#the same way aziraphale realised he loved crowley when he saved his books in 1941
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Guys I’ve made a breakthrough
(I’ll add more gifs later just- bear with me for a second)
Crowley didn’t fall in love in the beginning, no. He fell in love when he and Aziraphale were in Job’s cellar. Let me explain
So we all know Crowley is describing how he fell in love when he talks about making Maggie and Nina fall in love under an awning
We all thought it was referencing the first scene in the beginning where Aziraphale covers him with his wing as the first rainstorm approaches
But if you stop to think about it, you realise it’s only Crowley is under the awning, in this case Aziraphale’s wing. And they don’t face eachother. AND it’s not actually raining yet.
They’re side by side yes, but only Crowley won’t get wet, since Aziraphale can’t physically get under his own wing. (Unless magical shenanigans but yeah)
That’s why I think he’s referring to the first time they "ate" together.
Think about it, he talks about a "sudden downpour" and I don’t know about you but the storm that unleashes on Job’s house (is it even his house??) seems extremely sudden and violent to me.
And if you compare it to the way he makes the rain happen for Nina and Maggie, I think you’ll find it’s very similar
And I mean it makes so much sense! Just think about how much he loves watching Aziraphale eat! It was the first time he saw him eat, and they looked into each other’s eyes.
Ever since then he’s been madly in love.
#or at least I believe that’s when he realised he was#in a way or another#perhaps not even fully#the same way aziraphale realised he loved crowley when he saved his books in 1941#he was pining before already he just didn’t know it yet#so maybe it was the same for crowley#but that’s when he realised#i will die on this hill#good omens meta#good omens#good omens 2#good omens spoilers#ineffable husbands#good omens season 2#crowley#aziraphale#good omens season two#good omens 2 spoilers#good omens s2#anthony j crowley#a j crowley#crowley good omens
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There is much debate about the "fell first fell harder" arrangement between crowley and aziraphale. The main opinions are that 1.crowley had fallen from the start and aziraphale fell for him in 1941 when crowley saved his books 2.that aziraphale fell first when they met as angels.
Now i do believe that aziraphale showed quite an interest in angel crowley but in my opinion aziraphale truly *started* falling for crowley(as his love for Crowley was accretive through the decades and not just a sudden moment) when they met in the garden of eden(the same goes for crowley). I disagree with the first opinion as aziraphale has shown interest in crowley way before 1941. My problem with the second opinion is that angel crowley was fundamentally a different entity than demon crowley. Even though they might have shared some characteristics as one is the evolution of the other, they are two completely different personalities and for aziraphale to fall in love with the former doesn't automatically means falling in love with the latter.
Nonetheless the fact that aziraphale liked angel crowley might have been the reason he even approached him in his demon form(Which would only work if aziraphale actually realised that he had met crowley before which i'm not sure about).
Now about 1941, I believe his face of realization was not about him realising his love for crowley but him realising crowley's love for him after seeing a demon do something as selfless just for him.
#aziraphale#go2#good omens#ineffable husbands#web comics#screenwriting#crowley#character analysis#go 2 speculation#micheal sheen#david tennant
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@alphacentaurinebula said:
I’m actually not sure I have a firm idea of how long they’ve been in love - I’m super curious, what makes you feel so strongly about that particular timeline?
It's a few different things, but a big factor is just what I want to be true. I'm projecting, because a defining feature of my first queer relationship was both of us knowing that we were in love but not being together. I was a teenager and my parents forbid the relationship and like, I trusted them and I loved them and I knew they were fucking wrong and I didn't know how to reconcile any of that. Like Aziraphale, I was looking for this third way that didn't force me to choose between love and family or make a definitive statement about which of those sides of me was "right", especially because deep down I was terrified that the thing I wanted most was wrong. So instead of anything real what we had was this in-between space of plausible deniability, and that's where I think Crowley and Aziraphale live. The way they push up against a really fucking thin line between what is and isn't allowed speaks to that experience for me.
With that in mind, it isn't a particular timeline I'm set on so much as a particular dynamic. I'm not sure when they fell in love and I think it probably happened so slowly that neither of them could tell you either. But I think they've both been conscious of the unspoken feelings between them for a little while, at least. I'm not sure about Crowley's timeline for this but I'm pretty sure that Aziraphale thinks Crowley figured it out first. His "you go too fast for me" line only makes sense if he thinks Crowley is ahead of him. I'm inclined to trust Aziraphale's judgment on this, if for no reason other than that the line loses a lot of its power if he's wrong.
I have a pretty firm headcanon that Aziraphale realised what was between them in 1941 when Crowley came for him in the church, because allegedly that has been Michael Sheen's belief since season 1 and who am I to argue? I think the way season 2 expands on that night backs this up. I mean, you have Crowley and Aziraphale being pursued by Nazis, and a photograph of them together almost gets Crowley condemned to Hell. The implications are not subtle. They've worried about their association putting them in jeopardy before, but this is the first time there's been a real immediate threat based on it, and it feels appropriate to me if it happens right when they're finally on the same page about what they mean to each other. (Notably, I think this is also the first time they're mistaken for a couple, by Furfur. I'm not totally sure about that though.)
So maybe this is when Aziraphale realises he's in love, or maybe he already knew how he felt, and Crowley saving the books was when he realised Crowley loved him back. Whichever it is, the way he looks at Crowley with the music swelling around him just blatantly seems like a realisation to me. Something shifts in the way he sees Crowley in this moment. It makes me think of the Princess Bride:
That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, "As you wish," what he meant was, "I love you."
(God I'm suddenly completely obsessed with the parallels between Crowley/Aziraphale and Westley/Buttercup. Aziraphale getting Crowley to miracle away paint stains 🤝🤝🤝 Buttercup making Westley pass her a pitcher that's right in front of her. Amazing.)
So yeah, I don't know exactly when they fell in love and I don't think they do either. I think it happened at some point between 2500BC and 1941, so, you know, I'm not exactly pinning myself down there lol. I assume that Crowley is ahead of Aziraphale in terms of falling and understanding that he has fallen, and I assume that Aziraphale has all the pieces by 1941, which gives me a few good decades to play in that plausible deniability in-between space that I like so much.
