#what if Heaven made Aziraphale put the muzzle on Crowley | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pengychan · 4 years

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Luke 15:32

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Well, time to meet Larry.

***

“Have more cake.”

“Ah, thank you, I believe I am--”

A large slice of carrot cake landed on Gabriel’s dish before the words ‘quite full’ were even out. Gabriel’s gaze shifted from it to the dog - whose name was Arthur Canine Doyle, he’d learned, Doyle for short. It was resting its muzzle on Gabriel’s knee, looking up pleadingly. A very pink tongue emerged to lick its snout the moment he looked down. It sure made itself hard to ignore.

Gabriel was beginning to suspect it was after the cake.

“... And so he asked me to marry him,” Berenice was going on, serving herself a generous amount of cake as well. “I mean, with the papers in order, new documents and all, he really didn’t have any excuse left not to, you know? But he maintains he planned to ask all along.”

“I see,” Gabriel said, smiling a little and letting his gaze wander across the room. They were sitting in a living room, whose walls were covered in paintings of seaside landscapes; an half-finished painting was at the far end of the room. It definitely explained the dashes of color on Berenice’s jumper, and the strong smell of paint.

A chuckle, and she took a sip of tea. “We married in summer 2006 and it rained the entire bloody day, of course it did, but the ceremony was lovely. My son walked me down the aisle and everything. We also had my old dog as our ring bearer,” she added, nodding to something on Gabriel’s right.

He followed her gaze, and found himself looking at a framed photo of the dog in question - huge and hairy as Doyle, with a long lolling tongue, but completely black. However, it wasn’t the dog to catch his gaze as much as the newlyweds standing right behind it, smiling for the camera.

At first sight, Lawrence Brown didn’t resemble his younger brother at all. Daniel had been on the short side but broad, a full beard covering half his face, and the most elegant attire Gabriel had ever seen on him consisted of clean jeans and a flannel shirt. Lawrence’s build was slighter, and he was dressed in an impeccable suit that Gabriel was certain had to be tailored. He was clean-shaven, iron-gray hair neatly combed back, a black cane with a silver handle in one hand; the other arm was around Berenice’s waist.

And yet there was something in the broad smile, the aquiline nose, the cheekbones and… ah, yes, the same dark green eyes. They two brothers didn’t quite resemble each other, but they did share some features upon closer inspection. It made Gabriel smile a little. Daniel would be glad to know that. “That’s a really nice photograph.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Berenice smiled. “I don’t think I ever spent so much time doing my hair before or since, but it was worth it. Towards the end of the ceremony his bad knee was bothering him, did I say it was bloody rainy? So I suggested we took the photos sitting down, but he wouldn’t have that. He’s stubborn, did I mention that?”

Gabriel smiled. “A few times,” he said, and was about to start eating the third slice of cake out of politeness - time to find out how much his stomach could really take - when Doyle’s ears suddenly perked up. The dog pulled its head off Gabriel’s knee and stood, running to the next room, where the entrance was, with a wagging tail and a noise that sounded much like ‘boof’.

“Ah, there he is,” Berenice murmured. She put her cup of tea aside and stood from her armchair. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she added, the smile gone from her face - a stark reminder to Gabriel that he was not there to deliver an especially cheery message. It made sense for her to want to prepare her husband for what was to come.

He put the dish aside and nodded, his mouth pulled in a tight line, as Berenice quickly went through the entrance. Through the doorway, Gabriel could just hear a man’s voice asking the dog who was ‘a good boy’, which he found mildly confusing, not least because he knew dogs were unable to utter a response. Then he was cut off, and Gabriel could make out Berenice speaking in a soft tone, although he couldn’t grasp the words.

A message to deliver. It’s what I do best, Gabriel thought, instinctively reaching up to straighten his tie. Please, please, do not cry, he thought immediately afterwards. Until not too long ago, if it had been over a message God tasked him to deliver to a mortal, the thought of his words being met with tears might have been mildly awkward at worst. Now, something in his chest ached at the mere thought.

It should be Daniel sitting here. Not me. This is not fair.

Mortal lives are short, something whispered in the back of his mind.

They needed more time, Daniel needed more time, he should have gotten to grow old.

Ah, that wouldn’t have mattered until a few months ago, either. He had been ready to follow the Great Plan and see humanity annihilated, because it was the plan and there was nothing else he ought to care about. Billions human lives lost, Daniel’s and his brother’s and his wife’s among them; billions with unfinished business and years to live, and he hadn’t cared.

Aziraphale had cared. A demon had cared - but not him. You’re a good man, Daniel had written. Ah, if only he’d known.

In the next room there was more quiet talking, a brief silence, and then steps. Gabriel stood as Lawrence Brown walked in with a slight limp, looking at him with those dark green eyes that looked so familiar. He was older than in the photo, but there were few differences - a few more wrinkles around his eyes, his hair having gone from iron to silver, more informal clothing. The one big change, of course, was on his expression; the broad smile had changed into a polite one that barely hid the hurt, the many questions he certainly ached to ask.

And Gabriel would answer, at the best of his abilities.

Don’t say ‘fear not’.

“Mr. Brown,” Gabriel greeted him, holding out his hand. “My name is Gabriel Archer. I-- apologize for the intrusion.”

Lawrence’s smile seemed a little more sincere as he reached back to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming,” he said, and sat on the armchair in front of him while Doyle went to lay down at his feet. Berenice walked up to the armchair, putting a hand on his shoulder; he reached up to hold it, but his gaze never left Gabriel. “... I assume I wasn’t easy to find.”

Telling him both Heaven and Hell had been going crazy looking for him would have made for a truthful answer, but not a very wise one. Gabriel nodded, sitting as well. “You were not, but I-- I owed it to Daniel.”

If only I’d asked for assistance earlier, we could have found you on time. Before he died.

The name caused the smile to fade, and Lawrence drew in a deep breath, holding a little tighter on his wife’s hand. “Is what you told my wife true? That Daniel’s-- gone?”

A weight seemed to settle in Gabriel’s stomach as he nodded. “I am afraid he is. He passed away in his sleep a few weeks ago - heart failure.”

Lawrence let out all air in his lungs in a long breath, lowering his eyes. He swallowed before he spoke, Berenice still holding his hand in silent, steady comfort. “He’d have been fifty-five.”

“He was.”

“Fifty-six on the tenth of August. St. Lawrence’s day.” A shaky breath. “He was not old.”

“No, he was not,” Gabriel said, very quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Unfair, that. Margaret Thatcher lived a lot longer than that, may she rot in Hell.”

“She is.”

“Sorry?”

“Uh, nothing.”

A pause as Lawrence glanced at the photo and then back again. The pain was there behind his eyes, raw and palpable, but kept at bay. It was the gaze of someone who’d learned to deal with pain. Someone who’d lost an entire family before. Someone who’d been cast out, and had to learn to deal with it. It was a gaze Gabriel had seen in the mirror before.

“It is hard to imagine,” Lawrence said slowly, his voice a little less strained. “He was only ten last I saw him. A little boy. He still had gaps in his mouth where his baby teeth fell off.”

