#then suddenly years later Aziraphale goes ’You go to fast for me Crowley’ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

new-endings · 3 years

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Ayy I want to hear about Beta!Aziraphale :D

so glad you do!~

fic idea #1112

It started with the premise of beta Aziraphale thinking that alpha Crowley’s been trying to court some poor omega sod for the past few centuries. Crowley had been displaying rather alpha-like characteristics around him since Rome, what with the innocuous gifts, the food, the protection he's provided—

All served with the same dour expression that leads Aziraphale to believe that the alpha really doesn’t intend on it, doesn’t really seem to realize what he’s doing, nor does he really want to do it. Aziraphale comes to the conclusion that something or someone must be some causing Crowley’s instincts to pop off like this.

Aziraphale comes to the conclusion that his …err, acquaintance, must have met a "nice" omega demon and that the beta is just dealing with a twitter pated alpha in the aftermath.

((He knows it's not him, knows better than to even think for a second all those little gestures meant something more. Why—to think anything more would be utterly absurd—impossible! He’s—an angel, a beta—))

But it’s not until centuries later that Aziraphale knows there's another involved after Crowley asks him for the holy water

Crowley found someone he was willing to risk not only Aziraphale's life for, but his own.

And given the latter, Aziraphale naturally said no.

I don't need you.

Yes...that's right.

Betas are intermediaries— useful, but not essential.

—————————————————

On the other hand, Crowley's been tryna court the oblivious git for millennia now but naturally, none of the regular "alpha" tactics work. Puffed up pride and the sharpness of his scent indicating an interested alpha only makes Aziraphale uncomfortable. The instinct to force the angel to submit, to bare his neck and bend to his whim, only inflicted fear.

And when frightened, Aziraphale did not whimper and did not bow. He would instead lash out with his own silver tongue, his own venomous words, and turn away.

He was not an omega— he was not an omega an alpha was meant to tame.

He was a beta without a hint of instinct to let him know that Crowley only wanted him safe— only wanted him loved.

But Crowley learned. He adapted. Gifting the beta soft silks and cloths soaked in his scent was often met with the cloth thoroughly cleaned within the hour "to get rid of the stench of evil; angels can smell it, you know," creating a nest with him was out of the question given their respective…offices, but foods—yes, foods were among his beta’s favorite—

an offering of oysters...

was that where it started?

—and Crowley was more than happy to show the beta he can provide, he can protect—

((Crowley has even gone as far as developed a sense for when his beta would be in a spot of trouble. There were no distressed omegan hormones, no telltale shifts in Aziraphale’s mild scent when something was amiss, of course not.

No, it was other things—things that were so heartbreakingly Aziraphale in every way—from his dithering, from the curl of his lip, just barely a sneer when Crowley was misbehaving, or the change of pitch in his voice when he was scheduled to meet with his superiors.

And last but not least…

…a tugging, at the back of Crowley’s head. Insistent when Aziraphale was in the area. And it downright dragged him to the center of the mess when Aziraphale landed himself out of the pan and into the fire (so to speak)

Aziraphale always forced Crowley to learn things the hard way—

and that was one of the things he loved about his bastard beta.))

—but he wanted—needed—that reciprocated too.

Fraternising.

The word sliced his chest wide open.

Maybe he couldn't get through to him. Perhaps it was all in vain. A transaction for the beta, just as he'd proposed it all those centuries ago.

I don't need you.

It was true. Crowley got on just fine without him.

((It didn't curb the want. The longing.))

The feeling is mutual!

obviously...

-----------------------

And then— 1941. The scene at the church happens.

Where Crowley's instinct that Aziraphale was in trouble still functioned quite impeccably despite a century apart and an argument that fractured what they had.

And Crowley limps away, feet burnt on consecrated ground, knowing—without a doubt—that he would walk across the sun if it meant Aziraphale is safe.

And Aziraphale stands there in the rubble of faith, understanding and facing, with certain and absolute sincerity that he was in love with this demon,

Knowing—without a doubt—that Crowley loves another.

---------------------

20 years later, Aziraphale learns of a heist and a cold fear grips him. he can't lose Crowley—absolutely refuses to.

He can't look Crowley in the eye as he gifts him—insurance the demon called it. Protection. For himself...and for his omega.

Crowley must have concocted this arrangement to protect himself and his mate should an angelic threat arrive. Maybe he'd meant to use Aziraphale as insurance too—

“I'll give you a lift, anywhere you wanna go.”

Aziraphale looks at him then. Look at him and saw the patience, the hoping, the quiet, tenderness behind those dark glasses and it took everything Aziraphale had to rip himself away and exit the car.

He...he mustn't get ahead of himself. But it was hard to tamp down the tiny seeds of hope, smashing them so they would never see light.

But really…what did it change?

Everything, maybe

Because Crowley may have his mate, but he made it clear that Aziraphale was part of his pack too.

And that was enough

It had to be.

You go too fast for me.

------------------------

In the years following, Aziraphale finds coping with his…unideal… feelings not-so difficult. He may be the beta of Crowley's pack, but for much longer than that, he'd been a thorn on his side, so it was easy to slip back into that role.

They spend a few years raising the wrong boy ((and Aziraphale bites his tongue to avoid asking why he didn't ask his omega to have a hand in raising Warlock)), but despite the unusual convention (which is honestly par for the course for the two), the child comes out normal.

Unfortunately, they are unsure if the same could have been said for the real antichrist.

And Aziraphale is not sure what gripped him to withhold the boy's whereabouts— to go against the alpha—his alpha—and lie to him.

There is no our side.

Not anymore.

Maybe it was the insistence that heaven must be good, that a part of him believed with all his heart that they wanted the right thing too.

and maybe...just maybe...he knew that if things went...pear-shaped...

There was still a chance for Crowley and his mate to escape all this. That the blame could easily fall on Aziraphale, sparing the two.

And when I'm off in the stars—I won't even think about you!

Good, Aziraphale muses as Crowley drives away, even as every meter that separates them physically burns him.

Betas are not essential.

Crowley doesn't need him.

He and his mate just need to be safe.

--------------------------

At the heart of it, Crowley is a liar. A pretty shite one, really. Says things he doesn't mean—doesn't want to say. But what else can he do when his beta refuses him at every turn?

Lash out-like a child, apparently.

All his plans have gone up in smoke, time was running out, and Crowley knows there's no turning back after Ligur ends up a pile of smoldering goo at the floor of his apartment. He feels a tug at his heart, knowing that it was Aziraphale who protected him that time, betraying everything he knew to give Crowley thermos. He can't give up—he'll drag Aziraphale away kicking and screaming if he could.

Crowley walks out of his apartment, sidestepping the mess on his floor, when he feels— knows something is wrong. Every sense in-tune to Aziraphale is blaring—

and just as suddenly, it all goes quiet.

Crowley breaks both traffic laws and the laws of physics to find a burning book shop and no trace of his beta.

Remorse battles with rage, but what triumphs above all is a resounding howl that anyone would be able to recognize—

Mourning.

Someone’s killed my best friend

-----------------------

Aziraphale feels his heart stop—well, if he still had one—at the sound of Crowley, there at the bar. He bites down the urge to yell at him, to tell him to grab his mate and run while they still have a chance—

I lost my best friend.

Aziraphale pauses, words caught in his throat. He'd been...selfish. So selfish. Of course, Crowley wants his pack intact. And Aziraphale was part of that.

Crowley is truly a phenomenal alpha while Aziraphale is the most terrible beta in existence.

----------------------

"Wherever you are, I'll come to you—where are you?"

Crowley almost lost his beta once. He won't let it happen a second time.

"Come up with something or—

I'll never talk to you again"

Because Aziraphale (finally, finally) stood with him.

"We're on our own side."

---------------------

It's the final piece of the prophecy that Crowley was able to salvage that inspires the idea from Aziraphale.

He knows his superiors. It will be hellfire— befitting a traitor who refuses to fall from god's grace. Crowley tells him that his will be holy water— that there will be a trial that Crowley is rigged to lose.

Aziraphale knows there will be no such thing for him

They have everything to lose and everything to gain with this final arrangement and on the dawn of that day where they make the switch,

Aziraphale wonders if he will finally get a glimpse of Crowley's mate at the trial.

------------------------

Crowley has enough sense to curb his anger, his fury, his outrage at the way they treat his beta. He doesn't roar at the injustice, in vengeance, as an alpha should. Instead, he smiles and breathe a flicker of hellfire at them, letting them know that Aziraphale has always been better than all of heaven could ever hope to be.

And Crowley vows to stop being a coward and make Aziraphale know it too.

-----------------------

Aziraphale scans the crowds for any sign of disbelief, of horror and indignance on the faces of the demons around him as he is charged guilty.

But no one steps forward and Aziraphale feels his heart fracture with pain and betrayal for Crowley.

He deserves someone who would be here, who would do anything to see him again, Aziraphale thinks as he lounges in the bath of holy water, exuding the confidence and control an alpha like Crowley would project. He deserves better, he thinks, a bitterness rising like bile at the back of his throat.

I could be—

He stops that train of thought immediately.

-------------------------

Their plan succeeds and Crowley tempts him to a spot of lunch. Their dawn of a new day begins at noon and upon seeing Crowley (in his corporation) safe and whole, Aziraphale rides that high all the way to the Ritz.

To the world.

----------------------------

Aziraphale regales him the scene all over again, careful to leave out the part where none, not even his own mate, rose to defend him during the trial. Instead, he talks about rubber ducks as he refuses to look in Crowley's direction.

He knows the way he's looking at him. He knows the soft, tender look the alpha gives him, and truly, what an injustice that someone like Crowley is mated with someone who holds such little faith in him

But as a beta, it isn't Aziraphale's place to.

He may be part of the pack, but he knows his place. Maybe...maybe Crowley's mate was told to stay hidden, just in case things went awry—

You wouldn't have listened, Aziraphale's traitorous mind whispers. You would have been there for him.

Precisely why I'm a beta, Aziraphale chuckles to himself. Could you imagine me, doing a thing Crowley's told?

Preposterous.

Just like the spikes of jealousy digging into the meat of his heart.

Aziraphale knows he’s a terrible beta—but even more than that, he’s Crowley’s best friend, and he knows Crowley deserved the truth.

"They weren't there, you know."

"Who?"

"Your mate." Aziraphale scoffs at the confused (panicked) reaction. "Oh, come off it— I know you've been courting someone for centuries."

"Yes...that's true..." Crowley cautiously, carefully admits and although Aziraphale knew this for a fact— knew this like he knew the back of his own hand, the admission tore a bleeding wound right open.

"Yes well...they weren't there. At the trial." Aziraphale bites his lip. "Where are...are they safe?"

Crowley is looking at him strangely. Aziraphale only wants straight answers. He's gone centuries without asking, always respecting this boundary between them—

—but they were pack, weren't they?

But then Crowley is smiling, a gleam of amusement sparking in his eyes. "The one I've been courting? I assure you, they were there at my trial."

Suspicion—even indignance— arose. Aziraphale was quick to smother it. "Oh! I...I didn't see them."

"Nope, they were there," Crowley said with such confidence that Aziraphale felt his very heart wither.

Stop it, he told himself. You knew this was true. You knew he has a mate. And you knew he'd love them and be loyal to them no matter what. Because Crowley is a phenomenal alpha...and Aziraphale is a wretched beta. "I...all right," he said faintly, hoping to distract himself with some cake, if only to counter the bitter bile rising at the back of his throat.

"Mhm...they're the sole reason I'm still here," he said pointedly and at that, Aziraphale couldn't help but choke. "I owe everything to them."

Of course.

Crowley's driven to protect his mate against anything. He saved the world for his mate.

And who was he to get in the way of that?

But if Aziraphale was ready to sink into the ground and possibly disappear for the next century or two to mend his own heartbreak, it was this statement that shoved those ideas straight into a pit of hellfire:

"Yep," Crowley says with a knowing, teasing grin. "Brilliant idea they had too— switching bodies. Who else would have thought of that?"

"YOU IDIOT, THAT WAS MY IDEA!"

At the back of his mind, Aziraphale knows he’s making a scene. And he’s possibly going to irreversibly damage his and Crowley’s relationship for this—

But damn it all he'd gone centuries making sure this absolute idiot of a demon didn't get himself killed and not ONCE had he seen hide nor hair of his so-called mate.

"AND FOR THE RECORD," he seethed. "YOU HAVE ABSOLUTE SHITE TASTES IN MATES!"

"I disagree," Crowley replied and Aziraphale wanted to rip his hair out. "They may be a bit of a bastard at times, but they've always been there for me."

"WHEN!?"

This was disconcerting in many different ways:

Mostly through the implication that Crowley got into even more trouble than Aziraphale was able to help him with.

"Salem witch trials— was about to be hanged. Saved me from discorporation."

Aziraphale frowns. He's done similar for Crowley— it figures that the demon would have gotten himself into that mess at least a second time.

"14th century— The Plague. But they were always so eager to do the best they could, given the situation. Made the shite times less…shite."

Aziraphale wouldn't have known, personally. It truly was a shite time indeed and Aziraphale had gotten discorporated as he spent his days healing the sick. He briefly recalled Crowley being there, shortly before his corporation ah...expired.

“Rome was better, but not by enough of a margin. We had something to eat and suddenly my whole day was better."

Hmm...maybe it happened sometime after their lunch? Perhaps dinner, no wait, he had dinner with Crowley too. But Crowley was in exceptionally good spirits the days following. It must have been sometime after then.

"The Ark," he said softly. "They smuggled some children with me aboard."

Aziraphale pauses. Wait...he’s sure only he and Crowley were aboard who knew about the stowaway children, then. After all, Aziraphale helped sneak them in.

"19th century— had a nasty fight." Crowley is staring intently at him now. "He made it up to me."

Aziraphale feels his breath catch.

"Took about a century, but we got there. The holy water came in real handy, by the way."

Wait—

"Golgotha...lost a good friend at the time. They were there with me the days afterwards."

Hang on—

"In the 1940s, when a bomb dropped on the church—"

That doesn't—

"11 years ago— when I roped them into this scheme to stop Armageddon—"

But—

"The airfield," Crowley says. He’s no longer across the table. Aziraphale hadn’t realized he’d moved so close. "When I'd given up everything. They threatened me to do something— and I did. It ended saving all of us."

No, that— that couldn't be right—

"Eden," he breathes out. "He sheltered me during the first rains."

Aziraphale isn’t quite sure when he stood up, but he sits down all the same. The pieces are in front of him but not slotting in the way he expects them to—

—in the way he thought it was possible to.

And then Crowley is holding his hand, at first laying his atop his own— and then lacing their fingers together.

Fitting perfectly.

He tears his gaze away only to meet those lovely, lovely amber eyes. Time around them stops like a bated breath. "You've always been there. Every time I needed you."

To which Aziraphale, for all his knowledge and expertise of the written word, can only eke out an, "Oh," in response.

And at that, Crowley can only laugh, relieved and so heartbreakingly happy as he closes the distance between them. "Yes, oh, my stupid mate."

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #crowley x aziraphale #abo au #but more like alpha and beta #which we desperately need more content of #good omens fanfiction

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critgemhero · 5 years

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An almost universally accepted headcanon in the Good Omens fandom that I don't quite personally believe in is the idea that Crowley purposefully made his feelings known to Aziraphale for 6000 years, and that he wished Aziraphale would finally notice his flirting with him after all that time.