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My Good Omens headcanon - this part is titled "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, THEY DIDN'T KISS IN 1941"
(as always these are nothing but my thoughts and my headcanon)
I would be really, really upset if we eventually discover that either Aziraphale or Crowley have kissed anyone before (including each other), or had a romantic incident in their life before (including with each other) before what we got to see. I can see a lot of people are saying they could have almost kissed in 1941 (like, not just accidentally, but aware of being in love) but I don't like that. The beauty of season 2's plot and flashbacks was allowing us to see their moments of realisation and the culmination of the realisation that they are in love.
Aziraphale realised he loves Crowley in the church in 1941 but couldn't admit it, perhaps not even to himself (you go too fast for me, Crowley). Perhaps he realised then how much he actually liked Crowley after all, without realising it was love. Perhaps he did realise it was love. I don't know. Anyway - That was the moment when knew, deep down, that it was love.
For Crowley it wasn't so hard to admit he liked Aziraphale and Aziraphale's company. But he only realised it was a "love" love in the conversation with Nina when Aziraphale is inviting people to the ball. That was the moment for Crowley.
Then when Crowley voiced it to Aziraphale either Aziraphale knew he love-loved Crowley and panicked thinking "not now, not like this", OR that was the moment in which he realised on the surface what he had already realised deep down in 1941. I'm not sure which.
In either case it's obvious that the kiss changed Aziraphale in the same way that the ox ribs changed him forever. I don't see him in seasons 1 and 2 as someone who has already kissed or almost kissed Crowley in 1941.
It would diminish their growth as characters if suddenly we found out that "hey, all that unquestionable realisation of their feelings and overt manifestations of love that you saw - that was not really the real thing. The real thing happened in 1941 and we just kind of chose to show you a lot of other scenes from the past but not that one, thanks bye".
The scene in 1941 that was shown in s1 was pertinent to what needed to be shown then (Aziraphale doesn't have Agnes Nutter's book but he knows how important that book is, Aziraphale loves his books of prophecy so much that Crowley remembers to save the books while Aziraphale saves their lives) (conveniently the scene ALSO shows us that Aziraphale is good but gullible, Crowley is always there to rescue him, Aziraphale does huge heart eyes, that these two go a long way and know each other very well, etc).
Then we got back to 1941 to develop it further because the plot of season 2 revolves around their relationship and how their trust in each other was built and strengthened. And, of course, s2 also gives a lot of attention to their slow burning romance and their difficulties in communication.
Now... If they ever almost kissed, like, if there is a scene in season 3 set in 1941 showing that they had already realised they loved each other and perhaps even confessed it to each other in 1941... Well, I'd feel cheated if the show chose to only show us such a scene in s3 and not in s2, where it belonged.
I don't think season 3's plot and themes revolve around them realising and confessing their love. That was the plot and the theme of season 2. Season 3 is about the dealing with the consequences of them realising and confessing their love in season 2, and with them dealing with their choices and moral stances about heaven and earth and the second coming. Season 3 will further develop their relationship to NEW places, not go back to "hey they actually already knew they were in love". That's just not interesting anymore, it's been thoroughly tackled in season 2, now let's move FORWARD.
The plot of season 3 (I think) will be (or should be) the corruption of heaven. (and hell, i guess, but then again, what is hell, by definition, if not corruption?). And the second coming. Corruption of heaven and the second coming. Those are the main "plot driving" aspects of s3 (I think).
And concerning Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship the plot in season 3 should be about them coming to terms with all the mess in heaven and hell and all the consequences of the s2 finale that COMPLETELY changed their dynamic: THAT scene closed a chapter forever and marked the beginning of a NEW chapter in their relationship, something they NEVER really dealt with before, and they will have to deal with now, for better or for worse.
That's why it makes a lot of sense to me to dig deeper into Lucifer's rebellion, Crowley's fall etc. S3 should expose the cracks in the system. And there is a huge emotional anchor between that and Crowley's past, so it makes for great storytelling
Of course we are always into more flashbacks of Aziraphale and Crowley through the ages, and there can (and should) be a lot of romantic undertones in them, but I don't want them to "realise" they're in love in new flashbacks. New flashbacks should give us context to their present day challenges (aka s3 challenges and not s2 challenges).
#neil gaiman#ineffable husbands#ineffable dumbasses#good omens thoughts#good omens#aziracrow#aziraphale#Crowley#good omens spoilers#good omens flashbacks
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Summary:
“Angel,” Crowley draws out, dragging the word along behind him as he somehow manages to emulate a snakes slithering while in human form along the north corridor—between the shelves with books on space and science-fiction—looking at their contents suspiciously. “Is that—it—is that a 3D model of the moon? How—where did you even get that?”
Aziraphale bounces a little on the balls of his feet. “I do know how to use the internet dear,” he says, somewhat proudly. “I even have accounts on a handful of websites not dedicated to books.”
Read below or on AO3
Humanity has knowledge of angels only in the most basic sense. They know names, designations, and who created them. They do not know much more than that. It is for this reason—and this reason alone—that Aziraphale has continued to not smite any humans even when they touch his books. His very precious books that matter to him in ways he cannot hope to begin to explain and are absolutely paramount to his future. Or, the future he would like, at any rate.
When he first begins this endeavour—back in 1800 with an empty shop floor and shelves just waiting to be filled—he doesn't realise the driving force behind it all. How could he? It's not like it is a standardised process with clearly defined stages. Every angel differs in their approach. And no angel ever talks about it. Ever.
It has taken him far longer than he is comfortable with admitting before it dawns on him, one morning in 1941 just what it is that he's doing. Well, no, that's not strictly true. On an abstract level—separate from his daily actions and the like—Aziraphale has known all along what he's doing with the bookshop. It's more that he just didn't want to admit it to himself and see the bookshop—and everything associated with it—in a different light. The days that follow the church bombing are — to put it finely — some of the most stressful in Aziraphale's life. And he's lived a long life.
Going through his books, noticing the titles, genres, authors, where they were placed, and what time he procured them—the pattern of it all—it's enough to drive anyone to distraction. For Aziraphale however, it simply drives home an incontestable point, one he accepts with the kind of soft reluctance someone who wants something but doesn't wish to admit they want it expresses.
Aziraphale is familiar with this feeling—has known it since the day a demon wandered up the wall and struck-up conversation with him about humanity—but he still rebels a little against it. Against what it means.
Aziraphale is an angel.
An angel does not nest with books and soft blankets and sofas and an oculus perfectly placed to let in sunlight at all times during the day.
An angel especially does not nest in such a manner for a demon, even one as unique as Crowley.
