#anyway. my good friends aziraphale and crowley who i’ve known for most of my life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

c-is-for-circinate · 3 years

Text

For a long, large part of my life, being queer in a media landscape--finding queerness in a media landscape--has meant theft.

I'm a Fandom Old, somehow, these days, older than most and younger than some, in that way that's grown associated with grumpy crotchetyness and shotguns on porches and back in my day, we had to wade through our Yahoo Groups mailing lists uphill both ways, boring and irrelevant anecdotes from Back In Those Days when homophobia clearly worked differently than it does now, probably because we weren't trying hard enough. I've seen a lot of stories through the years. I've read a lot of fanfic. (More days than not, for the past twenty years. I've read a lot of fanfic.)

When people my age start groaning and sighing at conversations about representation and queerbaiting, when we roll our eyes and drag all the old war stories out again in the face of AO3 is terrible and Not Good Enough, so often what we say is: you Young Folks Today have no idea how hard, how scary, how limiting it was to be queer anywhere Back In Those Days. Including online, maybe especially online, including in a media landscape that hated us so much more than any one you've ever known. And that is true. Always and everywhere, again and again, it's true, we remember, it's true.

We don't talk so much about the joy of it.

Online fan spaces were my very first queer communities, ever. I was thirteen, I was fourteen, I was fifteen--I was a lonely, over-precocious "gifted kid" two years too young for my grade level in an all-girls' Catholic school in the suburbs--I lived in a world where gay people were a rumor and an insult and a news story about murder. I was straight, of course, obviously, because real people were straight and anyway I was weird enough already--I couldn't be two things strange, couldn't be gay too, but--well, I could read the stories. I could feel things about that. I would have those stories to help me, a few years later, when I knew I couldn't call myself straight any more.

And those stories were theft. There was never any doubt about that. We wrote disclaimers at the top of every fic, with the specter of Anne Rice's lawyers around every corner. We hid in back-corners of the internet, places you could only find through a link from a link from a link on somebody else's recs page, being grateful for the tiny single-fandom archives when you found them, grateful for the webrings where they existed. It was theft, all of it, the stories about characters we did not own, the videotaped episodes on your best friend's VHS player, one single episode pulled off of Limewire over the course of three days.

It was theft, we knew, to even try and find ourselves in these stories to begin with. How many fics did I read in those days about two men who'd always been straight, except for each other, in this one case, when love was stronger than sexual orientation? We stole our characters away from the heterosexual lives they were destined to have. We stole them away from writers and producers and TV networks who work overtime to shower them in Babes of the Week, to pretend that queerness was never even an option. This wasn't given to us. This wasn't meant for us. This wasn't ours to have, ever, ever in the first place. But we took it anyway.

And oh, my friends, it was glorious.

We took it. We stole. And again and again, for years and years and years, we turned that theft into an art. We looked for every opening, every crack in every sidewalk where a little sprout of queerness might grow, and we claimed it for our own and we grew whole gardens. We grew so sly and so skilled with it, learning to spot the hints of oh, this could be slashy in every new show and movie to come our way. Do you see how they left these character dynamics here, unattended on the table? How ripe they are for the pocketing. Here, I'll help you carry them. We'll make off with these so-called straight boys, and we only have to look back if somebody sets out another scene we want for our own.

We were thieves, all of us, and that was fine and that was fair, because to exist as queer in the world was theft to begin with. Stolen time, stolen moments--grand larceny of the institution of marriage, breaking and entering to rob my mother's hopes for grandchildren. Every shoplifted glance at the wrong person in the locker room (and it didn't matter if we never peeked, never dared, they called us out on it anyway). Every character in every fic whose queerness became a crime against this ex-wife, that new love interest. Every time we dared steal ourselves away from the good straight partners we didn't want to date.

And: we built ourselves a den, we thieves, wallpapered in stolen images and filled to the brim with all the words we'd written ourselves. We built ourselves a home, and we filled it with joy. Every vid and art and fic, every ship, every squee. Over and over, every straight boy protagonist who abandoned all womankind for just this one exception with his straight boy protagonist partner found gay orgasms and true love at the end.

Over and over, we said: this isn't ours, this isn't meant to be ours, you did not give this to us--but we are taking it anyway. We will burglarize you for building blocks and build ourselves a palace. These stories and this place in the world is not for us, but we exist, and you can't stop us. It's ours now, full of color and noise, a thousand peoples' ideas mosaic'ed together in celebration. We made this, and it will never be just yours again. You won't ever truly get it back, no matter how many lawyers you send, not completely. We keep what we steal.

Things shifted over time, of course. That's good. That's to be celebrated. Nobody should have to steal to survive. It should not be a crime, should not feel like a crime, to find yourself and your space in the world.

There were always content creators who could slip a little wink in when they laid out their wares, oh what's this over here, silly me leaving this unattended where anybody could grab it, of course there might be more over by the side door if you come around the alleyway (but if anybody asks, you didn't get this from ME). We all watched Xena marry Gabrielle, in body language and between the lines. We sat around and traded theories and rumors about whether the people writing Due South knew what they were doing when they sent their buddy cops off into the frozen north alone together at the end of the show, if they'd done it on purpose, if they knew. But over the years, slowly, thankfully, the winks became less sly.

A teenage boy put his hand on another teenage boy's hand and said, you move me, and they kissed on network TV, in a prime-time show, on FOX, and the world didn't burn down. Here and there, where they wanted to, where they could without getting caught by their bosses and managers, content creators stopped subtly nudging people around the back door and started saying, "Here. This is on offer here too, on purpose. You get to have this, too."

And of course, of course that came with a whole host of problems too. Slide around to the back door but you didn't get this from me turned into it's an item on our special menu, totally legit, you've just got to ask because the boss throws a fit if we put it out front. Shopkeepers and content creators started advertising on the sly, come buy your fix here!, hiding the fine print that says you still have to take what you've purchased home and rebuild it with your semi-legal IKEA hacks. Maybe they'll consider listing that Destiel or Sterek as a full-service menu item next year. Is that Crowley/Aziraphale the real thing or is it lite?

And those problems are real and the conversations are worth having, and it's absolutely fair to be frustrated that you can't find the ship you want on sale in anything like your color and size in a vast media landscape packed full of discount hetships and fast-fashion m/f. It's fair to be angry. It's fair to be frustrated. Queerbait is a word that exists for a reason.

There's a part of me that hurts, though, every time the topic comes up. It's a confusing, bad-mannered part of me, but it's still very real. And it's not because I'm fawning for crumbs, trying to be the Good, Non-Threatening Gay. It's not that I'm scared and traumatized by the thought of what might happen if we dare raise our voices and ask for attention. (Well. Not mostly. I'll always remember being quiet and scared and fifteen, but it's been a long two decades since then. I know how to ask for a hell of a lot more now.)

It's because I remember that cozy, plush-wallpapered den of joyful thieves. I remember you keep what you steal.

Every single time--every time--when a story I love sets a couple of characters out on a low, unguarded table, perfectly placed to be pilfered on the sly and taken home and smushed together like a couple of dolls, my very first thought is always, always joy. Always, that instinct says, yay! Says, this is ours now. As soon as I go home and crawl into that pillow-fort den, my instincts say, I will surely find people already at work combing through spoils and finding new ways to combine them, new ways to make them our own. I know there's fic for that. I've already seen fic for that, and I wasn't really interested last time, but the new store display's got my brain churning, and I can't wait to see what the crew back at the hideout does with this.

Every time, that's where my brain goes. And oh, when I realize the display's put out on purpose, that somebody snuck in a legitimate special menu item, when the proprietor gives me the nod and wink and says, you don't have to come around the side, I know it's not much but here--there is so much joy and relief and hope in me from that! Oh, what we can make with these beautiful building blocks. Oh what a story we can craft from the pieces. Oh, the things we can cobble together. Look at that, this one's a little skimpy on parts but we can supplement it, this one's got a whole outline we can fill in however we want. This one technically comes semi-preassembled, and that's boring as shit and a pain to take back apart, but that's fine, we'll manage. We're artists and thieves. I bet someone's pulling out the AU saw to cut it to pieces already.

And then I get back to our den, which has moved addresses a dozen times over the years and mostly hangs out on Tumblr now (and the roof leaks and the landlord's sketchy as fuck but at least they don't charge rent, and we've made worse places our own). And I show up, ready for joy--ready for a dozen other people who saw that low-hanging fruit on that unguarded table, who got the nod and wink about the special menu item, who're ready to get so excited about this newest haul. Did you see what we picked up? The theft was so easy, practically begging to be stolen. The last owner was an idiot with no idea what to do with it. The last owner knew exactly what it could become, bless their heart, under a craftsman with more time on their hands, so they looked away on purpose at just the right time to let me take it home. I show up every time ready for our space, the place that fed me on joy and self-confidence when I was fifteen and starving. The place that taught me, yes, we are thieves, because it is RIGHT to take what we need, and the beautiful things we create are their own justification. We are thieves, and that's wonderful, because nothing is handed to us and that means we get to build our own palaces. We get to keep everything we steal.

I go home, and even knowing the world is different, my instincts and heart are waiting for that. And I walk in the door, and I look at my dash, and I glance over at twitter, and--

And people are angry, again. Angry at the slim pickings from the hidden special menu. So, so tired and angry, at once again having to steal.

And they're right to be! Sometimes (often, maybe) I think they're angry at the wrong people--more angry with the shopkeeper who offers the bite-sized sampler platter of side characters or sneaks their queer content in on the special menu than the ones who don't include it at all. But it's not wrong to be mad that Disney's once again advertising their First Gay Character only to find out it's a tiny sprinkle of a one-line extra on an otherwise straight sundae. It's not wrong to be furious at the world because you've spent your whole life needing to be a thief to survive. It's far from wrong. I'm angry about it too.

But this was my den of thieves, my chop shop, my makerspace. Growing up in fandom, I learned to pick the locks on stories and crack the safes of subtext at the very same time I learned to create. They were the same thing, the same art. We are thieves, my heart says, we are thieves, and that's what makes us better than the people we steal from. We deconstruct every time we create. We build better things out of the pieces.

And people are angry that the pre-fab materials are too hard to find, the pickings too slim, the items on sale too limited? Yes, of course they are, of course they should be--but my heart. Oh, my heart. Every single time, just a little bit, it breaks.

Of course the stories are terrible (they have always been terrible). Of course they are, but we are thieves. We steal the best parts and cobble them back together and what we make is better than it was before. The craftsman's eye that cases a story for weak points, for blank spaces, for anywhere we can fit a crowbar and pry apart this casing--that's skill and art and joy. Of course we shouldn't have to, of course we shouldn't have to, but I still love it. I still want it, crave it. I still thrill every time I see it, a story with hairline cracks that we can work open with clever hands to let the queer in.

That used to be cause for celebration, around here. I ask him to go back to the ruins of Aeor with me, two men together alone on an expedition in the frozen north, it feels like a gift. And I understand why some people take it as an insult. I understand not good enough. I understand how something can feel like a few drops of water to someone dying of thirst, like a slap in the face. If it was so easy to sneak it hidden onto the special menu, to place it on the unguarded side table for someone else to run off to, why not let it sit out front and center in the first place? I know it's frustrating. It should be. We should fight. We should always fight. I know why.

But my heart, oh, my heart. My heart only knows what it's been taught. My heart sees, this thing right here, the proprietor left it there for you with a nod and a wink because they Get It. It's not put together yet, but it's better that way anyway. It's so full of pieces to pull apart and reassemble. I bet they've got a whole mosaic wall going up at home already. We can bring it home and make it OURS, more than it was ever theirs, forget half of what it came from and grow a new garden in what remains.

And I go home to find anger, and my heart breaks instead.

#I don't actually know how to tag this #representation #maybe?#C needs help feeding the dinosaurs #because this is very much about being a fandom old #probably also #driveby meta attack #because that's where I keep my impromptu rambles #CR spoilers #technically I guess?#there's one line that references the finale #fandom history

6K notes · View notes

galacticlamps · 2 years

Note

10, 18?

I'm answering 18 first so I can put 10 under a read more - I don't have a very interesting story to tell for that one but I tried to be at least somewhat thorough, on the off chance that there's ever someone reading it struggling to ID themself, I guess.

💜 what fictional characters do you headcanon as asexual?

