wanderingalicewrites
WanderingAlice Writes!
I'm an aspiring wordsmith and full-time code monkey. Writing keeps me sane. Or, well, as sane as possible. 31. Non-binary (He/Him please). Want to know anything else? Go ahead and ask. I may not always answer, but I can promise to try.Now taking requests for Aziraphale/CrowleyFind me on AO3
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Sugar and Spice
Chapter 4/7
This year's Bake Off is off to an interesting start. With a new co-host with the personality of a wet sponge, two of the youngest contestants ever, and an unfairly attractive Star Baker, host Anthony Crowley might just be in over his head.
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My Breath Become Yours
Chapter 2 - Dreams
On the seventh day of the seventh month, the bard Jaskier went to wake a god. Just as he had the day before that, and the day before that , and so very many days before that that he had rather begun to lose count. Of course ‘wake’ was a rather relative term, Jaskier’s god was an early riser and always had been. ‘Always’ also being a somewhat relative term, as this particular god was young for a Returned, being barely five years past the day his mortal body died and The White Wolf had emerged.
The Wolf, or Geralt as he was known to his fellow gods, was the god of protection. He had died, or so the stories said, protecting someone, or many someones, from certain death, sacrificing himself so that they might live. And in return for his heroic deeds he had been blessed to return to life as a god, with all memory of his mortal life washed away to allow for the divinity that took root in his soul.
The priests liked to say that only a ‘worthy’ death could cause someone Return. Dying in battle, starving so a child might eat, giving your life to save another. The sort of deaths found in heroic ballads and tales.
It was all very pretty bullshit as far as Jaskier was concerned. No death was more ‘worthy’ than another. There was no such thing as a ‘good’ death. You lived, you loved, you lost, and then you died. And unless you Returned, everyone ended up as rotting meat in the end. The corpse of a peasant was just as dead as the corpse of a king, and he’d seen beggar women weep as hard for a man dead of sickness as a princess for the knight that died to slay a dragon.
Some, particularly some of the priests, found it strange that a bard who made his living singing of the heroics of the gods did not believe in the concept of ‘a good death’, but so it went. He was an incurable romantic, it was true, but he had never been taken by the romance of death. No, what Jaskier sung of was the romance of living. And the gods, despite having once died, were so very much alive.
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My Breath Become Yours
Chapter 1 - A Good Death
The Witcher - All Media Types
An AU fusion with the world of Brandon Sanderson's Warbreaker
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
On the seventh day of the seventh month, Jaskier went to wake a god. Just as he had the day before that, and the day before that, and so very many days before that that he had rather begun to lose count. Of course, ‘wake’ was a rather relative term, as Jaskier’s god was an early riser, and always had been. ‘Always’ also being a somewhat relative term, as this particular god was young for a Returned, being barely five years past the day his mortal body died and The White Wolf had emerged.
Or
Geralt of Rivia died to protect the people he loved. And then, he Returned. Kept away from the outside world, he and the other Returned live as gods, using their divine strength and skill to do the one thing their worshippers require of them - hunt monsters. With no memory of his past life, Geralt is content despite the faces that haunt his dreams. Then he finds out just what Stregobor intends to use the Returned for.
What follows is a desperate run for freedom, a battle to save everything his past self had ever cared about, and a final choice - to give up his life to save the man he loves, or live on without him.
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(I got this fic idea for The Witcher and couldn't let it go. For those of you who follow me for Good Omens, don't worry, I'm not abandoning my other work. The next chapter of Promise will be up either this Sunday, or next, and the next chapter of The Contract will be up the week after that!)
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Chapter 5
Jealousy is an ugly emotion. Uriel knows it well. It twists in her gut, unctuous and bitter. It slithers up her spine and winds it’s oozing way about her skull. There are moments when it owns her completely, when Uriel is consumed and the hideous monster Jealousy wears her like a second skin. It lies in wait in her heart, ready and waiting for the chance to devour her whole.