But Crowley… Crowley is certainly worth nesting for, Aziraphale feels. He was an angel once—though this is a sore topic of discussion for the demon and thus is avoided by Aziraphale even though he absolutely bursts with questions of Who He Was Before—and, as such, would understand the purpose of Aziraphale's behaviour without the confusion of a human. Crowley is adaptable and a constant presence in Aziraphale's life, even when they argue about something or end up in a bit of a snit with one another. Heaven knows—well, they don't, but it's the phrase that counts—Crowley has saved Aziraphale's life several times over; from France to Istanbul (a nasty affair neither of them discuss) and—well—London. It makes Crowley—for all his demonic ways—a very attractive individual, saving Aziraphale all the time like that.
Instinct. Oh how Aziraphale wishes to hate instinct. But instinct had driven him to offer a wing for Crowley up there on the Wall, on one of the very first Days, and instinct had made his chest feel warm with joy at the acceptance by the strange demon who did not conform to expectations.
Love is an angels greatest strength but it is also their greatest weakness.
Show an angel love and they will fight a war for you.
Really, that's precisely what Aziraphale almost ends up doing that day when the world didn't end.
Humanity showed Aziraphale a lot of things that heaven didn't. It showed him that desire isn't as sinful or wrong as his fellow angels always told him. It revealed to him secrets of sameness and difference and how excuses to be nasty are always there—that it doesn't matter if you're the kindest person alive, someone will hate you for it and you can't do anything about that except keep choosing to be kind. Humanity gave Aziraphale a million-and-one experiences that have helped him to grow and expand beyond what heaven allows him to be.
Humanity has given Aziraphale courage like he has never felt before.
Courage that he uses to embrace his feelings—even if he won't admit them to Crowley, not yet, not yet—and work slowly toward making the bookshop Perfect. He's sure that, in Crowley's mind, Aziraphale is a mangled mess of contradictory emotions and actions. Crowley's mind is right. But Aziraphale cannot—will not—do anything—admit anything—until the bookshop is Just Right and Fit For Purpose.
You see, the thing about angels is this: when they choose to do something, they have to do it Right. An angel cannot half-arse a job, put in a couple hours hard graft and call it a day with half the fence still unpainted, a window not installed, the door hanging by a hinge—no, an angel has to do up the whole house in a Specific and Perfect Way and won’t stop until it’s Right.
This, of course, is the problem. Or one of them. Because Crowley is there and he’s waiting and he wants and Aziraphale knows he wants because Aziraphale can sense it. But the bookshop isn’t Complete and so it has to wait. Crowley has to wait.
The books by the doors need to be perfectly arranged by order of first publication, the ones on the east corridor need to additions to them to fill in the gaps between philosophy and psychology—whatever those gaps might be, Aziraphale isn’t quite sure—and the west corridor? Oh that one is an absolute disaster.
No, no, Aziraphale must keep going and keep working until it’s Perfect and then—only then—can he present it all to Crowley and make the admission.
Although he cannot make the admission until the bookshop is complete, Aziraphale is more than happy to invite Crowley around, to have him drop in unannounced, and to spend time with the demon—his hereditary enemy. It is a mark of a good mate—in Aziraphale’s eyes—that what they create is visited often and approved of, even if it is far from complete. It is also a good mark to spend time outside the nest, to visit places and people and do things together or for each other—it shows a willingness, a capacity and desire, to care and do things for the pleasure of making their mate happy.
When Crowley gives him those soft, slight smiles—no more than an upturn of his thin lips most of the time—those are the times when Aziraphale feels like it may all just turn out All Right.
Hopefully.
Crowley has always asked questions, always been curious, this Aziraphale knows. It’s partly why he has so many books in his bookshop about every which thing he can find books about. From biblical lore to scientific texts written in a hundred different languages, to poetry and scripts and plays that haven’t been voiced for a thousand human years, all of it is for Crowley’s benefit. Aziraphale loves his bookshop because he has poured so much of himself into it. He loves it for what it represents. He loves it for the books themselves and for the meaning of them when he thinks of Crowley, nestled on the sofa, blankets wrapped around his long, lithe frame, serpentine eyes bright with joy, a book about space in Aziraphale’s hands as he reads it to the demon.
Yes, Aziraphale loves his books. He loves them very much.
He just so happens to love Crowley a whole lot more.
When Armageddon had been announced, when Crowley had called him up and told him that it was All Coming To An End, Aziraphale had looked about his bookshop for hours after, fingers tracing the spines of books like Voltaire and he had mourned the loss of them all. He mourned the loss of two hundred years’ worth of nesting and knowledge-building and love and effort and painstaking care. Crowley’s efforts to convince him to work with the demon to stall Armageddon appealed to him more than he wanted to admit—not so soon after hearing that he would lose this place and everything it meant to him and the potential of it all—but the hope, the infectious hopefulness of Crowley’s words, expression, the possibility of it ending out Okay had stirred Aziraphale to agreement.
Agreement that, standing in his bookshop once again—days after the Apocalypse-that-didn’t-quite-happen—Aziraphale finds himself eternally thankful for saying ‘yes’ to.
Because now he has time. He has time to keep working, to improve, to make it Better. He has time to work in what he now knows Crowley appreciates—green things, plants, life and potential, art and visual memories—between the shelves of knowledge; Aziraphale’s own offering of understanding, of answers, to the one who only thought to Ask Questions.
“Nice picture, angel,” Crowley says, leaning against the pillar nearest to Aziraphale’s desk. He hadn’t announced himself in any way until uttering those words so it’s no wonder that Aziraphale startles violently enough to knock his cup of hot coca off the desk. “Not so nice mess.”
Aziraphale lets out a sigh. “Honestly Crowley, I do wish you wouldn’t scare me like that, it really is quite rude, my dear,” he says in lieu of a ‘hello’ and snaps his fingers, miracling the cup back into one piece rather than a few hundred ceramic shards and the hot coca back inside the cup again and at a lovely warm temperature for imbibing.