“I have a photo.” Gabriel reached in the internal pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photo of Daniel during a dinner for Łukasz’s birthday. It had been Fabrizio to take it, and he’d done Gabriel a huge favor by having it properly printed out; it showed Daniel sitting back against the backrest of his chair, a pint in his hand, laughing at something. He handed it to Lawrence, who hesitated a moment before taking it with a slightly shaky hand.

The photo of a stranger, Gabriel found himself thinking, why would he care to see the photo of a stranger? Daniel was no longer the boy he knew. He doesn’t know him at all.

“It has been a long time,” he had told Beelzebub. “We are not the beings we were then.”

“Oh,” Lawrence said, after looking at it for a few moments. His features twisted a moment - that pain again, trying to come to the surface - but in the end, he smiled. “Here he is, dear,” he finally muttered, glancing up at his wife. “My little brother, all grown up.”

Berenice smiled as well. “Almost as handsome as you.”

“I know, right? I like the beard, it never did much for my face - now that was a disappointment - but it looks good on him. He… heh. He looks like our father.”

Knowing what he did about his and Daniel’s parents - which was little, but none of it good - Gabriel was not quite sure what to think of the oddly fond smile that curled Lawrence’s lips for a moment. Nostalgia, maybe. However it was gone quite quickly, and Lawrence looked up at him again. He didn’t put down the photo, Gabriel noticed; he held it in his hands, as though unable to let go of it. “Thank you,” he said, his voice a little strained again. Gabriel managed a smile.

“You’re welcome. I just finished what he started. He-- was looking for you.”

A shaky breath, and Lawrence shook his head. “No, he was not.”

“Huh? No, I assure you, he’d been trying for years--”

“He was looking for Alison. That was not me.”

Beelzebub, not Ba’al.

No. Enough. They have nothing to do with any of this. Ba’al fought God and fell and is no more.

Gabriel closed his mouth, at a loss for words for a few moments-- but then he remembered the letter Daniel had written for him to memorize, and shook his head. “He was looking for you. Only under the wrong name, is all. There were things he did not know.”

I want you to know I loved you then and I love you now, wherever you are. You were the best sibling I could have asked for, I am sorry I couldn’t see that. I am sorry I never read your letter.

“... He was sorry for what he said to you. He didn’t mean it. He regretted it his entire life.”

A long pause, a sigh. “He was only a child, then. I never held it against him. It was not his fault,” Lawrence said, looking down at the photograph again. “God, he looks so different.”

“Still your little brother,” Berenice spoke softly, reaching to brush back his hair.

“... Yes. He was.” He brushed a thumb over the photo. “I should visit him. Where is he buried?”

Oh, that. “The… funeral has not gone ahead yet. They were trying to locate his next of kin. Which would be you,” Gabriel said, gaining himself a startled look.

“Just me? Isn’t there… anyone else?”

“He was married, but his wife passed away years ago. He had... an eventful life.” Gabriel managed a smile. “I’d be happy to fill you in, if you’d like. So that you know more about him.”

A long look, and he smiled. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand still holding the photo. “... I would appreciate that more than words can say,” he replied. Berenice smiled, and squeezed his hand one more time before letting go. “I’ll be making more tea for everyone.”

“No need, I still have a cup--”

“Which you let go cold, Mr. Archer,” she cut him off with a chuckle, reaching to take it. “No, no, sit. Please. You have a lot to talk about.”

And he did, he truly did - filling in Lawrence with all he knew about Daniel’s life, the ups and downs, the happy life and marriage, the death of his wife, illness, homelessness, how he pulled himself out of it; what a good worker he was, how respected by everyone he worked with him.

And most of all he told him everything that Daniel was; a good man, a generous man, someone who’d share the last of his beer with a weird frazzled stranger he met in a park, and then let him sleep in his tent when he became too drunk to go anywhere else. Lawrence listened, smiled, and got misty-eyed - and it was all right, because so did Gabriel and he found there was no shame in that. It was a fundamental part of being human, after all.

By the time he finished speaking, Lawrence Brown looked many things - saddened and grateful, nostalgic and thoughtful, but most of all he looked proud. “He turned out well,” he said, and smiled down at the photo. “He was always a good kid. I was sure he’d be a good man.”

“He was the best hum--” ah, wait. Not the right wording. “The best man I have known. Ah, thank you,” Gabriel said, taking the cup of tea Berenice was handing him. Behind her, Lawrence sneakily passed a biscuit to Doyle.

“Well. It seems I ought to get in touch, then, so I can organise the funeral. I will let you know all the details so you and your colleagues can attend,” Lawrence added. “I am… very grateful to you for going through the trouble of coming all the way here.”

Gabriel smiled. “I had a debt of gratitude.”

“To Daniel, but not to me. How may I repay you?”

“Well…” All right, he ought to word this in a way that was not weird, because telling him he wanted to know more about his life so he could tell Daniel about it was not an option, unless he wished an ambulance to be called to take him. “You seem to have had an interesting life yourself. I grew curious as I searched you - if it’s not too much to ask for you to indulge my curiosity…?”

A chuckle. “Ah, it was not as interesting as you might believe, so prepare to be disappointed. When I left Plymouth after… well. When I left it was early May - the first of May, I think. Or was it the tenth? Well, one of the two. Either way, I decided to board the first train to London…”

***

“Aren’t you going to miss London at all?”

“Ah, maybe the nightlife. But whenever that happens, we can always hop on the Bentley and go like the wind.”

“That is a slightly frightening thought.”

“Oh, come on, you know I never crash.”

“But you have caused others to crash upon occasion, do I have to remind you-- oh, this one looks nice.”

“It does, doesn’t it? It’s got a big loft, too, we can miracle it to be bigger on the inside. Nice large window, lets in plenty of natural light.”

“It would make a perfect library!”

“... I was thinking of houseplants.”

“Is that necessary? This comes with such a lovely garden, you can have all the plants you wish.”

“Ah, right. Still had my brain wired on ‘flat’.”

“Well. I see no reason why we can’t have houseplants in the library. Is that tree in the garden?”

“An apple tree? Yes.” Crowley had to admit it was an amusing coincidence. He scrolled through the photos. “Ah, that corner over there would be perfect for shrubs, and that spot in the sun… hedges all around… yes, I could turn it into something like Eden with some work.”

“Oh, and I could help you!”

“What?”

“In the garden.”

“Angel, if you so much try to go all Brother Francis again and be kind to garden pests--”

“I promise I will not, as long as you promise not to raise your voice at the plants.”

Crowley sighed. “Yes, yes, compromise. I am reasonably sure we already discussed this point. Didn’t we?”

“I think we did, yes.”

“Would be easier to remember if we didn’t keep getting interrupted to babysit--”

Aziraphale’s phone rang. Crowley rolled his eyes. Case in point.

“Ah, it might be Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. As far as Crowley was concerned, it was all the more reason not to answer the phone - if the idiot got himself stabbed in Luton it was his own problem, he’d received a fair warning - but Aziraphale picked up the receiver before he could voice those thoughts.