On Earth, as she watched Aziraphale with Raphael, the monster began to stir in her chest.
Now, it twists and turns, squeezing at her heart every time she sees the gold of Raphael’s thoughts in Aziraphale’s eyes.
It roils in her gut when he touches Raphael, and Raphael does not pull away.
It constricts around her lungs each time Raphael laughs.
It burns up her spine when Raphael kisses him goodbye at the crossroads and closes her throat when Raphael turns to her and asks her to keep him safe.
The voice of the monster whispers in her mind, reminding her that she was once the one he protected. That Uriel was once the one sheltered in his love. That she was once the one who could draw out that golden laugh. That long ago, it was her that stood at his side and felt his mind fill hers with warmth.
She swallows it down. Now is not the time. Gabriel needs her to keep it together. Raphael needs her to keep it together. She cannot give in to the whispers. She cannot take by force what she desires. She killed him, so many centuries ago. The loss of his touch and his laugh is her fault , She no longer deserves to be the object of his protection. But she can, at least, do as he asks her now. So she grits her teeth against the aching want and strides off in the direction of the Armory, still struggling against the monster that wants to own her mind.
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The Contract
Chapter 1/3
To save Crowley from a summoning circle, Aziraphale must discorporate him. To ensure he is returned to Earth after, he enters into a demonic contract - for the price of one discorporation, Crowley must return to him. Only he makes a mistake, and Crowley remains bound to the contract, forced to return to Aziraphale repeatedly over the centuries.
——-
1050 AD London
“Kill me.”
“What?” Aziraphale stares, horrified, and Crowley grits his teeth. They do not have time for this.
“Discorporate me. Whatever. Look. You said Gabriel is coming. We don’t have time to figure out how to break this blessed circle, and there’s no way he’ll let me live if he finds me here. You’ll have to send me back to Hell. It’s the only way.” They’ve already tried so much, and nothing has worked. This is the best-crafted summoning circle he’d ever been caught in. If he wasn’t currently facing potential death at the hands of an archangel, he’d admire the summoner’s skill. Now, though, it’s just one more bad thing to happen in a string of bad things that is making this his third-worst day ever. (The first, of course, being the day he got kicked out of Heaven for asking perfectly reasonable questions. Don’t ask about the second.)
“NO! Absolutely not .” Aziraphale shakes his head, standing back and holding his hands up, palm out, empty, helpless. And Crowley hates, hates that he put him in this position. But here they are.
He hadn’t meant to call for help, is the thing. He hadn’t been thinking, when those blessed humans caught him in a devil’s trap. He’d just felt himself being summoned and panicked. He hadn’t even realized what he’d done, until the angel had burst through the door, eyes alight with Heavenly wrath. The humans had taken one look at him and ran, leaving behind theirs scrolls and weapons and one very trapped demon.
Aziraphale had already spent most of the day now trying to free Crowley from the summoning circle, until he had remembered it was nearly time for his once-a-century check-in with Gabriel. That it was scheduled for that afternoon. And that Gabriel had told him to go about his day as usual. That when he was ready, he would come to Aziraphale.
“Angel, we don’t have time .” Crowley beats his hands against the clear barrier surrounding him, producing a ringing sound. It’s just empty space to the angel, but the minute his hand hits the border of the circle painted in blood (whose blood? He wonders. The summoners? Some hapless victim? Some poor animal? Not that it matters now, of course.) it becomes as hard as stone. They have maybe an hour, maybe as little as five minutes, and no way to break this circle without the human who created it.
Aziraphale steps back, crossing his arms over his chest. “There has to be another way.”
(Read the rest on AO3)
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WIP Wednesday
“What do you even think you’re doing here?” She hisses, and he turns to her, those blue eyes wide and guileless.
“Going to the armory to get Crowley a sword,” he replies, so matter-of-fact, that name on his lips like it belongs there. The wrong name. It rubs something raw and broken inside of her.