“No fun otherwise, angel,” the demon comments, pushing off the pillar and sauntering over to Aziraphale who automatically—instinctively—looks the demon up and down. “Anyway, nice art—where’d you get it?” Crowley points with a thumb over his shoulder to the wall directly opposite Aziraphale’s desk; one of the few walls in the bookshop that doesn’t have shelves on it. “Been looking to get a copy of that meself but it looks better here than in my flat if I’m honest.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s chin tilts up a little even as a blush spreads across his cheeks, dusting his pale face with a light shade of red. He feels like his wings ought to be on show, fanned out and preening at the approval, the attention, from Crowley. “Thank you. I thought—well—I thought the place could do with—” he waves a hand in a sort of awkward gesture “—a bit of sprucing up, as they say.”
“Delacroix always was a bit of a romantic but he captured the scene pretty well,” Crowley comments, stepping up close to the print that hangs almost the entire height and width of the wall. His nose is close enough to it that his breath fogs up the glass for brief seconds. “Like his one he did of Michael more though; even if it isn’t really her. Trust humans to always get the names of angels wrong, eh?”
Aziraphale stares at Crowley, standing so very close to the print copy of mural he spent days looking for, and he doesn’t really process what the demon is saying until Crowley turns his head and looks at him.
“Ah—uh—no—yes, yes, sorry—yes,” he stammers, clearing his throat and blinking rather rapidly. There’s the echoing drumming of his heart—the human heart in his human form that is far too small to contain him and yet, somehow, it does—and Aziraphale feels like it may burst from the tempo it’s reaching as he continues to stare at Crowley. There’s sunlight filtering down from the oculus above at just the right angle to catch in Crowley’s short red hair, igniting the strands into a fiery shade that seems so well-suited to the passionate being staring right back at Aziraphale. His skin is pale like Aziraphale’s own—something neither of them had any choice in deciding when they’d been assigned these bodies—but there’s a sun-kissed quality to it across the bridge of the nose and just under the eyes across the cheeks. Aziraphale feels like he could very well lose himself in the vision Crowley makes in his all-black ensemble, stood beneath a column of golden sunlight pouring down upon him, highlighting every aspect of the demon who is more than just a demon.
“Aziraphale—earth to Aziraphale,” Crowley says suddenly and Aziraphale blinks. “You still in there?” Crowley smirks and Aziraphale stares some more. “Honestly, angel, you okay? Not got any more books of prophecy you’re thinking about?”
“No,” Aziraphale breathes, “no more books of prophecy, no.” He shakes his head a little, blinking a bit more viciously, and forces himself to stop focusing on all those details Crowley is absolute rife with. He needs to focus on his reactions not- not him. “Sorry, head’s a bit in the clouds.”
“Hmmm.” Crowley does his own bit of staring now and Aziraphale realises that the demon has pushed his glasses up to sit atop his head, revealing those large, overly-expressive serpentine eyes that Aziraphale does so enjoy looking at. “You’ve been like that a lot these past few weeks, ever—ever since—well—you know.”
“Armageddon?”
“Yeah.”
Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose I have, haven’t I?” He stands from the desk and moves toward the mural print, gaze somewhat distant, fingers fidgeting worriedly at his vest. “I suppose I’ve just—been thinking, that’s all. About a lot of things.”
“Want to talk about it?” Crowley’s voice is so unusually soft—gentle—that Aziraphale can’t help but think back on the last time he heard that same tone, on a bench in a quiet, sleepy, English town waiting for a bus to London. It feels like a lifetime ago. It was barely a week ago.
Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no, not really,” he says, voice quiet and he looks at the mural, raises a hand and traces the outline of the tree, fingertips leaving a slight smudge on the glass. “I’m afraid I’m not sure how I can talk about it right now.”
Crowley is silent. Too silent. Silence from Crowley always mean thinking. Of course, Aziraphale has always talked for both of them, pouring out word after word into the lull that always falls after Crowley has spoken. The demon speaks seldom unless he wants something, choosing instead to say much with his actions rather than his words—words for Crowley, Aziraphale has come to understand, are a weapon. Crowley is an expert with words but even an expert fumbles every now and then, striking at the wrong moment in the wrong way and losing as a result. Aziraphale isn’t quite sure what his weapon is; he uses words well enough, is good at tricking and cajoling, convincing and invoking favour or catastrophe. Perhaps Aziraphale’s weapon isn’t words, or actions, perhaps his weapon… perhaps it’s feelings.
The next time Crowley visits, Aziraphale has carried out a lot of Little Changes that culminate in a Subtle Difference which is noticeable but not Too Noticeable. They’re the kind of noticeable that happens when you’re away from home for a week or two, your family are looking after the place, and you come back to something different but you can’t immediately put your finger on what—it usually turns out to be a sofa positioned differently, a picture frame moved from its usual position, or, more interestingly, a strip of wallpaper that looks newer than the rest because someone tripped and threw coffee all over the original strip. Either way, there’s a difference and it niggles at you until you’ve identified it.
Which is why, in true Crowley fashion, the demon stalks around the bookshop, eyes taking in every little detail, comparing it all as Aziraphale tries to subtly watch. He’s not very subtle about it but he tries at least.
“Angel,” Crowley draws out, dragging the word along behind him as he somehow manages to emulate a snakes slithering while in human form along the north corridor—between the shelves with books on space and science-fiction—looking at their contents suspiciously. “Is that—it—is that a 3D model of the moon? How—where did you even get that?”
Aziraphale bounces a little on the balls of his feet. “I do know how to use the internet dear,” he says, somewhat proudly. “I even have accounts on a handful of websites not dedicated to books.”
Apparently this is a shocking revelation for Crowley who continues to stare open-mouthed at Aziraphale for far longer than is typical for the demon. Aziraphale wonders if maybe… he might have… surprised Crowley with this.
“Oh,” Crowley—finally—says. “Right—yeah—no yeah—that- that makes- makes sense,” he continues and Aziraphale is tempted to ask what Crowley thinks makes sense here but he refrains. He’s surprised his demon enough already, best not to give him too many shocks in one go.
It would be terribly rude of him.
“Drink?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley all but seizes on the opportunity to leave this discussion topic behind and imbibe alcohol instead. If there is one thing both of them enjoy equally, it is good wine.
Aziraphale had attempted drinking beer and stout but the beverage had been—compared to the sweet wines of Italian and French vineyards—bitter and unappealing to his sensitive palette. The angel much prefers sweeter and drier drinks.