“Hello? Oh, Gabriel! I did wonder why you didn’t call-- oh, you found him? Wait-- Paington? How did you get there from Lut-- ah, I see. Well, that’s delightful news, isn’t it! When are you going to-- oh, you already… my, wasn’t that quick! And how did it go? Wonderful, wonderful. I’m sure your friend will be happy to know that. Is there anything more we can do to assist? Oh. Oh. Ah, you’re quite welcome, you’re quite welcome. Of course, it was no trouble at all. Take care, then.”

As the call ended, Crowley raised an eyebrow. “So, he found the bloke?”

“He did. He called to thank us,” Aziraphale replied, sounding mildly surprised.

Crowley frowned. “Us?” he repeated. The former Archangel fucking Gabriel thanking him, too?

“Yes, he specifically said ‘both of you’,” was the reply. Well, now that was… unexpected.

“Looks like he finally learned some manners,” he muttered, and Aziraphale chuckled, nudging him with an elbow as he sat back next to him, looking down at the cottage they might just pick.

“Before it slips my mind, one thing we should check is if there’s a good bakery in the vicinity…”

***

Lawrence and Berenice insisted for Gabriel to stay for lunch.

At first he’d thought to decline, if anything because the amount of cake he’d been fed throughout the morning almost dwarfed what Aziraphale had been trying to get in his stomach with varying degrees of success - but after so long looking for Lawrence, Gabriel found he wanted to stay a bit longer.

He wanted to get to know him a little better, gather more details he could pass on to Daniel, and answer any more questions Lawrence may have about his brother. He couldn’t answer all of them, because what he knew of Daniel’s life before they met he’d only heard about, but he did his best.

And besides, he found it was very easy to discreetly slip food under the table to Doyle in order to keep his stomach from bursting without refusing food, which Berenice had made clear would not be tolerated. If anything, Doyle appreciated his initiative a lot. By the time Gabriel left, after exchanging numbers and thanks and with polite handshakes, it was mid-afternoon and… a pleasantly mild day overall, despite being just early March.

It was only a short walk to the seafront, where a few people were walking their dogs or kicking around a spherical object - ah, right, a soccer ball - only to have it stolen by a dog who then ran off, forcing a couple of people to chase it. But they were laughing, so Gabriel supposed they were not especially bothered by the inconvenience.

He sat outside a café, ordered a coffee, called Aziraphale to update him as he waited and then he pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket to start jotting down all that Lawrence had told him about himself and his life, so that it could be passed on to Daniel. His memory used to be infallible, as that of all angels, but that no longer was the case: he retained all he had learned in his existence as part of the Heavenly host, but new information was harder to fix into his mind now that he was a mortal.

An interesting side effect, considering that, other memories had been making a comeback.

“I know you,” he’d said once to a Virtue known as Ba’al.

“No. You do not.”

Not the beings we were then.

Why would he care to see the photo of a stranger?

“My little brother, all grown up,” Lawrence Brown had said.

It has been a long time. He doesn’t know him at all.

“Thank you for coming,” he had said. “Thank you for bringing Daniel back to me.”

“... Sir? Is something the matter with your coffee?”

“Huh?”

Gabriel blinked, and realized three things at once: that he had been stating in the distance towards the waves with the pen in mid-air for several minutes, that the coffee in front of him was untouched and growing cold, and that the waitress was looking at him with mild concern.

He smiled. “Ah, I got a bit lost in thought. Thanks for snapping me out of it,” he said, and she smiled back before leaving. He picked up the mug, took a sip and ah, it needed more sugar, it was so bitter only Beelzebub could possibly appreciate-- no, best not to think of them. Not now.

All too soon, he suspected, they would show up to demand he repaid the favor, and Gabriel would keep his word. He had to.

But for now, he would focus on the task at hand - the message he truly wanted to pass on. Gabriel put down the mug, picked up the pen, and began writing.

***

“A risk analyst? Is that an actual thing?”

“I am fairly sure it is.”

“Gabriel’s got to be shit-- pulling my leg,” Daniel Brown said, to his credit correcting himself very fast when he noticed Uriel’s raised eyebrow. Beside him, his wife seemed amused.

“Not the career you had imagined for him?”

“Not what I’d imagine for anyone, since I didn’t know it existed. When Ali-- Lawrence left, she-- he’d-- agh, I keep fucking this up.”

As Uriel sighed in defeat - that man’s language was impossible - Liv Brown chuckled. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. Uriel was not entirely certain she was talking to her husband about his use of correct pronouns, or reassuring her that sooner or later his language would cease bothering her.

To be honest, Uriel had no plans to stay in the lower spheres of Heaven long enough to get used to any of it.

Unaware of her thoughts, Daniel Brown shrugged, scanning the message of several pages Gabriel had sent back for him. “Hope so, I keep slipping up and feeling like an arse-- an idiot, I mean. But… a risk analyst. I imagined he’d, I don’t know, boarded a plane to Australia to be a kangaroo herder or something. Not board a train to London to become a risk analyst. I can get he’s a guy but what job is that supposed to be?”

“... It doesn’t sound particularly adventurous, I agree. On the bright side, getting to him might have been a little more difficult if he lived in Australia herding kangaroos.”

“Ah, fair.”

They kept going over the latter together, and Uriel silently left the room without either of them noticing. Her work there was done; Daniel Brown may have never met his brother in life - he would in Heaven, most likely, if Lawrence Brown’s file was anything to go by he was well on course to get in - but at least he had the answers he had been seeking.

Uriel, on the other hand, still has no answer to the questions that wouldn’t leave her alone - nor Michael nor Sandalphon, she knew that - ever since the order had come to cast Gabriel out, and they’d obeyed. So many questions, and not one answer.

God owed them no answers, Uriel knew, and questioning was a dangerous thing to do in Heaven… yet it was all she had been doing for the past several months. All they had been doing.

And maybe it was time for them to ask those questions out loud, come what may.

***

"But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found." -- Luke 15:32

***

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rohanrider3 · 5 years

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Nefarious Fiend (A Good Omens ficlet)

“Thisss entire meeting could have been a bloody email.” Crowley muttered, head tilted downwards on his chest and facing towards somewhere between his shin and the floor. “Pointlessss wasssste of time.”

“Time,” Gabriel said sternly, “is not something beings like us take into account.”

After what happened at Tadfield, Gabriel isn't happy with Aziraphale. Or Crowley. He pulls them into one of Heaven's Conference Rooms to...talk things over with them. That sounds fine. Right? Right. (It's not.)

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called this meeting.” Gabriel said in his usual sanctimonious manner, fingers steepled before him.

Aziraphale swallowed hard and sat up even straighter, determined not to make a misstep. Gabriel had set aside one of the Conference Rooms for this very meeting. Which meant that he—they—that both of them—were treading on very, very, VERY thin ice here.

Gabriel did not like missteps. And Gabriel especially did not like—well. Missteps involving “fraternizing with the enemy”, as he’d said. More than that, Gabriel did not like—

—did not like—

Crowley.

Crowley, who’d helped avert a pointless Apocolypse. Crowley, who despite his prickly behavior and literal devil-may-care attitude was the best being on Earth, in Aziraphale’s six-thousand year opinion. Crowley. Who happened to be a demon.