I just think he couldn't contain how absolutely smitten and fascinated he was with Aziraphale, and that he didn't quite understand his own feelings for the angel himself. He never really wanted to to put a label on whatever they were, because that means he would have to think about those feelings. Sure, they had ‘The Arrangement’, but I think that was his unconscious way of finding a reason to see Aziraphale. ‘The Arrangement’ was about their Heaven & Hell duties, not them personally. It was an excuse to see him more often. His sudden flash of anger at the label 'fraternizing' used by Aziraphale in 1862 stood out to me. Maybe that was when he realized a label could be used for them, and he wanted a better one. It scared him, pissed him off, and led to that big fight and 80 year long sleep. That won’t be the first time you see him get openly furious when he’s scared, which I’ll bring up again later. It was in 1967, however, when everything changed. When Aziraphale gave him the holy water.

I think this was the moment Crowley realized just how much he loved Aziraphale and wanted to be with him, only because that’s when he realized there was a decent chance Aziraphale felt the same way back. The music is noticeably romantic here too, which only happened in the previous scene where Aziraphale had his big realization of some sorts with Crowley saving his books. I think a barrier was broken between them in this exchange, Crowley speaks so softly and openly here it makes my heart ache. Even Aziraphale sees Crowley’s heartbreak when he doesn't take up his offer on a ride.The rest of this dialogue had so much more obvious raw meaning behind it, and I think they both knew that. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go” I mean come on...

After Aziraphale says he goes to fast for him, Crowley slows down and doesn't address it again. He goes back to how things were before, that is until the Gazebo scene where tensions are high and he explodes from his pent up feelings. Remember when I said he gets angry when he’s scared? He is so enraged when that scene starts, but then his voice suddenly gets soft when he says they can go off together. He isn't scared when he thinks about that, he’s more confident about that than anything. It’s the moment Aziraphale says they’re on opposite sides that makes him enraged again, angrily saying “We’re on our side!” because the world is ending and all they have left is each other.

All Crowley ever had was Aziraphale and humanity, and humanity was doomed. Both of the infamous break-up scenes (the sidewalk one too) felt to me like he was screaming "You know how I feel about you, don't you? Do I really need to say it? You feel the same way, don��t you? You said we’d go on a picnic one day, well now’s that day! Please don’t deny it, come with me!"

I believe it was the time they spent together after getting on the bus but before swapping bodies where their true feelings were finally addressed in a conversation. Just before they get on the bus, Crowley is speaking in that exact same soft tone that he had when they were in his Bentley in 1967 and when he said they could go off together to the stars.

That's my personal headcanon! I love how there are so many places in the show where you can choose where you think they realized their own feelings for the other and when they knew the other felt the same way back, but this is my own personal take on it. I don’t think it was ever as simple as coyly and purposefully one way flirting for Crowley. He’s way too intense, open, and attention hungry for that. The purposeful coyness is more up Aziraphale’s alley, but that’s a whole different essay.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #david tennant #ineffable husbands

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Ineffable Valentine’s “Romance in the Rain” (Rated PG)

Summary: Crowley tries to come up with the perfect first kiss for Aziraphale, but Mother Nature doesn't want to co-operate.

Notes: Written for the @ineffable-valentines prompt 'kiss'.

Read on AO3.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Crowley mutters at the clouds overhead, scowling as if they’ve done him a grievous and unforgivable wrong.

“Is there (*gulp*) something the matter, my dear?” Aziraphale squeaks as they swerve left and fly past a hearse, coming so perilously close to the vehicle they’re in danger of causing additional casualties among the living occupants. But it’s par for the course. Crowley has spent more time driving with his eyes on the skies than on the road ahead of him. They’ve scattered a group of businessmen, nearly clipped a planter, and sent a traffic cop writing a citation careening backwards, the Bentley long gone before the poor bastard knew what hit him.

Aziraphale wishes they could have stayed at Crowley’s flat, and not just because of the current danger of losing life and limb. They were having a splendid time. At least, he thought so. They’d been sitting on the sofa sharing a bottle of brandy (at noon on a Tuesday, but Aziraphale reasoned it’s five o’clock somewhere) as they watched Romeo and Juliet on the BBC starring a promising older gentleman that reminded him of Crowley if he squinted his eyes and tilted his head just so.

It was the perfect day for cuddling on the sofa - cold and gray, clouds clustered above threatening rain, granting it in spurts. Aziraphale had sniffled once or twice over the performance - he’s angel enough to admit it. He couldn’t help himself. He loves sweeping romances, and Romeo and Juliet is about as sweeping as one can get.

And if he happened to imagine that Crowley-looking actor playing opposite himself once or twice - caressing his face, looking into his eyes, kissing him passionately (which they’ve had yet to do) - who could blame him?

He thought he’d caught Crowley glance over at him on a few occasions, probably rolling his eyes at Aziraphale’s blubbering. But romance isn’t Crowley’s thing.

Never has been as far as Aziraphale could remember.

“We’ve seen this play about a thousand times already,” Crowley had said. “You’d think you’d remember that they die in the end. And take pretty much everyone with them along the way.”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale whimpered, patting his pockets for a handkerchief, accepting one from Crowley when it was thrust toward him. “It’s just … it gets me thinking. That’s all.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About love,” he’d answered honestly since he didn’t see a reason not to. “About romance. About …”

And here he’d sputtered. He wasn’t about to make any confessions of love now, sitting on the sofa in front of the television with a head full of liquor; wasn’t going to wax philosophical about the long, long years he’d spent pining for Crowley, knowing that Crowley didn’t feel the same.

Knowing there was no way on Earth a demon could fall in love, and definitely not with an angel.

“About …?” Crowley had asked, but Aziraphale remained tight-lipped and shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he’d replied.

And Crowley had shrugged it off and went back to the movie.

But out of the blue, not ten minutes later, Crowley turned off the television, climbed off the sofa, tossed Aziraphale his coat and said, “Come along, then. We’re going for a drive.”

And drive they have, taking the fastest, most chaotic tour of London Aziraphale has ever had the misfortune to participate in.

Crowley manages to drive past every single picturesque spot Frommer’s has ever touted without stopping, his gaze fixed vindictively on the sky overhead, guided by the shifting nimbostratus. They drive for over an hour, re-visiting a few places more than once but never leaving the car. Eventually Crowley seems to give up and head back to St. James’s Park. He grumbles something to the affect of, “Damned bloody clouds. There were a whole gang of you an hour ago! Where the Hell have you gone off to?” but he doesn’t explain.

He parks his car, throws on a boot to keep the cops off his back, then grabs Aziraphale’s hand and yanks him out. In determined silence, he drags the angel down the jogging paths and through the grass. Aziraphale pants behind Crowley as he fights to keep pace, and while he does, Crowley curses. He curses the blue sky peeking through the clouds, curses the golden rays warming their skin, curses the children coming out to celebrate the sunshine, their parents for bringing them when they should have work to do, even the dogs that accompany them for playing catch so enthusiastically, so focused on his goal, whatever it is, that he almost forgets Aziraphale stumbling along behind him until the angel speaks.

“Crowley … my dear … can we slow down?”

Crowley looks over his shoulder, eyes apologetic behind dark lenses as if he only now realized he might have been walking a hair too fast for him.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.” Crowley stops on an obliging patch of grass to let Aziraphale catch his breath, shoulders slumped in defeat. He scans the grounds, glaring at every happy face in sight. He spies a solitary ice cream cart braving the weather and shrugs to himself.

“Fancy a lolly?” he asks, voice flat with disappointment.

“Oh, yes. Please.” Aziraphale smiles and nods, hoping that by agreeing he might lighten Crowley’s inexplicably sullen mood.

Plus, he could really use a nibble.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Aziraphale asks, following Crowley down the slope to the cart.

“Wanted to try something,” Crowley says gruffly, ordering Aziraphale a strawberry lolly, then waving off his change from the man at the cart.

Aziraphale smiles at the snack Crowley hands to him. “Trying your hand at being a hopeless romantic?” he teases, though he’s certain he’s way off the mark.

“So, what if I was?”

“It would be a first.”

“Would it really? I mean, I do try my best, Aziraphale. Sometimes, it’s just … not obvious.”

“I …” Aziraphale looks from the lolly melting on its stick to the demon standing in front of him - head bowed, fingertips shoved into pockets that have no business being called such, cheeks red and splotchy, yellow eyes staring at his shoes as he passes a single pebble from the toe of his left to the toe of his right. “I guess I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Yeah, well, not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s not all that easy for me. Not when … you know … it matters.”

“Maybe I haven’t,” Aziraphale admits, thinking with regret over the times he’s felt sorry for himself that Crowley wasn’t making the first move when he himself could have done so. Or when Crowley might have been, Aziraphale just didn’t catch on. It never occurred to Aziraphale that it might be difficult for Crowley. Aziraphale saw it along the same lines as tempting. If he could conjure feelings of lust in other people, he should be able to conjure similar feelings of love in himself.

Aziraphale realizes only now how wrong that thinking is.

How base and reductive.

“But thank you. It’s incredibly sweet that you tried.” Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and buoys up to kiss him on the cheek. Crowley turns into it, capturing Aziraphale’s lips, pulling him close with an arm wrapped around his waist. Aziraphale yelps in surprise, self-conscious at first, but then lost in kissing Crowley in St. James’s Park on such a beautiful, sunny afternoon.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” Crowley sighs against his angel’s lips. “For a while now, if I’m being honest.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wanted it to be perfect. Memorable. And I thought … you know … considering our past, our history together, that rain would make it perfect. But it seems Mother Nature didn’t feel like cooperating.”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley wide-eyed for several seconds. Then he bursts out laughing. “Crowley! You idiot!”

“What!?”

“We’re supernatural. No need to negotiate with nature.” Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Over their heads, the clouds begin to gather, darkening the park so quickly, everyone takes notice. Laughter goes quiet as the humans huddle together, speculating in whispers over what might be going on. Suddenly, the sky crackles with electricity. A large boom shakes the air and rain pours down, drenching everyone … except Crowley and Aziraphale, standing quite comfortably beneath an invisible shield, one shaped suspiciously like an angel’s wing.

“Oh.” Crowley smirks. “Right. You’ve got a point.”

“So … are we just going to stand here, or are you going to kiss me again?”

“Aren’t you worried about the paperwork for …?” Crowley’s eyebrows bounce upward, indicating the rain, the wing, the screeching humans running for cover.

Aziraphale grins, not the least bit concerned. “Screw the paperwork.”

Before Aziraphale’s lips close on his, Crowley growls. “Ooo, feisty.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable valentines #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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yourpaceangel · 5 years

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like a prayer for which no words exist

[Read here on AO3]

There are places [1] Crowley likes to go when it all gets to be a little much, like a snake seeking a hole for refuge from a storm. That Aziraphale is the storm is surprising, or maybe not surprising at all. These places are holy - lowercase h - in that they are undisturbed, protected, and treasured. A reprieve. An indrawn breath before drowning. They are places Crowley goes that Aziraphale does not visit. That’s not to say that the angel doesn’t know where they are, simply that he does not go where Crowley does not ask for him.

[1] A rooftop garden in New York City. A cozy nook inside St. Paul’s. A patch of red dirt outside Tuscon, Arizona. An old iron bench just outside Kensington Gardens. The bosom of Eden.The edge of the World. Others, dozens maybe, that Crowley knows by feel and not name.

He’s in New York two days after the Apocolypse-That-Wasn’t, high up in a humid class cage full of shivering plants that know both fear and reverence. The Orchids have become fussy in his absence refusing to stand straight out of pure defiance. The English Ivy, the oldest, grows thick and lovely in creeping vines along the ceiling and walls. It almost seems to sigh at Crowley as he brandishes a pair of shears menacingly at the disobedient Orchids.

“Not you as well,” Crowley sneers, shaking the shears at the wall, “I won’t hear it.”

In the corner a Snake Plant shakes almost fondly. Crowley hisses, terrible yellow eyes drawn into slits, and it stops moving, its tall leaves stretching skyward as if in surrender. Crowley clicks his tongue and goes back to fussing with the Orchids.

“Don’t know why I even bother. I should just bin the lot of you.”

He does not. Crowley has known these plants for a long time. He takes a seat on the floor amongst empty pots and potting soil, dirt on his hands and smudged along a sharp cheekbone because he allows it to be. There’s something satisfying about the mess. He wonders, vaguely and quite without meaning to, if that is how She feels about Her Creation. Crowley snarls and kicks out at the leg of a table. It wobbles, the pots atop it shuddering with the force, before going still.

An impossible Honeysuckle bush in the opposite corner blooms for him, sickly sweet in her smell. The orchids finally stand upright, maybe sensing the shift in their Master’s mood or maybe just tired of being contrary. Crowley is no longer looking at them, however. His eyes have drifted up, through the English Ivy curling sweetly along the ceiling, where gray skies hang fat and heavy in the sky. The rain starts first as a light pat and, as Crowley watches, works its way to a torrent. Between this and the overwhelming smell of sweet Earth, Crowley can almost fall asleep.

It’s tempting, and Crowley does love temptations. A hundred year nap after The-End-That-Almost-Was feels well deserved, but Aziraphale gets dreadfully worried if Crowley is gone for too long. He’s startled by a creeping vine tangling around his ankle. He shakes his leg. “Off with you, you annoying little bugger.”

The vine squeezes once before letting go and all at once Crowley misses Aziraphale so dearly it makes his stomach ache. In a wild fit of temper he reaches for an empty pot to throw and smashes it against the wall.

smash

Then another-

smash

And another-

smash smash smash

Until he is left empty and the wall of Ivy is bruised.

Crowley moves then, shaking, standing to shove the table aside with less care than it deserves, cutting his feet open upon broken terra cotta. He rests a hand, gently now, on the Ivy and pulls away green fingers like he’d made it bleed. He puts his hand to the wall again, burying his hand amongst the leaves and pushes . “Dreadfully sorry old chap.” Crowley says and feels the Ivy pulsate around his fingers. [2]

[2] Long ago Aziraphale had given Crowley a little cutting of Ivy from the side of his bookshoppe. “Perhaps you can take up gardening,” the angel said wryly. The Ivy had pulsed in Crowley’s hand then as well, like it was trying to hold him.

Crowley untangles his fingers from the Ivy and it shivers once before stilling. He moves the table back into place and waves a hand dismissively at the floor, clearing the pots. The storm outside rages on and he paces, leaving bloody footprints along the concrete. The garden suddenly feels stifling and Crowley leaves without a word, letting the door clap closed behind him.

His place in Mayfair is bitterly cold when he lands. The rain in America had soaked him down to his bones, and the accompanying rain here is nothing short of depressing. Crowley drops his jacket in a puddle at the door, rolling his shoulders. In his shadow, along the wall, his wings tremble from the cold. He drapes himself over the couch and turns his space heater on with a snap. The little machine wheezes and coughs a moment before turning on. It’ll be awhile before the room is warm enough to drive the chill from him but for now this is the best he can manage.

Not even a minute later there comes a polite but insistent knocking from the front door. Crowley groans, slinging an arm over his eyes. He knows the longer he makes Aziraphale wait [3] the worse it will be, but he can’t make himself answer the door. Crowley waves his hand, instead, and hears the front door click open.

[3] Who could it be but Aziraphale? No other being would bother knocking.

There’s a shuffling from the entry hall as Crowley imagines Aziraphale hanging up his coat and then doing the same with Crowley’s. He can almost see the wrinkled nose and furrowed brow that the angel would make seeing it there on the floor.

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley asks before Aziraphale is even properly in the room.

“Hullo my dear,” Aziraphale sounds cheery but also awfully worried, “I hadn’t seen you since - well, since-” Since they’d swapped bodies back; since Crowley had turned tail and ran from St. James’s Park like the Devil himself had been on his heels. “And I thought I might pop over for a bit, yeah? I brought a bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion from the cellar.”