Crowley will drink anything if it’s alcoholic enough to make him see the floor move “like a snake” as he describes. Absinthe is something neither of them consume in each other’s company after some rather… choice acts in the 19th and 20th centuries with individuals of some renown. Aziraphale isn’t the type to ‘kiss-and-tell’ but Crowley guesses everything just from visiting the bookshop after the Green Fairy Events and notes the collection of Oscar Wilde’s works in pride of place over his desk. Aziraphale hides them on a shelf a little less obvious after Crowley’s rather pointed comment on “showing off”.
He had been but still, Aziraphale never wants to upset Crowley, especially not after he realises the depth of his feelings in 1941.
A painting—another print—on a newly created space of wall captures Crowley’s attention in a way Aziraphale doesn’t quite expect. He watches the demon almost curl into himself before being seemingly drawn against his will closer. Something about the print is mesmerising for Crowley and Aziraphale follows him instinctively. There’s a sense of grief in Crowley’s body and it draws Aziraphale to him, makes him want to unfurl his wings and curl them around Crowley to protect him from whatever it is that grieves him so.
“This… I remember this…”
“Gustave Doré’s etching for Milton’s Paradise Lost,” Aziraphale says, soft and watchful. Crowley seems to barely hear him. “Over ten thousand verses detailing—well—everything we lived through really. Milton always said he wanted to tell the story in a way that justified Her actions, Her choices. I’m not sure if he succeeded really. It’s quite accurate though—not completely, of course, since he wasn’t there for it all. But quite close for a human.” He’s rambling, babbling information and commentary because Crowley is still staring at the print and it’s unnerving and Aziraphale can feel something changing, something happening and he’s not sure he Likes It.”
“Which way shall I fly, infinite wrath and infinite despair?” Crowley whispers, head tipping forward to press lightly on the glass of the frame. “Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell.”
Aziraphale yearns to let his wings loose, to protect Crowley from this pain he’s inadvertently caused. But he doesn’t. Instead he listens as Crowley continues to recite lines from memory, pain dripping from every vowel and consonant.”
“And in the lowest deep a lower deep. Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,” Crowley turns, still leaning against the print that seems to rip such emotion from him, to look at Aziraphale standing behind him. The demon stares at him with something in his eyes that makes the grief and pain shift, drags something gentler and warmer and far more encompassing toward the forefront of what Aziraphale can feel.
“To which the hell I suffer—” Crowley tilts his head back, eyes open and vulnerable and perhaps it’s something instinctive for him too because Aziraphale has never expected to see him do this “—seems a heaven.”
Instinct for angels—and demons it seems—dictate a number of specific actions. One always cares for one’s wings. One does not turn one’s back on one who may threaten those wings—being simultaneous the most vulnerable and also very dangerous part of a celestial being. Courting behaviours vary for demons and angels—some are more prone to aggressive acts, others are more subtle. It is an aspect of their existence that She put in animals on the Earth when She created it. Aziraphale sometimes forgets that Crowley is as much as snake as he is—was—angelic. There is a difference in behaviour from the beginning.
For snakes, there is little interest in nesting—only one snake nests and it is only for the safety of its eggs that it does so. Crowley is—for all that he is much more—a snake, or that is the form he chose and thus he has aspects of snake behaviour bleeding into his celestial nature. Aziraphale realises this suddenly, while staring with rather wide eyes, at the demon leaning against the print of the Fallen Angel, and the sight is jarring. The halo of light, the beams of it from heaven, the angelic figure casting out the Fallen and there is Crowley, standing—leaning—directly in the centre of those cast out.
But Crowley is celestial still and it is the celestial part that has been drawn to Aziraphale’s bookshop year after year, always coming back to the nest Aziraphale has steadily built from the ground up. Perhaps the demon knows what it means, what the bookshop really is—an admission, an offering, a plea—or perhaps he doesn’t. But the way Crowley stands now, gaze affixed to Aziraphale’s face… there’s a challenge there, a hopeful challenge that longs to be met at last.
And Aziraphale cannot bear the thought of rejecting it any longer. There is no heaven or hell stopping them now. Everything has changed even if they have largely stayed the same. But now is a time for decisions and Aziraphale decides his in equal kind to Crowley’s metaphor-heavy offer.
“A mind not to be changed by place or time,” Aziraphale recites from memory, voice a little wavy but still very firm nonetheless. He slowly closes the distance between them as he continues to recite. “The mind is its own place, and in itself.” Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.”
Crowley cracks a smile. “Sounds like us,” he says and the smile is soft and Aziraphale smiles softly in turn. “I’ve tried to go slow for you but I didn’t realise—well—” Crowley looks around at the bookshop “I do now but I didn’t—not then.”
Aziraphale’s smile grows even softer, causes wrinkles around his eyes. “How could you” he asks, “when I didn’t realise myself?” the question is mostly rhetorical but Aziraphale does wonder. He wonders if maybe Crowley had some idea of what the angel was doing and decided not to comment on it.
“I didn’t think you had anyone worth nesting for,” Crowley says, simply, like it’s an obvious thing and honestly—it really isn’t.
It isn’t.
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathes and he hurts, he aches at the admission from Crowley, of how little value the demon places upon himself as something of worth. “My dear, how could I nest for anyone if not for you?”
Crowley blinks. There is shock in those serpentine eyes of his and Aziraphale seizes the opportunity—being braver than he has been in a long, long time; not since he chose to listen to a demon and not flee from him—to step close to Crowley, bodies just shy of touching.
“I have books here that cover every branch of knowledge humanity has managed to think up, explore, exhaust, and reinvent,” Aziraphale says, eyes focused on Crowley’s face as the demon stares at him wide-eyed and open. “They don’t all have answers in them but they do help with understanding it all. Maybe not spectacularly well—they are written by humans after all—but it is something I know you crave; to understand. So I—I think I bought this bookshop and filled it with books about everything so you could do just that.”
“But it wasn’t quite right—I didn’t know how, but I just knew it wasn’t—and then you asked me in—back when I gave you that damned holy water—” Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair, still frustrated at that fiasco decades later “—and I was so afraid that it wasn’t enough and I’d just given you something you could kill yourself with and I thought “it needs more” and I was afraid—always so afraid of what heaven would do. Not to me, but you. I could—could not bear it to lose you because of my inability to… no, I couldn’t risk it. Not yet—not ever really but I didn’t care about that then.”
“Aziraphale—” Crowley begins to say and his voice is weak, like it’s coming from a throat that hasn’t seen water in days, but Aziraphale shushes him.
“No, no, let me finish, please.” The angel swallows thickly, squaring his jaw a little as he works up the courage to keep going. “This is—ah—exceptionally difficult for me to say so please, let me get it out now while I still have the courage to do so.”