More than I can think of to list right now, and certainly more than exist in fandoms online (flashback to classes spent talking about different queer readings of obscure characters no one in their right minds actually has opinions about). To address a few of the popular tumblr examples that come to mind though - Crowley & Aziraphale from Good Omens do strike me as ace so thoroughly I can’t really imagine anything that could persuade me otherwise. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Enjolras from Les Mis is a character I love & see headcanoned as ace all the time, but I just can’t make sense of that particular interpretation myself (in the book anyway, there are so many adaptations I haven’t seen).

And of course, I can’t leave out the ones I mainly talk about on this blog - I headcanoned the Doctor as ace ever since I first saw the new series, and when I went back and watched the classic series - and so far as I’ve seen in the extended universe, though that’s not too much - their characterization has held up and consistently fit with that idea (in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever come across a Time Lord I didn’t assume was ace). More surprising to me when I got into the classic series was Jamie McCrimmon, who, to tell the truth, I didn’t really want to headcanon as ace at first (as silly as it sounds, I felt like that interpretation of the Doctor was common enough that it couldn’t be projection, but if I applied it to Jamie as well, especially while shipping them, then I had to be ‘just seeing what I wanted to’) but no matter how hard I tried, I really couldn’t make a lot of his behavior make sense to me any other way, so I got over it and accepted that that was how I saw him. There are probably a lot of other characters I perceive as ace more or less by accident (making the effort to think of someone like Zoe as allo specifically doesn’t sound like something I’d do without a reason), but it’s different with characters like Jamie and the Doctors, who I can’t really help but notice ace behavior from even when I’m just watching a random episode.

🖤 what made you realize that you were asexual?

To be completely honest (and to slightly play semantics) I don’t know if I ever really did “realize” I was ace, so much as I just gradually had to come to accept that that was the best word I could use to communicate myself to other people - or even that I had to communicate myself at all, frankly, since I took it for granted at first. That does feel like a bit of a cop-out of an answer, but there was never any decisive moment for me when the clouds parted and the sun shone and everything suddenly made sense. In reality, I went through life thinking everyone in my age bracket felt pretty much the same as I did about sex and relationships - and maybe that would change one day when we were older, maybe not - but that some people (specifically the popular, social-circle-leader ones, whereas I was quiet and nerdy and only known for having good grades growing up - ie, the kind of person who no one would ever believe was cool & mature no matter how I behaved) felt a pressure to act like they were interested in those things because it made them look - or even feel for themselves - like they were more grown up. And the tricky bit is that, for a while, that’s true, isn’t it? But there comes a point where you have to learn the difference between The Most Popular Girl & Boy in 5th Grade Having to Kiss at the End-of-year Pool Party While Everyone Else Watches From Behind A Tree, and your best friends in high school confiding in you their very genuine, sometimes even potentially embarrassingly honest feelings about their relationships and their attraction to their significant others.

So for me, it wasn’t really a matter of realizing how I worked as much as it was realizing that other people didn’t work the way I thought they had, and trusting that they weren’t just pretending to for some kind of social clout - which can be a really hard distinction to make in that age bracket, where there is a lot of fake-it-til-you-make-it going on, and a lot of pressure on kids both internally & externally to act more adult. As alienating as it could be at the time, in retrospect I’m grateful that I had so many trusting and open allo friends (I was also one of those friends a lot of people went to to vent or ask advice - and I imagine that reputation was at least partly due to the fact that I never got involved in relationships myself or showed any interest in them) because as I grew to trust and understand them as people, I had to admit to myself that they weren’t all just faking it or confused about what they “should” feel vs what they did - they really were experiencing something different than how I thought of and felt attraction for people, and I don’t know how I would’ve figured that out without them!

Looking back, I can probably narrow down the time I started using the term ace to describe myself as being sometime between when I was 15 and 17, roughly, which makes sense considering that was when I was growing closer to a lot of those people, but unless I found something that specifically referenced it from that period of time - like old messages or a journal entry or something - I don’t think I could narrow it down and more specifically, because it was such a slow process of realization.

(It occurred to me halfway through typing this out that it could at some point be read by someone trying to identify and categorize their own feelings, which is tempting me to go into greater detail than I really have time to this minute, but I didn’t want to ignore this anon for too long. I’ll leave it at this for now, but if anyone ever did have more questions about my experience, anon or otherwise, I’d be happy to bore the living daylights off you with specifics.)

3 notes · View notes

jamgrlsblog · 3 years

Text

2020 Fic Roundup

When I started 2020, I had no idea I would write as much as I did! I was starting my first Ineffable Wives fic, which became a theme of the year 😂. When I finished District of (un-)Certainty in 2019, I thought that would be my last idea (except for a sequel I started and never finished: whoops). Instead, I completed 8 fics and 2 podfics and wrote a little more than half of an ongoing WIP I still haven’t finished. That’s a total of 11 works listed under 2020 on AO3! (And 130k words.) Here’s a roundup ☺️.

Peaches, Apples, and Other Forbidden Fruit (Fic & Podfic)

55k, E

This was my first wives fic and started with a prologue that just popped into my head one night. I really wanted to write about what it was like to be a woman, with all those little vanities and insecurities that complicate self image, and with a deep connection to classic books about women influencing and shaping how she might interact with the world. And then I made it Southern and threw Aziraphale into a sorority with Crowley 😂. And it became about internalized biphobia and about unlearning biases and about love formed of long time friendship and deep knowing.

I decided to podfic it as I was writing because I wrote Crowley as dyslexic and I decided, out of honor for her, to make a more accessible version of the fic 😅. This was a total whim- I had no idea what I was getting into, but boy did I learn on the job! I read the entire fic in a Southern accent and had a lot of fun. I also drove my spouse crazy because I made him stay quiet while I was recording, but he bought me a “how to podcast” book for Christmas, so maybe you’ll get more podfic in the future 😉.

I made friends, thanks to this fic, including @miss-minnelli and @tawnyontumblr, who I can’t imagine not knowing now! I also made friends with @leoswork, who made 3 art pieces inspired by this fic, which I am still amazed by!

Oil Paint Stains

498 words, G

This was written for a “Name that Author” game in the Good Omens Events discord server and was such fun! I hardly knew anyone at that time and threw myself in anyways. It was a great way to get started making friends and a great little challenge to write a fic under 500 words! This, I think, is when I firmly established myself as a Wives writer 😂.

Class Action

500 words, M

Listen, this was another “Name that Author” game, and I wanted to try a new pairing to change things up (I knew if I wrote wives again, I would be known) and I wanted to try writing exactly 500 words as an extra challenge. I didn’t know I would post it. I certainly didn’t know it would have the most kudos of 2020. Literally just a silly Warlock/Adam thing.

Strawberries Aren’t Forbidden (Fic & Podfic)

8k, E

This is a companion piece to Peaches, Apples, and Other Forbidden Fruit about just how Crowley was doing all that time that Zira was pining 😂 (hint: she was also pining). Writing this on the side tempered my writing of the first fic by helping me remember how Crowley was feeling the whole time! This is pretty angsty, tbh, but we’ve got a fun and happy ending. I podficced this because I had to to keep with the first one! This one is in Crowley’s valley girl accent (aka, mostly just how I usually talk 😅.)

Summer Swims and Strings

5k, M

I wrote this for @suvroc as part of the Wives October gift exchange. This was my first exchange and I was so nervous about my giftee liking it! I really enjoyed writing reconnected lovers. The general tone and feel of this fic was heavily influenced by Folklore, which I was very into when writing this, so we’ve got a calm, reflective, and full of love lakeside fic!

Frights and Feelings

4k, T

This one was for @sk3tchid, also for the Wives gift exchange! I got to do something spooky and Halloweeny, which I was thrilled about. I took a big risk with this fic- I wrote two stories in one fic. I decided “ooh, what if they are watching a spooky movie!” so I could somehow fit spooky and cozy homey feels in one fic. And it worked? I guess 😂. Regardless, it was lots of fun!

cowgirl like me

6k, T

This fic started as me shouting about Evermore on the Wives discord server and I happened to mention that cowboy like me was giving me ineffable spouses feels, and being on the wives server, I got the response of wives? Wives! And I was like, nah, I don’t have time. And then I thought, well, and I wrote this fic over the course of one weekend. @tawnyontumblr made it readable 😂.

lover

4k, T

This was a companion to cowgirl like me. I had just gotten married and was having feels about Crowley and the late husband I invented for the first fic (which is Eric the Disposable Demon! So cute!) and also feels about marriage in general. So I wrote this little vignette thing, and my first f/m fic! I didn’t think anyone would read it, but @tawnyontumblr encouraged me to write it anyways ☺️. She really made this readable. I gave her a skeleton of a fic that she encouraged me to actually flesh out!

Star of the Wooded Mountain

WIP, 46k+, T

Listing this one last, even though it was 4th to start posting and the 2nd to start writing. I started posting this in June!! I actually believed that I would be able to write and post my entire summer camp fic during the summer and it would be like “ooh, seasonally appropriate!”. Lol. I’ve got 6/10 chapters up currently.

This is part of the Good AUmens event and how I was introduced to the Good Omens Events discord server!! I’m so glad I signed up for this event because this server has become such a huge part of my life and has been a place where I’ve made so many friends!

I signed up for the event saying I was going to write a wives fic, as was my 2020 theme. But when I actually sat down to write, I started writing Crowley as a non-binary/agender character instead. This fic became an exploration of gender and identity and navigating early adulthood. I met @parmejeannecheese thanks to this fic, who stepped up, never having sensitivity read before, and has put so much time and thought into helping me with this fic. I cannot overstate how amazing they are and how lucky I was to find them.

I have learned so much writing this fic!! And it has become so much bigger and better than I could have imagined. I’m excited to keep posting this one into 2021 ☺️.

And that’s all my fics of 2020! I hope some of you have enjoyed them or might enjoy them in the future! Here’s to what may come in 2021! Maybe I’ll write a husbands fic again one day? Literally wrote none in 2020 😂.

#my fanfiction #good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable spouses #fic roundup

22 notes · View notes

aziraphales-library · 4 years

Note

Hey!!! I’m kinda new, and I’d like to know if you can recommend me some good GO fics? My only request it’s that they should mostly be Teen Up or Gen s fics... and maybe some good AUs (I’m in love with those)

Okay, here we go!! I went a little all out on this post because it’s more about personal preference, but I still stand by it :D

An Angel who did not so much Fall In Love as Settle Into It Gradually by TheLadyZephyr - 7.5k - Rated T

Crowley was standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking a little lost. Aziraphale eyed the distance between them. Five steps. Five steps, and six thousand years, and a battlefield spanning an eternity.

The story of the little moments over the millennia that shape an angel’s regard for a demon, and the way he slowly, with great reluctance but inevitable surety, falls in love.

I simply adore this fic. It’s one of those fics that follows them through the ages and its just done so well. I don’t even know what else to say, just that you should go read it, and the fanart is also gorgeous!

Something So Magic by apliddell - 3.9k - Rated G

Crowley gets stuck in his serpent form, and Aziraphale tries his best to help.

This fic is simple, yet adorable, and I cannot get enough of it.

How Much To Give, How Much To Take by thechemicalgirl - 3k - Rated G

“It’s like…’ he paused, trying to calm down. ‘It’s like after I came back from Heaven and we switched our bodies back, something has happened. I can’t use my power anymore, not even to start the Bentley.”

Crowley loses his demonic abilities and Aziraphale tries to help him cope with it, but things get much more complicated than that.

Angsty, but also soft, and just a great execution of a favourite premise.

In Peace I Will Both Lie Down and Sleep by fizzybiscuits - 5.6k - Rated G

Aziraphale starts having nightmares. For some reason, he doesn’t talk to Crowley about this right away.

Title is from Psalms 4:8. “In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

This fic just has everything. It’s a stellar example of an established relationship fic and is cavity-inducingly fluffy.

Be All My Sins Remembered by CloversDreams - 43.4k - Rated T

“The trial,” Beelzebub continued loudly, “will consist of seven tests.”

“Seven…” Aziraphale muttered under his breath. He had a bad feeling about this and it showed. He twiddled his thumbs nervously as he waited for more details.

Crowley scrunched his face and shook his head. “Oh you don’t mean–”

“Correct. The Sins have been charged with the task,” Beelzebub interjected.

“Crap.” Crowley groaned. He slapped his hands onto his face and dragged them downward slowly. This was just what they didn’t need.