Crowley sniffs a little and finally drags his arm from his eyes. Aziraphale looked windswept and a little damp, standing in the doorway with a bottle of needlessly expensive wine. Aziraphale smiles [4] and holds up the bottle.

[4] It was a vulnerable and easily broken smile, something Crowley felt wholly undeserving of.

Crowley makes himself sit up. “Uh, yeah, okay.” He sounds a bit stupid.

“I’ll get some glasses,” Aziraphale says and furrows his brow, “You’re awfully soaked my dear, maybe you should change clothes.”

The little space heater must be working overtime, Crowley feels a touch too warm and tugs at his collar. “I don’t need you to mother me,” he says without heat.

“Someone has to,” Aziraphale counters, not unkindly, and goes to find the wine glasses.

They stay up too late and drink too much wine. Aziraphale says it’s a celebration, that they’d prevented the World from ending. And certainly they had. The World, but not Crowley’s world. No. That had ended when Aziraphale had put his hand in Crowley’s and squeezed. When he had held on for a touch too long afterward and Crowley felt seen . It had felt too much like a promise. Crowley had never been good with those. And yet, it was hard to feel shattered with Aziraphale at his side now even if he did feel entirely undeserving of the attention.

Aziraphale’s necktie is askew and his hair fluffed from running his fingers through it too many times. He’s got his head tilted back in a laugh, more free than Crowley has seen him in centuries. His smile, when he turns it on Crowley, is beatific and absolutely sloshed.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, loud and merry, “whatever are you staring at?”

You , Crowley thinks, You, blessed you . What he says is, “Your hair looks ridiculous. A proper bird’s nest.”

“My hair?” Aziraphale runs a hand through it again, tugging lightly at the front. “You think my hair looks ridiculous?”

“Utterly.”

“You- your hair is ridiculous!”

“That so, angel?”

“That’s so!”

“Hm.” Crowley brings his wine glass up to hide his smile.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Aziraphale cries petulantly, shooting forward to press a finger against Crowley’s lips as if to silence him.

crash

Crowley jerks back, his wine glass on the floor in pieces, wine seeping down into the granite leaving stains like blood.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale exclaims, “Oh my dear I’m so sorry.”

Crowley can barely hear him over the loud thump of his own heart. “That’s-” He clears his throat, “That’s quite alright.”

“I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

“Nothing a minor miracle can’t take care of.” Crowley’s going for nonchalant but he can’t look Aziraphale in his eyes.

“No I mean-“ Aziraphale’s weight shifts, the couch creaking below him, “Well I suppose I mean this, you and I?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

“Crowley you won’t even look at me.”

Crowley does, just to be contrary. Aziraphale looks incredibly pained and sad. It’s reminiscent of another time, when Aziraphale had sat in the front of his Bentley and said “ you go too fast for me, Crowley.” “Honestly angel,” Crowley says and this time the lie burns , “I haven’t the foggiest what you’re going on about.”

Aziraphale’s mouth works, gaping like a fish out of water before closing. He frowns, lips pursed in a thin line, his face stony. “You’re right, of course, my dear boy,” He stands and makes a minor show of dusting off his slacks. Aziraphale is at once alarmingly sober. “I’ve got- I have business to attend to, back at the shop, so unfortunately I must take my leave.”

“Are you sure?”

“More so than you.” Aziraphale waves his hand and the mess on the floor clears itself. “Goodnight my dear.”

“Night,” Crowley echoes hollowly.

When Aziraphale leaves Crowley drops back onto his couch, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Crowley spends the next three days in the Sonoran Desert. It’s a place that feels both like birth and death, something that used to breathe life and now works so hard to sustain it. He remembers Eden [5] and can think of nothing else.

[5] At night he sits and stares upward at the stars, more than he can see even on the clearest night in London, his wings spread wide and high. The desert does not sleep around him, creeping scorpions and roaming serpents give him a wide berth but he can feel them. He feels more, here, than any other place he knows.

He could stay here forever, unbothered by humanity or the creatures around him. Just himself and the cacti and the stars. He used to spend centuries alone- invisible -but now it only takes a few days for the familiar ache to settle.

He’d come here to be away from Aziraphale, but he misses him just as deeply as if he’d stayed in London. Crowley slumps over the arm of a small saguaro, lets the pins press into his hands like tiny daggers just to feel something other than this constant ache.

The plant is unbothered by him, resolutely silent when he wails his despair. A group of pronghorn dart away, startled by the sudden noise. A sidewinder slips between his feet and flicks a tongue upward in irritation.

Crowley rips the needles out of his palms with his teeth, digging into flesh and drawing blood. Deep dark red, the same color as wine splashed across his granite. He wants to go home. He wants to see Aziraphale. For the first time in a long time those both seem like different goals.

Aziraphale finds him two days later in St. James’s Park, splayed under a tree and hiding from the swollen dark rain clouds hanging pregnant in the sky. “Budge up,” Aziraphale says, taking a seat on the ground next to him. The air smells charged, like it’s waiting for lightning. Crowley grunts and slithers over closer to the trunk so Aziraphale can come further under the leaves.

They say nothing for a while. Crowley is used to companionable silences but this doesn’t feel like one. [6] Finally Crowley says, “I’m sorry.”

[6] This feels like they’re both choking on words they don’t know how to say and it’s left them speechless.

Aziraphale looks down at him, eyes wide with surprise, “My dear boy, whatever are you sorry for?”

‘Whatever I’ve done to make you seem so sad’ Crowley thinks. Crowley shrugs a shoulder sending a beetle scampering. “For last week I s’pose, I must’ve done something awful to make you leave in such a rush.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale looks away, his cheeks flushing a delicious pink, “I ought apologize myself for that, leaving in such a huff was very ill mannered of me. I was quite drunk.”

“S’fine.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, “Well, I suppose that’s settled.” His eyes find Crowley’s eyes again, even through the dark glass of his Valentinos and he smiles. “Lunch?”

They end up in Soho at a tapas place called Barrafinna. Aziraphale adores the tapas, Crowley is more in favor of the sherry. Crowley feels more at ease during lunch, like he had dining with Aziraphale in the days before the Apocolypse-That-Could-Have-Been and soon enough he’s letting Aziraphale tempt him into tiny bites from his plate. Twice Aziraphale feeds him with his fingers and Crowley’s ears nearly set to flame from burning. It’s all he can do not to bolt out the door.

Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with a napkin, making a pleased noise as he does. “Utterly scrumptious. Are uh, are you going to finish that my dear?”

Crowley shakes his head and pushes his dessert plate across the table.

“Ah, thank you.”

Crowley hums, chin resting in the palm of his hand. ‘I missed you’ he thinks, and then shakes himself for being silly because he’d only been gone a few days.

Aziraphale chews with his eyes closed, face scrunched up in something close to bliss. Underneath the table, Crowley squeezes his own knee with his free hand because suddenly he’d very much like to reach across the table and touch .

“Good?” Crowley asks, just for something so say, only so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

“Marvelous,” Aziraphale says and dabs at his mouth, “my dear you do always know the best places.”

“I could take you to more, now that the world is saved and all.”

“I would like that very much.” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and his face is warm with something, but Crowley doesn’t dare try to read into it. Can’t allow himself to hope .

Crowley coughs and curls his hand over his mouth. “Well then, home now angel?”

Aziraphale goes uncomfortably quiet. “I thought,” he says carefully, “today might be a rather nice day for a drive.”

“Angel, it’s raining.”

“Not too bad, no,” Aziraphale says, “you can drive slow.”

“Well-”

“Come on Crowley, anywhere you want to go.”

Crowley closes his eyes and bites down on his tongue. He wants - he wants - “Alright,” he says, undone, “I’ll settle up.”

Aziraphale is already in the car by the time Crowley has settled the bill and made his way outside. He has a kind of vague knowledge that he may have left an outrageous tip, despite never having ever tipped before, but he can’t quite think straight at the moment. He feels a bit dreamy, if he’s honest.

The Bentley drives for him, mostly. Crowley’s a bit preoccupied with the way Aziraphale has his hands folded in his lap, the soft curve of his mouth, the gentle swell of his chest to pay attention to the road. Aziraphale is looking out the window at the falling rain and passing buildings. Crowley’s hand twitches on the wheel. What would Aziraphale say if he tried to take his hand? Crowley forces his focus back on the road and tightens his grip on the wheel.

The steady thrum of the Bentley’s windscreen wipers and the soft croon of Freddie Mercury’s voice fill the otherwise companionable silence in the cab. Aziraphale taps his fingers along with the tune [7], humming along like he almost knows the words. He might. Aziraphale has heard these songs almost as many times as Crowley has.

[7] It is a tune that may or may not have been inspired by a certain night with a certain musician, Crowley cannot confirm nor deny this. ( I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings / Be your Valentino just for you)

Crowley likes driving. He has for a hundred years. The focus of it, the ease. It’s like flying without the fear of falling and he does it now mindlessly, easing between lanes and creating spaces where there was none before. He slows down only when he sees Aziraphale’s knuckles turn white, when his mouth gets pinched in the way that means he’s about to be cross with him.

“Alright there angel?”

“I don’t see why you have to go so fast , my dear,” Aziraphale’s hand clenches in his lap when Crowley takes a turn at a speed unsuitable for both the weather and road conditions, “why are you in such a hurry?”

Is it really a hurry when it takes six millennia to get here? The Bentley slows further, without Crowley’s say so, until they’re moving at a sedate pace with the cars next to them. “Don’t know any other way to go, angel,” Crowley says almost absently.

Aziraphale turns his head and looks , really looks, like he’s trying to see inside of Crowley. Crowley squirms, snake-like, under his stare until it becomes too much and Crowley makes himself focus on the road.

“Where are we going, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

“Anywhere. Wherever I stop. Anywhere is good enough as long as you’re beside me.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply. He seems tremendously far away, sitting on the other side of the cab. Crowley grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. He shouldn’t have- He should have been more careful about saying-

“Yes,” Aziraphale says and he sounds breathless , “Yes, alright.”

Crowley’s ears feel a bit pink. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel absently just for something to do.

It’s night by the time Crowley decides to stop the Bentley, somewhere south of Edinburgh. They’d stopped for dinner in Manchester and Aziraphale didn’t complain when they’d gotten back in the car and kept driving. He turns into a field, the Bentley whispering over the grass and not leaving tire tracks. He parks and the car goes blessedly silent.

It’s dark out here with nothing but the moon and stars for light, but Crowley can see just fine. Aziraphale is breathing easy and slow beside him. Crowley is staring and Aziraphale is staring right back and he can’t bring himself to break first.

Aziraphale clears his throat, “Well…”

“Well?” Crowley prompts, the corner of his lips tilting up. He leans forward against the wheel, all long limbed and loose.

Aziraphale’s hands twist in his lap, “Yes, well…” he trails off again and sighs. Before Crowley can cut in he picks back up again. “It’s very beautiful here, and the moon is so lovely and full tonight. It’s not often we get to see the stars.”

“I know,” Crowley hums. “This is one of mine, you know? I picked it for the stars and the smell of sweet grass. The wildflowers bloom madly in late spring.”

“You will have to bring me to see them, my dear,” Aziraphale smiles, “perhaps a picnic.”

Oh, I love you, Crowley thinks, heart hammering in his chest. I do love you. He hopes he looks more put together than he feels. Demons can’t love but Crowley is sick of being told what he can and cannot do. “Yes,” Crowley says past the lump in his throat, “I’ll make deviled eggs and you can make those damned cress sandwiches you’re so fond of.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, “and we’ll have wine, maybe a cake as well.” He pauses for a moment. “Crowley,” He says slowly, “what did you mean this place is one of yours? You don’t mean- Crowley, my dear boy, is this one of your hiding spots?”

“I don’t use this one often but yes.”

“And you brought me here.”

“Yes.”

“With you.”

“Yes angel, do keep up.”

Aziraphale’s face softens, like it did a week again in St. James’s Park. The way he says “oh Crowley ”, his eyes misty with tears, has Crowley half out of his skin. He can’t run away this time. Where would he go? Crowley buries his shaking hands in his lap and tries to bear it.

Aziraphale reaches across the cab - inches and millennia between them - and cradles Crowley’s jaw in his hand. Crowley sucks in a wet breath and blows it out, trembling.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again. His other hand finds Crowley’s and grips firm, steady. “You make me ever so happy.”

“Angel I-“

“Dearest,” Aziraphale leans in, close and closer, “how I love you.” Whispered, reverent, like a prayer.

Crowley closes his eyes tight against the welling of tears. “ Aziraphale .” He feels Aziraphale’s fingers drift up to his sunglasses, freezing there in question. “Yeah.” Aziraphale takes his sunglasses off and drags a thumb tenderly under his eye. Crowley opens his eyes. His chest aches, open and raw, at the warmth in Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh love,” Aziraphale murmurs, wiping an errant tear from Crowley’s cheek, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

“No,” Crowley breathes, “ no , Aziraphale I-“ he squeezes Aziraphale’s hand hard, “Angel I’ll ruin you.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale presses their foreheads together. They’re sharing breath and Crowley’s barely breathing. “You couldn’t if you tried.

“I love you,” Crowley gasps and it hurts , “I love you, I love you, I love you-“ Aziraphale closes the space between them, capturing the words with his mouth.

Kissing Aziraphale is- It’s everything Crowley has been wanting since the Garden, when Aziraphale had shielded him with his wing from the first rain. It’s centuries of temptations and clandestine meetings, of lunches and wine and boxes of chocolate. Aziraphale is warm and steady and Crowley goes soft under him, opening himself to the one being in Creation he’s ever had concrete faith in.

When Aziraphale pulls away Crowley can’t help but chase after that mouth, his hand coming up to clutch at the lapel of Aziraphale’s jacket.

“I’m here love,” Aziraphale says, thumbing along his jaw, “you have me. For as long as you like.”

“Long as I like?” Crowley says thickly, his cheeks burning, “How’s eternity sound?”

“I’d like that,” Aziraphale says, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

Crowley breathes through the molten feeling in his chest. Aziraphale’s love feels like basking in the sun after spending eternity underground, blinding in its intensity. He laces their fingers together in his lap. Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s temple and again to the thin skin under his eye.

They spend the night at a small hotel in Edinburgh, Crowley sprawled half across Aziraphale’s chest most of the night with Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. The drive back to London the next day is spent mostly in silence, their hands clasped securely in the narrow space between them. Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hand up to kiss his knuckles, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb.

A month later they’re in New York City, Crowley opening the door to a rooftop greenhouse. Inside are impossible plants, flowers that quake in their pots when Crowley lets the door slam shut. There’s a handsome English Ivy that seems to wave hello from the ceiling. Aziraphale touches the creeping vines and smiles at Crowley.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says, “Really beautiful.”

“Oh hush,” Crowley says, “you give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.”

“Nothing wrong with a little bit of positive reinforcement. You seem to enjoy it, as I recall.”

“Shut up,” Crowley whines, the tips of his ears going pink.

Aziraphale steps in to hold Crowley’s face in his hands. His fingers trace at Crowley’s ears. “Precious boy,” He says, leaning in to kiss his sharp cheekbone.

Across the room a Rose bush blooms, beautiful pink and red petals opening and releasing a sweet smell. A pot of green Carnations turn toward them. Above, that old English Ivy gently ripples.

Crowley drops his head to Aziraphale’s collar, sighing softly. Aziraphale slides his hands up into Crowley’s hair, twirling dark red locks between his fingers. “I like this,” Aziraphale says, “I’m glad you decided to show me.”

“I like you.” Crowley says, punctuating it with a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck. He looks up to glare at his plants, “Don’t get any ideas, I’ll still bin the lot of you.”

Aziraphale laughs. “You won’t.”

He doesn’t.