“Okay, okay,” Crowley says and he stares at Aziraphale. He just stares. “Okay Aziraphale.”
“It took the end of the world to kick me into action. Six thousand years and all I did was dawdle along and hide from it all—and then in six days I faced the reality, the truth, and didn’t want to run away. Not—well—I was still so, so afraid of heaven. I think I still am, really, but I—after the bandstand—what I said… I was so wrapped up in my fears I didn’t think about why you wanted us to run away together.” Aziraphale pauses. “I don’t think I wanted to,” he corrects after a moment, “because I think I was afraid I’d say yes and then where would we have been? But no—it was wrong of me to be so… final about it all.”
“No angel, just—no,” Crowley says and he pushes away from the print, his body pressing against Aziraphale’s as he brings his hands up and rests them on the angel’s shoulders. “Aziraphale no. I shouldn’t have tried to make you run away with me, not when you were so determined to stop Armageddon. I—I let myself—you weren’t the only one who was afraid,” he admits quietly, “I wanted to run away and I wanted you with me because I didn’t want—I didn’t want to lose you.”
“You—you thought you had,” Aziraphale says and Crowley’s hands tighten on his shoulders. “With the fire—the one you said burned—well—all of this—” he sort of half-gestured at the bookshop around them but his attention was focused on Crowley’s face which seemed to sort of crumple at his words.
“I thought—it was—I thought you’d died, angel,” Crowley spits out and it’s fierce and sharp and biting and so very painful for Aziraphale to witness than he can’t help but do the one thing he has never allowed himself to do before. He pulls Crowley into a hug and offers him comfort. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“Never,” Aziraphale says and it’s a promise. “Never, my dear.”
Crowley buries his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder, face pressed against the soft skin of the angel’s neck and the well-loved material of his coat and vest. There is something Crowley has never done—not since the Fall—and Aziraphale knows that the demon has never wished to do so in front of him, but Crowley cries. A few sobs, some tears, and Aziraphale holds him tighter, his wings unfurling to curl around Crowley and embrace him in all the love Aziraphale is capable of feeling.
He wills it to seep into Crowley’s being, down through the layers of human flesh and bone, deeper into the core of Crowley’s being. Aziraphale pushes and pushes until it fills the cracks and seals the wounds that are still there from the Fall when all that Divine Love was ripped out and he was left empty. Aziraphale takes that empty space and he fills it with himself because he loves Crowley in ways no human can comprehend and he feels the love Crowley has for him in the way the demon clings to him, body pressing closer and closer, the core of Crowley burning a fiery red umber that pulses with every ounce of celestial love Aziraphale gives it.
“You built the bookshop for me,” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s shoulder, voice muffled by material. “You made this place for me and I don’t read often but… but you knew I craved knowledge, know I do, and you—you literally built a nest and I didn’t even realise until it was gone.”
The demon lifts his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder and his eyes are bright with tears that seem to refuse to fall. “You were gone too but then you were back and it was better but—Adam fixed it, he fixed everything, but it’s not the same. You…” Crowley trails off. “You’ve made it more because you saw my flat and the art, didn’t you?”
Aziraphale bites his lip. “Yes,” he admits and Crowley smiles. It’s a wide smile, so rare and so very precious that Aziraphale feels the tension and fear that had been building as Crowley spoke fizzle out at the sight of that smile. “It was what was missing.”
Crowley nods. “I—yeah—yeah.”
Aziraphale heaves out a breath. “Good,” he says, blinking rapidly. “That’s good—I was worried—concerned I’d gotten it wrong, you see? And—well—that would have—” he starts to ramble again but Crowley—dear, dear Crowley—cuts him off.
“I know angel,” the demon says and he understands Aziraphale. “You said you had wine for us, earlier,” he adds, changing the subject suddenly but there’s still that look in his eyes and Aziraphale can still feel that crashing hungry umber fire that is Crowley pulling at him. “Want to celebrate?”
“We’ve already celebrated averting Armageddon,” Aziraphale says, just to be obtuse and make Crowley roll his eyes. “But yes, celebrating this—that’s a good idea, I think.”
“Good.” Crowley presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s suddenly before he releases his hold on the angel’s shoulders. He saunters off toward the sofa with the throws that Aziraphale has collected over the years for obvious reasons. “We have a lot to celebrate now.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, smiling widely and brightly, eyes shining with joy and love and all those other feelings he tried not to let rule him when he was at the behest of heaven. “Yes we do. New beginnings and all that.”
Crowley gives him a smirk. “New beginnings,” he agrees.
The wine is rich and heady and perfectly suited to the mood for them both as they enjoy each other’s company in the nest Aziraphale has spent two hundred years crafting. If Aziraphale had been made a bird and not an angel, perhaps he would have been a white-browed sparrow-weaver. It’s a cute little bird with simple colours of brown or beige and white—quite like Aziraphale’s own colours—that crafts, as most birds do, a nest in order to attract a mate. Some of the nests that birds make are simple, others are very elaborate. Aziraphale has created a most elaborate nest with his bookshop and he embraces all that it represents and means. Heaven and hell can come for them—he knows they will—but the bookshop is a place of safety and love and refuge and Aziraphale will allow Nothing to change that now that Crowley has accepted.
For a bird can be vicious when fighting for its mate.
Just look at magpies.
#Good Omens#Good Omens Spoilers#Ineffable husbands#Crowley#Aziraphale#fic commission#prompt#gomens fic#nesting fic
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Drift and Call it Dreaming
Read on AO3 for notes.
Summary: “Was that a yawn? Are you tired?”
“It’s going on four in the bloody morning. Of course I’m tired.”
(A missing scene from the night an angel and a demon decide to raise the Antichrist.)
---
The night they decide they’re going to raise the Antichrist together, they talk for hours. There’s the conversations before the decision is reached, obviously – something about bananas and fish stew, though the details are too hazy for Aziraphale to remember entirely even after they’ve sobered up – but there’s the discussions afterward too. There’s a considerable amount of logisitics involved in collaborating with one’s archnemesis to prevent the apocalypse, and by 3.17 in the morning, it’s all starting to turn a bit fuzzy. Aziraphale’s head hurts, the low drumming in his temples a sure sign that it is time for him to take a break and read for a moment. Heidi, perhaps. It’s a simple tale and a quick one, but he’s always found it charming.