Gabriel did not like demons.

And he especially did not like Crowley. Apparently averting a pointless battle where thousands of innocents died horrible deaths counted as “bad” and “fraternizing with the enemy” in Gabriel’s books.

Puzzling, really.

Be that as it may, Gabriel did NOT like Crowley. He never had, but his dislike had turned into outright hatred after that…that incident at Tadfield. And what had followed after.

Judging from Crowley’s glare across the conference table (the glare which was all but burning holes into Gabriel’s stylish suit), the feeling was mutual.

Aziraphale’s best friend snorted and purposely slouched even further down in his chair, as far as the icy chains holding him in place would let him. He still managed, despite the thick restraints holding him in place—and also despite his very stylish black suit, shoes, ever-present sunglasses, and ruffled coppery hair—to somehow embody the image of a very sulky snake.

“Time,” Gabriel said sternly, “is not something beings like us take into account.”

“Clearly.” Crowley retorted. “The humanss will have started actually usssing solar power by now, and I wouldn’t be sssurprised if there are self-driving carsss when we get ba—“

“Shut up, snake.” Gabriel said offhandedly, and Aziraphale winced when Crowley outright hissed at the opposite archangel, bared fangs and all. He’d tried shapeshifting into a snake when they were both captured, but the restraints weren’t letting him. Didn’t stop him from hissing again, though.

“It’s really all right, my dear.” Aziraphale broke in, putting on his best (false) smile. “It’s quite all right. Just a little bit of—of, of fraternal correction, from, from my superiors, and I’ll improve my—my performance with helping humans see the, the light, and—and everything will be—er, balanced, as usual, and as right as rain. Again.”

He’d hoped Crowley—that clever, quick-witted, absolutely maddening very best friend of his soul since time had begun—would take the hint and read into the words he dared not say aloud. Truthfully, he meant something more along the lines of For pity’s sake, don’t make things harder on yourself and just let me take the heat this time, it’ll be fine, they won’t do any—permanent—damage—I don’t think—and then I should be able to come up with a reason for them to let you go that they’ll accept, and—NO CROWLEY STOP MAKING THINGS WORSE FOR YOURSE—“

“Fraternal CORRECTION?!” His best friend had shouted, all but lunging out of his chair. The icy chains holding him in place creaked and snapped as they kept reforming, and Aziraphale’s stomach dropped as he saw the cracked and swollen skin on his friend’s wrists and throat. But Crowley wasn’t paying attention. Oh, typical. He was too busy raging at Gabriel—at GABRIEL—who, Aziraphale nervously noticed, seemed to be enjoying this. Oh dear. Oh dear. He forced himself to stop spiraling into an anxiety attack, good heavens, he’d nearly lost track of what Crowley was saying—

“—BULLYING!!” Crowley was shouting. “I SSS—SHOULD KNOW! I’M A DEMON, FOR—FOR EVERYTHING’S SSSAKE!! YOU LOT DON’T HELP HIM, OR NOTICE WHEN HE’S DONE SSSSOMETHING GOOD, YOU RANDOMLY SSSNATCH HIM UP HERE WHEN YOU NEED SSSOMEONE TO KICK AROUND, AND JUST BECAUSE HE’S KIND AND OBLIGING YOU THINK YOU CAN JUSSST—“

Gabriel raised one hand. And Crowley’s voice cut off.

“Oh, really!” Aziraphale cried. “Gabriel, you needn’t—you don’t have to—for, for Heaven’s sake, don’t—don’t—Gabriel, stop that!”

Gabriel turned his head slightly so that he was facing Aziraphale, quirking an eyebrow in feigned confusion. “Stop what, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale spluttered for a moment, his horrified eyes flicking from Gabriel’s hand.

From Gabriel’s hand to the ice muzzle currently smothering Crowley.

It had all happened so fast.

The chains around Crowley’s neck had just—just sharpened, and, and sort of—well, parts of them had melted, and remolded, over and over and over, icy fingers stretching up and coating over his friend’s chin, and mouth, and nose, and then covered the entire lower half of his face, and then—then just frozen solid over it, layers and layers of thick, clouded ice cutting into his best friend’s skin and turning it almost blue in seconds.

Crowley couldn’t breathe. He’d jerked in surprise at the suddenness of it all, and then jerked his head again, side to side to side, as if that might make things right again. Behind the chair back, his hands curled into fists as he fought to break free. Wasn’t going to happen, though. Gabriel had made those chains. Gabriel didn’t leave weak links.

Aziraphale felt his own chest tighten.

Crowley couldn’t breathe.

Crowley—Crowley couldn’t—

And Gabriel was just sitting there, doing nothing—Aziraphale realized, almost numbly, that he himself had been trying to miracle the ice away ever since it had appeared on Crowley’s face, but whatever Gabriel had done, it was too powerful for him to undo—not fast enough, at least—

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale said again, breathless with shock and horror. “You can’t just—he—you can’t do this, he needs to—“

“He doesn’t need to breathe.” Gabriel said, as if explaining basic matters to a very small and stupid child. “He’s not a human. Time on earth doesn’t change celestial—or infernal—beings that much. Breathing’s just something he’s used to. Isn’t that right, demon?”

The muscles around Crowley’s eyes tightened, and Aziraphale knew his expressions well enough to know that even though Crowley was currently banging his own head against the headrest behind him, striving to get free, he was also glaring daggers at Gabriel. Who seemed to be enjoying this. A lot.

Aziraphale licked his lips, thinking quickly. What could he say, what could he do—he could, he could try turning Gabriel’s ire on him. Yes, yes that would work.

“Gabriel,” he began, but the archangel held up a hand and cut him off too. “Shut up.” Gabriel said cooly, and Aziraphale swallowed hard as he felt the icy tendrils spiraling harder around his own wrists and pinning him where he sat. He had to stay calm. He had to get Crowley out of here. He had to get free to get Crowley out of here. He racked his brains for a plan. Think. Think. Crowley can’t breathe. Think. He doesn’t need to breathe. Does he? Oh no, what if he does now? Besides, he’s a snake. He can’t handle cold. It’s bad for him. It’s so bad for him. Remember that time in Tibet? No, no, no, DON’T remember that time in Tibet. That’s not helpful, not now. CROWLEY CAN’T BREATHE. Think. Think. Think think think think—

All this time, Crowley hadn’t stopped trying to tear his chains apart, but his weakening efforts only seemed to make them grow thicker, the thin mist coming off the freezing links intensifying along with his efforts.

Gabriel abruptly stood up and made his way over to the other side of the table, leaning against the edge and looking down on the struggling Crowley, his usual, casual smile on his face. The cold, meaningless one that Aziraphale absolutely hated.

“I asked you a question, demon.” Gabriel said quietly, but his eyes were hard. With a sudden motion, he reached out and struck Crowley hard across the side of the face. The blow sent Crowley’s dark glasses clattering to the floor, skidding and sliding into a corner where they smashed against the wall and cracked into multiple pieces.

Crowley blinked a few times, then glared back up at Gabriel, vertical irises narrowing in their pools of yellow until they were mere dark slits in a blazing sea of anger.