End

(For those that wanted to be tagged: @jawnlawk , @the-djinn-inside)

#fic #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #mine

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kaesaaurelia · 4 years

Text

the tower

For @whumptober2020 day 4: Running Out of Time (specifically "collapsed building" and "buried alive")

Mild background Aziraphale/Crowley. (Female-presenting Crawly in this, although she doesn’t show up in this installment. She will later!) Also featuring an original character of whom I am fond.

Content warning for a large-scale disaster.

Aziraphale had arrived in Babylon two days earlier, and had run into Crawly almost immediately. He had been a little anxious that she would resent him; the Flood had been a very difficult time for everyone, and though he of course didn't agree with her conclusions about Heaven, he did understand why she'd been so upset. But she'd lit up when he'd waved at her, and greeted him very warmly, and said she knew a good tavern, only just now she had some very urgent business with a copper merchant, and could they meet up in a day or two?

And so they'd made arrangements, and he'd spent the next couple days wandering through the streets of the city. Babylon was very beautiful this time of year, and it was especially lovely to see how well humanity was working together these days. That tower thing they were building particularly intrigued him; he wondered whether Heaven might make bring a copy of it up into the clouds to look at, as they had begun to do with some of humanity's creations. You could see it from all over the city, and so it served not only as a beautiful building but a useful navigational aid.

Crawly had suggested they meet at the foot of it, but judging by the sun, Aziraphale thought he had time to go up the tower.

Five floors up, he began to have doubts. Fifteen floors up, he started to think perhaps he ought to have started this journey earlier, or flown. Thirty floors, and he had to stop and rest. There was simply too much tower. So he leaned over the side and looked down upon the bustling city of Babylon. It was very lovely. Aziraphale tried to pick out a flash of red hair somewhere in the crowd below, but he couldn't see one just yet.

"What are you doing here?" said somebody, sounding annoyed, and worried, and maybe a little bit angry, and Aziraphale turned, expecting to see an engineer or an architect, but it wasn't a human at all.

"Nisroc! Good Lord, I wasn't expecting to see you here," he said. "Did you get transferred up from Ur?"

She looked harried. She looked terrible, actually; she was wearing more clothes than Aziraphale had ever seen her wear, and no jewelry, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Although she must be eating properly, at least, because she'd definitely put on some weight, to the point that if he had not known she was an angel, he would have assumed she was pregnant. "Something like that, yeah," she said, her eyes darting out into the crowd. "Some career... transferring... stuff. What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Well -- well, if you must know I'm meeting a f-- an acquaintance," said Aziraphale. "Is... is everything all right?"

"Fine, I'm fine, everything's fine," she said, quickly. "Just, um, they're... making me do some evaluation stuff, and I'm a little nervous."

"Oh, you'll do well," said Aziraphale, gently. "It'll all be all right in the end, I'm certain." He tried to make it sound like he had faith in her abilities, which he mostly did, but Nisroc had been a Seraph, and Michael was very fond of her -- perhaps a little bit too fond of her, the gossip suggested -- and he couldn't imagine her failing, even if she deserved it. The last time they'd seen each other, Nisroc had been experimenting with novel ways of getting humans to listen to him, and had set himself up as some sort of fertility deity. It was the sort of thing nobody else could have got away with, but Nisroc had been doing it for centuries, apparently, and had been very proud of his temple, complete with a cadre of attractive, scantily-clad priests and priestesses.

Maybe the fertility deity business was why she was pretending to be pregnant now. That seemed a little gauche to Aziraphale, but he'd been uncomfortable with the whole thing, so what did he know?

"Yeah, yeah, I bet it'll all be fine," she said, though she did not appear to believe it. "Listen, Aziraphale, I think you should leave. Don't want them thinking you're interfering with my evaluations and all. Maybe don't even take the stairs?"

He stared at her. "You want me to fly?" he asked, horrified. "But all those humans down there --"

"It's fine, they're fine, just get out of here, okay? I need this to go well," she said. She looked down at all the people in the streets below. "Fuck," she muttered.

"Really, I don't think you need to worry so much," said Aziraphale. "Everybody knows Michael will --"

"Oh, yeah, she'll definitely be here, and you don't want to be here when she gets here," she snapped. "I don't have any miracles right now, and if something goes wrong --"

"You don't have any miracles?" Aziraphale asked. "Why on Earth not?"

Nisroc made an angry, incoherent sort of noise. "Look, you're in the wrong place, this is the wrong time, I have not gone a day without puking for, like, I don't know how long even, but way too long! I'm tired and my feet hurt and my back hurts and I am trying very hard to make you leave but if I have to throw you off this tower, so help me..." She trailed off. "Oh," she said, in a very small voice. "Oh, I guess no one's going to help me, actually. Oh, God." She blinked, and tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving great black streaks on her face from her makeup.

Aziraphale felt sorry for her then, because she sounded so lost. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

"You can fuck off!" she snarled, looking wild and terrible and desperate. "Leave! Go away! Please!"

"Well." Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Well, I do hope everything goes better than you think it will, but if you insist..." And he started down the stairs. There were quite a lot of them. He wondered if perhaps Nisroc had done something even Michael couldn't countenance, but he couldn't imagine what it might be.

When he got to the bottom of the tower, he circled the base of it, looking for Crawly. She wasn't anywhere, and he wondered if perhaps she knew about Nisroc's evaluations; whether she had come here specifically to ruin them. That wasn't a very charitable thought, he told himself, and he tried not to think too much about it, but Crawly was a demon, and she did seem to pride herself on her good (bad) work.

What Aziraphale did not notice, until it was too late, was the sky darkening with clouds, and the rumbling of thunder in the distance, and then he joined the humans in looking up at the sky in alarm, as lightning crackled through the clouds. It felt rather like Heavenly wrath, and Aziraphale suddenly worried that there was going to be another flood and he hadn't got the memo.

But it was the ground that struck first -- a distant rumble became a shaking roar, and bricks began to fall from the tower before it lurched forward, and --

It happened too fast for Aziraphale to be aware of it, consciously, but he dropped to the ground and spread his wings over his head, and sent out scattered miracles towards the humans nearby, before several tons of stone fell on all their heads. The roar was horrendous, and Aziraphale's ears rang for a minute or more. Eventually, as his sense of hearing slowly returned to him, he heard the humans screaming and crying, and he made his way slowly and painfully to his feet, folding his broken wings into another dimension.

He looked around at the rubble for signs of life. Whether this was part of Nisroc’s test or not, Aziraphale knew he had to do something.

[next part]

#whumptober2020 #no.4 #running out of time #collapsed building #buried alive #good omens #fic #aziraphale #fallen principality nisroc #text #fiction

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wholesome-revelry · 5 years

Text

fic: “Long-Term,” Aziraphale/Crowley, outsider POV | 1.6K, G

(Nominally a sequel to this)

Officiating weddings has got to be one of Dr. Blackwell’s favorite parts of ministry, and although she’s probably not supposed to have preferences, if she looks deep into her jaded lesbian heart with any degree of honesty, queer weddings are by far the best.

Take, for instance, the couple she’s consulting with this afternoon, for their upcoming October ceremony. Seemingly mismatched in every respect. The plump, fair-haired one looks like a parody of an absent-minded professor, as sketched by someone who didn’t bother to do much actual research; his clothes are so outdated it teeters on costume. He’s wearing a bowtie, and not in that reinvented hipster way. This is a bowtie unacquainted with the cycles of fashion, a bowtie that has never heard the word irony.

His partner is a rangy, black-clad ginger in snakeskin boots. He has the look of a hungover rocker about him, and would somehow, even without the sunglasses he has fully committed to wearing indoors on a cloudy afternoon. He’s sprawled almost defiantly in his chair and keeps throwing dubious glances around Dr. Blackwell’s office, as though expecting a lightning bolt to strike him down for merely daring to be within spitting distance of a church.

Everything about his posture screams ‘Extremely complicated feelings about religion ahoy!’

Ex-Catholic, Dr. Blackwell thinks sagely.

Something funny about their names, too. Their names are--

They’re--

(She knows they both gave her their names, but as she looks at their faces, there is a curiously name-shaped hole where the sounds should go. Every time she approaches the edges of this thought, it ripples and changes shapes, and whispers, ‘Don’t worry now, it’s really of no consequence, is it?’

Dr. Blackwell didn’t get a degree in Unitarian Universalist theology by looking away from paradoxes. ‘Curiosity is earthly and holy and wonderful,’ she tries to tell the thought, pushing forward, ‘even to question truly is an answer--’

‘Ah yes,’ the thought says after her third attempt, ‘very nice, but in this particular case--’ and the absence where their names should be yawns, stretches, and swallows down all of her related concerns with a shrug.)

She blinks. She watches as Bowtie casually takes Sunglasses’ hand, as Sunglasses responds with a look so gooey and sweet and private that she feels a bit weird for intruding. How, she thinks, the fuck did you two meet?

The only thing they seem to have in common, beyond their feelings for each other, is a certain aura of personal disaster. Still, let she whose outfit doesn’t heavily feature Birkenstocks and cat hair throw the first stone. So to speak.

“So,” says Dr. Blackwell, “anything in particular I should know first? Any thoughts, or concerns?”

“The hymns,” says Bowtie, “or. Uh. The songs, I suppose?” He coughs. “Any chance we could stick with ones that don’t, you know, prominently feature--?” He pointedly casts his eyes towards the ceiling and almost seems to mutter, “No point in asking for trouble.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, shaking off the flash of weirdness like an errant cobweb. “We have plenty of non-denominational hymns.”

“About what,” Sunglasses says with a slight sneer. “Tax forms? Penguins? Automotive repair?”

Oof. Definitely an ex-Catholic, she thinks. You can smell the baggage from here.

“Mostly about the inherent holiness in doing good, or the beauty of nature?” says Dr. Blackwell. “Sometimes, someone will sort of retrofit a classical melody to Transcendentalist poetry, but those tend not to scan so well, in my opinion.”

Somehow, without any eye contact, Sunglasses manages to give her a wary look.

“You can borrow a hymnal if you’d like,” she continues. “We tend to edit out the G-word anyway. Makes the atheists and the agnostics a bit jumpy, me included.” Bowtie starts.

“You don’t,” says Sunglasses, “believe in--?”

“Not really,” says Dr. Blackwell. “Suppose I’ll allow for the possibility, but in my mind, the existence of some divine Heavenly will is just not as important as other questions. Like ‘How do I do what’s right for the planet and everything on it?’”

“How do I avert the apocalypse,” Sunglasses murmurs.

“Exactly,” she says with a laugh, “although I’d settle for doing something about Brexit.”

Neither of them laugh, and after an awkward pause, she adds,

“As far as music goes, for the ceremony. If you’ve got a song that really resonates with you, no matter what it is, let me know and we can work that in.”

“No Queen,” says Sunglasses immediately.

It feels like there should be a story here, but Bowtie only turns to him and says, “What was that band you liked? Velveteen--”

“We’re not playing Velvet Underground at our wedding,” Sunglasses says.

“Same thing goes for readings, too,” says Dr. Blackwell. “If there’s a text that holds special meaning--”

“Hm,” says Bowtie, “yes, about that--” He reaches to his side and heaves an antique leather briefcase onto her desk. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Bowtie fiddles with the latch, which clicks open to reveal a mountain of papers: wine-stained cocktail napkins and looseleaf notebook pages, parchment-looking stuff, and everything in between. It’s a veritable avalanche of love poems, as well as quotations from various plays and books, all laboriously hand-copied in the same tidy penmanship.

“Angel,” says Sunglasses slowly. “What is this.”

Pink-cheeked, Bowtie flutters his hands. “Just--some things I’d been setting aside!”

“For how long,” Sunglasses says, leaning forward. He sounds delighted but also deeply confused.

“So sorry,” Bowtie tells Dr. Blackwell, “I really should’ve organized these better! Even a rudimentary system--”

“It’s fine,” she says, blankly. She really hopes it isn’t going to be her job to narrow down the options. There are literally hundreds.

“How long,” Sunglasses repeats.

“You know how long!” hisses Bowtie.

Sunglasses plucks a sheet off the pile, rubs it between his thumb and finger. “They stopped making paper like this in the nineteenth century,” he says, sounding strangely triumphant about it.

Dr. Blackwell furrows her forehead, where a number of facts are colliding uncomfortably inside, like how some of these specimens are clearly very new, some are so old she’d be uncomfortable touching them with her bare hands, and the handwriting on every one of them is identical.

“Oh!” she says with sudden bright clarity. “Are you two vintage paper enthusiasts?”

“Yes,” says Bowtie. “Love it, love the stuff, simply cannot get enough.” And then, to Sunglasses, with a pointed look in Dr. Blackwell’s direction, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Maybe they met at a convention, she thinks. That’s nice.

“How about you pick out your top five first?” she suggests. “Or ten.” She glances down at the mound of text. “Also, we might need to get some volunteer readers for some of these, because my French isn’t exactly up to par. Or my--is that Middle English?”

“Haha, how did that get in there, couldn’t even begin to guess,” Bowtie babbles. He has to brace most of his weight on the briefcase lid to wrench it closed again. Sunglasses watches with interest, chin resting in his hands. “Yes, I will, I will absolutely weed some of these out, not to worry--”

The rest of the conversation is standard, for the most part. It’s going to be a relatively small ceremony, no child ring bearers and thankfully no animal ones either. (They have a whiff of eccentricity that had made Dr. Blackwell nervous one of them might suddenly produce a cat on a leash, insisting it was trained. In her experience, granting your beloved calico or tabby custodianship of the rings was a quick recipe for a ringless, catless wedding.) Only a shared stricken look at the possibility of involving any parents in the proceedings.

This, sadly, is also quite standard with older queer couples.

“Between you and me,” says Dr. Blackwell, “and I know this isn’t very ministerial of me. But if the people who raised you don’t support what you have together, which is clearly a wonderful and beautiful and life-affirming thing, I say to Hell with ‘em, you know?”

Bowtie chuckles unsteadily. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“How long have you two been together?” she asks.

Bowtie and Sunglasses stare at each other. There is a long beat of silence. This is normally, she thinks, not a very hard question.

“How long have we been together?” says Sunglasses at last. The shades may hide his eyes but every molecule of his being is oriented at his fiance. “Hm?”

“Six thousand--” Bowtie starts, resolute.

“What,” says Dr. Blackwell.

“Days!” Bowtie finishes. “Six thousand days!”

“So,” she does some fast mental math, “about sixteen years, then?”

“Yes,” says Bowtie decisively.

“That’s great,” says Dr. Blackwell. “I’ve been with my wife for almost six years, I hope we’re still this much in love a decade from now.” There’s just something so reassuring about meeting older queer couples, she thinks. Bowtie and Sunglasses must be at least forty. Maybe fifty?

(It’s odd; they’re clearly solid, clearly sitting in front of her, but every time she tries to clue into any specific detail about either of them, her mind sort of skitters away from it--

Her head hurts.)

“Guessing you want a short service,” she says, rubbing at her forehead. “I’ll just write out a few remarks for you two to look over first, if that’s alright? I can email something to you by the end of the week.”

“Sounds perfect!” says Bowtie.

They shake hands. She watches them leave, watches Sunglasses mutter something in Bowtie’s ear that makes him smile on the way out the door.

Pair of oddballs, but in a nice way, she thinks. You can’t always tell, as a minster, which couples are going to make it in the long run, but she hopes this all works out for them. Maybe it will. They’ve already stood the test of time, it seems.

Sixteen years--they’ve been together since early 2000.