She sneers at him. “No. What are you doing here, following us? You can’t possibly think you’ll be anything more than a burden to him.” She emphasizes her point with a poke to his chest, right over that bleeding heart of his that stole away her one chance at redemption when he ruined the apocalypse.
Something hardens behind those wide, innocent eyes of his. They look to her finger, still pressed against his chest, then back up to her face, hard as steel.
“I am here to keep him safe.” The words fall flat and cold in the harshly lit hallway.
Uriel scowls. “From what? You’re not going to fight off Hell’s armies.”
Where once he might have cowered from her glare, he stands strong, immovable. The monster howls in her mind.
“From himself,” Aziraphale says simply. “And from you.”
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A Promise Unfulfilled - Chapter 4
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He honestly isn’t even sure how it was supposed to be, but it wasn’t this. When he left Heaven that morning, Sandalphon hadn’t been thinking. Perhaps he expected Raphael to open the door and welcome him in, settling back into their bond as if the past six thousand years were just a nightmare. Or perhaps he expected to arrive to find him gone, relocated, with only a hint of a trail to follow. Certainly he’d been frightened that Raphael would turn him away, send him back to Heaven where nothing made sense anymore. All he knew was that his family was falling apart for the second time, the pain of loss and shame had grown so strong within him he could no longer block it out, and was once again alone, staring at close doors and empty hallways. And he couldn’t take the silence for one more moment.
Sneaking out had been a simple thing. After all, nobody had ever cared where he went, so long as he was around when needed. Michael had retreated into her rooms after Gabriel’s latest tantrum, and experience told him she would be gone for hours at least. Uriel, too, had vanished behind her doors, and she always knew where to find him at need anyway. He’d briefly worried that Gabriel might need him, but the smashing sounds coming from his rooms were enough to warn Sandalphon from being alone with him until his tantrum ran its course. He’d been on the receiving end of that temper often enough to know better than that. So he just left. He hadn’t even left a note, unwilling to risk Michael or Gabriel following him and running everything all over again, in the unlikely event that Raphael didn’t turn him away.
And then, Raphael hadn’t turned him away. He’d even welcomed him, though it wasn’t at all like it had been before. He wasn’t Raphael anymore, not really. There were no soft smiles, no gentle teasing, and the laugh that had once come so easily and freely was silenced, reduced to a few awkward chuckles. He still looked like Raphael, but in a strange, unfamiliar way - all sharp angles and hard lines. He was wary with Sandalphon, guarded, distant. At times he was even angry, though Sandalphon cannot blame him for that. Not after what happened between them. It still hurts, rough and raw against the pain he has carried with him for thousands of years.
And then, before they’d even really have a chance to talk, Uriel had arrived. And now, here they are, watching Raphael - no, Crowley - disappear into the house he shares with Aziraphale as the principality eyes them nervously, as if expecting them to attack at any time.
“How is he?” Uriel asks quietly, standing close and speaking low enough that Aziraphale can’t hear. “Is he… does he…” she trails off, unable to finish her question.
Sandalphon shifts, uncomfortable. I promised you would have to kill me, for me to leave you. He can’t get those words out of his head, said in that same gentle-yet-disappointed voice he knew so well. I promised you would have to kill me, for me to leave you. And you did. Do they even have the right to be here, after what they did?
“He moves like he’s injured,” he says at last. Raphael holds himself so carefully, as if expecting at any moment the wrong movement will cause him pain. “He doesn’t trust us.”
“Do you blame him?” His sister asks, eyes on the door. Sandalphon doesn’t reply. The truth is, he doesn’t trust his siblings either. He doesn’t even trust himself.
Uriel stiffens, her sharp intake of breath alerting him to Raphael’s return. In his hand he carries the broken half of an obsidian sword. The same sword they had last seen shattered by Michael’s blade.
Aziraphale goes to him, concern on his face. He says nothing, but rests a hand on Raphael’s arm. Raphael pauses, then brings his hand up to cover Aziraphale’s. Something wordless passes between them, and Sandalphon turns away, trying to ignore the ache that flares to life in his chest.