Across the room, Crowley’s made himself comfortable. He has a knack for that, Aziraphale thinks, a way of making every space his own. It reminds the angel of chameleons he’d seen once on a mission in Brazil, even if he’s reasonably certain that Crowley is categorically incapable of blending in with the scenery. He’s got a degree of panache to him that makes such a thing impossible, a magnetic field of sorts that draws people in, or at least draws in soft angels who should know better than to be so foolishly, recklessly in-
He realises a moment too late that Crowley’s asked him something, that he’s been waiting for an answer while Aziraphale’s been staring like an adoring puppy. His cheeks burn as he pulls his eyes away to settle on a world atlas from the 1940s which sits somewhere behind Crowley’s head and silently thanks the Almighty for the fact that he keeps his bookshop so dimly lit. Then he clears his throat and smiles, blinking. “Sorry, what?”
Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I said, don’t you think it’s about time to call it a night on this Antichrist business? Well. More calling it a morning at this point – why exactly don’t you have any clocks in this entire bookshop?”
“I have one,” Aziraphale protests. “It’s at the front of the store. I don’t need any others, that’s the function of a watch. And in any event, I don’t have to give punctuality a terrible amount of thought usually. I rarely have meetings with anyone other than you, unless someone’s made an appointment.”
“Explains your shop hours. I figured you’d just made them like that to keep anyone from actually being able to come in and buy anything.” Crowley says it with a wry grin, but Aziraphale’s cheeks flush in embarrassment at being discovered and the demon’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open with astonishment. “No.”
Aziraphale fumbles for an excuse. “I never know when head office is going to drop in without notice and require my attention. It’s not as if I can simply pop into the back room and leave the front desk unattended. If anybody requires assistance-”
“You made your hours like that on purpose?”
“Would you want to be around a group of humans when Gabriel drops in?”
“I don’t enjoy being on the same planet when Gabriel drops in.”
“The last time he was here, his idea of subtlety was dreadful. He tried to get me alone by asking me for- for pornography,” Aziraphale says helplessly, feeling his nose scrunch up in distaste. Then Crowley’s spine goes liquid and he’s half-collapsed into the couch with how hard he’s laughing, and try as he might, Aziraphale can’t make himself feel mortified about that.
He presses his lips together and looks away, riding out the symphony of Crowley’s laughter. He realises belatedly that he perhaps shouldn’t have provided the demon with more ammunition to commit sacrilege, but – well. Loath as he is to admit it, Crowley’s always had a point about how little attention their respective head offices tend to pay them as a general rule, and looking at him now, Aziraphale can’t feel too guilty.
It’s nearly three minutes before he completely finishes dying of laughter and straightens himself out again. Crowley dashes tears from the corners of his eyes and sighs, loud and heavy. “Oh, angel,” he says, and shakes his head.
“I’m glad you find this all so terribly amusing,” Aziraphale mutters, only a little crossly. “The entire interaction was completely horrifying.”
“Is there any interaction with Gabriel that isn’t?”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale casts his eyes heavenward and offers a brief apology on the demon’s behalf and redirects the conversation. “Weren’t you saying something important earlier, before all this distraction?”
Crowley waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, probably not. I don’t say important things. I rarely say important things. One of my rules.” His grin is sly and curves across his face with an enticing charm that isn’t entirely fair, and Aziraphale is just about to remark on it when he sees the demon shift slightly and cover his mouth with a hand.
Aziraphale frowns. “Was that a yawn? Are you tired?”
“It’s going on four in the bloody morning. Of course I’m tired.” Crowley tosses one obscenely long leg over the arm of the couch and sprawls across the length of it.
Aziraphale purses his lips and looks away. “I was under the impression that evil never sleeps,” he says, taking great care to keep his tone even.
“Yeah, that was before evil had to gallivant around the whole blessed Earth all through the 14th century,” Crowley retorts, unperturbed. “Anyone would fancy a nap after that.”
“Yes, but. Well. Put simply – Crowley, that was centuries ago. Surely you’re not still tired?”
Crowley shrugs. “Nah. Have gotten used to the sleeping bit, though. ‘S a nice way to pass the time.”
“Virtue is ever vigilant,” Aziraphale parrots without thinking, wincing when Crowley gives him the Look he saves for when he’s said something particularly reminiscent of a boy scout pamphlet. “Well, it is. And besides, why would I sleep? There’s all these books to be read and people can be so peculiar when it’s dark.” He steeples his fingers and leans forward eagerly. “Once, when I was walking around in the middle of winter, I was approached by a gentleman dressed in black who offered to show me something unique – ‘life-changing’ was the phrase he used, I believe. He was quite insistent, but you see, I’d just acquired a first edition Wilde that I’d been reading at a café, so I was in a bit of a rush, but it was still a delightful experience. He was such a lovely young man.”
“It sounds like he was a drug dealer and you’re lucky you didn’t get mugged,” Crowley says, rubbing a hand over his face.
“No,” Aziraphale breathes, shocked. “You don’t really think-? Oh, dear.” He frowns, shaking his head. “He just seemed so kind.”
“You think everybody seems kind,” Crowley mutters. “Think I’m kind. I have no idea where you get it from.” He shakes his head, and for the fifth time in as many minutes yawns again.
Aziraphale suppresses a frown, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he pointedly refrains from mentioning 1941 and the intact first editions of the prophecy books he keeps in a place of honour near his desk. It’s too late to get into an argument, and even if it wasn’t, well. Any surveillance heaven might be providing doesn’t really need to hear him having a heart to heart with a demon he’s spent the last six thousand years allegedly thwarting. Instead, he clears his throat and glances at his watch. 3:48. “I suppose you do have a point about the time. It is rather late – er, early.” He studies Crowley for a moment. “Are you certain you’re in a fit state to drive?”
“Course I am.” Crowley swings his legs off the couch and blinks for the first time in two hours. “I could drive with my eyes closed and it’d be fine. Probably. Long as I avoid the M25.”
Aziraphale, having driven far too frequently with a completely awake and non-blinded Crowley, shudders at the mental image this suggestion produces. “I think not,” he says shortly, and waves a hand. Atop the back of the paisley couch, a small pile of blankets appears, topped with a dark pillow that looks reasonably comfortable, if not entirely perfect. Crowley stares him down long and hard like he’s waiting for an explanation, and Aziraphale breaks eye contact first as he gives a nervous shrug. “It’d be terribly inconvenient if you discorporated yourself after all this planning. Someone has to counter my influences, yes?”