Imagine, she thinks. Just imagine.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #codename pending #sort of a pre-marriage fic #99% fluff and 1% soft eldritch horror #not sure about ao3ing this one bc it's just so self-indulgent

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somethingjustsouthofbrilliance · 4 years

Text

Too Weak to Fly (chapter 3)

Back to chapter 1

@swanheart69 @cosmic-malarky @tonystark5ever

Chapter 3

Anathema is waiting for them by the gate, face pinched with grim worry, hands clasped together in front of her in a nervous knot. She steps forward as Aziraphale parks the car, helps the angel wrangle the barely conscious demon out of the passenger seat.

“Come on,” she urges once they’ve got Crowley settled between them – a will-less, gangly weight across their shoulders. “Let’s get you both inside, so I can get that wound looked at, okay?”

“The children?” Aziraphale asks as they begin a cautiously hurried trek toward the cottage.

“They’ll be staying with the Youngs for now,” Anathema responds with an awkward half-shrug, careful not to dislodge Crowley’s arm. “Newt, too. It’s easier that way.”

Safer, Aziraphale hears, though she doesn’t say the word out loud.

The door to the cottage has been conveniently left open, and Anathema swiftly brings them inside, leading them past the ever-cluttered kitchen into the adjacent bedroom.

“Set him down here.” She points at the large metal frame bed that takes up over half of the room. Ducks out from under Crowley’s arm, letting Aziraphale take on all of his weight, while she goes to pull up a small bow-legged table that holds a small basin filled with water and an assortment of medical supplies from a standard first-aid kit.

Aziraphale shifts his hold, trying his best not to jostle his friend, as he wraps his arm gently around the demon’s waist and begins to shuffle toward the bed. But Crowley stiffens suddenly in his grip, slender trembling fingers grasping Aziraphale’s wrist, calling him to a halt.

“A-adam…,” comes the breathless murmur of a reminder, and Aziraphale sighs, his shoulders sagging with defeat.

“Let’s sit you down first, darling.”

Carefully, ever so carefully he helps settle Crowley on the edge of the bed. Sits down beside him, arm looped around the demon for his own reassurance as much as for the other’s support, as Crowley sinks heavily into his side, the hollow of his cheek resting against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel spares him a glance, his heart clenching as he takes in the unhealthy cadaveric gray of the other’s complexion, the bloodless lips, parted to suck in labored, panting breaths, his eyes – a spilled over sea of molten lava, dulled by exhaustion and pain. They are running out of time. Crowley is running out of time. He knows this, a certainty just as palpable as the minute tremors that rack the gaunt frame ensconced within his grasp. They shouldn’t do this, he thinks. Shouldn’t waste what little time they’ve got. But he had promised Crowley, he had agreed, and it is the right thing to do. But he wishes, so fervently wishes, that doing the right thing didn’t feel so terribly wrong.

Crowley’s fingers tighten a fraction on Aziraphale’s wrist, pain-dulled yellow eyes surveying him intently as though the demon somehow managed to glimpse the panicked, backtracking direction of his thoughts. Aziraphale nods, forces a crooked twitch of a smile in response before moving his gaze over to where Anathema stands ripping open a pack of sterile bandages in preparation.

“Would you mind calling Adam, dear girl?”

“I already did,” Anathema responds distractedly. “Right after I got off the phone with you. He’s on his way. Driving down from uni.” She glances at her wristwatch. “Should be here soon. We can wait for him if you like, or–”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aziraphale interrupts her, his voice tight. “But if you wouldn’t mind calling him again, please. Now.”

She hesitates a moment, a look of troubled suspicion on her face as she surveys the two of them. She picks up the phone nevertheless, dials the number. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“If you could just turn on one of those extra loud functions…”

“Ssssspeaker,” Crowley supplies breathlessly beside him, and he nods his thanks with a fleeting glance to the side.

“Speaker, yes, if you could turn that on, please.”

Anathema taps obligingly on the screen, places the now loudly ringing phone on the table before them, and Aziraphale takes a deep, fortifying breath, preparing himself just as Adam’s distracted voice comes over the line.

“Anathema? Hey, tell them I’m almost there, okay? You can start without me and I’ll–”

“You’re on speaker, Adam,” Anathema cuts in, skewering Aziraphale with her unnervingly penetrating stare. “Aziraphale wants to tell you something.”

“Uncle Z?” There’s hesitation in Adam’s voice, an undeniable strain of worry. “Is uncle Crowley…?”

“Are you inside the village limits yet?” Aziraphale interrupts, forcibly ignoring the question that threatens to send him into a tailspin of nauseating fear. There’s no time for that now, they need to hurry.

“I just passed Mr. Tyler’s house, yeah. Like I said, I’m almost–.”

“Thank you, my boy, that will do.” He feels Crowley’s head shift against his shoulder – a minuscule nod of encouragement. Keep going. Yes, he needs to keep going or he will lose his resolve. Will beg Adam to ignore him and rush here as fast as his car will take him.

He sucks in a breath, small and woefully inadequate for a being that shouldn’t need to breathe at all. Forces himself to plough on. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you to pull over now.”

“You what?” The near-outraged bafflement in Adam’s voice is echoed in Anathema’s shocked gasp of “What are you doing?”

He looks away from the wide-eyed judgment of her stare. Focuses on Crowley’s hand instead where it clings to his own, on the long slender fingers that tremble lightly against the skin of his wrist.... I can do this, he tells himself. I have to do this. I promised.

“The people that are hunting us,” he begins, his own voice feeling as unsteady as the weight of Crowley’s fingers on his wrist, “they are not very… discreet about their methods. There’s quite a good possibility that innocent bystanders could get hurt, and that is a risk that we simply cannot take.”

Not “we”, he corrects himself with brutal reproach. Crowley. It was Crowley who reminded him of his true nature when he had become practically senseless with the fear of losing him. Crowley who insisted, breathless with pain and the exhaustion of an unnecessary argument, that Aziraphale would never forgive himself if he allowed humans he cared about to be hurt to save a demon’s corporation.

It didn’t matter that this particular demon meant more to him than all of the cosmos. Didn’t matter that for Crowley to lose his corporation this time around with Hell desperate to get its vengeful hands on him would mean a fate much worse than death. None of that mattered… because Crowley was right. Crowley was right and Aziraphale hated himself for it.

“Crowley believes…” There’s the barest hint of pressure against the inside of his wrist and Aziraphale corrects himself with a resigned huff, “We believe that you might be able to hide Tadfield from them, to make it appear unremarkable, as it were. Not worthy of note.”

“Make them lose interest in this place,” Adam muses over the speaker.

“Precisely. Do you think you could do that?”

The speaker crackles with a reluctant breath – not quite a rejection, not quite an agreement. “I suppose so, but… shouldn’t we get uncle Crowley sorted first?”

He can’t help it, the pleadingly hopeful glance he throws Crowley’s way at these words. But he knows the answer to Adam’s question. Knows it even before he sees the rueful twitch of Crowley’s lips, the tiny shake of his head. It was the answer they both agreed on – an implacable caveat to Crowley’s acceptance of Aziraphale’s plan.

“Th-think about it, angel. Thisss, all of thisss will be pointlesssss if they find ussss again. You know I’m right.”

He nods, heaving out a sigh that feels like it’s ripped something deep inside him on the way out. Leans in to brush a dry-lipped kiss along the pale clammy skin of the demon’s temple.

“I’m afraid not, dear boy.”

“If I do this, if I create a… a shield over Tadfield… I won’t be… I won’t have enough power to…” And Adam sounds so young all of a sudden, so very much like the lost, frightened 11-year-old boy that he and Crowley met all those years ago. And Aziraphale wants nothing more than to reassure him, but the only reassurance he can offer is as empty as Heaven over the last few millennia.

“Sssss’alright, Adam, we got thisss,” Crowley cuts in unexpectedly, his voice stronger somehow than the last time the angel heard it, and Aziraphale can’t help a flare of unabashed admiration and love for the lengths this demon, his demon, is willing to go to to reassure the boy.

Crowley pays for it a mere instant later. Chokes on a sudden harsh-sounding breath and twists in his arms, and it’s all Aziraphale can do to keep a tight hold on him as the demon presses his face into Aziraphale’s coat to muffle a series of wet, rattling coughs that seem to tear him from the inside out. The coat, when Crowley finally pulls away, is stained with bright red blood.

“Crowley’s right, my dear,” Aziraphale forces himself to say, though his hands feel numb and he is shaking so hard he thinks Adam might be able to hear it in his voice. He hugs Crowley tighter instead, tries to steady his voice as much as he can. “Anathema and I will handle things on our end. You just… you focus on stopping these men.” He is pointedly not looking at Anathema as he says this, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling the heated weight of her glare.

Silence crackles over the speaker, brittle, hesitant, worried, and Aziraphale holds his breath as he waits for Adam’s response, hoping for a “yes” even as he secretly, desperately wishes for a “no”. But mostly, mostly he just wants him to answer and get it over with, because Crowley won’t allow himself to be treated until they get this sorted out, and with every passing second, with every fresh drop of blood that soaks into the hopelessly ruined jacket, their window of opportunity is rapidly slamming shut.

“Alright,” Adam responds finally, grim and quiet. “Gimme a minute. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathes out past an ever-growing spiky lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

The connection clicks off, and Anathema reaches over to pick up the phone. Watches the two of them with a pinched, reproachful expression. “You were the one who asked me to call in Adam,” she accuses, the undisguised worry in her voice muting the low undercurrent of disapproval. “You said we’d need his powers to–”

“I changed my mind, alright?!” he exclaims, feeling his composure crumble. The hold he has on Crowley has got to be beyond uncomfortable right now, but he can’t bring himself to loosen it. “I reviewed our options and I changed my mind.” And he absolutely, positively cannot bring himself to look at Anathema now. Can’t possibly hope to defend himself if she continues to pry.

Turns out he doesn’t need to.

“Don’t blame him.” Crowley’s voice is barely above a whisper now, a rasped out, broken hiss of a breath that spills past the blood-spattered lips. “Wasss my desssision. My ch-choisssse.”

The phone dings an incoming message, interrupting whatever Anathema was about to say, and she lets it go with nothing more than an unhappy frown. Glances briefly at her screen. “It’s Adam. He’s done it.”

And to Crowley those words must have been like a permission to let go, for in the next instant the shuddering tension seeps out of his body – swiftly, all at once, and Aziraphale cries out in alarm as the demon grows suddenly, terrifyingly limp in his grasp. And his voice shakes with traitorous fear when he begs Anathema to “Hurry, please, hurry!”

#good omens #good omens fic #my writing #crowley #aziraphale #sjsob good omens fics

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prettybirdy979 · 4 years

Text

Fic: Aziraphale/Crowley ‘Be My Valentine’

For Ineffable Valentines! Prompt list here, more fics for this prompt series in my tag here.

‘It’ssss it’ssss it’ssss it thattt day aagain.’

Aziraphale blinks. Crowley... Crowley sounds like he might be making a a point. Or a Point. Attention is needed for a point it’s in the rules. The Official Rules. Word with an A. Apply even when drinking, ‘specially when they drunk. Like this drunk. Very drink.

Crowley waves his hands and oh yes right. Attention. ‘Angel, angel angel, it that day.’ He sounds annoyed, like it’s not the first time he’s spoken.

Yes. Replying. ‘What day?’

Crowley flops his head over so they’re looking at one another. Aziraphale has a vague memory of laughing when he flopped so hard the glasses fell off but can’t quite recall where they went. They did go somewhere right? There were glasses and they did go somewhere not into nothing, though that might actually be somewhere if you think about i-

‘That day. Saint day.’

It takes a moment for Aziraphale to wrestle his thoughts back to what Crowley’s going on about. ‘Saint day?’

Crowley nods. ‘Yeah, day with the saint. That day.’

‘All Saints Day?’ Aziraphale frowns, trying to recall the date. Feels cold so maybe it’s not that saint day but wait, isn’t it cold for that day too? Also? So maybe it is... but he remembers there being a New Year sometime in there. Oh but those happen so fast, like blinking. Maybe he blunk too much.

‘Angel no.’

‘What?’ Aziraphale pats at Crowley’s face, to check it’s still there and not just making rude sounds at him.

‘Ngk! No! Not that saint day, the other one. Hate that one. Bad day.’

Saint day Crowley would hate? Oh! Suddenly Aziraphale feels like he’s on firmer footing. ‘Cause of the snakes.’

Crowley blinks at him, a long moment of silence. ‘What snakes?’

‘Saint.’

‘Saint snakes?’

Oh, that sounds nice. ‘Holy snakes! Oh but you’re a snake. Can’t be holy. Honourary holy, I’ll give it to you. Cause our side shares.’

‘What, no! I don’t wanna be holy,’ Crowley splutters, a long wall of noises that don’t communicate much more than outrage and really ought to go on a little less.

‘Holy snakes,’ Aziraphale repeats, long practiced at ignoring Crowley’s spluttering, and giggles. ‘Hooolllly snaaaaakes.’

‘Soundsss like a ssweaaar.’

Aziraphale tries to sit up, fails, and instead settles for vaguely wriggling in the right direction. ‘Does not! You’re a holy snake.’

‘Am not! And and and, where did the snakess come from?’ Crowley says, in the tone he usually gets when he thinks a drunk Aziraphale has gone too far off topic. Aziraphale takes a long sip of the wine in his glass, to show Crowley how drunk he isn’t.

Besides, Crowley brought up the snakes.

‘The saint.’

‘What saint?’

Like talking to a brick wall sometimes. ‘The the, the saint you hate,’ Aziraphale all but growls. ‘The the... the not English one.’

That gets Crowley blinking, and then smiling. ‘Not English?’

‘Yeah, the ones that aren’t English.’

‘Lot of people aren’t English angel.’

Aziraphale makes a face at Crowley. ‘The ones that yell at you when you call them English.’

Crowley gives him a long look. ‘That that, doesn’t narrow it down. Lot of people yell at you when you call ‘em English.’

‘I do.’

‘You are English-’

‘I am not!’ Aziraphale manages to sit up this time. ‘I am an angel!’

‘An English angel!’

Aziraphale hisses - exactly like the one Crowley prides himself on, damn him for rubbing off on Aziraphale - and waves a hand at a laughing Crowley. ‘I am not English.’

‘Youuuu aaaaareeee.’ Crowley rolls onto his back. ‘What not English saaint do I hate?’

‘One with the snakes,’ Aziraphale lets himself flop down again. How had he never realised how comfortable his floor is?

‘Oh! Oh! OH! I know him. The... the... the saint. Peter? No. Peer? No... Patty?’ Crowley frowns and twists his head to look at Aziraphale. ‘Think that him. But but but not him.’

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to blink. ‘Not him?’

‘Noooooooooope!’ Crowley goes back to looking at the ceiling. ‘Not him. Hate this day. The the, nice saint. No, love saint.’

Something clicks in Aziraphale’s head, slipping into his mind with a slight sheepishness that whispers he might have gotten this sooner if he was a little less drunk. It is ignored as a useless voice of useless advice.

‘ Valentinus!’ he says and Crowley makes a noise of agreement. ‘Oh but that changed didn’t it?’

‘Val. En. Tine.’ Crowley manages to make each syllable sound angrier than the next. ‘Hate that day.’

‘Why?’ Aziraphale runs his mind over the modern celebration of the day. It’s hard to recall specifics other than love things; he does try to spread some love but the day is so bitter for some it’s often better to try the week before or after.

Crowley groans. ‘Cause cause cause. Reminder.’ Aziraphale goes to ask why, mind already racing through the years for any bad days that might’ve been around this time of year but Crowley cuts him off.

‘Reminder can’t have you,’ he says and Aziraphale feels his heart stop.

‘Have me?’ he asks, already reaching for soberity.