Gabriel nodded. He had a rather unpleasant grin on his face as he said, “Don’t know much about them, myself, but they can be a pretty gnarly group of high-class demons from what I’ve heard. On par with the archangels back home. Wouldn’t want to… what’s that delightful human phrase? Oh, right. Wouldn’t want to cock this up.”

Listen, in my opinion, this fic is massively underrated. I unintentionally binged it all in one go because it was so gripping. The angst in some chapters had me practically screaming, and the whole idea is a brilliant take on the seven deadly sins. The pining is magnificent, and I live for the Husbands drama.

Let Sleeping Snakes Lie by Blue_Sparkle - 2.6k - Rated G

Aziraphale confesses his love for Crowley when he can contain it no longer. Oh, not to the demon himself of course. To a sleeping snake.

Another fic featuring Snake!Crowley, this one is magnificently soft, and I adore the scene in Stardust it’s inspired by. Just can’t stop coming back to read, 10/10 recommend!

Serpent of Eden, Original Tempter by noodlefrog - 33.4k - Rated T

During Crowley’s trial, the agents of Hell present evidence that the demon has been fraternizing with the enemy. Careful to protect Crowley’s pride (and his own concealed feelings), Aziraphale turns on the saunter and leans into his friend’s reputation as a tempter to spin their relationship into something that looks more demonic than lunch dates and feeding the ducks.

This fic combines Pining, Misunderstandings, and a fantastic ‘what if?’ for the execution scenes, and I am here for it. The Original Characters are written fantastically well, and I loved the bonus chapter!

What They Say About Assumptions by DragonGirl - 7.9k - Rated T

While it’s true that God bestowed upon the angels the divine power to sense love of all kinds, that does not mean they were given the ability to sense exactly who or what that love is directed at. A minor design flaw that hasn’t been much of an issue. Until now.

Or:

Aziraphale has known that Crowley loved someone since the beginning. He’s also spent most of that time believing that someone was a demon.

Aziraphale’s obliviousness in this fic was so ridiculous it felt plausible. It was hilarious but also heartwarming, and has one of my fave love confessions. It was angsty as hell in the best way, and I just implore that you read it!

Futile Devices by ticketybye - 3.2k - Rated G

Crowley pretends to sleep. Aziraphale talks.

Just adorable. Cavity inducing fluff and love confessions are my favourite things and god does this deliver on that.

Foolish Principality by seashadows and WikdSushi - 6.6k - Rated M

Upon moving into a South Downs cottage, Crowley gets left alone while Aziraphale rushes to help the new proprietors of his bookshop. Thanks to a miracle gone wrong, Crowley discovers Aziraphale's greatest material secret, and a few things neither of them could ever fully face.

Is rated M but in my opinion there’s nothing too bad in here, though you should judge for yourself. The poetry is beautiful, horrifying masterpieces, and it is honestly fantastically funny and sweet.

——

Y’all know by now that I adore anything by Arinia, but this fic is one of my faves:

Just This Once by Arinia - 2.7k - Rated T

An idea came, slowly at first, before filling up his heart, setting every nerve alight. It might be another decade, another century even, before he saw Crowley again. No one had come to rescue him from Above. No one had chastised Crowley for wasting a miracle from Below. Perhaps, just this once…

The streets of Paris are soaked with blood, and Aziraphale realizes just how much he owes Crowley for saving his life.

It’s freaking adorable, the kissing is fantastic, and I have a secret love of the French Revolution that made me love the fic all the more. Read it, I beg you.

——

As for AUs, I don’t read loads, but I do have some faves!

Neighborly Affection by Thestarlitrose - 4.6k - Rated T - Human AU

Anthony J Crowley was four years old the first time he met the tiny Ezra A Fell; he wasn’t impressed.

He was forty-six when he found him again in a bookshop in Soho.

The Childhood Friends, Flower Shop, Christmas, Friends to Lovers fic nobody asked for in the middle of October.

This fic is a complete tangle of tropes, and it’s also incredibly sweet. Perfect for the fast approaching holiday season!

a book elegantly bound by AwkwardPotatoChild - 6.5k - Rated G - Library AU

Two idiots. One book series.

or alternatively, Aziraphale and Crowley are united over their common love of books and the scheming of one Miss Anathema Device

This fic manages to be both very funny and incredibly endearing at the same time. The book names were hilarious, and I adored Anathema’s matchmaking.

A Jaunt Or Two by sonicsora - 3.1k - Rated T - Human AU

They meet by happenstance twice over, only to end up quite woven into one anothers lives. It’s all quite accidental, but sticks.

Crowley realizes a bit belated he’s quite attached to this man who freely uses the word jaunt and wears cream-colored suits.

This fic is just adorable. It’s sweet, fluffy, and exactly my kind of thing. Also Gabriel’s a dick in the comedic way, which is fun to see.

Restoration by arealshitwizard (gaiusgallus) - 2.6k - Rated G - Human AU

Ok I had this idea in my head and it wouldn’t go away so here is Aziraphale as a painting restorer and Crowley as a flash stock broker… There’s just one chapter sorry for my sins

This is a really unique fic (I know I keep saying that, but it’s true!), and featured such fun interpretations of their characters!

——-

I’m aware that 90% of this list is very specific to my preferences, and that it got a little out of hand, but I hope y’all enjoy the recs anyway! XD

Does the blog have any favourites they’d like to share?

~ Mod B

1K notes · View notes

ingravinoveritas · 4 years

Note

Hey there. I'm glad I'm not the only one who ships David and Michael. I want to ask... Since you ship them too, what are your favorite moments between them and why? And when did you start thinking there actually might something happen between them?

Hi Anon! I apologize that it’s taken me time to respond to your question. I needed to really think about my answer to this, as it is so difficult to choose a favorite moment between Michael and David. I’ve also been talking about so many of those moments lately, so I wanted to think of something that hadn’t already been discussed.

So I would say that, yes, many of my favorites are ones I’ve mentioned previously on my blog, but two that come to mind right now are when David and Michael were on Graham Norton last year, and then David interviewing Michael for his podcast.

Now, there was a lot going on during this interview, with Graham Norton busy Graham Norton-ing and of course the eggplant emoji incident, but what gets me is the sustained look of pure, unadulterated adoration that Michael was giving David:

...That. Nonstop. For almost the entire interview. Amazing.

Their bodies were also oriented toward each other the whole time, again falling into that pattern of always ending up in their own little world. Michael and David were ever the professionals, of course, interacting gamely with Graham and Chris Hemsworth and the audience, but they clearly only had eyes for each other. I also loved the moment where David recited the very long name of the place in Wales. He didn’t learn it specifically to impress Michael, as we know (he learned it from a Welsh actress while doing a Shakespeare play, to mess with the sign language interpreter), but on some level, he had to know what that would do to Michael. And we got Michael’s wonderful, giddy reaction--which was to look like he was barely restraining himself from dropping to one knee and proposing right there--and David just utterly basking in the warm glow of Michael’s attention.

The second moment I mentioned was David interviewing Michael on his podcast. It’s one of the most delightful interviews I’ve ever heard precisely for the reason that it doesn’t at all sound like an interview, but rather like two close friends just having a conversation (which is at least partly due to David’s talent as an interviewer). But right from the outset, one of the first things David says as they’re talking about a GO photo shoot they had just done is, “You're an honest version of how I'm feeling." Which confirmed something that I’ve been observing for a long while now, which is that Michael says the things that David only thinks. There’s a thread of that in so many of their interactions and interviews, which is subtle, but after a while you start to see it, and it’s fascinating.

To go back to the conversational quality of the interview, even though there was no video, the way Michael and David interacted made it easy to imagine what that conversation might look like. My mental image is basically of a sleepover, of them sitting on the floor together in their pyjamas, David behind Michael, knees bent and his long legs bracketing either side of Michael’s body, both of them sharing popcorn out of a bowl beside them and drinking glasses of red wine. David idly plays with Michael’s hair as he asks questions and giggles at Michael’s answers, and then he slowly starts to grip his curls just a tiny bit harder, massaging his head, making Michael’s breath hitch in his throat, but he keeps the conversation going. By the end, they’re both a bit tipsy and Michael is leaning back against David’s chest, warm and flushed and eyes fluttering closed as David rubs the back of his neck, debating whether to laugh or to turn his head and kiss David to break the growing tension...

(...I realize that was rather elaborate, but that whole scenario just blossomed in my mind as I re-listened to the podcast. Also, the fact that there’s a deleted clip of Michael saying “I almost came” and David giggling in response is another reason it’s one of my favorite MS/DT moments and really, really makes me wish we had video of this interview...)

Anyway, to the second part of your question, Anon, which is when did I think there might be something happening between Michael and David. I actually went back into my Tumblr archive to see when I started getting into Good Omens (June 2019) and how the timeline progressed from there. I can see that from the beginning, as I was diving headfirst into Aziraphale/Crowley fanfic and fanart, that I kept gravitating to the more ‘realistic’ art--illustrations, paintings, drawings, etc. that looked like the actors, rather than an artistic interpretation of the characters (which is not to say that other forms are bad, just that it’s my personal preference for fanart).

Right away, I was shipping Aziraphale and Crowley, but I think I was unconsciously drawn to that chemistry between Michael and David, even though I wasn’t outright shipping them then. The shift started to happen not long after that, as I began watching more and more of Michael and David’s interviews and all the GO press tour stuff I could get my hands on. But I am pretty sure that what made the switch finally flip was two things: Michael calling David his “lover,” and this moment, from earlier this year:

Over and over again, Michael has talked about how he was initially excited to be in Good Omens because he’s such a huge fan of the book, he’s known Neil forever, he’s mainlined Ineffable Husbands fanfic like Turkish black mule heroin, and so on. But then here, Michael is talking about what made filming the show so special...and it’s David. He’s remembering this experience--this incredible, life-altering journey of filming this show--and it’s not the book or shipping Aziraphale and Crowley that he speaks about with the most tender affection. It’s David. I just thought that was utterly lovely and very telling.

But the thing is, Anon, is that there really isn’t one specific moment that made me think something might have happened between Michael and David. It’s just been the gradual accumulation of all these moments put together--both the ones I mentioned in this post and the ones I’ve talked about previously. It’s how Michael and David talk about each other when they’re together and when they are apart. And it’s how, despite having numerous opportunities to put out the flames of suggestion, Michael instead runs toward them cackling maniacally, a can of kerosene in hand. (I also like to imagine an amused David just standing there calmly and holding up a Zippo lighter for his part.)

So I hope that helps to answer your question, Anon, and I’m always glad to hear from another shipper. Thanks for writing in and for being here! x

#anonymous #reply post #michael sheen #welsh seduction machine #david tennant #soft scottish hipster gigolo #the graham norton show #david tennant does a podcast with #you'd think after doing so many interviews together they'd get tired of each other #but they never do #the flirting though #if only we could have seen the podcast #alas #they are both going to kill me #i love them so #good omens #good omens rpf #discourse

40 notes · View notes

ineffablegame · 4 years

Note

hey for the prompt thing: a/c 43 taking care when the other one's sick?

I hope this doesn’t feel like I phoned it in! :o

Also available on my Ao3.

In Crawly’s defense, he hadn’t meant to get mixed up in Legion’s nonsense.

He hadn’t even wanted to be in Gerasa. He’d been shooting for Pella, intent on meeting Aziraphale for evening drinks at a tavern of some repute, but he’d bungled the miracle and sent himself too far east. He’s been in Gerasa not five minutes before Legion streaks past, clad in the body of an emaciated human and nothing else. Stupid with shock, Crawly is helpless against Legion’s pull; it sucks him in, as powerful as gravity, and he is trapped inside the pinwheeling pandemonium of the human’s mind before he can so much as blink.

Legion is a well-known party animal in the bowels of Hell. Sometimes, they make for a roaring good time. Whenever the ruling class of Hell looks away long enough for the lesser demons to drum up a party, Legion is always the first on the dance floor, badly-boogying their little heart out.

This would all have been tolerable – fun, even – if that were the end of it. But Legion is the sort of obnoxious partier that inspires frat boys ‘round the world to get spectacularly shitfaced, ratchet up the decibels of their bellowing with each successive drink, and plague every woman in a fifty-yard radius with atrocious pick-up lines and beer-rank breath.

They are, in short, an unholy pain in the arse. And Crawly’s just been forced to share some poor sod’s body with them.