(Read the rest on AO3)
#ineffable husbands#aziraphale/crowley#crowley was raphael#good omens#my fic#a promise unfulfilled#fighting the current
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Angel Wings
Chapter 2/2
Aziraphale wakes to a room filled with light. The familiar sounds of morning in SoHo filter in from the open windows and he can smell the peculiarly unique scent of old paper and aged leather that permeates his flat and the bookshop below. After so many chaotic days lately, it is wonderful to bask in the comfortable familiarity of home.
A noise to the side startles him, and he opens his eyes to see Crowley sprawled over a big wingback chair under the window, warm sunlight falling across his face and turning the yellow of his eyes to molten gold. His gaze is turned toward Aziraphale, watching him sleep with a soft expression the angel has only ever seen when he thought no one was looking. He blinks when he notices Aziraphale’s eyes on him, hiding away the softness behind something more neutral, more guarded.
“Good morning.” He smiles, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile back - a sweet, gentle thing full of all the love he has yet to speak aloud.
“Morning,” he yawns, noting the blush that colors Crowley’s cheeks. He looks so beautiful like that, there in the morning sun, and Aziraphale feels blessed to be able to see this softer side of him. One of the few, he imagines, that has ever had the pleasure. To be here still with him, it is the greatest blessing he has ever received.
He shifts, and feels the weight of his wings heavy on his back. The memory of the night before rushes back to him. Crowley’s hands on his wings, cleaning, healing. Caring for him. If he had ever needed proof of Crowley’s love for him, this proved it beyond doubt. He could have left, leaving Aziraphale to deal with his wings on his own. He could have still left once he was done, leaving the angel to wake up alone. He hadn’t.
“You stayed.” It comes out a little unsure, a little incredulous. He hasn’t ever stayed like this before.
Crowley shrugs, looking out the window to the busy street below. “‘Course I did. I, uh. I still have to make sure everything works right. Wouldn’t want feathers to start falling out or anything after all that work I did to fix you up.”
“Oh.” It’s a practical answer, but Aziraphale doesn’t really want practical right now. He wants Crowley to tell him he stayed because he couldn’t bear to leave him. To declare that now that they were free he didn’t want to spend one more second apart than absolutely necessary. It’s a silly, romantic notion that he shoves down as soon as it appears.
“And,” Crowley says after a moment, “it’s not like I really wanted to be anywhere else right now.”
Aziraphale blushes. “Ah. I- that’s… thank you.” He curses himself for being so tongue tied. Hadn’t he just been wishing Crowley would say something like that? And now that he has, he has no idea how to respond.
(Read the rest on AO3!)
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Angel Wings
There’s a reason demons have better groomed wings than angels.
When Crowley discovers that Aziraphale has not groomed his wings since being in Hell, he demands that they end their celebration so Aziraphale can clean away the hell ash. Instead of letting him leave, Aziraphale asks Crowley for his help. What follows is perhaps the most intimate night of their relationship thus far.
—-
The night after the world did not end, Aziraphale finds himself watching Crowley lazing about contentedly on his old tartan couch. He looks so carefree, sprawled out as if determined to take up as much room as possible, more relaxed than Aziraphale has ever seen him. He has that right, he thinks. They both do. They are free now. Their own side. It is an invigorating thought.
He’s just starting to plan how to make his desires known, now that he can, when Crowley frowns, flicking a bit of ash off the sleeve of his jacket. With a small displeased sound he removes his jacket and shakes it out, dislodging a few more flakes of ash. He catches one on a finger and sniffs it, his frown depending.
Aziraphale blushes, embarrassed. He’d thought he’d gotten all the ash off of Crowley’s clothes when he returned from Hell. Obviously he was mistaken.
“Angel,” Crowley asks, scowling at the flakes - stark black pieces of ash against his pale skin. “Did you, ah, stop anywhere between Hell and the park today?”