With another groan Crowley rolls over, still caught up in his drunkness. ‘Have you. Love you; all that.’

Fully sober, Aziraphale reaches for his friend. ‘Oh my dear,’ he says and waits until Crowley’s eyes clear, ‘you have me.’

‘...What,’ Crowley says flatly, in the tone of the recently sobered up.

Aziraphale racks his brain for the words and smiles when he finds them. ‘Be my Valentine,’ he say and Crowley’s eyes widen. ‘Be mine on this day...’ Aziraphale bites his lip then squares his shoulders, ‘and on all days.’

‘Angel?’ Aziraphale’s never seen Crowley look so dumbfounded, not even when it dawned on them that they might have managed to save the world by talking. ‘Do you mean-’

‘I love you my dear. Be my Valentine.’

Crowley’s an inch away in a moment, lips almost but not quite touching Aziraphale’s. ‘Angel... Aziraphale-’ and Aziraphale shivers at the sound of his name in Crowley’s low tone, ‘-I have always been yours.’

‘Prove it,’ Aziraphale says, lifting his chin and breathing in Crowley’s breath.

Their first kiss is short, a mere touch of lips to test the waters.

The next dozen are not and Aziraphale has to take Crowley out for a much delayed Valentine’s Day lunch a week later.

It’s worth every moment.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffablevalentines #My Story #My Scribbles

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wordtotherose · 5 years

Note

Hi! If you're talking prompts, do you think you could write something for Crowley & Aziraphale (preferably asexual, but I'm not picky) where Aziraphale finds out that Crowley REALLY thinks that Aziraphale doesn't even like him? That he just puts up with him because it's convenient? And Aziraphale is horrified because of course he adores Crowley, and he knows Crowley cares about him A LOT. So he feels so guilty about never telling Crowley how much he means to him. So he does.

Here we are! Hope you enjoy!! On AO3 Too!

It’s raining when they bump into each other. They’re both miraculously dry despite it. Crowley is the one to untangle them, holding Aziraphale by the shoulders a little under arm’s distance. The angel is looking a bit dazed but no worse for wear. Well. His hair’s not as perfectly feathery as the last time he saw him. In the car.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale practically breathes his name like a lovesick sigh and it makes Crowley yearn to link their arms and walk them back to the bookshop that Aziraphale was clearly going home to and…’you go too fast for me’.

“Watch where you’re going, angel. It’ll be a car next and that’s your six thousand years streak ruined.”

Crowley frowns and drops his hands, shoving them in his pockets. He’s had his hair cut. He can’t help wondering if Aziraphale likes it. Though the way that Aziraphale won’t meet his eyes, even with his sunglasses on, makes it hard to tell. It hurts a little.

“What are you doing here?”

A lot.

“Walking. Same as you.”

Aziraphale scoffs and adjusts his coat. “Right. Not causing car crashes or- or any of the rest of your demonic mischief?”

“Oh, you know me,” Crowley drawls, trying to figure out whether he’d imagined the hard edge to the angel’s words or not, “all about mischief.”

“Well, that’s...that’s bad.”

“Demon, angel. It’s the job.”

Aziraphale nods, distracted. Crowley rolls his eyes.

“I’ll see you around then,” Crowley says, already moving to step around Aziraphale.

“Oh? You don’t want to uh go for lunch or anything?”

Crowley pauses and raises a brow at him. “Do you?”

“Um,” Aziraphale hums noncommittally.

“Exactly. So I’ll just be on my way.”

“Crowley, wait!”

Crowley sighs and spins on his heels, spreading his hands. “What, angel? I get it, you’re still mad over the water thing. I’ll leave you be for another few years.”

Aziraphale’s face scrunches up. Crowley isn’t sure what it is he’d said that’s confusing but is also feeling a bit irate by now and wants to go and sulk at his plants.

“You’ve not used it yet, have you?” Aziraphael rolls his eyes but it seems to be more at himself and Crowley is definitely confused at this point. “No, stupid question. Clearly you haven’t, you’re still here.”

“Why? You want to take it back or something?”

Aziraphale’s silence and puppy-eyed shuffle is enough to have Crowley crossing the distance, hands reaching for the angel’s lapels to grab him but stopping just shy at the last second, fingers clenching and unclenching between them.

“I get that you don’t care, Aziraphale, trust me,” he barks a mirthless laugh, “I’ve figured that out after this long. I’ve hardly been subtle either but ya know? I thought you would at least be willing to let me defend myself. Not like it can hurt you so what do you care whether I have it or not?”

Crowley drops his hands and stares at Aziraphale. At some point, he’s not sure when, he’d dropped the miracle and rain runs down his face, flattening his newly styled hair. It’s just another thing that he’ll shout about later. Aziraphale himself looks just as confused as ever. Crowley shakes his head and steps away.

“You don’t like me, angel, that’s fine. But I’m not giving you my last defence if this all goes tits up. I’m going home.”

And he does.

And he misses Aziraphale’s face fall and his confusion lift and his jaw drop and his eyes water in a way that has nothing to do with the heaven’s pouring.

***

He gets home and has a shower to alleviate the everything that’s rattling round his head. He’s just changed into his pyjamas, planning to spend the next month asleep, when there’s a knock on the door. He hasn’t even left his bedroom when he hears someone calling his name from the hall. No, not someone.

“Aziraphale?”

The angel is standing there, dripping water onto his floor and not making any move to explain his presence. Crowley miracles his glasses into his hand and puts them back on. Aziraphale continues to grow the puddle on the floor.

“What are you doing here, angel? I thought we’d both had enough for one day already.”

Aziraphale nods then shakes his head vehemently. Crowley clicks his fingers and the dripping stops.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale says, he’s distracted but he’s also staring at Crowley and Crowley only despite the fact that Aziraphale has never stepped foot into his apartment and should really be more flabbergasted by the ‘angelic’ statue on display.

“Did you need something, Aziraphale? I’m in the middle of...something.”

Aziraphale finally drops his gaze from Crowley’s and looks pointedly at Crowley’s pyjamas instead. “Clearly. And yes. I think we need to talk.”

“Really? I thought we talked plenty just now.”

Aziraphale sighs and steps towards him, Crowley takes a step back.

“Crowley…”

“Aziraphale.”

Another couple of steps. Crowley’s going to run out of room soon. The window behind him is a possibility for escape though…

“Crowley, what you said. Did you mean that?”

“Which bit?”

“You- I-” Aziraphale steps forward twice then back once, Crowley hits the wall and stays there. “Crowley, you--”

“Can we stop saying my name? It’s starting to sound very weird.”

That’s a lie. A big fat lie. It sounds beautiful every time. Said in Aziraphale’s voice like that. Softer than normal, warmer. Gentler. Like he’s scared that Crowley really is going to make a break for it out the window. He might. Just to escape this very strange alternate reality that’s playing out in his lounge. Thunder rumbles outside. Maybe not the best escape route after all. Aziraphale’s eyes narrow like he’s found exactly what he’s searching for in Crowley’s own. Except Crowley has his sunglasses on and it doesn’t work like that. Never works like that. He thought it had and he’d been wrong too many times.

“I don’t hate you, Crowley.”

“That’s my name again,” Crowley says weakly as Aziraphale accompanies his words with another step.

He’s in reach. So close. He doesn’t look angry.

“Why do you think I didn’t want you to have the water, my dear?”

Crowley frowns, that sounded like a trick question. “What?”

Aziraphale just sighs, exasperated. “Answer the question.”

“I need it for defensive measures, last resort and all that. But you don’t- you don’t even like me so what do you care, so no water.”

There’s something to be said for the expressions that cross Aziraphale’s face at this point. Horror. Pain. Regret. Exasperation.

“I thought you would use it on yourself.”

Crowley has a strong feeling that the exact same expression journey is happening to him now. He scarcely dares to breathe as Aziraphale reaches up ever so slowly, and removes his glasses. Crowley closes his eyes. He can’t do this. This isn’t happening. He can’t.

“Crowley.”

“Stop,” he whispers weakly, “I don’t--”

“I like you, Crowley. I thought,” Aziraphale laughs once, high and nervous, “I thought that was obvious.”

“Bullshit.”

Fingers brush against his cheeks and Crowley startles, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. But the fingers don’t leave. The touch stays. He aches.

“I like you a lot, my dear. So, so much. I think it would be more than fair, in spite of what you seem to have gotten into that mind of yours, to admit that I’m in love with you.”

The fingers brush away his tears before they have a chance to truly fall. The rest of him though, is falling through the floor. Washed away. Caught up by the wind.

“You can’t say things like that. It’s not fair. You’re meant to be fair, angel.”

Aziraphale’s hands slide from his cheeks into his hair, tugging him into a warm embrace. Crowley knows he’s tense, can feel it alongside the ache in his heart, but he still buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck. Breathes him in. Clutches at the back of the angel’s coat.

“I’m so sorry, my dear. I thought you knew. I had no idea.”

“Stop it,” Crowley mumbles, “stop it. This isn’t fair. I’m just a convenience, you’re just trying to keep me around to be use--”

Aziraphale squeezes him suddenly and Crowley’s breath catches in his chest. “You are everything to me, Crowley. Everything.”

“I didn’t think--”

“Crowley. My dear. Please listen to me.” Aziraphale pushes him back but doesn’t let go, draws one hand up to tilt Crowley’s gaze in line with his. “I’m in love with you. I have been for so, so long, love. I know you’re in love with me too. I’ve known for a while. I just- I needed time to figure this out. I’m done with that. We can figure it out as we go, together.”

Crowley nods and nods and then shakes his head. “Why did you never say anything?”

“I thought you knew. I had no idea you believed I thought so little of you. I’ve screwed this up royally.” Aziraphale smiles ruefully and it’s enough to make Crowley laugh.

He leans in and kisses his angel’s cheek. “I’m going to be,” then the other, “so mad at you later.”

Aziraphale hums, happy, and pulls Crowley in closer, leaning them both back against the wall. “I deserve it.”

“Damn right.”

“I love you.”

Crowley presses their foreheads together and finally, finally lets himself relax into this. “I love you too, you bastard of an angel.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #fanfic #fic #ficlet #my writing #prompted fic #prompt fic

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charliesshitposts · 5 years

Text

Supernatural Omens (part two)

The nice and inaccurate prophecies of someone.somewhere about something that never happened. A fan fiction.

Warnings: None. :) Feel free to read this in front of your family and pets.

Word Count: Idk but it will probably take you 20-30 minutes to read. Maybe less. This chapter is much shorter than the first one,I think.

_______________________________________________________________________

Jack, once on the other side of the portal, felt sick to his stomach. He collapsed onto the floor behind Crowley’s chair. His groans weren’t heard from the boys. They were to busy complimenting Crowley on how nice his apartment was.Crowley didn't see him either as he was too busy proudly thanking them. But Aziraphale did notice.

Once the boy collapsed the angel rushed to his aid.He laid Jack on his back and ever so slightly leveled him up. He laid his free hand over Jack’s stomach and said “Don’t worry. I’ll fix you right up. You wont feel a thing.” Within seconds Jack was sat upright feeling much better. He looked at Aziraphale in surprise.

“I do feel better.”he stated.”Thank you. I guess angels everywhere have the same gift.”

Aziraphale smiled widely.”You’re welcome.I guess we do. Jack, is it?”

Jack nodded.”Yes sir.”

Dean,Sam,Cas and Crowley gathered around them. Sam looked down at Jack worriedly. “What happened?”

“My stomach was hurting.”He explained while the angel helped him to his feet.”But Aziraphale made it go away.”

“Thank you for helping him.” Dean said.”Now too business. What's our next move?”

“Well-”Began Aziraphale.”We don’t really have a next move. But until we think of something I think it’s best if we split up. I’ll take Sam and Jack here back to my book shop. Dean,you and Castiel stay with Crowley. That is assuming he wants company.”

“No I do I do.”Replied Crowley.”It’ll be fun. Dean here looks like he could use a drink. What will it be,Dean? Wine? Whisky?”

“Neither.” Dean replied.

“Well we’ll find something that peaks your interest. And Castiel. What will you be having?”

“Nothing.”Said Cas.”I don’t eat either.”

“Alrighty well I’m sure we’ll be fine.Go on now Aziraphale. Keep in touch.”

“We will.”answered the angel. “I’m just going to need your house phone to call a Taxi.”

“By all means darling,go ahead.” After the Taxi arrived Sam,Jack and Aziraphale left for the book shop.Later Jack would tell Dean how beautiful he thought The United Kingdom was. The people he met were incredibly nice too.He liked the buildings and parks in particular. Especially the parks with duck ponds.

Crowley grabbed two more chairs and brought them to his desk. He asked Dean what his alcoholic drink of preference was. When Dean replied with ‘beer’, Crowley thought of it as a rather bland drink, thus thinking that Dean was a rather bland person.But remembering what Aziraphale had taught him about what to do when he had company, he swallowed his comments.

Cas had gotten into the habit of opening Deans beers for him. It started out as something nice he occasionally did but later on became a habit. Cas didn’t mind. Neither did Dean. The seraph popped the bottle cap off and handed it over to his favorite human. Dean took a swig and smiled.

The three strangers sat in silence for a long time. Crowley looked from Dean to Cas. He racked his brain trying to think of something to talk about. But he suddenly remembered he needed to take care of something. He rose from his chair and excused himself for a moment. “I need to check on my house plants.” He didn’t wait for them to answer. As he walked towards his house plants he grabbed a spray bottle off a table by the doorway.

Once alone, Cas let out a huge sigh.”Things seem fine so far.”

“See.”Dean smiled.”Look, i’m going to be honest with you. When I first met Crowley I thought the same thing you did. Heck, I still do. But Aziraphale trusts him. That should be enough for us to trust him too.”

“It’s partly that but..theres something else thing too.”Dean leaned in to persuade Cas to continue talking.”He scares me.” The Seraph admitted.”He’s probably the first creature we meet who's ever scared me. I can’t look him in the eyes without shaking. Without feeling weak or naked,even.I don’t know what it is.”

Dean was about to open his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the sound of rumbling leaves. From the corridor they could hear Crowley threaten his house plants. The realization that the plants were terrified of the demon made Cas’ skin crawl. They watched as Crowley strode back to where they were.”You gentleman are more than welcome to turn on the television. The remote is right there on the desk. I just need to do something. Then I’ll be with you.” Crowley walked with his whole body. Meaning that when his feet moved,his hips move too. So did his arms. Even his head leaned back a little to give the walk style. Castiel raised his eyebrows, somewhat impressed. Dean clicked away at the remote.

“The only thing on right now is the news.”

“Leave it on.” Castiel Said.”Maybe they’ll say something interesting.”

“Alright. If you consider how to make a 3 layered chocolate fudge cake interesting.”

“As a matter of fact I do. I’ve been thinking of getting into baking.”

Dean smiled thoughtfully. “You could make me pies.”

Castiel smiled.”I could make you pies.”

Crowley came to meet them. He held an empty pot in his hand.”Sorry about that boys. If I don’t yell at them they’ll never learn. What are we watching?”

“The news.” Dean said.”It’s in a baking segment.”

“Ah I see.” The phone suddenly ringing made the three jump.”I’ll get it boys. You keep watching the baking show.” Crowley picked up the receiver.”Talk to me baby.” After a few minutes agreeing and disagreeing he hung up and turned to Dean and Castiel.”Time for a road trip fellas. Have any of you ever been to an ex convent?”

—————————————————————————————————————

“Your brother,the boy and Aziraphale will be there too. They’re taking a taxi to meet with us.”

“Good.” Dean nodded.”You’re car is really nice. What kind is it?”

“A 1926 Bentley. This car is my pride and joy. Well it shares my pride and joy with my flat.”

