We’ll sort it out in the morning. Dawn is only a few hours away.”

Crowley sighs again. It’s as heavy as the first but perhaps a little shakier; his plants would lose all respect for him if they ever heard such a forlorn sound coming from his mouth.

They lapse into an easy silence, warm and familiar, lulling them back from the keyed-up state this whole Apocalypse mess had put them in, only broken when Aziraphale suddenly breaks into giggles. “It’s funny, isn’t it? When you think about it, now that it’s all settled.”

“What’s so funny?” He drawls, wary. This level of childlike glee is too similar to the cheap coin trick to be any sort of good.

“You and me,” Aziraphale says simply, like it’s perfectly obvious, “looking after some… some human child! For eleven years! And for absolutely no reason at all!”

Well, when you put it like that, and when Aziraphale is still giggling quietly into the night, Crowley supposes he can’t be blamed for cracking a smile or two, or snorting into his pillow. There are some things that are too infectious to be resisted– some types of bacteria, black mold, invading species in areas without natural predators, and, specifically in Crowley’s case, one very particular angel’s laughter.

“It was awful,” Crowley agrees, grin still infuriatingly in place, and gives up pretending today’s events haven’t shaken up things in the Arrangement and derivations thereof. His arm wraps around the angel, tugging him to his chest, and Aziraphale goes easily, no complain at all, if anything, he snuggles closer because his ultimate goal is clearly to end Crowley for good. “But it could have been worse, all things considered.”

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” Aziraphale sounds almost wistful, as if he’s reminiscing a time long past and not the blink of an eye for immortals like them. “Then again, it wouldn’t have been half as bearable if it hadn’t been with you.”

The same viciously unnamed feeling from before swells on Crowley’s chest. It cackles, singsonging its name even though Crowley had refused to hear it the other hundreds of times during those 6000 years. It should not be possible for it to exist at all, not in Crowley and not over Aziraphale, and it should not be so light, and good, and true. See, those are not qualities you usually find in a demon.

Still, it grows.

“Go to sleep, angel,” he says, hoarse and too aware of how far from over this whole ordeal is. How it’s too soon to say to hell with it all and skip along to any sort of hopeful ending, to say anything along the lines they’ve been dancing around since the Beginning. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale relents with a final huff, relaxing further against Crowley, their hands remaining tangled, but something in his voice is insufferably knowing. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley agrees, and it sounds an awful lot like I love you.

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