Gabriel grinned at that.

“So the snake-eyed demon can hear, at least.”

He leaned down, closer to Crowley’s glare. No. No. No. Gabriel paying attention to Crowley could not be good. Azirphale realized he’d started speaking now, almost babbling in a desperate attempt to draw Gabriel’s attention away from his friend.

“Gabriel!” He shouted, pulling against his own restraints. “You—you don’t have jurisdiction over him. It’s me. You wanted to speak with me, isn’t it? You were—you are—you are still angry about the averted Apocolypse, aren’t you? I’m the one you’re angry with, so talk to me! Get angry with me, not him!!”

Crowley shot Aziraphale a shocked look and made a half-angry, half-something-else sound behind the ice muzzle.

Gabriel smiled at that, then spared Aziraphale a glance over his shoulder and a small—a very small—smile.

“Oh, I think you’re getting the message just fine.”

He turned back to Crowley, considered. Slapped him again, a full backhand this time, hard enough to leave a red mark across one temple. Then he stepped back, considered his work. Studied the way Crowley’s movements were slowing now, slowing…rather a lot, actually.

“Hm. Maybe I was wrong.” He drawled. “Maybe you do need to breathe.” He leaned down, getting far too close to Crowley’s face again.

“Well, then, demon. You want to breathe so badly? You have something to say for your…friend?” Gabriel’s voice dripped disgust at the word and he nearly physically pulled back, then thought better of it. He smiled into Crowley’s eyes. “Well, then, demon. Fight for it.”

Crowley’s already gray face went nearly white, and Aziraphale heard rather than saw the steam hissing away from the ice coating his friend’s face.

They waited. Nothing happened. The ice continued to reform, despite Crowley’s best efforts.

Gabriel’s eyes were glacier cold.

“Fight. Harder.” He suggested, and Aziraphale felt something in his chest crack as Crowley outright screamed behind the muzzle, jerking and struggling in a last, frantic attempt, steam rising as the ice melted away from his eyes, rolled down the ice ridges like tears until—finally—finally—Crowley managed to breathe again. Just through his nose, but that at least was a start. It was something.

But—

Azpiraphale’s rush of relief quickly faded as he realized Crowley wasn’t breathing right. His breaths were coming in raspy, awful sounding huffs, and the skin underneath his strained eyes and around his face was—

—red. And white. And…and awful.

The marks weren’t from the ice. Not just the ice, at any rate.

Burns.

Crowley’s…face…is…burned. Badly. So badly that Crowley is shuddering as if he’s suddenly come down with a violent fever, and he doesn’t look—right, and he doesn’t look at all well—and his usual tough-as-nails-attitude is gone, cracked and crumbled down right now in front of everyone, and he just looks so—so lost—and so—so hurt—and afraid—the ice had hid all that until now—

How—how had that—

“You…” Aziraphale heard himself saying from a distance, almost as if someone else was using his voice. “You…froze…you froze holy water. To make the chains.”

Gabriel’s smile reached his eyes. “Yes. Yes I did. Rather clever, don’t you think? To use that purifying water on something so…” he shuddered artistically. “Disgusting.” Gabriel leaned forward, an earnest expression finally shining out through his eyes. “Don’t you see, Aziraphale? The error of your ways? Stop fraternizing with the enemy, making excuses, pretending you have anything at all in common with this…with this fallen one. He’s corrupting you. Can’t you see? He’s twisted, dark, malicious—he only wants to hurt you, Aziraphale. You can’t trust him. No one can.”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly, once at Gabriel, then turned back to look at Crowley.

Who’d shrunk into himself at Gabriel’s words and didn’t dare look at Aziraphale.

“Well?” Gabriel said pointedly. He grabbed Crowley’s chin and dragged it upwards, ignoring the cut-off whimper and ragged breathing that worsened as he did so. He forced Crowley to look him in the eyes, sneered at what he saw there, and forced Crowley’s head around to look directly at Aziraphale.

“See? Fallen. Corrupted. Weak.” He released Crowley with a disdainful thrust of his hand, and wiped it off on his pocket handkerchief afterwards. “Not even his own side wants him. So why on earth—or anywhere else—would you want to fraternize with this, this snake?”

Aziraphale stared at his friend.

Crowley’s eyes were glazed and only-half focused on him, but there was something else there too. Pain. And something worse than pain, something the torture and Gabriel’s words had laid bare at long last, shivering, hiding just under the surface.

Fear.

Fear that Aziraphale would believe Gabriel. Would side with…with Gabriel. Would leave him.

Damn Gabriel. Even on their worst days on Earth, Crowley must know—surely he did—that Aziraphale would never be capable of leaving him behind, not in a hundred thousand millennia.

But Gabriel knew how to hurt people. How to play on old fears and insecurities. And he’d dragged Crowley here, taunted him with not being able to help Aziraphale, and then, without any warning whatsoever, tortured him almost beyond the limits of endurance. Then twisted the metaphorical knife in to the hilt of the emotional wound. They’d dealt with threats before, but they’d almost always had time to plan.

But like this—like this—taken off balance, blindsided by agonizing pain and callous reopening of old wounds, Crowley would be scared, afraid, and lost. Who wouldn’t?

All of this rushed through Aziraphale’s thoughts in the time it takes to blink. With the briefest of side glances, Aziraphale noted Gabriel’s smug, holier-than-thou expression and grimly stored it away in his mental files of “Reasons To Smite Gabriel: Later”.

He’d had to add the “Later”. Because right now he needed to get Crowley out of here. And fast. He kept his focus on the cuffs binding him to his chair. Get out. Get Crowley. Get Crowley out.

But he also couldn’t let Crowley dwell on those horrid lies for one more second.

“Crowley, darling.” He said gently. “Please listen to me. What he said is not true.” Crowley’s eyes flicked to him for a second, then unfocused again, drifting back to staring into the middle distance. Aziraphale felt his own teeth begin to grind. DAMN Gabriel and his malicious tricks.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale repeated himself, even more gently than before. “He’s lying to you.” Although Crowley still seemed too lost to hear, Gabriel certainly did.

Gabriel swelled at that statement like an insecure pufferfish. “I do not lie!” He snapped.

Aziraphale spared him a scorching glance. “Oh, I beg to differ.” He said coldly. Snippets of what Crowley had shouted before at Gabriel echoed through his mind, and he finally connected some of the dots that had been bothering him for centuries.

“I think you like to say you fight for the truth, when really, you do the opposite. You like to fight for what’s comfortable. For you. And everyone else can jolly go to…well. Jolly well fend for themselves. Which, if I recall anything correctly, was not the reason we were put here.”

He leaned forward, almost unaware of the way the ice encircling his wrists had begun to steam and melt, sending mist flaring up into the harsh light of the Conference Room.

“And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s bullies and—and liars.” He snapped.

The icy manacles snapped too.

Aziraphale was never quite sure how things happened next. He remembered The Incident in pieces. One was quite a clear snapshot of Gabriel’s horrified face. The next (after a series of blurry, hard-to-distinguish-images) was also Gabriel’s (still horrified) face, but now it (along with the rest of him) was embedded several yards away in the glass and marble wall of the Conference Room.