Dean looked at Crowley with admiration.”I know the feeling. Our bunker may not mean a lot to me but my car does.”

“What do you drive?”

“A 1967 Chevy Impala.”

“The Impala is an excellent car model. It goes fast but you can’t feel it.”

“I can feel it.” Cas chimed in. He sat in the backseat holding for his dear life. Crowley was going 100 miles in downtown London. Cas was surprised they hadn’t hit anyone. Dean looked sympatheticly at the Seraph. Crowley picked up the conversation again.

“Music?”

“Sure. What do you have in here to listen to?”

“Guns n’ Roses. AC/DC. Bon Jovi.”

“Guns n’ Roses it is.” They continued their chat with Welcome to the Jungle playing lowly on the radio.

___________________________________________________________________

Aziraphale anxiously checked his watch. It was very unlike Crowley to be late or to arrive somewhere before he did. At the rate he drived Crowley was always early. Sam swayed back and forth on his feet next to the angel. He was worried about Dean and Castiel. And at Sams feet sat Jack. Aziraphale had given him permission to take a book to read along the way. He planned on giving it to him as a gift later on. Jack had picked Sherlock Holmes. He sat oblivious,submerged into the pages of the book.

“It’s very unlike him to be late.” Aziraphale said.

“Don’t worry. They’ll be here.” Sam assured. As if on cue the black Bentley came into view. Sam and Aziraphale sighed in relief.

The car stopped at the curb where they were waiting. Crowley came out and was greeted by an upset Aziraphale. His arms were crossed against his chest.

“Can you explain why you’re late?!” The angel asked.

Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale.”Aw come on now don’t be so sour. I’m here aren’t I? The traffic in central London is hectic.”

“Yeah.” Dean said.”We needed to slow down because Cas was getting vertigo.”

“I didn’t know Cas could get vertigo.”

“Neither did I. So why are we here?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.”Right. I’m sure Crowley told you that this place used to be a convent/hospital.The son of the antichrist was switched with another baby here. The family he was placed in wasn’t the one we were taking care of all these years. We hope that someone here kept the hospital birth records. If we can access them we can look for the records for the exact day and year he was born in. We find that,we find the parents and we find the boy.”

“That’s brilliant.” Castiel said.

“Thank you.” Smiled Aziraphale.”Shall we?”

The six of them walked through th courtyard and into the building. Most of the hallways were empty,which made things much easier for them. Castiel kept both his hands on Jacks shoulders to steer him while he read. He worried that if he didn’t do so Jack could hit a wall. Or walk into a different hallway and get caught. Sam looked at Aziraphale.

“Do you think this is going to work?” Sam asked.

Crowley answered for the angel.”I know it’s going to work.”

“Okay...but I mean you have a backup plan in case this doesn’t work?”

“Nope. Because i know this is going to work.”

“You can’t be so cocky Crowley. What if it doesn’t.”

“It will.”

“But What if it doesn’t?”

Crowley growled. Through clenched teeth he said.”It will.”

“But-“

“Sammy.” Dean warned.

Sam looked at his brother.”All im saying is-“ Sam was cut off when Crowley grabbed him from his collar and pulled him in. They’re faces were inches apart.Crowley hissed.

“Listen to me boy. I can be easy going if you don’t test me. If I were you i’d find my place and stay put. You really don’t want to see me when I’m mad.”

“You don’t scare me.” Sam smirked.

Crowley glared. Aziraphale walked over to break up the fight but was caught off guard when Crowley’s head turned into a snakes head. He hissed terribly loud in Sams face. All the color in the younger Winchester’s face drained,leaving him pale white. Dean,Jack and Castiel all had the same reaction. They stepped back a few feet. Aziraphale didn’t flinch.

“Now was that really necessary?”Aziraphale scolded.

“Yes it was.” Crowley said,now back to normal.”And that goes for each of you. Know your place.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He turned his attention to the four who accompanied them.”I hope he didn't; startle you too much.”

Dean smiled.”Nah we’re okay. Sam and I have both seen the devils actual face. By this point nothing scares us.”

“Yeah.”Sam said. He was now standing next to his brother.

A woman dressed nicely walked up the hallway towards them. As she drew closer she asked if they needed help with anything. Crowley turned and said “Yes actually we do.”

“We’ll i’ll be happy to..oh dear! It’s Master Crowley.”she turned to leave but a snap of Crowley’s fingers made her freeze. She involuntarily turns around. The boys, the seraph and the nephilim watch Crowley and Aziraphale interrogate her.

“Would you mind answering a few questions, love?”

“Yes.”replied the woman, who was under a trance.

“Very well.”The Demon began.”Were you or were you not a nun here a few years ago?”

“Yes. My name was Sister Loquacious.”

“Ah yes I remember. Were you here during the night of the switch between the a baby and the antichrists son?”

“Yes. I was.”

“Excellent.” said Aziraphale.”Did you by any chance save the birth records before the convent was shut down?”

“Sadly no.” Said Mrs. Loquacious.”All of those files were lost in the fire. Oddly the fire started the same night we were all let go. As if someone said they no longer needed the convent and everything inside of it.”

“DAMMIT!” shouted Crowley. “DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!”

“Thank you very much ma’am.”Aziraphale said. He snapped his fingers, pulling her out of the trance. By the time she assimilated what had happened, the six were already gone.

________________________________________________________________

The car ride home wasn’t pleasant. Crowley wouldn’t stop complaining about his bad luck. The boys were actually impressed with Aziraphale. Crowley would cuss and shout but Aziraphale would always respond to him calmly. Thanks to him the car ride was tolerable.It was also thanks to him that the car now had enough room for everyone. Sam,Dean and Was road in the middle. Jack rode in the extension back seat behind them. Aziraphale had whipped it up with a simple eye blink.

The angel and the demon were so distracted by their conversation that they didn't notice the bike rider coming towards them.

“I need a good long bath followed by a nap to help me get over all this disappointment. Is there any chance you can house Castiel and Dean tonight?”

“I was going to offer anyway. There’s plenty of space where I live to accommodate them.”

“Good.” Crowley sighed loudly.”I still don’t see a silver lining in our situation.”

“How about we play music to help with the stress. Sound good boys.”

“I wouldn’t mind listening to the rest of that Guns n’ Roses album.” Dean said.”Let’s just try not to play it so loudly. Sam and Jack are asleep.”

“Okay. Just press that button right there Aziraphale.” Crowley pointed to the button he was talking about. In that second he took his eyes off the road.

“CROWLEY WATCH OUT!” Castiel screamed. But it was too late. The front of the Bentley struck the bike rider. She was thrown a few feet away into the grass. Aziraphale and Castiel ran out to aid her. She groaned as Aziraphale lifted up her wrist.It was broken.

“Ah ah.”Aziraphale warned.”Try not to move sweetheart. You’ll only make it worse. I’ll fix that up right away.” The second she could move her wrist she gasped in surprise.

“How did you do that?” She asked.

“No time for that. Let us help you to your feet.”

Castiel held her steady by the elbow.”Does anything else hurt,miss?”

“No. My head hurts a little but i’ll be okay.”

“Let us give you a ride home.” Aziraphale offered.

“That would be great, thank you.”

From inside the Bentley Crowley protested.”Nope.No no way.”

“Don’t listen to him. He’s just having a bad day.Get inside now. Watch your head” She helped her into the car.She took a seat next to Jack.

“Aziraphale.” said Castiel.”Her bike. It wont fit in the car.”

“It will fit in the bike rack.”

“What bike rack?” The bicycle disappeared from in front of Crowley. It was now safe placed on the back of the Bentley in a bike rack that hadn’t been there before. Both the angel and the seraph got back into the car. When they asked the girl where too she gave directions to her house in a village not that far away. They road in silence. It was at this moment that the girl placed the book on the floor by her feet. She didn’t realize it then, but there was another book right next to hers.

The car pulled around the side of her house, stopping at her gate. When she stepped out of the car her bike was already against the fence of her house. She thanked the strange men for the lift, reached in and grabbed what she thought was her book, and closed the door. The car drove off without a glance.

________________________________________________________________ Crowley was kind enough to leave them in front of Aziraphale’s book shop. This place doubled as the angels home. Not that Aziraphale slept or anything. In the back room where his personal belongings were,the angel had set up mattresses on the floor. He felt absolutely ashamed of it.

“I do apologize for this last minute set up. I don’t own a bed frame. And if I were to whip 3 up there will be no space for us to walk.”

“No it’s okay.” Castiel smiled.”What you’ve done is really nice.”

“Yeah.” Dean said.”I like it. They look comfy. It kinda looks like a sleep over.”

Sam would have agreed but he was already asleep in his mattress. The warm blankets wrapped around him. Jack was sitting upright on his mattress having a panic attack. Aziraphale looked at him worriedly.”Everything okay,son?”

“No.” Said Jack as he stood up and walked towards the angel.”No everything isn’t fine. This book isn’t my book. My book was Sherlock Holmes. Not this. I lost it Aziraphale. I lost your book. I’m so so so sorry! I’ll pay for it. I’ll find a way to get money and pay for it. I’m really sorry-“

“Hey hey whoa.” The angel put his hands firmly on Jacks shoulder.”You don’t owe me anything. I was going to give you that book as a present. This book that you have was probably unintentionally switched. It belongs to the young woman we gave a ride to tonight. You didn’t meet her because you were sleeping. Here.” He took the book out of Jacks hands.”I’ll mail this back to her in the morning. By now she probably knows the book she has isn’t hers. She seemed kind enough,perhaps she’ll return it to my mailing address.If not then I will let you have any other book in my shop free of charge. It’s quite alright son. Don’t worry about it a second more. Now go to sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

Jack thanked the angel plenty. He hugged him before turning and getting under the blankets. Next to him Dean and Sam slept soundly. Aziraphale turned to Castiel and whispered.”Care for some hot cocoa?”

“I don’t..I..” Castiel gave in.” I would love some.”

“Let’s go talk in another room so the boys can sleep properly. They need there rest for tomorrow.”

Castiel followed Aziraphale out into the main bookshop entrance. It suddenly dawned on the angel that he didn’t see what book Sherlock Holmes had been switched with. He lifted the book to eye level and read the front cover. There was a catch in his breath. Lowly he whispered.”On dear god.” When the Seraph asked what was wrong, Aziraphale said nothing. Instead,he showed Castiel the front cover of the book. “The nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.”

“Our answer is in here.” Aziraphale breathed out. A smile creeping on his face.

** authors note**

There might be typos. I’ll fix that tomorrow (: enjoy! And stay tuned for part 3.

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tencrowleyhardy-protectionsquad · 5 years

Text

so today i learned that in the book crowley stays in his snake form during that whole first conversation and had a good thought so here we go.

(before i get arrested for plagiarizing or smth the first conversation is kind of just from memory of the scene in the show and book and isn’t really my own, but everything else is)

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

Never in his existence has the angel seen a talking animal. Aziraphale knows it's not a real animal; no, this is a demon. And that confuses him more because angels and demons never spoke. And yet here he was, staring into the inquisitive amber eyes of a snake that isn't a snake.

"I'm sorry, what?" Snakes can't roll their eyes, but the angel gets the sense maybe this creature would have if he was able.

"I said, that went down like a lead balloon."

"Oh. Yes," Aziraphale replies awkwardly. The serpent doesn't notice, or doesn't mind that awkwardness at all. Instead, he stretches his long form lazily and continues on as if nothing in this moment is out of the ordinary.

“I think it was a bit of an overreaction, to be honest,” he announces, as though demons had the capability to be such a thing (they do, but it’s a rarity and Aziraphale knows next to nothing about his celestial counterparts). “I mean, first offense and everything. I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil.” In the distance, the exiled humans walk further into the empty wasteland. Aziraphale tears his eyes from them and goes back to staring at the strange little creature beside him.

“It must be bad,” he states. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been involved.” A fair point, really, but the use of the word ‘must’ is enough to suggest he speaks as a person who can’t see either, like a student who rambles off the textbook answer when the teacher suddenly calls on them. The snake persists.

“You’ve got to admit, it’s a bit of a pantomime,” he pushes. “Great big tree in the middle of the garden with ‘do not touch’ in big letters, not very subtle of the Almighty, is it? I mean, why not put it on top of a big mountain, or the moon?” It takes Aziraphale a moment to get over the absurdity of putting a tree on the moon. “Makes you wonder what She’s really planning.”

The snake is right; for a moment, the angel wonders. But he doesn’t like that and shakes his head, sighing as he crouched down. Talking down to his peculiar visitor isn’t very comfortable on his nack, and so he picks him up and takes note of how he slithers a bit in his hands before settling down.

“Well, er.."

"Crawly."

"Well, Crawley. Best not to speculate, really,” he muses, shaking his head again. "The great plan is not for us to question, it's ineffable."

"Ineffable," the demon repeats, and Aziraphale gets the feeling that, if he were able, the snake would be rolling his eyes again. He huffs.

"Yes, ineffable. You can't second-guess ineffability. As I always say, there's right and there's wrong, and if you do wrong when you're told to do right then you deserve to be pun- er-" The snake stills, and for a few embarrassing moments of tense silence the angel and demon busy themselves by staring at the flowers and departing couple respectively. Then the snake's eyes narrow curiously and look back to the one still holding him.

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?" Aziraphale's face twists and he immediately looks away as the snake curls around his arm and flicks his tongue out.

"Er-"

"You did, didn't you? It flamed like anything!"

He is met with uncomfortable silence.

"Lost it already, have you?" The response to this is nearly unheard.

"... I gave it away-"

"You what?" The snake's eyes widen, and the angel finally meets his gaze again. Snakes don't smile, but if he could this one just might be in this situation.

"I gave it away!” The damned snake looks so amused. “There are vicious animals out there and she's already expecting! So I said 'here you are flaming sword no need to thank me now go'." It's a good thing he did, it would seem, because at that moment the man was using the sword to protect his small family unbeknownst to the concerned angel. "I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing." If the snake's answer is sarcastic, Aziraphale doesn't notice.

"Oh, you’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing," Crawly drawls. The angel relaxes.

"Oh, thank- thank you," he breathes. "It's been worrying me all afternoon." The rain clouds are rolling in, and the Earth prepares for it's first shower. After watching them in silence for a moment, Crawly speaks again.

"Funny thing is, I keep wondering if the apple thing wasn't the right thing to do," he admits. "A demon can get into real trouble, doing the right thing." Large eyes peer up at the angel in clear amusement. "Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If you did the bad thing and I did the good thing?" He laughs at this, and for a moment Aziraphale laughs too, until he fully comprehends the question.

"No, it wouldn't be funny at all," he huffs. The first drops hit the earth, and the angel's wings are enough to shield the snake from the rain as they watch the first humans disappear from sight.

The first time it rains, it storms.

For the first few hundred years, Aziraphale stays in the garden, and each day he's sought out by the demon Crawly. The snake does a lot of talking, and Aziraphale vaguely listens as he tends to the plants all around him. After ten years, he starts engaging in conversation, often carrying the snake around his shoulders or wrapped around his arms. The pair talk about plants and stars and whatever else comes to mind. At some point, Aziraphale becomes comfortable in Crawly's company, though he tells no one. He doesn't have to; the demon already knows.

For a demon, Crawly has his positive quirks. He likes plants, for one. Aziraphale often finds him happily slithering among the branches of blossoming trees, commenting on their color and size. His words sometimes are harsh, but there’s a fondness in his amber eyes that is simply unmistakable.