Aziraphale shakes his head. He had taken a moment to miracle everything clean, but he’d been too impatient for anything else. “No. I went right there. Why? Is something wrong?”
“Right there? You didn’t stop to do anything at all?”
Again Aziraphale shakes his head, confused by the sudden urgency in his voice. “No. They let me out by the usual entrance and I walked right to the park to meet you.” He doesn’t say he’d been far too worried to think of stopping, terrified that he would get there and Crowley wouldn’t come.
Crowley sits bolt upright, a look of dawning horror on his face that Aziraphale does not understand. “Did you- have you groomed your wings since then?” There’s a note of carefully controlled panic now in his voice.
Aziraphale blinks at him, frowning. If another angel had asked about his wing grooming habits, he would have been horribly offended. There had been a time, once, when angels wore their wings openly. But that time was long past. Now, it was the height of impropriety to speak of, allude to, or, Heaven forbid, see another angel’s wings. Demons, he knows, have no such compunction. And Aziraphale is familiar enough with his own desires to recognize that speaking of such intimate things with Crowley is not just permissible, but something he very much wants.
“No,” he says, sensing that this is important to Crowley but not understanding why. “I don’t believe I have.”
Strangely, Crowley blanches. “Bloody Heaven, angel, why didn’t you say so? We could have waited to go to dinner.”
“I don’t see why. It’s not like they really need it-“
Crowley isn’t listening. He stands, agitated, glaring at his watch. “It’s been, what…? Six hours? Sooner’s always better, but you should still be safe. Go- Sa- Somebody, Aziraphale, you should have just said if you were waiting for me to go. Leaving it this late is reckless.”
“Crowley-“ Aziraphale stands too, watching him start towards the door and then abruptly turn back in the direction of the couch. He has no idea what’s going on here, but he hates seeing Crowley so upset, especially when they ought to have been celebrating.
“Really angel, I know we’ve been through a lot today, but you’ve got to take care of yourself. I should-um.” He stops to glance at Aziraphale, then turns away, blushing. “I’ll just- I’ll head out now. Let you get on with things. Give me a call tomorrow, yeah? We can-“
Aziraphale grabs his wrist as he reaches for the glasses on the edge of the side table. “Crowley,” he says when the demon goes still. “Stop. Look at me.”
Obediently, he turns his head to meet his gaze and Aziraphale is shocked to see that his eyes have gone fully yellow. Whatever is wrong has truly upset him, but he has absolutely no clue what it is, or why, when he’d seemed perfectly content just minutes ago.
“There,” he smiles encouragingly. “That’s better. Now, why don’t you tell me what this is all about, hmm?”
Crowley’s wide serpentine eyes scan his face, looking for what, Aziraphale couldn’t say. “You don’t know.” The words have the sound of a revelation.
“I would if you’d just tell me what you’re on about,” he snaps, frustrated, though he can’t exactly be blamed for being a bit irritable. It’s been a long eleven years after all.
“Your wings, angel,” Crowley tells him. “You went to Hell and you didn’t clean the ash from your wings.”
When Aziraphale still looks puzzled he scowls. “For- for satan’s sake, did they never tell you…”
“Tell me what?” Aziraphale asks, trying, for Crowley’s sake, to be more patient.
The demon’s face clouds over, and now he looks angry, but not at Aziraphale. At the archangels perhaps, or even Heaven itself. “Of course they didn’t. Probably hoped you’d wander down there by accident one day and whoops, there you go, so sorry it can’t be fixed. Fuckerssss.” His hiss at the end is enough to tell Aziraphale how serious this is, whatever it is. Crowley has to be truly furious or terrified to lose control of his voice like that.
Aziraphale squeezes the wrist he still holds, drawing his attention back to the hear and now. “What didn’t they tell me, dear?”
Crowley sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Hell ash,” he says. “I’m sure you noticed it down there. Fine grey particles, smells like sulfur, gets into everything.”