“Crawly!” they exclaim. Their voice is a cataclysm of shrieks and squeals and wrenching moans, impossible for the human larynx to replicate. Crawly winces as pain lances through the man’s throat. “How you doin’, buddy?”

“Uh, fine,” he replies automatically, because banal pleasantries are the only blessed thing that make sense in the careening carousal of flashing light flickering image dank dark gibbering sobs please let me go let me go let me GO— “Er. Just great.”

“We haven’t seen you since… shit, can’t remember the last time!”

Yes, Crawly thinks, I’d been rather making an effort with that.

“Where are we?” he asks, because the sooner he gets past the basics, the sooner he’ll be able to disentangle himself and escape. “Who are we?”

“Hell’s teeth, I dunno!” Legion bellows.

“So why are we—”

“I was bored! Buddy, am I glad you came along! We’re gonna have so much fun with this stupid human!”

Crawly, inwardly grimacing, resigns himself to be an unwilling guest in the revelry. Legion is an idiot with the attention span of a goldfish; the moment they lose interest and cast the wasted husk of this human body aside, he’ll be free. He only has to wait.

Three days later, Legion hasn’t lost interest. And then Jesus of Nazareth wanders into Gerasa.

“Hello, there,” says Jesus.

Legion may be a fool, but they know the Son of God when they see him. They pull back the man’s lips in a feral snarl. “Dude, fuck off. There’s, like, a ton of us.”

Jesus of Nazareth smiles benignly, head cocked, eyebrows arched. Crawly, crammed inside a body that feels like it’s withering away by the minute, shivers with a soul-deep terror.

“There certainly are a lot of you,” says Jesus. “It’s not right, one person being so many.”

As he speaks, each word uttered with total composure, Crawly becomes aware of the squeals and snorts of pigs nearby. He clambers up to the human’s eyes, elbowing fragments of Legion aside for a look. Over the Son of Man’s shoulder, a boy and his father are guiding their herd of swine toward the scene.

“I think,” Jesus says, quiet menace creeping into his tone, “that you should go back to being separate. Now.”

The change is dizzying in its suddenness. Before Crawly can make sense of what has happened, he is looking up at Mary’s baby boy from an entirely different angle, snorting and snuffling and stamping his trotters in the dirt. He’s been dropped into a bloody pig like a recalcitrant plant that’s outgrown its pot.

The squeals around him reach a frantic pitch and Crawly turns, startled. The other pigs are throwing back their heads with rending screams, eyes rolling, spittle flying from their mouths. A fragment of Legion has been placed inside each one, and the separation is driving them mad with terror. They barrel past the boy and his father, heedless of their staffs, and stampede down the rutted dirt road. It is a narrow road, turning sharply to hug a cliff face overlooking a deep, cold lake.

Jesus blinks.

A thunderous rumbling sound judders over Legion’s screams and the road buckles, crumbles. Crawly watches, relief warring with terror, as each pig topples after the other like chain link following chain link to vanish, shrieking and cursing, over the side of the cliff. The sound of frantic splashing ensues, cut short with preternatural swiftness. Silence descends.

Jesus turns to Crawly, who shrinks into himself inasmuch as a two-hundred and fifty-pound hog can shrink. But the Christ’s smile is no longer menacing; in fact, it’s practically pleasant, warming Crawly from the tip of his snout to the end of his curly tail. His every demonic instinct warns him against that warmth – that his will is being leaned on, manipulated – but it’s difficult to focus when he feels suddenly so content.

“Hello, Crowley,” says Jesus.

“That’s not my name,” Crawly replies. It’s all squealing and snorting, but the Word of Life understands him anyway.

“My mistake,” Jesus says, in the unbothered, smiling way of someone quite certain they aren’t mistaken. “Crawly, is it?”

“Maybe,” Crawly mumbles.

“Sorry about that. The snout, I mean. Legion had quite the hold on you.”

“Um… it’s fine…?”

“I’ll sort you out right now.” Her Only Begotten Son rubs his palms together in a way that, some millennia later, will come to mind when Aziraphale embarks on his one-sided love affair with magic tricks. “Send you off to your friend.”

“My wh—”

Crawly’s vision whites out before he can complete the question. A moment later, blinking dazedly past the haloes branded on the backs of his eyelids, Crawly finds himself seated at a table, back in his own body. Aziraphale, siting opposite of him with a jug raised to his lips, stares in wide-eyed amazement. He lowers the jug.

“Crawly!” he says. “Why, we were supposed to meet three days ago! I was worried sick!”

“I’m—” Crawly pauses, sniffling, and sneezes. He pointedly ignores the offended expression on Aziraphale’s face as he shields the jug from a drizzle of snot. Recovering with an accusatory look around the tavern, he continues, “Glad you were able to overcome your crippling worry and c—” Another sneeze, and this time Aziraphale lifts the jug out of harm’s way. Crawly soldiers on. “Carry on without me.”

Aziraphale has the grace to look guilty. “This is the seasonal menu. It won’t last much longer.”

“Of course. How silly of me.” Crawly points at the jug. “Give me that.”

“It’s mine,” Aziraphale sniffs.

“Angel.” Crawly leans across the table, elbows propped on the gnarled wood. “I’ve been stuck in a human’s body for the last three days with the most annoying demon this side of Creation. After that, I was trapped inside a sodding pig. Give. Me. That. Drink.”

His speech would be more persuasive without a dribble of snot hanging off the end of his nose, but Crawly glares at the angel nonetheless, determined not to be cowed. After a moment of staring, perplexed, Aziraphale passes him the jug.

“You’re leaking,” the angel says petulantly.

“S’fine.” Crawly takes a determined swig. “It’ll pass in a minute, don’t you worry.”

It doesn’t pass. In fact, over the next few days, the sneezing gets worse. With it comes a ridiculous amount of snot, rivers of the stuff, and chills and fevers and stomach upsets that put him entirely off drinking altogether. By the seventh day, he is bedridden, wheezing and certain he’s about to be discorporated with Someone’s inventive new take on the plague.

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” Aziraphale says, miracling a square of linen to mop the sweat from his brow. “You’ll be ship-shape in no time.”

“It was the pigs,” Crawly rambles, staring at Aziraphale with glassy eyes. “I’ve… I’ve got a pig illness. A pig flu. A swine flu.”

Aziraphale, cold-hearted nurse that he is, merely scoffs. “What rubbish. ‘Swine flu.’” He chuckles. “I’m sure I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

“Bet it’ll be all the funnier when it kills me,” Crawly moans. “Then you can laugh.”

“Hush.” Aziraphale lays a gentle hand on his brow. There is no miracle at work – only the cool, steady pressure of his touch. Somehow, that is enough. Crawly closes his eyes with a sigh.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #cliche prompts #good omens fanfic #long post #i hope it's okay that jesus is here too?

148 notes · View notes

lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Acceptance (Rated PG13)

Summary:

While waiting for his husband to finish up a job at a local library, Crowley runs into a little girl with a problem he can relate to. (2474 words)

Notes:

I'm a little soft for Crowley interacting with kids. I do not apologize. XD

(AO3)

“Uggggggggh!” Crowley groans, long and obnoxious, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Why did you have to drag me to a library, of all places?”

Aziraphale side-eyes his husband, gasping in offense. “I didn’t! You stopped me as I left and begged me to bring you!”

“But if I’d known you were going to the library …!”

“Those were the first words out of my mouth! I literally said, and I quote - I’m headed to Tooting Library. Be back in an hour!”

“Oh, yeah. Right. That’s where the hiccup came from.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t get past the name.” Crowley chuckles. “Tooting.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake.” Aziraphale reaches for the door handle but Crowley gets to it first, opening the door for his husband the way he has taken to lately – one of many small habits he developed the moment they said I do.

“Anyway, not my fault,” Crowley declares, following him inside.

“What!?”

“And I’m glad we’ve agreed there was a misunderstanding. But now that we’re here, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, call me an old silly, but this is a library. A place of higher learning.” Aziraphale leads Crowley through the bookcases to the children’s section, where he’s been commissioned to help sort through the older books in their collection to see if they’re worth anything. “You could read.”

Crowley snorts in objection. “Pass.”

Aziraphale scans the room, looking past the books, books, and more books, searching for anything that might occupy his disruptive demon for a spell. “There’s a computer in the corner.”

“Meh. I have an iPhone.”

“There’s a mini theater. It looks like they’re playing The Adventures of Paddington Bear. That sounds like it might be up your alley.”

“And why’s that? Because he’s cute and cuddly?”

“Because I find him as hard to swallow as a bag of wet chips.”

“Rude.”

Aziraphale sighs. “There are coloring pages and crayons on that table over there.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You’re the one who used to fraternize with Renaissance painters. All those nudes of Lucifer you inspired. Maybe you could try a hand at being a part of the artistic process with your clothes on for a change.”

Crowley chooses to neither confirm nor deny, overlooking his angel’s spiteful tone in favor of examining the little round table and equally tiny chairs, the assortment of black and white pictures available to color and two brand new boxes of 64 crayons. After a moment of scrutiny, and knowing that his options are limited, Crowley shrugs. “Yeah. All right.”

“Good. Now please remember there will be children about.”

Crowley spins the largest of the small chairs around and straddles it. “Yeah? And?”

“Keep the gore to a minimum.”

“You say that as if children don’t love gore.”

“They don’t!”

“They do! In fact, most kids under the age of twelve can imagine up stuff way scarier than I could ever come up with, I’ll tell you that.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “How do you figure? Cite your source.”

“You obviously didn’t spend the kind of time with Warlock that I did, angel,” Crowley mutters, grabbing a red crayon from the box and starting in on a picture of King William III, remastering it to depict how the monarch looked on his death bed, wasting away from pneumonia after suffering from a broken collarbone, a consequence of falling off his horse.

Aziraphale considers Crowley’s explanation, his eyes bouncing back and forth as he tosses it about in his head. “Fair point. Now sit tight, don’t wander off, and play nice with the other children. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Toodles,” Crowley says, thinking, ‘But there are no other children.’ He grins and grabs another picture, this one of Queen Anne, and eagerly begins another vulgar rendition.

***

Aziraphale’s promised hour passes and Crowley has blown through all the coloring pages. He looks at his stack of dead monarchs and sighs. It was rather inconsiderate of him to color them all, he realizes, but he’s so damned bored. He snaps his fingers, returning the pages to their previous pristine and uncolored conditions when a squeaky voice says, “I like your glasses.”

Crowley looks up and sees a girl sitting across from him. How she managed to sneak up on him in this big, open room, with no one else in it but himself (being ten a.m. on a Tuesday morning when most kids are in school) he has no idea, but nonetheless, there she is, smiling at him, wearing a bright pink frock and a pair of dark sunglasses with cat eye frames.

“I like yours, too,” he says.

“Thanks.” She pinches her lips together, flustered by the compliment. “May I ask you a question?”

“Yes, you may, but only because you’re being so polite.”

“Are you blind?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah. I just don’t like people looking at my eyes. It makes them uncomfortable.”

“Same.”

Crowley raises a quizzical brow. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She reaches up and adjusts her frames, pushing them unnecessarily up her nose. “I have this thing. It’s called heterochromia iridis.”

“Wow. Those are some big words for such a little girl.”

“It just means that my eyes have different colors. I’m starting school soon, and my mum thinks it’ll freak the kids out. But I think it’s cool.”

“I’m sure it is. May I see?”

“Um …” Crowley can’t see her eyes. Her lenses are as dark as his. But he can see her eyebrows moving up and down as she deliberates between yes and no. But she shrugs to herself and says, “Okay,” taking off her glasses with her eyes closed. When she opens them, Crowley can see why some mortals might be bothered.

Not because her eyes are grotesque. Actually, the combination of brown, hazel, and blue that her right eye contains in defined segments like a pie chart, her left eye blue-green and much darker than her right, is quite mesmerizing.

But because mortals can be stupid when confronted with something different than themselves.

But because mortals are easily frightened by the slightest things.

“I like them,” Crowley says, giving her a smile.

“Do you really?”

“I do.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a shame you have to hide those eyes. I think they’re incredible.”

“Me, too.” She sits up straighter, her confidence growing. “I think they’re special. And I like being special, but it gets lonely.”

“Why’s that?”

She looks down at her glasses, folding them carefully and setting them in front of her. “I’ve never seen someone else like me. Not in real life. Just in pictures they show at the doctor’s office. What I have is rare, but I know other people have it. It gets easy to forget sometimes. I wish I could see one other person with eyes like mine. Not even like mine, just … different.”