Time seemed to slow as Aziraphale reached Crowley, and then it crept and crawled in maddening wingbeats until he was able to tear his best friend free from the burning restraints and what remained of the muzzle. Getting across Heaven’s insane floor plan (really, what was the POINT in so many windows and glass walls?!) to the Globe only took a few moments, but it felt like all the ages of the world.

They vanished just before Gabriel’s bloodied fingers closed on Crowley’s blistered forearm. The foiled archangel gnashed his teeth at the duo’s narrow escape and roared out orders to the legions forming behind him. He knew where that traitor’s hidey-hole was anyway. And what kind of bookstore barely sold books, anyway?

He’d burn them out if he had to.

But none of that was on Aziraphale’s mind at the moment. From the moment he snatched Crowley up and away from that dreadful room, all the way back to the bookshop, Crowley—his best friend in the entire created and non-created cosmos—Crowley, his brave, brash, loud, dramatic, always-had-a-quip Crowley could only whimper the whole way home.

“Ah—ah—Azirahphale.” He slurred, somewhere between the stratosphere and London, his first words since Gabriel had—well. Started. “—h—h—hurts, Angel. Hurts, hurts, hurts. Hurtsss.”

Aziriphale gave him a somewhat hasty, but nevertheless earnest kiss on the top of the forehead as they broke the sound barrier over the western half of Europe. “I know, dear. We’ll fix it.”

As they neared the bookshop, Aziraphale barely heard Crowley’s next whispered word over the blaring sound of London evening traffic. “C-c-c-caaan’t.”

“Oh!” Azirphale exclaimed, materializing in the center of his—their bookshop, the backdraft from his wings sending loose papers swirling across the floor. “Why ever not?” He asked, only just managing to sound worried instead of irritated. He was just so—so flustered. He’d never seen Crowley hurt this badly so quickly. And Heaven was on their way. To FIGHT them. He—very gently—set Crowley down on the nearest couch, made sure his head comfortably settled on the nearest pillow, then bustled around the shop, locking the doors, closing windows and drawing shades. THEY weren’t getting in here without a fight. THEY were NOT getting Crowley that easily. Not again.

He turned in time to see Crowley hiding his burned face and slitted eyes in the corner of the couch, ginger hair barely showing between the arm and the back of the comfy, worn furniture. “ ‘m…bad.” Crowley rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “F-f-fallen. You heard what he s-s-s-said. I’m…not right. Not good. Not anymore. Good thingsss can’t help me. An’ bad things w-w-w-won’t even try. ‘m….’m bad. And I…can’t get b-b-better.” His voice, if possible, got even quieter. Smaller. “I, I tried. F-for a l-l-long time, angel. I—c-c—can’t.” It broke on the last word.

Aziraphale left off securing the last window latch and was hovering over Crowley in a flash. He resisted the momentary temptation to summon his flaming sword and lay waste to Gabriel and all his ilk, and instead laid a careful, comforting hand on his friend’s head. “Crowley, my dear. Enough of that. We are going to have this conversation right now so both of us can then focus on your much-needed healing. You are not evil. You are not bad. You simply ask questions. You think for yourself. And goodness—well, I mean to say—in any case, everybody who isn’t a moron knows those are not bad things. Besides, do you think a—a—“ Aziraphale searched his mind for Gabriel’s words. He stumbled over them, but repeated them nonetheless. He had to destroy Gabriel’s false argument word for word, or he risked losing Crowley to the lies altogether. And he’d let himself be literally damned before he’d let that happen.

“Do, do you think, my dear, that a—oh what’d that twat say—that a, a “fallen, corrupted, and weak” demon would voluntarily risk the wrath of his superiors to stop a pointless Armageddon?”

The little he could see of Crowley’s face tightened in pain. Then his friend barely turned, just enough so that one yellow, slitted eye could peek open to peer back up at him.

“Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” Crowley said, his voice weak and unsure. “…n-nnnn…no?”

His answer was more of a question, but Aziraphale thanked his lucky stars for what he could get.

“Correct.” He beamed, and carefully reached out for the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley winced, almost instinctively, it seemed, and Aziraphale forced himself to keep looking unworried, collected, and competent. He’d be bawling his eyes out over what Gabriel had done, probably with a bottle or four of wine in the backroom sometime after this was over. Once Crowley was properly asleep and resting, of course. But now was not the time to indulge in personal hysteria.

However justified.

He concentrated on beginning to heal the wounds, on keeping infection and contamination and goodness-knew-what-else out and away from his friend. He’d suffered—and would suffer—enough already without all of that additional…well. Without all of that.

“How’re you feeling now?” He asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. Crowley made a ragged sound deep in the back of his throat. The burns had started to heal, but painful-looking blisters had developed over most of the skin, and Azpiraphale felt his own throat close up in sympathetic pain.

“S—s—still h-h-hurtsss, angel.” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale swallowed hard and—very, very carefully—kissed the top of his head again.

“I know.” He said sympathetically. “I know. But I promise, it will get better.”

Bursts of harsh light flashed across the windows of the bookshop, and Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face as familiar winged figures, all in crisp, perfect suits, filled the street outside. Crowley winced at the sudden flares of light, and his dulling eye shut tight against the angry pulsing lights.

“Ah.” Aziraphale said, far more calmly than he felt. He stood up. Summoned the flaming sword into his hand.

He wasn’t afraid.

Furious, yes. Probably going to get disintegrated? Absolutely.

But they were NOT taking Crowley AGAIN.

He started making his way towards the door. Felt a pressure on his hand. Looked down to see one of Crowley’s badly burned ones latched onto it, mangled fingers painfully holding on to his own.

“Don’t go.” Crowley croaked, trying to get up. “Don’ be ssstupid, aaangel. I’ll…I’ll go.”

“You certainly shall not!” Aziraphale squeaked, eyes widening in horror as Crowley actually tried to sit up. He tried shaking Crowley’s hand off, but the demon’s grip only tightened. “I, I won’t let you get obliterated!”

“Sss—same goes…goesss for you.”

“Oh, bother!” Aziraphale huffed, feeling—of all things—somewhat peeved. They were both probably going to get painfully incinerated by some means or another in the next thirty seconds, and here they were squabbling about who would die in an agonizing manner first.

Typical.

A shadow at the door, blocking the harsh light. Gabriel’s stern profile. His voice, calling out.

“Aziraphale! Hand over the demon, and your punishment will not be prolonged!”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Aziraphale snarled, right as Crowley’s equally impassioned, if slightly weaker and raspy “SOD OFF!” rang out simultaneously through the shop.

Aziraphale looked back down at his friend. Bleary-eyed, shaking, pale as a—well. Almost pale as a ghost. If you didn’t count the weeping third degree burns. Damn it. He couldn’t leave him like this.

He put the flaming sword away. It wouldn’t have helped. Not against Gabriel, at any rate. And then he sat down on the chair next to the sofa, keeping Crowley’s hand in his.

“Well.” He said, far more briskly than he felt. “They’ll have to just come and get us both, then.”