He likes the cosmos, too. He speaks of them with what Aziraphale recognizes as admiration; a surprising thing for a demon. There’s such familiarity in his words. On this subject, he can ramble on for hours, and as times passes Aziraphale finds himself happier and happier to just listen. Some nights, after telling the angel about one nebula or another, Crawly falls silent and stares into the sky with such nostalgia it brings an ache to his companion’s heart. Aziraphale suspects once upon a time this snake built the very stars he seems to love so dearly.

It's a good three decades in before the question comes up. Aziraphale is sitting under the foliage of a large tree, Crawly curled up on his lap, and it hits him like a pound of bricks.

"Crawly?" The sleepy snake looks up, appearing to blink the sleep from his eyes.

"Mm?"

"What do you look like? Other than a snake, of course. Surely this isn't your only form?" The snake pauses, mulls it over for what feels like a long time.

"That's true, I have another form," he confirms.

"I would like to see it," the angel states. Crawly hesitates a few moments longer before slithering off Aziraphale's lap and changing shape right there. Within seconds, a more human-looking being stands before him, long red curls falling down onto bony shoulders. He's still long and thin like a snake, Aziraphale notes, and his eyes are as golden as ever. Large black wings stretch for a moment before he tucks them against his back and sits down again.

"Here I am."

Something about this being is strangely familiar, like that feeling you get when you pass a stranger who maybe wasn’t a stranger in a former life. In this moment, a feeling takes root in the angel. He will not know the word for it until much later in time, and it will not blossom into that word for another few millennia, but in this moment the seed is planted and something begins. Many years later he’ll look back on this moment, hands laced together with those of someone impossibly dear to his heart, and he’ll laugh at his own oblivion. But for now, he smiles faintly.

“Your hair is lovely. Quite the color you have. And the length! Quite admirable indeed.” The expression on Crawly’s face is rather complex, but it goes as fast as it came and instead he grins.

“It is, isn’t it?”

That night, under the sparkling stars, Crawly talks about a far-off planet, and Aziraphale braids flowers into the auburn curls. They resemble a galaxy all their own, in his eyes.

#this was supposed to be short but oh well #My writing #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale

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ocean-butch · 5 years

Note

what are ur fave crowley and aziraphale moments? (-a completely anonymous anon)

AJFKAJJDAJ HELLO TOTALLY ANONYMOUS PERSON WHOSE IDENTITY I TOTALLY DO NOT KNOW. FiRsT oF aLL someone who ISNT an anon would know that this is an Oful question to ask me bc i Cannot Ever For The Life Of Me make a choice. bUT, since we obviously dont know each other, i guess im gonna let it slip. so ok im gonna try to make a list but pls do keep in mind that the order is just which ones i remember first, not in an actual order of preference (bc thats just asking too much!!!!!) okay so!

- pARIS WHEN AZIRAPHALE FIRST HEARS CROWLEY’S VOICE AND SMILES LIKE HES THE HAPPIEST HE HAS EVER BEEN AND THEN THEY GO ON A DATE

- OBVIOUSLY the church scene. just,, the entire thing tbh (i love the “anthony j crowley” “anthony?” “what, you dont like it?” “no i didnt say that” and “whats the j stand for?” “...oh just a j really” bit) but obviously the main focus being crowley saving aziraphale’s books like its No Big Deal even tho not even aziraphale remembered them and he did and the last shot with aziraphale’s face and the romantic soundtrack as we literally watch him realize that he’s in love with crowley (as confirmed by the loml michael sheen)

- thE SCENE WITH THE PAINTBALL AND AZIRAPHALE’S FACE WHEN HE WANTS CROWLEY TO MIRACLE THE STAIN OUT AND THEN HIS LIL SMILE AFTER HE DOES IT THAT IS JUST EXPLODING WITH LOVE LIKE LITERALLY MICHAEL HOW DO YOU DO THAT (also: crowley a lil later pinning aziraphale to the wall and aziraphale looking at him Like That)

- omg omg omg okay the bycicle accident scene like i just love that scene so so so much like u have no idea (well you personally do bc i’ve told u about it many times - not that i know who u are ofc) but i just,,, they act so Married okay i cant HANDLE IT (“let there be light” then crowley undoing it With That Face and “Oh Lord Heal This Bike” “i got carried away!”) and just ajfjsjdak theyre so cute in that scene i cherish it in my s o u l

- obviously their first meeting Has to be included! i mean, first of all they’re meeting each other. then suddenly, like 2 minutes later a demon’s already leaning closer to an angel who’s already lifting his wing to protect said demon from the scary unknown rain (also: “i gave it away!” and, with the most incredibly smitten face in the whole wide universe: “you WHAT????”)

- just. the whole scene when theyre drunk in the first ep. the entire thing. all of it. starting from “my point- my point is- dolphins.” until “well i’ll be damned!” “not that bad when you get used to it”

- OH OKAY THE SCENE AT THE BENCH WHEN THEYRE WATCHING WARLOCK JUST DAYS BEFORE HIS 11TH BIRTHDAY AND AZIRAPHALE STARTS DOING HIS LIL MAGIC TRICKS (“it was in your ear!” “no it was in your pocket” “well it was close to your ear” “never anywhere near my ear” and “you can do proper magic! you can make things disappear!” “but thats not as fun!” “fun????? make u disappear”) LIKE AKDSJJSJ AND ITS EVEN BETTER THAT THAT WHOLE MAGIC TRICK PART WAS IMPROVISED LIKE WOW DAVID AND MICHAEL ARE SO FUCKING GOOD OKAY I LOVE THEM BOTH SO MUCH

- OKAY SO ITS HEARTBREAKING BUT THE BANDSTAND SCENE BECAUSE I MEAN HOW COULD I NOT (with his voice breaking: “you cant Leave, crowley” and “we can run away together!” “run away.... together?” and “how long have we been friends? 6000 YEARS!” and “i dont even like you!” “you DO!”) i mean its just,,,,, too much,,,, its so much,,,,,,, pls,,,,,

- in that same angsty note: soho, 1967. do i need to elaborate? who cares imma do it anyway (“but i cant have you risking your life. not even for something dangerous” and the soft unspoken desperation of “dont go unscrewing the cap” and “after everything you’ve said?” and “can i drop you off somewhere?” and “oh, dont look so disappointed. perhaps one day we could, i dont know, go for a picnic. dine at the ritz” and, of course, “anywhere you want to go” “you go too fast for me, crowley”) i mean yeah its heartbreaking but its also, to me, when crowley gets that confirmation that aziraphale loves him back so i cant just not mention it

- when satan is coming and aziraphale just literally picks up his sword and says “DO SOMETHING! OR… or I’ll never talk to you again!” like its the worst thing that could ever happen (it is, for both of them at least) and then obviously crowley just,,, Does The Something bc literally nothing in the entire world, heaven, or hell, will ever take aziraphale away from him

- tHe bUs sCeNE i just ajfjajsj cANT BELIEVE THAT HAPPENED!!!!! LIKE HE LITERALLY JUST. “you can stay at my place… if you’d like” AND AZIRAPHALE GOES WITH HIM!!!!!!!!!!! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO EVER BE OKAY EVER AGAIN???????? THEYRE IN L O V E

- and lastly because, since the show finished with it, i think its only fair i do too: there were angels dining at the ritz (“i’d like to believe none of this wouldve worked out if you werent, deep down, just a little bit a good person” “and if you werent, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing” and “to the world” “to the world!” and, obviously, “and perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale sang in berkeley square.”)

anyways i think im probably forgetting some of them but sOmEoNE (who is definitely not this anon, of course) has been saying for the past hour and a half that im taking too long to answer this, so. there ya go.

(bonus: the deleted scene where crowley brings aziraphale chocolates and ends up saving him from going back to heaven like a good bf)

#thank you so much for asking #you were very patient too so jakdjaj im sorry #yknow how i am with asks and things i love #it always takes way longer than anyone expects #(including me)#mine #answered #anon #good omens #ineffable husbands #from my beloved

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chinquix · 5 years

Text

HEY whats up its 2am and i wrote fic for the first time in years :’^) !

(i’m feeling out a good omens/steven universe crossover, without having read good omens in 2 years, using my extremely vague memory of the su timeline.....many apologies & corrections are thus likely in order)

Crawly had thought he’d slithered out of the disaster that was Eden mostly intact. Scales, check, tongue, check, wings, tucked into their usual pocket universe, and yes, he still had that healthy dash of scepticism, considerably emboldened by the experience.

Now, though, he wasn’t so sure – possibly his wits had taken a bit of a knocking, because here he was, talking to a rock.

Well, alright, the rock looked like a human-shaped person. Talked sort of like one too, though he had the distinct impression there was some sneaky translating going on somewhere at the back of his mind. But it was, undoubtedly, a rock. He’d spent enough of the last few years hiding underneath them to know.

Currently, the rock was assessing his form for arms.

“You really don’t have any?” she asked, looking more forlorn than any human-shaped rock had a right to. The conversation, though barely two minutes old, had already involved decidedly more concern towards his self than Crawly was used to – the previous record, of course, being none[1]. “But how do you hold things?”

“Like this,” Crawly demonstrated, wrapping himself around a nearby pebble. Would the rock take offence to that, he wondered? Was this the rock’s pet? Or child? He’d need to have a word to the research department downstairs. He hadn’t been briefed on any of this.

“Oh,” the rock says. “How clever!” Then her eyes light up. “Pearl is going to love you – and she told me the other forms here couldn’t speak! I can’t wait to show her,” she stands up, and Crawly takes a moment to reassess his description of her. Human-shaped, if the human in question were very big.

“Pearl!”

Instantly, as if she had just been waiting to be summoned, out of the tree-line comes another rock. Crawly’s not actually sure he can keep calling them that; it’s clearer now that he sees this one, all iridescent and broadcasting something not entirely unlike Aziraphale’s heavenly aura. They’re rocks with light coming out of them.

“Yes, Pink?” She says it with a hesitant kind of confidence, like it’s a name just newly entrusted to her and she’s very proud of the fact.

“Just look at this!” the first rock – Pink, presumably - declares and, without any warning, grabs Crawly from the ground.

“Ow- hey!” he hisses and, on instinct, bites the offending hand. His fangs go right through it.

“Well how interesting,” the rock holding him says. In his confusion, Crawly just barely makes out the absolutely furious face of the other one. He finds himself desperately hoping the angel hadn’t given her a sword. “I’ve never met anything that can’t interact with the projection before. What did you say you were?”

Now there’s a question. And she’s still holding him. Quite tightly, considering she appears to be made of nothing. He considers his options. He doesn’t think these creatures are angels – they would have recognised him, for one, and wouldn’t ask nearly so many questions - so the chances of heavenly retribution are slim. Perhaps he can intimidate them into letting him go.

“A sssssnake,” he says, then begins to draw on his powers. His fangs grow longer, his eyes a less natural shade of yellow. The sky, he fancies, goes a tad grey. “- and a demon. Ssssent to claim to soulsssss of men, to drag them down into the pit for all eternity!”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Pink proclaims cheerfully.

“Perhaps his hiss is worse than his bite,” the little one - Pearl - says shrewdly.

So a no on intimidation then.

“Tell you what,” he suggests instead. “Put me down, and I’ll exssplain everything.”

Pink purses her lips, then looks as if for permission to the Pearl who, inexplicably, blushes. Gently, Crawly is set back on the ground. It’s a long trip. Finally he feels solid earth beneath his coils again, and he flexes against it. Funny – he’s been up top for such a fraction of time, relatively, and yet already the earth is so familiar.

“Right,” he says. “Thank you.” And he speeds off into the trees as fast as his form can carry him.

It’s a week later when he bumps into Aziraphale. The angel is looking out over a wide ravine, and the set of his shoulders is the same as it was the day they watched Adam and Eve depart in the rain.

“Penny for your thoughtsss?” he asks. Aziraphale startles, but he at least seems to have learnt not to reach for a sword that isn’t there.

“Crawly,” he says as his wings resettle, and the serpent is quite pleased to notice the name came quickly to him. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it. You seem to be, ah. Doing well.”

Crawly declines to say that this is because the forces of Heaven on Earth haven’t been doing much to contest that – mostly because Aziraphale is quite noticeably not doing well.

“I’ve been doing very badly,” he agrees. “Petty thievery, un-domesticating cows, that sort of thing. Not many people around to tempt yet, but I’m sure that will pick up.”

The angel has a put-upon frown and Crowley anticipates an admonishment, or maybe even a lacklustre attempt at a smiting - but then he turns back and looks down again, into the ravine.

“Not many people,” he echoes quietly. “What do you make of this then, Crawly?”

Snakes, typically, have few expressions, but demons can manage a pretty good confused interest. He slithers to the angel’s side, and follows his gaze. The ravine isn’t a river valley, as he’d originally believed – it’s more of a scar across the forest. Around its edges, trees wilt. At its base there is movement, and, forgetting his body’s poor eyesight, Crawly brings the image into focus.

Hundreds of forms. Hundreds of too-big, wrong-coloured, human-shaped forms.

Crawly blinks. He says the universe’s second-ever curse word.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs. “My sentiments exactly.”

Suddenly, he’s on his feet and facing Crawly. His wings, cream and beige, block out the sun.

“Begone, Adversary!” he cries, and begins to edge his halo into reality. Crawly, stunned, doesn’t move. “Your evil deeds have already befouled this land!”

When Crawly still doesn’t move, the angel pulls a face and whispers, sotto voce, “get a move on!”

From behind his wings a more powerful light is gathering. Crawly suddenly understands and, for the second time that week beats a hasty retreat into the underbrush. He doesn’t stray too far this time, though, turning to watch when he’s confident he’s out of sight – and too far for his demonic vibe to register.

The Metatron now stands next to Aziraphale.

“You have vanquished the enemy, Angel of the Eastern Gate?”

“Oh! Er, no,” Aziraphale says, “that is, I’m afraid he… got away.” The entity studies him silently.

“It is of no consequence,” it eventually admits, then seems to gather energy. “There is an announcement.”

Aziraphale nods.

“The announcement is this.”

Aziraphale nods again. The Metatron is not immediately forthcoming. There is a crackle of bruised pride in the air. Finally, it speaks again.

“This universe is a mistake.”

“Beg pardon?” Aziraphale says. In the trees, Crawly thinks something ruder, but more or less to the same effect.

“This universe is a mistake,” the Metatron repeats, “It will be rectified shortly. Personnel are advised to return to headquarters and await initiation of the intended universe.”

“A mistake,” Aziraphale repeats. “But… He doesn’t make mistakes, surely?”

“Of course not.”

“Then whose mistake is it?”

There is a long silence.

“The mistake will be rectified shortly,” at last, is all the Metatron imparts. “Prepare for the correct universe, Angel of the Eastern Gate. You might consider this an opportunity to review previous actions.”

Aziraphale pales, but before he can say anything, the Metatron vanishes. The angel sits down, heavily, on a rock. Crawly hopes this one isn’t sentient. Quietly, he slithers over to Aziraphale.

They look out at the world. He can feel reality rippling against him, and all the small ways this universe isn’t quite right.[2]

“Shame,” he says, as they watch the activity in the ravine below. “I think it could’ve been an interesting one.”

His final thought, before the metaphorical curtain is drawn, is that maybe arms would be a good idea.

-----

[1] not technically true - an angel had once kept him dry in the rain, of course, but Crawly was trying not to think about that

[2] aside from the rocks made of light, the most notable being that a considerable chunk of a certain continent was missing, which would make it very hard for an author (or two) to impose an essential cold war analogy further down the line

#what do i even tag this as uhhhhh #????#if i had a fic tag i cant remember it #my writing #good omens #steven universe #(i want to write more of this because demons and angels interacting with aliens? *chef voice* MWAH..)#(but sadly cant promise anything because my motivation to write comes and goes like a little fruit fly in a big kitchen)

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