“I see,” Crowley says, chewing his lower lip. He sits up in his chair and takes a quick glance around. Still nobody else there, not as far as he can see anyway. He leans forward, nearly touching her forehead with his own across this thimble of a table. “I might be able to help you with that.”

The girl peeks up at him, catches her reflection in his lenses, and smiles. “Really?”

“A-ha. If I show you something, promise not to freak out?”

She giggles at the reference. “I promise.”

“And don’t. tell. anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“Cross your heart?”

“And hope to die!”

‘Don’t hope that,’ Crowley thinks, taking off his glasses the same way she did, with his eyes closed. When he opens his eyes and fixes them on her, her jaw drops, but her stunned expression gets immediately replaced by the widest smile he’s ever seen on a child.

On anyone, really.

Except his Aziraphale.

“No way those are your real eyes!” she says, grinning with glee. “Those have to be contact lenses!”

“Nope. They’re real. They’re a might bit rarer than yours, but they’re real.”

“I’ll bet!” she says. Suddenly, her whole face lights up. “Wait! I know this!” The girl reaches into her pocket and pulls out a phone. She swipes the screen, goes to Google, and types. When she finds what she’s looking for, she turns the screen to Crowley. “You have this, don’t you?”

Crowley peers at the screen, at the picture she looked up of a pupil deformity called ‘coloboma’. She’s right. For a mortal deformity, it does look kind of like his eyes. He doesn’t think he could get away with not wearing his glasses and claiming this condition. The otherworldly aura of his eyes is unmistakable to most mortals.

Curious that this little girl doesn’t seem to catch it.

“Close enough,” he says. “You sure do know a lot about this stuff.”

The girl sighs deeply like a sage, old witch, and stows her phone in her pocket. “I’ve been dealing with eye doctors for a while now. It’s become an occupational hazard.”

“I can see that.”

“So you and I ... we’re the same, aren’t we?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Crowley smiles, but it’s sadder than the rest. ‘No,’ he thinks. ‘If all goes well, in 80 years, Heaven will have you.’

“Lizzie? Dearest? Where are you?”

“That’s my mum,” Lizzie whispers to Crowley as if it’s a huge secret. “I’m here, Mum!” she calls.

“Come along! We have to go!”

“Coming! It was nice to meet you, mister,” she says, offering Crowley her hand. Crowley doesn’t hesitate to shake it.

“Nice to me you, too. Lizzie.”

Crowley watches Lizzie double check her pockets for her phone, then collect her glasses. She considers them a second but doesn’t put them back on. Instead, she slides them in her pocket, then skips away toward the front door. Crowley doesn’t know if she’s going to put them on outside, or if her mum will make her. But he’d rather believe that she doesn’t, and that she won’t from this day forward.

All because she met a demon at a coloring table in a library called Tooting.

“It seems you made a friend,” Aziraphale says, miracling up an adult-sized chair and sitting down in it.

“I guess so.” Crowley starts fussing with the coloring pages, stacking them in order by dates of reign and setting them neatly to one side. He reaches for his glasses resting on the table, but Aziraphale catches his hand before he can slip them on.

“Is something bothering you, dearest?” he asks, tilting his head to catch his husband’s eyes. “You seem a little upset.”

“That depends ... how much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. I came out of the office right as Lizzie sat down.”

“And you didn’t think to rescue her from me?”

“Ah, you see, that’s self-pity talking. Children are the last people on this planet who need rescuing from you, my dear. Besides, I wanted to see what the two of you would do.”

Crowley shakes his head. He looks from Aziraphale’s eyes down to his glasses, the blacker than black lenses he orders special absorbing the mid-morning sun and reflecting it back as a cast of false midnight. “I could have snapped my fingers and fixed it for her. That would have been a good thing, wouldn’t it? A blessing? No possibility of kids making fun of her, no more helicopter parents forcing her to wear those glasses. But it just … it didn’t feel right.”

“It wouldn’t have been,” Aziraphale says. “Not every problem in the world requires a magical fix. In fact, not every problem is a problem.”

“Now, you see, that’s just ridiculous!” Crowley snaps.

“Why is that?”

“Because a problem is a problem. By its very nature, but its very name. That’s why we call them problems. And what she has is a problem.”

“She did have a problem, but it wasn’t her eyes.”

“What was it then?” Crowley grouses, growing tired of Aziraphale trying to help him find the answer instead of outright telling him what it is. Crowley recognizes that that’s Aziraphale’s job in a nutshell - to inspire humans to solve their problems.

But Crowley’s not human. He needs a bit more help finding the answers.

“She’s lonely. Or she was. She wanted to find someone like her, to feel less alone in the world. And she did. She found you. And you found her, I’d say, whether you knew you needed to or not. It’s a power that humans have that angels – and demons, I imagine – find difficult to comprehend. We’re so used to snapping our fingers and changing things that the steps in between are lost on us.”

“And that power is …?”

“Making a connection. Sometimes the solution to a problem isn’t in the fixing. It’s in finding someone who understands. As immortal beings on this planet, weaving our way in and out of people’s lives, it’s something we tend to overlook. Something we tend to avoid, really.” Aziraphale puts a palm to Crowley’s cheek and turns his demon to face him. “I want you to know how proud I am of you.”

Crowley starts to roll his eyes but stops. He doesn’t want to blow this off. He wants his husband to be proud of him. Aziraphale is an Angel of God who chose to risk everything and marry a demon. He should endeavor to make Aziraphale proud every single day.

“You are?”

“I am. I believe you were being tested. And you passed with flying colors.”

“Ugh,” Crowley groans, grabbing his glasses and putting them on before he does something truly asinine – like become teary eyed. “I guess if you’re going to be tested, a library’s as good a place as any for it. Higher learning and all that.”

“True.” Aziraphale makes to stand but Crowley grabs him by the elbow, pulls him gently back to his seat.

“Have I ever told you that you’re very good at your job?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Owning a bookshop?”

“Inspiring humanity. To be honest, it’s not something I ever considered. It isn’t something … I was ever charged to do. But angels are angels, right? They do good deeds and get in our way. When something would come up and you took a step back, said you couldn’t interfere with the Divine Plan, I didn’t understand. But I think I’m beginning to.”

Aziraphale smiles. He leans in and gives his demon a kiss. “It’s nice that somebody does. And I’m glad that someone is you. Come along, dear.” He stands, grabs his husband’s arm and helps him out of his tiny chair. “I think you’ve had enough library for today.”

“Aw, really?” Crowley shakes out his long legs, getting them accustomed to standing upright again. “I was hoping we could pop into the mini theater and, you know, not watch the movie.”

Aziraphale laughs. “And you’re back.”

#Good Omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #Good Omens Fanfic #Frankie writes

215 notes · View notes

softlyblues · 5 years

Text

30th April 1876, Paris

Very little from the exhibition actually sells, because this is before they are very much in vogue, and Manet is still young with a spring in his step, and Renoir still follows Monet with hope in his eyes and a brush behind his ear. It is 1876, the second Impressionist exhibit in Nadar’s studio, and they are all young and full of vigour, skin so thick as to shrug off criticism because what would they know?

L’homme Distrait is a painting in the corner of the room, below a collection of Renoir’s studies of water. People’s eyes pass over it, oddly put off, although there isn’t much wrong with it. At first, anyway.

It is by a young man named Alfred Sisley, and it is odd because Sisley is known (already) for his landscapes. It is a very small canvas, all light and the spill of shadow, the press of a hand against a pillow, the fall of hair along bare shoulders, a shirt slipped down to cup the upper arm, to reveal a smattering of intimate freckles along the back of the neck, trailing ever-downwards. Morning sun spills through the window the figure looks out of, and his face is hidden by the picture, captured from behind. His fingertips press into the pillow, clutching a little of the fabric, and what little the viewer can see below him shows bare feet tucked underneath bare legs, a tantalising peek at whatever else might lie beneath. It is tender.

Three paintings are sold, at the second Impressionist exhibit, although the publicity is a lot greater than that of the second. Two are sold to an art collector from Normandy, who has felt the way the wind is blowing -

And the third is sold to the strange man in the old-fashioned suits, who came every day of the exhibition to stare at the Sisley painting in the corner, an odd look of yearning in his eyes, his hands neatly tucked behind his back as though he doesn’t trust himself not to touch. He pays in cash and vanishes.

☼

2nd September 1889, London

Aziraphale does not have many houseguests, but he makes an exception for a few of his favourite people. It is just before the decade turns, and Oscar cuts a pompous figure lying on his chaise-longue with a wine glass hanging from his hand, but he’s a lonely soul and his young man - his Alfred, an undergraduate at Oxford just turned twenty - is chasing him. Oscar comes to Aziraphale to complain, wryly, that young men will chase without any of the idea the hurt they can cause, and Aziraphale is there with wine and an ear to lend.

“That painting,” Wilde says, waving a hand at the corner, “Often I’ve wondered about it. My tongue is too loose, but my friend - yours is too tight.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have to turn to know which painting Wilde refers to; over the years, he’s wondered if he should discard it, but every time he tries to his hand stills. “I found it in the Impressionists,” he says lightly. “A trifling thing.”

“An odd choice of subject matter for the air-silly men, surely,” Wilde says. He can be astute when he wants to be, damn the bastard.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I thought it was unique, and Sisley was only too glad to sell.”

“Do you know who the sitter is?”

“No,” Aziraphale says.

Oscar’s eyes, mostly full of self-pity, swell with gentle laughter. “My friend - you never did learn how to lie.”

“I don’t know him,” Aziraphale says, “I - I know his name.”

“Oh?”

Aziraphale fills his glass, and then Oscar’s when he holds it out. “His name is Anthony,” he says steadily, and wills his voice not to tremble overmuch, “But we have - that is to say, I do not see him anymore. I haven’t in a long time. I saw the painting at the exhibition and it seemed like I ought to buy it, although I never told Sisley my name and I cannot imagine Anthony would be too happy to know I bought it.”

Wilde laughs. It isn’t a very happy laugh. “You and I,” he says, and tips the edge of his glass against Aziraphale’s, “Must be the most miserable men in all of England. Our lovers run away.”

Aziraphale doesn’t disagree.

☼

And On The Seventh Day, He Rested

That is not even close to how it begins, but it is a view of things from the other side of the mirror.

Crowley doesn’t remember his life before the Fall, only that he must have had one, and that he must have had a good reason for leaving Above and going Below. He remembers the pain of it, of everything burning and the feathers on his wings scorching black with the heat, a God angry at the rejection of one of Its children. Crowley remembers screaming, and then blackness, and then Hell.

He hadn’t liked Hell at all. When they asked for volunteers to tempt on this new experiment God was creating, Crowley had jumped at the chance, back when he was still just Crawly and nothing much separated him from all the rest of the poor bastards down there who had just wanted to know why.

And he got up there and found out that the world was open and airy and beautiful, and things smelled of peaches, and Eve was nice to him, stroking a finger along his scaly back. “You’re pretty,” she tells him now.

This is how it begins.

“I will call you a snake,” Eve tells him, and Crawly rears up all proud of himself, because he has a name someone else has given him and it seems to fit him as though it always has. Like a glove. “You are a snake because of the hiss you make.”

To make her happy, Crawly does it.

Her laugh is beautiful, and he is proud of himself for making it - that is something he has done himself, created all on his own, and it feels so good to create joy in the air, especially for Eve. Crawly likes her ever so much more than he likes Adam, who is a bullyish man, stomping about the garden and forcing names on things that don’t suit them at all. A part of Crawly wonders if Adam will be happy about snake.

“Hello.”

It is a few days later, and Crawly is testing out his other form, sitting on the wall of the garden and swinging his legs over the side. He’s eating an apple. It’s green, juicy, running down his chin, full of good flavour and a sharp bite, and this is why he volunteered - because there are no apples in Hell.

“Hello,” something says again, and a vision all in white settles beside Crawly.

Crawly scrunches up his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a Principality,” says the angel, almost apologetically. “I think I’m meant to be guarding Eden from temptation and things like that? It’s all quite exciting. I’ve been speaking to Adam, a lot.”

“Good,” Crawly tosses his apple over the wall, where it rolls into the barren sand.

(And why is Eden the only place of life? What has made it special?)

(Something takes root.)