He nods. He had noticed it. He’d miracled as much of it out of Crowley’s clothes as he could once he’d gotten back to Earth, but he was sure there was still some he hadn’t managed to clear away, like the flakes Crowley had noticed earlier. It was insidiously stubborn stuff.
“Well it’s on the metaphysical plane too. Which means it also gets into your true form. And for some reason, it’s especially attracted to wings.” He makes a face, remembering some time or times when the ash had gotten into his wings.
“And that means…” Aziraphale prompts, when he doesn’t seem inclined to continue.
Crowley meets his eyes, the expression in his gaze qual parts sorrow and anger. “There’s a good reason,” he says, “why demons tend to keep their wings better groomed than angels. Those that still have them, at any rate.”
He gasps, suddenly hit with a terrible understanding. “You mean the ash…”
“If you get too much on you, or leave it there too long, it kills the feathers.”
“Oh.” He swallows. “Right. So I should…”
“Yeah,” Crowley nods. “Right away.” He tugs his wrist from Aziraphale’s limp grasp and snatches up his glasses. “I’m so sorry. I should have mentioned it sooner. I- I thought you knew, and I know how angels are about wings, but, well…” He sighs, starting back towards the door. “I’ll just, ah, leave you to it, shall I?”
In the old days, Aziraphale would have nodded, thanked him, and wished him a pleasant night. He would have dealt with his wings in private, as is proper, and might even have managed to get them all properly clean. Eventually, at least.
But this isn’t the old days. This is now. And he has turned way from Heaven. Chosen Earth. Chosen Crowley. They’re on their own side now. And he’s allowed to ask now for what he wants.
“No,” he says. Firm. Decisive. Crowley turns back to stare at him in shock.
“No?” He asks, expression carefully guarded.
“I, that is,” he blushes, suddenly stumbling over his words. Deciding to ask is one thing, he is realizing. Actually doing it is much harder. “I’d like it very much, if you would stay.”
(Read the rest on AO3!)
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Ok, I absolutely must: Good Omens and Wings. Thanks!
I’m so sorry it’s taken so long, but this fic is now up on AO3 (or at least, Chapter 1 is. Chapter 2 will be up next week or the week after, it’s done, just needs editing.) <3 Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt!!
Chapter one is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33535720
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WIP Wednesday! New Fic Coming This Weekend!
Life has continued to find new ways to kick me when I’m down, but I did at last manage to get back to writing. I’ll have the first chapter of a long overdue two-chapter fic out this weekend based on a prompt given to me nearly a year ago now. Something super gentle and sweet with Crowley taking care of Aziraphale’s wings after everything. Here’s a small piece of it:
“Thank you, dearest,” Aziraphale says, leaning into the wonderful sensation as he mists his feathers again. “Really. I would never have managed on my own.”
Crowley snorts. “I’ll say. I’ve never seen wings in such bad shape. It looks like you were rolling in dust.”
He looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. “I’ll endeavor to do better in the future,” he says, though privately he wonders if perhaps he can make this a regular occurrence. The sensation of Crowley caring for his wings is better than anything he could have imagined.
“You’d better,” the demon warns. “Or else I’ll have to start tying you down and making sure your wings are groomed every week.”
“I can’t say I would object to that,” Aziraphale admits, blushing a little at the thought.
“What, tying you down or grooming your wings every week?”
“Oh, both of course,” the angel says.
“Ngk.” The misting stops.
A brief glance over his shoulder shows that Crowley has gone red as a tomato. Aziraphale hides a grin. That’s the third time tonight. How many more times might he get him to blush like that before the night is done?
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Divine Hands - Chapter 5
The next day was the same. And they day after that. And the day after that. Crowley could only last so long once his scales appeared before the panic took hold and he ended the session. Every time left him feeling more frustrated than the last. He hated seeing Aziraphale’s hopeful face when they sat down, only to disappoint him again and again.