Crowley looked at him with wide eyes, almost the same way he’d looked at him all those eons ago back in the garden, when they’d first met. Incredulous. Surprised.

Aziraphale smiled brightly at him. He would not let Crowley see how scared he was. Besides, he realized, he wasn’t really scared. Just…resigned.

He hadn’t thought it would end this way. But, he supposed, if it had to end, being with Crowley was not a bad way to go.

Epilogue the First

How hard, Gabriel was later heard to scream at the mustered choirs of angels under his command, was it to “—PUSH A BOOKSTORE DOOR OPEN? HMMM? WAS IT REALLY THAT HARD?!! HAD ANYONE, BESIDES HIMSELF, EVEN THOUGHT OF TRYING TO PULL IT OPEN?!! ANYONE?!!”

It was almost, a minor angel had offered, timidly, in the echoing silence that had thundered through Heaven’s halls after Gabriel’s outburst, as if something—or SomeOne—hadn’t…allowed it to open. No matter what they’d done. They hadn’t been able to do a single thing to the tiny little bookstore. It had been…strange? Unexplainable?

Ineffable. Someone murmured. Gabriel whirled to find the voice, snarling, fists clenched and eyes wild, and only managed to redirect his searing blast of holy fire upwards and sideways through the already damaged glass ceiling at the last possible minute.

The Celestial Choirs had all found Somewhere Else To Be after that, and Gabriel was left alone, scowling, holding his bruising face in the middle of a completely ruined Conference Room.

Ineffable. He glowered to himself. As if the Almighty had taken those two—THOSE TWO—under their protection.

Surely not.

Epilogue the Second

“—so I think, in the end, my dear, if you stop hating yourself, at least a little, you might be able to resist the unpleasant effects of sanctified water! It’s not like you’re all evil, you know.”

“Oh, creation help us.” moaned Crowley from his sanctuary on the sofa, surrounded by gently waving plants and cushioned by far more pillows than the couch could reasonably expect to hold.“You’re babbling on about angels—fallen or otherwise—and self-actualization?” He fought for a moment, managed to get himself up on one still-bandaged elbow, pointed an accusing finger at his friend. “In short, you’re telling me your idea to speed up my recovery is to follow an idea you saw on the telly?”

Aziraphale shrugged, finished arranging the overflowing tea tray, and came round towards the sofa with it, a pile of biscuits wobbling precariously on the edge. “I don’t know, but it is quite a good show. You should try it.”

Crowley’s voice went higher. “AMERICAN!! TELLY!!” He roared, and the houseplants near the couch trembled as if caught in a high wind.

Aziriphale hid a smile. Cantankerous Crowley meant a healing Crowley. Besides, anything to get his spirit back up.

“I don’t see anything wrong with it taking place in Los Angeles.” He said cheerily. “Besides. I thought you liked the American West Coast.”

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO CAME UP WITH THE PITCH FOR THAT SHOW?! LISTEN HERE, ANGEL, I’LL TELL YOU EXACTLY HOW I—“

“Oooh, look, new episodes!” Aziraphale burbled happily. “Huzzah! And here I thought it’d been cancelled before its time!!” He readied the remote.

Crowley dramatically tried to smother himself with pillows, but was unsuccessful. “Uuuuuuuggggghhhh.” He moaned. “There’s no way this is going to be quality entertainment.”

Aziraphale smiled as American rock music and a jaunty, cocky television theme began emanating from the television. “You’d be surprised, my dear.”

#I'M WRITING AGAIN #HOORAY #good omens #hurt/comfort #also on ao3 under same title #crowley #aziraphale #hurt crowley #protective crowley #BAMF aziraphale #Gabriel is a dick in this one #torture #emotional hurt/comfort #whump #kind comments are always appreciated!#messages too!

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kaesaaurelia · 5 years

Text

one bad turn

For @whumptober2019 day 5: gunpoint

Content warning for explicit sexual content, noncon gun kink, rape, rape revenge, and gore.

Gabriel/Crowley noncon with some Aziraphale/Crowley pining in the background, because I needed something lighter after writing something so awful.

When someone had grabbed Crowley and shoved him hard against a wall, pointing a gun-shaped object at his chest, he'd assumed this was a mugging and grinned, because Crowley loved getting mugged, it was always hilarious.

But then he saw that the gun was made of neon green plastic, and the bastard holding it was the very picture of an American businessman with more money than sense, and his grin turned very fixed.

"Don't move, demon," said Gabriel, pressing the water pistol into his chest. He spread his wings ostentatiously, and used them to block Crowley in.

"Sure, yeah, not moving," said Crowley, trying to be casual. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"I hear you've been making trouble," said Gabriel. "Interfering with miracles. Shaping highways into demonic sigils. Causing pain and misery wherever you go."

"Me? Really? Making trouble? You heard that?" Crowley asked. "About me? No! Never! Must be some other demon, not me, I'm all --"

"Shut the fuck up, you disgusting abomination," snapped Gabriel.

"Got a mouth on you, you have," said Crowley. "Do you pray to your mother with that mouth, Gabe? I can call you Gabe, can't --"

Gabriel punched him, which meant he lost a few moments to dazedness when his head hit the brick wall behind him. His cracked sunglasses fell to the ground. Before Crowley could form another set of words, Gabriel grabbed him by the jaw and wrenched it open. "You will not disrespect an Archangel, fiend."

Then he stuck the water pistol into Crowley's mouth. It burned, and Crowley screamed involuntarily. Gabriel, shaking with rage, shoved it deeper, and that was when everything got somehow even worse, because some fucked-up part of Crowley's psyche had inexplicably decided, Certain painful and humiliating death at the hands of Creation's biggest wanker, you say? I'm in! and these were really not the trousers Crowley wanted to have an involuntary hard-on in, but he was certainly having one now, and Gabriel was bound to notice.

"Are you enjoying this?" Gabriel stared at him in horrified fascination. "Amazing. I thought I'd seen the worst of demonic depravity before but this -- this is impressive."

Shit. Shit.

"Huh. I wonder how much further I can push this in." He tried to press the gun deeper but it wouldn't move. Gabriel looked at him coldly. "I've heard," he said deliberately, "that serpents can unhinge their jaws."

Then he pulled the trigger the merest fraction of an inch, and Crowley coughed and spluttered and involuntarily opened his mouth wider, and Gabriel got what he wanted.

Crowley whimpered, and Gabriel smiled. "There you go. Much easier on you if you do what I tell you the first time, isn't it? I wonder, though... should I burn out that forked tongue of yours, or just put you out of your misery?"

His tongue wasn't even forked right now. Crowley was disproportionately indignant about that, but it was a little oasis of annoyance in a sea of terror, and he appreciated that much.

Gabriel let a little more of the holy water trickle down his throat, and Crowley didn't have a gag reflex but he wished he had, because it burned all the way down. Between the horrible stinging and the humiliation of hearing his own gurgling muffled scream, Crowley's eyes were watering, but not enough to prevent him from seeing Gabriel's delighted, cruel fascination.