“You’re the temptation, then, I gather,” says the angel. He is quite pretty, objectively, a spray of short white hair over an amicable face, a sharp little nose and bow-shaped lips. His robes fall to his ankles, suitably demure, and his hands are folded in his lap as though he’s awaiting a lecture from God Itself.

Crawly shrugs, and feels very sinful. “I’m the temptation.”

(Later he thinks this is part of the Holy Punishment. It must be. To love, and to never be loved in return - a black hole, a void in reverse, giving and giving and never receiving. This is the last and first joke, by a God cruel enough to laugh at it, placing the one thing Crowley wants in front of him and saying: this is not for you.)

“You look very benign,” the angel says, like an apology. “I - oh! I’m very sorry. I’m Aziraphale, Principality. Your name can’t just be temptation.”

“Crawly,” Crawly says, going scarlet at the saying of it aloud. “Although I’m thinking of changing it.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” says Aziraphale politely, and Crawly thinks oh so this is what it’s like to see the sun rising.

He doesn’t mean to tempt.

Truly, he doesn’t.

“Oh, snake,” whispers Eve one golden night when the sun is hanging over the sky, a guest that refuses to leave, “I am so sad, and I don’t know why. I wish you could speak to me, snake - sometimes it feels like you’re my only friend.”

Her and Adam sleep at opposite ends of the Garden. Eve curls beneath a bush, her hair bouncing over one breast, and shivers in the cold; she has nothing to clothe herself in, and even in the desert the nights are freezing. Crawly can’t imagine surviving with warm blood in his veins, instead.

You are my dearesssst friend, Crawly hisses, his tongue flickering out to brush against her cheek. He can’t help it - and anyway, Hell would tell him if he was doing anything truly wrong. Right.

“He hurts me so,” Eve says. Water pools underneath her pupils, and spills over her cheeks, and when Crawly bumps his nose against it he tastes warm salt. “I wish he didn’t, snake, but he does, and he expects me to forget and be his wife. Loving. I love him, and he says he loves me!”

Love is cruel, Crawly says to ears that cannot hear him. As though he knows anything.

“But if he loved me he would be kind.”

Crawly is silent, but his eyes are drawn to the tree in the centre of the garden, and he wonders… all he wants to do is help.

“I wish I knew! For good or ill, I wish I knew!”

And Crawly wraps around her shoulders, and whispers in her ear, and Eve hears.

They leave soon after that.

But Aziraphale gives them the flaming sword, and surely that must count for something? Something meant for good will turn out badly, but something meant for good might still work the way it was intended.

Crawly leaves, belly flat in the sand, and behind him an apple tree takes root, and a single Principality takes flight, dove’s wings in the burning blue of a sky too new to be clouded.

☼

Summer 1194 BC, Troy

The funeral is solemn. The sight of the pyre, hot and sticky in the air of summer, makes bile rise in the back of Crowley’s throat, although he hides under the wraps of a mourning widow in the crowd, unseen to most everyone - he doesn’t want to be bothered, doesn’t want to be talked to.

What a fucking waste.

He is present at the council, too.

“The boy asked for his ashes to be mixed with-”

“But that’s it. He is just a boy, and a war hero, and that other-”

Crowley adds his voice to the chorus. “Achilles is a hero,” he says roughly, dressed now as a war general and not a widow, “And a hero deserves to have his last wishes honoured, does he not? Come to your senses! Would any of you, any of you, wish to be buried in a way not of your choosing?”

For a brief second he holds the sway of these powerful men, men who have grown powerful by getting rid of the caring. He can see them considering. But -

“Achilles was a war hero,” says someone roughly, in a voice much stronger and less stricken than Crowley’s, “And Patroclus was nothing but a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was Achilles’ one blind spot, and we can forgive the man, but we cannot let this continue past his death. Patroclus was a murderer.”

“Let them be,” Crowley says, one last attempt, “Let them be.”

He is shouted down.

“Hello,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley is sitting by the seashore, already deep into his cups with no sign and no intention of slowing down yet. “Hello, angel,” he says gloomily. “Come to gloat?”

To his surprise, Aziraphale sits down beside him, rather heavily. The two of them tend to avoid each other, still, even with all the awkward camaraderie of the ark and the garden and the following the Israelites around their sorry mission - Crowley just can’t get past it, somehow, the way Aziraphale looks. The way he moves. The way it strikes a yearning in his heart.

“Gloat?” Aziraphale sounds injured at the very thought of it. “I thought - I thought they would let them rest. They were so young.”

Wordlessly, Crowley passes the wine over. “It was Pyrrhus, in the end, who swayed them. I think he was embarrassed by it all. Patroclus-”

“They were in love,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley looks across, although he tries not to.

(When he meets Aziraphale, he tries always to look away, because the sight of the angel brings him such unbearable pain, deep down in his heart where he can’t heal it away. Aziraphale is always ringed in a peculiar light that doesn’t glow, as though Crowley’s eyes can see what Crowley often forgets; that Aziraphale is a heavenly body, and Crowley is not.)

Aziraphale is dressed like a foot soldier resting, half in uniform and half out, his undertunic white, a little smeared with sand. His hair is the same as it always was, because he doesn’t seem inclined to change as much as Crowley does, and the straps of his sandals are done a little messy. He is crying big, fat, ugly blobs down his cheeks, two streams meeting at his chin and dripping off to plop on his hands. “They were in love,” he says again, “They didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He tries to say something else, and then stops.

Aziraphale passes back the wine. “They didn’t deserve it.”

“Deserving has nothing to do with anything,” Crowley says before he can stop himself, “Nobody deserves what they’re given. You should know that by now.”

Oh, and does he feel like a heel when Aziraphale turns blue-stained eyes on him. “How can you say that!”

“All those people who drowned to make a new world. Those children, those babies,” and Crowley is only letting himself say this because he’s drunk and bitter, “All those people who died for Its purpose - did they deserve to drown? Did Noah deserve to live? Does Pyrrhus deserve to continue when Achilles is gone? Did Patroclus deserve to die? None of it has to do with who deserves anything. It’s all a game, angel, and all we are is another pair of playing dice.”

“You don’t believe that,” Aziraphale says. He sounds hurt, beyond hurt.

Crowley digs his fingers into the sand. “I have to believe that,” he says. “Because if Achilles deserved to die, if Patroclus deserved to die, for nothing - just for being in love - then nobody deserves to live at all.”

“Crowley-”

He’s done talking. He doesn’t want to talk about love with Aziraphale, on a beach, the smell of burning body drifting down the wind, Patroclus trapped and Achilles sent to the heavens, Troy falling and soldiers revelling. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and perhaps he sounds so small that Aziraphale listens.

Although they only have one jar, the wine never runs empty, not until the sun rises and Crowley turns beside him and sees only marks in the sand where an angel should be.

☼

Autumn 570 BC, the Leucadian Cliffs

The woman on the cliff is a small, white-haired, bent-over lady, who holds herself with the poise of a woman who knows she was once beautiful beyond compare. She does not cry.

Crowley is here, but Aziraphale he hasn’t seen in almost a century.

“My love,” she says to him. “I miss you ever more by the day.”

Crowley reaches out, grabs her by the shoulder; in this body, a young woman from Lesbos itself, the strongest thing about him is the red of his hair. His translucent hand goes right through her. “Please, my love,” he says, in a voice high and flute-like. “Don’t do this.”

Sappho smiles at him sadly. “You are but a ghost,” she tells him. “The ghost of my one love. Claudia - Claudia. When I die I will see her in Hades, and that will be more gift than this - this existence on a rock.”

“Please,” Crowley says again.

(He has been discorporated for the last five years, the female body he liked so much, killed by a lingering disease, but he hasn’t yet had the courage to go Below to ask for a new body. And so here he is, hanging around the woman who fell in love with him, avoiding the angel he’s fallen in love with by a haunting. He wishes he couldn’t. He wishes she wouldn’t.)

“My Claudia didn’t love me, truly,” Sappho says. She’s still beautiful now, and Crowley sees her as the small, vibrant woman she was and is - black hair wrapping around her waist, blue eyes strong and seeking. “My Claudia loved another, but she never would tell me who. Would you tell me, spirit? Before I die?”

“I’ve given my heart to an angel,” Crowley confesses. The sea hits the rocks below, and almost drowns him out. “Please-”

“And the angel is well deserving of it,” Sappho says.

She doesn’t scream, on the way down. She only smiles.

Is this what Crowley deserves?

☼

21st April 33AD, Golgotha

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Crowley replies, and it should be a joke but John is sobbing on the grassless ground and Aziraphale’s bottom lip is wobbling and all he can hear is Mary wailing for her son. Her son. Not anybody else’s. What’s the point in a father that never shows up?

Aziraphale’s hand touches his arm, and Crowley tries not to startle; instead, he turns his palm up, and Aziraphale’s falling fingers touch Crowley’s, and then their hands are linked without either of them quite knowing why.

Crowley doesn’t let go. Neither does Aziraphale.

“I tried, you know,” Aziraphale says dazedly. “I think it was the wrong thing for me to do - but I met him in the desert, just before he came here, and I told him he could have all his Father’s love if he just - if he didn’t-”

“Ineffable,” Crowley says, voice dull. “I met him in the garden. I told him not to do it. I told him he could have the world, he could have John if he wanted, and he said he couldn’t. I tried.”

Three years ago, and Crowley is in the crowd, when Jesus meets John, and just as the clouds part for the dove he sees Aziraphale on the other side of the river. Aziraphale smiles at him, a look altogether too fond although they have been working more together these days, less likely to fall apart, and John touches Jesus very gently, as though he might break.

“My lord,” he says.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, on the other side of the river now as though he’d always been there, and if he speaks in the same tone as John he prays (hah) that nobody notices.

Aziraphale is smiling. “They’ve found each other, Crowley! I always knew they would. Oh - oh, it can’t go wrong. He’s the one, you see?”

John follows Jesus through Israel, and Crowley and Aziraphale follow in turn, part of the faceless crowd that grows every time Jesus goes to speak. He preaches on mountains, on boats, in towns, in villages, by wells, in the countryside, by grass that no longer grows, and John supports him and helps helps baptise the converted and Crowley watches him fall in love. It is beautiful to watch.

They collect the forgotten, on the way. Peter, skinny and young and growling in displeasure; James and the other John, fishing boys who drop their nets, Phillip, Thomas, Matthew, the other James… Thaddeus, Simon, Bartholomew. All too small, all too young, all full of fervent faith. He and Aziraphale meet often, in this time.

It feels like the end of the world is coming.

“John loves him,” Crowley says. They’re sitting on the top of an inn where Jesus is preaching, on the roof where nobody will disturb them.

Aziraphale is eating olives very daintily, his lips wrapped around each one. He looks divine. “Jesus loves him too, I’m sure,” he says like he’s never had cause to doubt it, “They pair of them are - well. Made to be together. I was speaking to John in the last house they were at, and I’m glad for him. I think Jesus feels the strain.”

Crowley relaxes, looks into the starry sky. John loves Jesus. Jesus, the Christ Child. John, the man. “They seem very happy. That can’t last.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sounds so disapproving, “I do wish you weren’t such a cynic about love.”

I’m not, Crowley thinks. “I’m not,” he says.

Aziraphale laughs and pats Crowley’s knee, a single spot of burning warmth. “You always have been, my dear, ever since I’ve known you.”

I’m trying to convince myself, not the rest of the world.

Crowley doesn’t say that bit out loud.

And Judas comes later, the youngest of them all, sixteen and wary, round brown eyes under curly hair, robes that don’t reach his ankles and feet dusty with dirt that isn’t ever properly washed. Crowley sees him and thinks you poor child, and he sees in the way Judas looks at Jesus that there is love, too, with no hope of ever being returned.

John the Baptist kisses the Emmanuel under a fig tree by moonlight, with Aziraphale and Crowley the sole watchers, strolling along the gardens. “Oh,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley wonders what it is like to do that - to do as John does. Cup his lover by the cheek, a thumb under the jaw, tip the face up so lips can meet, eyes brushing shut and eyelashes tangling, hair mussed, robes slipping from their fastenings, the sounds of two young people in love drifting over the air.

He looks at Aziraphale, and wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.

Judas finds nobody, in all their three years of wandering. Crowley wills him to, most desperately. Love is not what you think it is, he tries to say without saying, but Judas doesn’t want to hear.

Which brings them to this hilltop, this place, John beating his fists against the ground and weeping apologies to a God who planned this all along.