“It’s fine,” Aziraphale assured him when he expressed his frustration. “I didn’t expect it to happen overnight. But-“ he very carefully rested a hand on Crowley’s arm, paying no mind to the scales that instantly appeared under his fingers. “I am very glad you’re willing to keep trying.”
“You don’t... you don’t mind?” Crowley asked, hating the weakness in his voice. He was certain that sometime soon Aziraphale would get tired of this, declare he wasn’t worth the work and leave. It would break his heart when it happened, but it would not come as a surprise.
“Mind? No.” He looked at Crowley with an earnest, gentle kindness that the demon wasn’t sure he deserved. “If it keeps you in my life, I would be willing to do far more.”
(Read the rest on AO3)
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Divine Hands - Chapter 3
To Aziraphale’s credit, he did try. Over the next few weeks, as they spent more time together than ever before, he did his best to be careful. He never got behind Crowley, and never startled him. He also tried hard to refrain from physically touching him, though for two people in close quarters together it was next to impossible. But still, no matter how hard he tried, it seemed that there was always something. Never enough to make him panic again, but there were little moments, when hands or bodies would come too close together, where he’d freeze or pull away, where the breath would catch in his chest, and he had to remind himself that the divinity he could feel belonged to Aziraphale. And now that Aziraphale knew what he was looking for, he could see it all.
And, for Crowley, it felt like everything was getting worse. He hadn’t had an episode as bad as the night after the not-apocalypse, but he was tense all the time, just waiting for something to happen. The feeling of Aziraphale’s divinity weighed on him. The more time they spent together, the more he could feel it, and the worse it got. He started to notice it all the time, even without physical contact, until it became impossible to ignore. He grew more jumpy, nervous, twitching any time the angel came close to touching him. He hated it. It felt as if, now that the cat was out of the bag and he didn’t have to try to pretend everything was fine, his body took that as the go-ahead to be on the edge of panic at all times. And it certainly didn’t help that underneath the panic, his love for Aziraphale seemed to grow stronger every day. He had never before imagined he could want something so badly, and yet also be so completely terrified of it.
(Read the rest on AO3)
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Divine Hands - Chapter 2
Aziraphale had made tea. Crowley couldn’t help but smile at that. It was something just exactly like him to do. He looked up when Crowley reached the top of the stairs, scanning his face for signs of distress. He must have been satisfied by what he found because he smiled and pushed Crowley’s teacup a little closer to his spot on the couch.
“Feeling better?” he asked, and Crowley almost laughed. He sounded like he’d only had a bout of the flu or a simple cold, not a full blown panic attack.
“Yeah.” He dropped onto the couch and picked up his cup, if only for something to do with his hands. “I, ah...” He inspected the hot liquid, wishing it would reveal a spell to get him out of what was coming next. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t be,” Aziraphale said. “I’m not entirely sure what that was, but I’m glad I was there. I would have hated for you to go through whatever it was alone.”
Crowley winced. Alone would have been preferable.
Silence fell heavy between them as Crowley tried and failed to come up with something else to say. He sipped his tea, savoring the warmth of it. It was made exactly how he liked it, though he could not remember ever actually telling Aziraphale his preference for tea.
“Can you explain to me what happened?” Aziraphale asked at last, when the silence had grown almost too deep and uncomfortable to bear. “I’d like to understand so I can make certain it doesn’t happen again.”
(Read the rest on AO3)
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I’m back from another unplanned hiatus! Sorry everyone, life got really crazy really fast both in my personal and professional life. The personal stuff is calming down though, even if the professional stuff is heating up, so I should be back to posting more regularly unless I’m pulling all-nighters.
I have my Good Omens Holiday Exchange fic posting on AO3 now, and should have the next chapter of Promise up very soon. I’ve also got another fic in the works that’s pretty much all self-indulgent wing grooming, and that should also be going up in the next week or so!
Sorry again for disappearing! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season. Here’s to a much much better new year to come!