And there was another thing about Gabriel's reaction that Crowley noticed, further down, and it was no comfort to him whatsoever, because, Satan's balls, Gabriel might actually be Creation's biggest wanker; the line of his hardening dick was impossible not to notice.

Gabriel must have noticed where his eyes had gone -- bless it, Crowley wished he had his sunglasses back on. He smiled. "I'm having an idea," said Gabriel.

If Crowley's mouth wasn't full he would be congratulating Gabriel on what must be a momentous occasion; instead he tried to fill his glare with as much scorn as possible, but if Gabriel noticed, he didn't say anything, only forced him down onto his knees, jerking the gun down and pressing the top of his head with his other hand.

"I've never done this before," said Gabriel, cheerfully. "Always wondered about it, but, you know how it is, I just get so busy with work. Never had the time!" As if he was talking about going to China on holiday, or picking up a new hobby, and not raping a demon.

He took the gun out of Crowley's mouth, and Crowley coughed and spat blood onto the pavement.

"Disgusting," said Gabriel, pressing the muzzle -- did water pistols really have muzzles? Crowley wondered -- anyway, it was the squirty part, and it was pressed into the side of his head. Gabriel unzipped his trousers and took out what was, frankly, an absurd amount of cock. Crowley wondered what he was compensating for, because it had to be something, to consciously decide to have to fit that thing into business casual. "No smart comments?" he asked Crowley.

"They'd be wasted on you anyway," said Crowley, hoarsely.

"Funny," said Gabriel. He wrenched Crowley's jaw open and fairly rammed his cock down Crowley's throat. Crowley resisted the urge to bite the thing off; Gabriel wouldn't bleed out and die like a normal human, and then he'd use the water pistol on Crowley, and Crowley very desperately wanted to survive this.

"Well? Get to work," said Gabriel, thrusting roughly into him. Crowley tried to withdraw into himself, to pretend it was Aziraphale, who he'd fantasized about sucking off plenty of times, but it was impossible to keep that pretense up for long with Gabriel's grunting and careless thrusting and his hand at the back of Crowley's head, shoving himself deeper into Crowley's throat, which was already screaming from the holy water. So he tried to at least to pretend that it was voluntary; that, in a feat of spectacularly bad taste, he'd chosen to blow some awful American in an alley, and the awful American had a thing for guns, which made sense, really, being both awful and American. And Crowley was able to ignore the sting of the water pistol on his scalp and the horrible stretch of his throat for a while by working out which Awful American Gun Things he could safely take credit for with Head Office, and which were just pushing his luck.

Gabriel didn't last long, thank Satan, coming into Crowley's throat, moaning and ramming himself into Crowley a few more times as his dick spurted. Angelic come didn't burn his throat, or at least, it didn't make it hurt worse than the holy water did. Which was a nice thing to know, only Crowley really wished he'd learned it in a different context.

And then Gabriel, in the throes of orgasm, let the water pistol slip from his hand.

Crowley seized his opportunity. His teeth lengthened into fangs and he bit down, hard.

Gabriel screamed, and it was one of the sweetest sounds Crowley'd ever heard, right up there with enraged motorists honking at other, equally enraged motorists during traffic jams, or people screaming in wordless rage as their Travelcards refused to work.

Crowley swallowed. He kicked the gun behind him, stood up, and slammed Gabriel into the wall.

"Nasssty wound, isn't it?" Crowley hissed, grinning, teeth full of blood. There was something wrong with his voice but he didn't care right now. Gabriel's eyes were wide, and he was still whimpering. "You're going to go right back up to Heaven, dicklessss wonder, and you're going to never do that shit again, and whatever the fuck you actually came down here for -- don't tell me you had orderss to rape a demon, that wass all you -- whatever you came down here for, it'ss ssolved, nothing to ssee here."

"Or else what?" Gabriel sounded awfully brave for someone who was bleeding all over his bespoke trousers.

"Or elssse," said Crowley, sinking claws into Gabriel's balls and enjoying the resulting shriek, "Or elsse I tell everyone Downsstairss how I tricked the Archangel Gabriel into getting his dick bitten off, and if you don't think ssomething that juicy won't make itss way Upsstairss, you're even sstupider than I thought."

And Gabriel, either seeing the wisdom in this or at the very least seeking to escape Crowley's claws, vanished instantly.

Crowley had to take about half an hour to collect himself. He didn't have a gag reflex built in, so he took a few moments to work out how to make one, then used it to cough up Gabriel's dick and quite a lot of blood and bile. It burned coming up, and somehow got up his nose, too, so now everything smelled like blood. Reaching into his coat pocket, he put a new pair of shades on, and vanished the blood and the dick, and then leaned against the wall, shakily, trying to remember how to breathe without coughing.

He ignored the erection. He didn't want to deal with that at all.

When he felt reasonably sane again, he made his way back to the Bentley, ignoring the stares he was getting. He supposed he must look like an investment banker who'd finally snapped and started eating squirrels for breakfast.

He climbed into the Bentley, and immediately felt safer.

He picked up the carphone, which had installed itself the moment Crowley decided he really ought to have a carphone, and cleared his throat. (Then he removed the gag reflex, because that almost made him throw up all over again, and he couldn't have that in the Bentley.) Then he dialed the only number he had memorized.

(Including emergency numbers. If pressed, Crowley probably could have guessed that if you wanted to get an ambulance, at least one 9 was probably involved.)

On the third ring, he heard, "I'm sorry, we're closed, but if--"

"Angel, it's me," said Crowley, his voice sounding awful and ravaged. "Closed? Really? It's only --" He checked his watch. "It's barely eleven in the morning."

"I wanted to reread some Austen, and people kept coming in and asking about books," said Aziraphale, outraged by this breach of etiquette.

Crowley smiled to himself. "The sheer nerve of them," he said.

"Are you all right, Crowley? You sound horrible."

"'Course I'm horrible, I'm a demon," Crowley said. "But, yeah, I've got -- bit of a sore throat today."

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. "How? We don't get sick."

"Ehh, maybe you don't," said Crowley, although of course, he didn't either. "But I --" And he started coughing, quite without meaning to. There was blood on his hand when he pulled away. "Ugh," he said into the phone. "Sssorry about that. But I'm gonna have to cancel on you tonight."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said again. "Well, you can't go to the theater sounding like that, and you ought to get some rest anyway. Can I bring you anything from the restaurant?"

"Nah, I'm fine, you go and enjoy yourself," said Crowley, his stomach revolting at the thought of food.

"Oh, Crowley. I'm so sorry," said Aziraphale. "I'd reschedule for some other evening but it's closing in a week and Gabriel mentioned he wanted to meet with me, but of course he never said when. He said something about a demonic motorway -- that wasn't you, was it?"

"Mm, I'll tell you all about it later," said Crowley. "Hopefully I'll feel better by Friday, and if he doesn't turn up before then, well." He wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. "That'ss entirely on him.”

#good omens #anthony j crowley #the archangel fucking gabriel #crowley x gabriel #whumptober2019 #no.5 #nsfwhump #tw: rape #tw: gore #rape revenge #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #(that stuff is in the background I'm just tagging for my own blog)#nsft #kaesa op #text #fiction

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