“We both tried to do the same thing,” Aziraphale says, as though in a daze. “I wonder - does that make me good, or you evil? Is this the good outcome?”

“You cannot look at this and tell me this is good,” Crowley snaps.

On the cross, Jesus has long since stopped making noise, and the sight of his body makes Crowley feel a little sick. Surely one human shouldn’t have that much blood in them; surely one human shouldn’t look so twisted, so wrong. The thorns have torn the skin on his scalp, and the blood has run down his face, down his cheeks, like some sort of awful parody of tears. John is screaming. It is the only sound in the world.

“I can’t believe God would ever,” Aziraphale says, and stops, and his face is twisted in anguish, “I mean - this is so awful. There must be a good purpose behind it. There must.”

Otherwise what is there?

“He truly loved him,” Crowley says softly. “And now he’s dead. What will John do now?”

He can’t wait to hear Aziraphale’s answer - he doesn’t think he can bear it. It’s the work of a second to slip into the skin of a snake, the animal Eve loved the most, and to slither away under the scrubby apple tree clinging to sand to survive.

☼

14th February 1212, Cologne

“This is foolish,” says Crowley. He doesn’t have to look to know Aziraphale is beside him.

“Crowley-”

“They are children, Aziraphale!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds broken. He’s dressed like a German shepherding man, this time, and it oddly fits with Crowley, dressed as he is like a minor noblewoman from the Rhineland. They blend into the crowd here, listening to the child Nicholas speak, shaking his tiny fist in the air. Encouraging his crowd to war.

The cheers are high-pitched, because not a single voice among them has broken. The crowd must be thousands strong, tens of thousands, all whipped up into holy fervour by the dreams of one child, and now they’re going to march to war.

“They are children,” Crowley hisses. “You can’t talk to me about the ineffable plan. Not now. Don’t have the gall to speak to me about that.”

“Come with me,” Aziraphale says. His hand wraps around Crowley’s, like they did at Golgotha, and holds him tight. “I can’t do anything, and I can’t watch any longer.”

Aziraphale miracles them away to a quiet mountain in the southern part of the world, somewhere that will be found by Columbus in a little bit, somewhere that the native people call only home. This mountain is remote, tall, and huge trees spread their branches over the top of it, casting shadows that protect the pair of them from the watchful eyes of the sun.

As soon as Crowley balances himself from the miracle performed, Aziraphale is letting go of him and pressing his hands to his eyes. “They’re all so young,” he’s shouting, and he sounds angry. “So young! What do they know of the Holy Land!”

It almost frightens Crowley - he’s used to Aziraphale explaining it all away, calling it ineffable, saying it’s part of the Plan, and to have this -

This uncertain Aziraphale -

Crowley’s heart aches for something he’ll never deserve.

“Angel,” he says, and catches Aziraphale by the wrists, prying his hands away from his eyes, “Aziraphale - oh, don’t. Please don’t.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are rimmed in red. “They’re all going to die,” he whispers. “What are we going to do?”

Crowley doesn’t say there’s nothing they can do, because Aziraphale surely knows that, and it would hurt too much to say. He just keeps holding Aziraphale, underneath a wide and spreading tree, and curses Above and Below until he’s sure to be blue in the face, until he can curse no more.

He doesn’t know when they sink to the ground, only that they do, and Crowley can do nothing but sit as Aziraphale wipes wet eyes on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he sniffs. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“You had nothing to do with it,” Crowley says, and he says it as though it’s fact.

(Although in truth, he’s had very little to do with Aziraphale this past decade; he just assumes, and knows he’s right to do so, that Aziraphale would never do anything that would lead to something like this.)

“But he’s doing it in the name of God,” Aziraphale’s voice sounds wet.

“Angel,” Crowley says, and cynicism makes a home in his heart even though he doesn’t mean it to, “You know as well as I do that God has nothing to do with what happens down here.”

He sits, and lets the angel wring himself dry of the tears. All the same - it is a long time before they go back to Europe.

☼

in between, always, everywhere

Crowley learns from humanity, the lessons he’s been taught himself since before time began. Love is patient, love is kind… love is cruel, love is blind. He and Aziraphale meet and tangle, and hold hands, and once Aziraphale holds him by the cheeks and kisses him drunkenly on the forehead. They are wrapped together, and the world seems far too small to hold the both of them.

Crowley loves him. Nothing more, nothing less.

Aziraphale is beautiful, and in his laugh and his smile and the crinkle of his eyes Crowley finds a very particular peace. He can live without having the love returned, so long as he gets to exist around him.

He tells jokes, and he likes fine wine, and he reads poetry, and he never stumbles on quotations when he’s drunk. He goes very fast and very slow, all the time, flitting from country to country and then staying in one village for a hundred years. He does good deeds and bad deeds, and when he sees Crowley after a long absence, his eyes soften and his mouth opens and he says oh my dear, i’m so glad to see you! and something inside Crowley’s chest grabs him tight. Holds him. Vice-like, it says You Love Him and stubbornly Crowley refuses to listen.

Love is patient, love is kind. Crowley watches Aziraphale eat, watches him flirt, watches him be as cruel and dismissive as the harsh sting of a winter morning, watches him pour blessings like water to a flame, and watches all the while.

Nothing more, nothing less.

☼

5th October 1589, Cornwall

The wedding isn’t a very happy one. Crowley hovers in the crowd, wrapped in his shawls, and watches the bride walk down the gravel path to the church, her face stormy, the bruise on her cheek stroking the skin there like the kiss of a mother. The groom is inside, and walking with a limp.

This far South, the Romans and the Christians after them were pretty successful in wiping clean the slate of Celtic spirit, which Crowley finds quite a shame. He always enjoyed the spirituality of the druids, the manic chanting, the fun behind the myths - but he can’t quite complain, either, because the Celts haven’t quite as much fear of demons as the Christians. The Celts would have befriended him.

Still, in Cornwall the old ways cling on a little, and the wedding is between two peasants without a single bean to their name, and no need to care about the Christian path. The couple are Bakerson, Robert and Millie, and they are marrying through an arrangement with their parents, so somebody can inherit the small village bakery and the farm that goes with it. The Bakersons are a wealthy family.

“Poor girl,” says a voice in Crowley’s ear, and before Crowley can jump Aziraphale’s hand grabs his wrist. “It’s only me, dear.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley manages. “I-”

“She was in love with the tinker,” Aziraphale says sadly. He’s wearing the clothes of a travelling gentleman, and looks quite out of place in a crowd of peasants and their cousins; all the same, nobody looks at him twice. A simple miracle.

“I know.”

“He was in love with the bootboy.”

“I know,” Crowley says again. An odd bitterness fills him. “I’ve been here for almost ten years, angel - I know these people. I was trying to let her run away with the thrice-damned tinker, much good it did them, and the bootboy was never meant to get cold feet.”

“Temptation,” Aziraphale says disapprovingly.

“I tempted them to nothing,” Crowley says. The church bells ring. “I only tempted them to forget the wills of their parents and do what their hearts told them, and look what that got me.”

“Honour thy father and mother,” Aziraphale quotes. In his mouth the commandment sounds soft and gentle, like something to encourage.

Crowley feels ill. He is gone before Robert and his new bride emerge, glowering in the light of a new day, although Mr Fell stays in the village a while longer, and for a long time their little community is blessed with incredible good fortune - the travelling tinker man stays several months, next time he visits. Miss Crow, though, is never seen in the place again, and rumour has it she was herself a spurned lover, and something happened between her and the fine gentleman. Mr Fell will never confirm nor deny, but he looks awfully sad when she’s brought up.

☼

1st December 1801, London

They are drinking in Aziraphale’s bookshop - drinking rather expensive wine - and Crowley is so, so tired.

He gets like this sometimes. Tired of existing maybe, without a break since the world first began, tired of loving Aziraphale for so long and knowing this is all he’ll ever get in return, tired of living in a world that was never designed for him to exist in. This is why sleep is the only real human indulgence he goes in for. He needs to rest.

“You need to drink,” Aziraphale hiccups, and splashes more wine into the cup in Crowley’s hand. “You look so cold, my dear, you need to drink!”

“I don’t really think I do,” Crowley says, but he does as he’s told. Does what Aziraphale wants.

(Hah!)

They’re drinking a very fine whisky; Crowley’s spent a lot of time in Scotland, and has developed quite the taste for it, orange fire down his throat. It burns. Aziraphale doesn’t like it as much, says he prefers the wine and port and drink of southerly places, but Crowley likes alcohol made only to keep you warm at night. Either freeze, or drink fire. Either way you end up dead.

Aziraphale winces when he next takes a drink, but he doesn’t say anything. Crowley watches him out of the corner of his eye, as he always does, otherwise he’d miss it.

The bookshop is a new addition, one that has arrived since the last time Crowley saw Aziraphale - although that was a very long time ago, almost half a century. Seventeen-sixty-three, when Aziraphale had been sent by heaven across the water to one of those continents untouched by human hands yet, when Crowley decided to wander over to Ireland on sabbatical. Fat lot of good that had done him. United Irishmen? Hah.

But the bookshop suits Aziraphale down to the ground, it does. He’s always been a lot more rooted to places than Crowley, who prefers to be on the move, through the change… Aziraphale likes to pick a place and settle into it like a mother hen ruffling into a dirt bath. Cooing. Content. And this way, Aziraphale has his collection to hand without anyone trying to burn him for witchcraft, which is always a plus - considering.

A drunk finger lands on Crowley’s knee. “Stop thinking,” says Aziraphale with the gusto of the happily tipsy. “You think too much. Stop it.”

“I can’t help but think,” Crowley says, even as he takes another deep slug of the whisky.

“Ridiculous. Should be against the law.”

“Thinking?”

Aziraphale nods. “Precisely.”

But none of this helps the fact that Crowley is still so very tired, and all he wants to do is sleep for a hundred years. He wants to stop loving Aziraphale. It hurts too much, and even more because he knows there is no reward - there is no breaking point, no place he can hit that makes everything alright. He just loves and sinks and keeps loving and sinking, and Aziraphale shines with all the brilliance of a thousand suns and that’s all Crowley will ever be, right up until the end of the world.

“Angel,” he says, and then stops, shocked at how cracked and broken his voice sounds. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looks briefly alarmed. “My dear boy-”

“I’m very tired,” Crowley says, a little lamely. “Do you mind if I skip out on the after-drinks?”

“No, no, but-”

“I’m tired,” Crowley says again.

None of this helps that, even in the breaking point, he knows he’ll never stop loving Aziraphale. This is as low as he’ll ever go, and even then -

And even then -

It never ends.

☼

the first day of the rest of the world, London

“Where did you get that painting?”

Aziraphale had spent the night after the apocalypse in Crowley’s flat, where they’d shared the bed and stayed up all night, each convinced the other was asleep, wondering how on earth to proceed without making the other feel uncomfortable. Now, though, they’re in the bookshop with some tea and buns, because nothing feels more solid than a scone with butter and jam on the top.

(Crowley refuses to mention which way round. He doesn’t want to anger the Cornish.)

“What painting?” Aziraphale stops with his cup halfway to his mouth, looking a bit confused.

“That one,” Crowley nods towards it. In truth, he recognises it well enough, even though it’s been over a hundred years since it was painted; Alfred was such a lovely man, so accommodating, and Paris in the 70s (no, not those ones) had been such a friendly place. Full of so much - newness.

He’d only woken up to refresh himself, really, because sleeping for almost a hundred years does take it out of you, and by chance he’d wandered onto the streets of Paris and found himself in a bundle of men in black hats, all talking very excitedly about colour and light and how absolutely mad it was that nobody would let them in. It had all been rather fun.

“Anthony,” Alfred had said, a little breathless, “Won’t you let me paint you? I have excellent studio light, and you beg a painting. I can see it. Please?”

“Oh, if you must,” Crowley had said, as though it meant nothing.

It had been nice, the kisses. Very soft. Alfred loved him and didn’t seem to mind that his Anthony was detached, because it was Paris in the 1870s and you took what you could get and you didn’t care about the secrets everyone was hiding. It had been nice.

So -

“Where did you get it,” Crowley asks again, in the now, after everything.

Aziraphale looks a little flustered. “I - it was in Paris, you see, and it was almost going to be seventy-five years after I’d seen you… you remember that sleep you took, all of the nineteenth century, and I - well, one of my friends, a sort of… he was a confidant, you see, Oscar and everything, and he mentioned this delightfully odd art movement in Paris, and so I went. Sisley was very… delicate. And that awful art critic was there. And-”

“Did you ever learn who the sitter was?”