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Divine Hands - Chapter 1
Summary: After the end of the world didn’t come, Crowley had planned to spend a lot more time with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale didn’t seem opposed to the idea at all. Unfortunately there’s one glaring problem. Crowley has a strong, uncontrollable panic reaction to being touched by something divine. And Aziraphale cannot turn off his own divinity.
(Read the whole chapter on AO3)
This is my fic for the Good Omens Holiday Exchange! I’m so happy to be able to finally post it! The chapters are a bit shorter than my normal length, but there are six of them. They’ll be going up every two days on AO3 until it’s finished, or can be read in full over at the Good Omens Holiday Exchange.
***
The night after the world did not end, an angel and a demon retired to the back room of an old London bookshop. They had much to celebrate, with six thousand years as not-quite-enemies behind them, and an eternity of their own choosing ahead.
Comfortably curled up on the sofa, Crowley watched Aziraphale and hid a smile. This was where his angel belonged, in the warm and comfortable clutter of his shop and not the cold, harsh light of Heaven. He’d been so afraid he would lose him. Or worse, that they would find each other on opposite sides of a battle field, soldiers from the infernal and the divine forced into combat at the end of the world. The thought had terrified him, but now here they both were, safe and sound and none the worse for wear.
He reveled in the thought of their freedom. Without the restrictions of Heaven and Hell, they could be anything they wanted. They could do anything they wanted. Take a trip to the stars, go visit every city in the world, go off to the middle of nowhere together, or just... continue on as they had, but without that hard line between them. It was a heady thing, that thought. Even though he knew nothing could ever come of his love for Aziraphale, their friendship was one of the best things in his life.
At length, Crowley stretched and rose from his seat, breaking the comfortable silence with Aziraphale’s name.
“Mm?” Aziraphale looked up at him, smiling when his sea blue eyes met serpentine gold.
“I need a drink. Can I get you anything?”
“Oh, hmm,” he hummed, considering it. “Just get me whatever it is you’re having, dear boy.”
“Got it,” Crowley grinned. “Two glasses coming right up.” He started in the direction of the stairs.
“Oh! Wait, Crowley,” Aziraphale reached out as he passed him, fingers brushing his arm. For just a second Crowley froze, and then, with the ease of long practice, he shifted. The movement was so slight it seemed unconscious, but it put a good few inches between his bare skin and the angel’s hand.
“Yeah?”
Like all the times before, Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice the careful distance he kept between them. He just gave him that sweet, honest smile he loved so much, and let his hand fall back to the arm of the chair.
“Feel free to take the good wine. We are celebrating, after all.”
Crowley grinned. “Careful, angel, start saying things like that and I’ll never leave.”
Aziraphale, strangely, did not counter or deflect as he had in the past. “Well,” he said instead, “perhaps I wouldn’t mind if you stayed.”
Surprised, Crowley paused. Then he chuckled and shook his head, moving toward the door to Aziraphale’s small wine cellar “Nah,” he said. “You’d get sick of me before the day was out. I guarantee it.”
He almost didn’t hear Aziraphale’s quiet reply. “You’d be surprised, I think.”
(Read the rest on AO3)
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WIP Wednesday
Here’s a bit of a preview of the next chapter of Promise Unfulfilled! (Apologies that it’s been so long between updates - last month was kind of a shitshow of bad stuff happening. This month has been much better so far!
***
Raphael kneels at her feet, resting a hand on her knee and looking up at her with those wonderful amber-gold eyes. Fora moment, as she watches him, those eyes blur, going more yellow and snake-like. She takes a sharp breath, and banishes the demon from her mind. It’s hard. Harder than it’s been in years. She can still see the shock in his eyes as her blade sank into his chest. The little trickle of blood that fell from the corner of his mouth. No. That was not Raphael. The true Raphael is gone, leaving only this pale imitation.
“I failed you.” She can admit it here, with no one else to hear her. “Again.” Three times now, she’s failed him.
“Failed me?” He smiles, squeezing her knee gently. “I don’t think that’s possible.” It was what she knew he would have said, were he really here. It’s just as much a lie as his presence.
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