“Your side wouldn’t be very happy to hear you offering shelter to a demon, I don’t think.” There’s no bite to the way Crowley says it, just an odd, not-quite gentle honesty. “Might be better for both of us to avoid it.”
“Yes, well. Should Gabriel make an entrance similar to his last one, I can assure you I’ll be the first to know.” Aziraphale busies himself with the table of wine bottles, sorting and resorting them without rhyme or reason. “In any event, I’ll be awake reading. I’m certain I’ll see them coming in enough time to allow you a hasty retreat.”
There’s another long silence filled with nothing but the burning sensation of Crowley staring him down. A minute passes. Two.
Crowley’s spine turns to liquid again and he flops back on the couch. “Night driving’s boring anyway,” he says, as if that’s the deciding factor. “Might as well raise Cain here instead of my own place.”
“I’d rather you sleep and leave Cain as he is, thank you.” Aziraphale keeps himself from rolling his eyes and glances over at Crowley. “I’m afraid the arrangement isn’t terribly elegant, but it should suffice for a night.”
“It’ll do,” Crowley says, and tugs a blanket over himself. It’s draped so sloppily over his form that Aziraphale can’t see how it can possibly be doing him any good for insulation, but he refrains from crossing the room to adjust it. Crowley is, after all, six thousand years old. He does not need to be tucked in.
The demon settles himself across the cushions and examines the blanket with a raised eyebrow. “Are those knitted snakes in the pattern? How thoughtful,” he says, a bit drily, and closes his eyes. It’s a good thing, too, because the snakes were decidedly not intentional and Aziraphale can’t quite hide his surprise at the revelation. “Night, angel. Wake me up when the world ends.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “You can’t sleep until the apocalypse, Crowley,” he sputters, but there is no reply. He looks over, and Crowley is breathing evenly, fast asleep in the blink of an eye. It’s almost miraculous how easily he does it, how peaceful he looks with his eyes closed, calm and beautiful like a star that’s falling instead of an angel already fallen.
Aziraphale crosses the room slowly, careful not to disturb him. He picks up the sunglasses that fell to the floor at some point in the evening and folds them up, sets them on the side table. Then, gently, ever so gently, because he won’t forgive himself if he wakes Crowley up from this, he bends over and adjusts the blankets to cover him better. When it’s done, Aziraphale studies him for a moment, taking in the serene expression and the comfortable sprawl of his body across the couch, and he allows himself a small smile as he leans in, just slightly. “You will wake having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best,” he whispers softly, a blessing in the night, and crosses the room to read.
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Gravity
I’ve been listening to Sara Bareilles and was struck by how much Gravity fits as an Ineffable Husbands song. So this is what my brain cooked up at 2am. I’m hoping it will let me sleep now.
Something always brought Aziraphale and Crowley back together, The way that Crowley would orbit him sometimes made the other almost believe it could be gravity. The pull of the only other steady immortal energy on the planet.
Each pass seemed to bring the two closer still, the time between shorter than the last right up until the Arrangement. Then it was multiple times a century. Perhaps eventually multiple times a decade. There was a rising fear that things were moving too fast as Aziraphale wondered what would happen after that. What would happen in a singularity between them both.
It clawed at his throat and ached in a hollow part of his chest if he thought about it for too long, so by and large he didn’t. Mostly he stuck to his job and his little indulgences and tried very hard not to think about the next time that their gravity would bring them together.
Sometimes Crowley felt like an orbit he would never be free from.
Sometimes, the worst times, Aziraphale thought that he didn’t want to be set free. Didn’t know where he would be if he were suddenly cast away from the perpetual pull of the other.
Read on https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773370 or
1941 was the year that Aziraphale realised, with a mix of horror and elation, that they had come too close to change anything now. There would be a collision. He felt it in the thrill of something as their hands brushed over the bag of books. A bag which Crowley had specifically saved for him.
The first moment of alignment when everything suddenly starts to move faster.
He ended up stood in the rubble almost struck dumb at the sight of Crowley’s retreating back. His heart swelling bigger than anything he had felt in Heaven, so much that it hurt. Crowley knew everything about him, everything that Heaven missed. Was, in so many ways, everything that he needed. Everything that was somehow missing in the impersonal Goodness of Heaven.
From the very first moment in Eden Crowley had somehow singled him out. Weak enough heart to give away his sword for the humans. Strong enough to stand up to the serpent’s temptations for very nearly six millennia.
And yet it was never enough.
Aziraphale’s life was a terrifying contrast of knowing what was good, what was right, and what was so completely real and solid and right there if he could only….
If Aziraphale could drown in him, sometimes he would. But he couldn’t, he knew. Crowley had Fallen for a reason. Heaven was the sight of right and love and good.
And still Crowley held him there in orbit with barely a touch. No more than a few words. And the most nonchalant kindness – as if the demon couldn’t imagine another course of action.
Aziraphale knew that if they touched, for much longer than the few brief fleeting moments they had, what little strength he had would disappear so quickly. It felt, more and more, like a life lived on his knees begging for a way out, a way out that he didn’t know he would take even if he found it.
For a way to make things simple again.
After all the demon was neither his friend nor truly his foe, not in the way that it mattered. For all the bluster the angel put up about it he was the one true constant in his life. One he could barely stand to be apart from for too long these days.
When they met in ‘67 he almost found himself begging to be let go. To be released from the pull that kept him on earth and forever gravitating to Crowley. Instead, he gave him the Holy Water; an out from their singularity that he didn’t have the strength for himself. Instead, he fled, and wondered when and where that terrible, blessed liquid might be used. If somewhere in the intervening years he would somehow find himself adrift with the horrible knowledge of why.
Instead they met again. 2008 and the beginning of the end of it all one way or another.
Aziraphale felt that same clawing at his throat, the same urge to deny that they were anything. As if denying gravity made it any less real.
He spent a lot of those intervening years denying and pushing, almost desperate to break free and just as desperate to never be released from the other’s hold.
And before too long Armageddon had passed and they were on a bus and things were so quiet and so still as the end of their odd dance around one another approached, demanded to reach its conclusion and change into whatever it would be.
Aziraphale sat down next to Crowley, placed his hand in the other’s, and found a binary system where he had expected a black hole.
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