If possible, Aziraphale looks even redder. “Um. Sisley never said-”

“But you know,” Crowley says. “You recognised it.”

“I hadn’t seen you in almost a century!”

Crowley shrugs. “I told you I was tired.”

“And then I saw you in that painting, so of course I was going to buy it,” Aziraphale looks almost angry at him now. “Alfred Sisley! And of course, when I asked where you’d gone he said he’d had his heart broken by you and he had no idea. I spent all that time looking for you, and then-”

“I was asleep.”

“You could have told me!”

“I did,” Crowley says, watching Aziraphale get more and more frantic with a sort of wild confusion, “I said I was tired, and that I was going to bed, and I’d see you in a bit. I thought… I didn’t think you’d mind at all, really.”

“Mind!”

“Uh.”

“Of course I would mind!” Aziraphale doesn’t often raise his voice, never mind making the sort of shrieking yell he is now, so when he does it makes Crowley shut up and listen. “Crowley - you idiot! Of course I would mind, you frustrating, ridiculous, stupid-”

“I did it because I was in love with you,” Crowley says.

Silence.

“I was in love with you and I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I went to sleep. For a long time. I thought when I woke up I would be over it.”

Silence. There’s a blob of strawberry jam on Aziraphale’s nose, where the scone he was eating had obviously proven a bit too unwieldy.

Crowley finishes his cup of tea and sets it on the table, very deliberate, and quite loud. “And that’s the end of it,” he says, “And I hope there’ll be no more. Any scones left, or did you eat them all- mmf-”

Aziraphale is not a good kisser, and neither is Crowley, because until very recently both their Head Offices looked down on immortal beings going in for sins of the flesh. That doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter at all, because they’ve both waited for far too long for it to be anything other than a good kiss.

“L’homme distrait,” Aziraphale says breathlessly, a little while later. “I always wondered - the man, distracted by what?”

“You shouldn’t need to ask,” Crowley says. And kisses him again, because he can.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #crowley/aziraphale #good omens fandom #yearnposting #crowley & aziraphale through the years #love u #self #own fiction

223 notes · View notes

spelling-checked-mostly · 4 years

Note

Idk if you do fic writing but maybe GO -because I'm obsessed and "nanny, why are you crying?" Idk. Kinda feeling angsty. If you don't do fic that's cool too. Idk, feeling bored in here on this Friday afternoon... iloveyourworkpleasestartpostingagainokaythanksbye

Oh uh... wow okay hi. I do write fic, thanks for the prompt. I'm not great at angst /lies/ but I can try. Note that I am typing this on my phone. Warlock was singing- internally of course. Nanny wouldn't approve of the future ruler of hell literally singing. Unless of course, he sings queen. So Warlock sang internally, voicing his joy only in his head. “Yes father, I would love to go.” It’s the first time he has really been allowed to go to an event like this. “I can behave. I promise.” “I’m sure you will not embarrass me. Especially with your nanny there to keep you in line.” Crowley's head shot up. He had very little interest in going to these events. Of the very few things humans did that he actually had an influence in- he hated dinner parties the most. He just found them dreadfully boring. “Yes sir, of course.” He wanted to sit in his room and drink that night out of existence. “I'll make sure Warlock is the perfect son.” As soon as his father had left Crowley told Warlock to go play in the garden. He followed of course. Hunting down the one being on this planet who would understand his opinions on the matter. “Sometimes, Francis, I really hate being perfect.” Crowley ‘leaned’ against a shrubbery and watched Warlock chasing after a rabbit he had found. “You are far too vain, my lady. Though that may be your only flaw.” Aziraphale stood, wiping the dirt off of his hands. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon?” Crowley sighs dramatically and looks away. “Do you recall, oh it wasn't that long ago of course you do, when politicians and debate first started developing into a less- er… civil manner. I suggested to some minister or some such that they all get together for a party.” Azira nods. “Honestly, they do seem to resolve things better when they are all in a good mood.” he sighs, “I suppose I should have thanked you for that.” Crowley shrugged. “But are the decisions they are making actually good ones? I had to use a lot of questionable logic to not get in trouble for that.” Aziraphale laughs, only a little. “Well anyway, I have to go to one with the antichrist. I can't imagine it will be enjoyable in the slightest.” And Crowley can see the way his angel physically deflates. Because something is wrong. “Everything alright Angel?” “Hmm? Oh yes, everythings just… tickety boo.” And Crowley rolls his eyes- not that you can tell, but he does it anyway. “We have been over this. No one who is tickety boo actually uses the term tickety boo. What's wrong, come on now tell me. We’re partners aren't me. If you have concerns about the child… or something else?” And aziraphale sighs, and frowns and crowley doesn't like it at all. “It's just… I've been thinking recently… Warlock is getting older and- and well he's not spending so much time at home anymore and you always go away with him and I-I just feel like when you go… I feel- you get more chances to tempt the child than I do is all.” And Crowley laughs. And Aziriphale will never tell him how much it hurts when he laughs at him. “Oh Angel, you should have told me sooner why- we could have certainly found some excuse for you to come with us. Might need a miracle but I can certainly work something out… If that's really what you are so down about.” And Azira forces himself to smile. And Crowley can see through it but he doesn’t say anything. And Warlock comes running over. “Nanny, nanny come look, I’ve killed it.” And Crowley smiles. And Azira gasps. And they go together to find the poor creature. “Very good.” “Now now, Warlock. We should respect and love all of god's creatures. How about a proper burial.” Aziraphale doesn’t give him a chance to argue. He takes the rabbit up in one hand and leads him over to a steadily growing wildlife cemetery. “But Nanny says that-” “The one thing you should respect is your elders.” Crowley smiles softly over at his Angel, even if there is no acknowledgement of what he has said. “Yess nanny, I’ll get the shovel.” “Thank you for that dear.” Aziriphale says it quietly and doesnt turn around. ~~~~~Convenient time skip for exposition~~~~~ “He called me dear. Can you believe that? I mean I know he does it all the time. It’s just his nature. He calls everyone dear. It just felt different this time, you know?” He continued gently misting his plants. “He's a terrible gardener, but I can forgive that.” There's a light rustling and crowley stops. Resting his hand on his hip with all his demon sass. “We have been over this. It’s not like that. Satan though, I wish it was. But could you imagine?” He laughs and goes back to tending his own little garden in his room. “I’d have to teach him how to dance though. Angel only knows one dance and-” “Nanny who are you talking to?” Crowley shrieks and spins and nearly sprays Warlock in the face with the spray bottle before catching himself. “I wasn't talking to anyone. Do not sneak up on me.” He sets the spray bottle down and leads them out of the side closet into the main area. “Sorry. I’m jsut bored because i was listening to father talk about work and i started thinking and - Oh yeah i came up to ask you something.” Warlock grins and Crowley can't figure out if he is proud of or afraid of the demonic gleam in his eyes. “Do you have a date for the party Nanny?” Crowley nearly falls out of his chair. “No-I- Well- Am i supposed to?” He straightens out his skirt and tries to compose himself. “Well, I was listening to father and he was talking about how one of his partners got a new girlfriend and father hates her but he just knows that his partner is going to bring this girl with him and it got me thinking that you are a fairly pretty woman. At least, far prettier than my friends' nannies so i figured you must be seeing someone.” Warlock pauses for air so Crowley takes the chance to cut in. “Well, if ruling hell doesn’t work out I suppose you could make a career in flattery.” He decides he is definitely not going to address the issue of his love life with the antichrist. “It's just that i'd really like to meet him. So i asked father if he hated all boyfriends and girlfriends or if it was just the man he works with and he said that they weren't all bad and he wouldn't even mind people bringing dates to things like this if they weren't so insufferable as that girl so i asked if he would let you bring your boyfriend and he seemed really confused but he said that your boyfriend couldn't possibly be as bad as that girl so as long as you do your job and i really want to meet him nanny.” And again warlock pauses for breath. This time Crowley doesn’t speak. He thinks for a moment before opening his mouth. “Say you’ll take him to the party or I- I’ll- when i take over hell i won't let you have sweets.” Crowley laughs. “Would it still be as exciting if you had already met him?” Crowley could laugh from the look on the boy's face. “You aren’t dating Clyde are you? It would be just like you to date another nanny and he's just so bossy and he doesn’t even believe ill take over hell and… I don’t like him or stupid Jackson and his stupid new toy train.” Warlock folds his arms over his chest and pouts. Crowley does laugh this time. “No, Clyde is too… too much of a nanny. No Warlock, I would be bringing Francis.” Warlock does not look as surprised as Crowley would have expected. “The gardener? I mean I guess I see it but he's so soft and you're so- uh..also soft. But like dark soft.” and crowley nearly growls. “I. Am. Not. Soft. And if you say it again you’ll be going to bed early.” He can hear the plants rustling behind the door. “Well it's just… he looks like he escaped from a male convent.” “A monastery?” “And you look like… you. Like you are waiting for people to find the body of your ex husband who disappeared three years ago so you can play the grieving widow and inherit his fortune.” “You are very creative, warlock. I am eager to see what your future looks like. Yes, seeing as I am aloud I will be bringing Francis as my date to the party. Go play in your room for a but, Nanny has something to take care of.” As soon as Warlock is gone Crowley pops back down to the garden. “Brother Fran- Oh don't scream Angel, it’s just me.” Crowley waits for him to calm down. “I told Warlock we are dating.” “You did what!” “Oh for Satan's sake angel I said don’t scream.” Crowley smiles and brushes his hair back. “Yes, Miss Ashtoreth, I won't scream but I must ask dear. You did what?” “Its brilliant really Angel. And Warlock gave me the idea. Maybe you really are having an influence on him.” The comment goes right over the angels head. “I've told him we are dating. Then you can be my date to parties and things. It’s fine with his father by the way. No miracle needed. You can have just as much chance to influence the boy as me.” And Azira smiles. And Crowley knows it's still fake but he can’t possibly figure out why. So he leaves it alone. “I guess when you put it like that it’s okay to lie.” Oh. Oh right. “Of course Angel. So may I tempt you to join me for a dinner party?” “I suppose. Yes. You could.” ~~~ Time skip because i hold all the power ~~~ “He said yes. Can you believe that. Of course he says its all a lie so he doesn’t really love me but i suppose we've known that this whole time haven’t we? Yes I suppose we have. We’ve been over this.” Rustling. Crowley sneers. “Oh you know what, shove it up your roots Phil. I would run you through the disposal if you weren’t the second most perfect specimen i’ve ever seen. Don’t tell the others of course. How will i strike the fear of- uh- me into them if they know i treat you like this.” ~~~ Time skip because that was just self indulgent~~~ "Oh, Miss Ashtoreth, who's your friend" Crowley cringes at the sound if that voice and grips Aziraphale hand a little tighter, trying to sink into the wall. "Not now Clyde, I'm trying to watch Warlock. Unlike some people, I take my job seriosly." "Oh please, what trouble can they really get into here? Be polite, introduce me." Crowley pouts. Legitimately pouts. And Azira pulls his hand away to offer it to 'Clyde' "I'm Francis, Lady Ashtoreth' partner." Warlock watches Crowley's mental battle to not rip Clyde's hand off when he reaches out. "Im Clyde, of course. I nanny for one of Warlocks friends. Miss Ashtoreth and I are very close, funny she didn't mention you." Azira laughs nervously. "Yes well, as a couple were fairly-" "Private." Crowley takes his hand bag and drags them away. "I hate that man. Honestly, he dares question the legitimacy of our relationship. We are perfect together." And Azira forces are smile. Because he knows. And Crowley can tell it's forced, but he doesn't press it. Because he doesn't know. "So this is the uh… boyfriend Warlock talks about" they spin to the new person, crowley doesn't let go of his hand. It's an awkward turn. "Yes Mr. Dowling." Crowley is beaming. And Azira hates it because his adversary is trying to tempt him again and he can't get in trouble. "I must be honest, I never would have suspected. Of course, my wife always has more of a sense for those things" he nods a little, like that makes sense. "Well sir, we do try to be professional at work." Wonderful excuse Crowley. A genius you are. "Thank you for allowing him to come with us though." "Yes well, you seem to still be watching after Warlock so I don't see the harm in letting you have some life" he sighs, looking around. "Er… would you mind telling Warlock he can't stay for dinner. There are really some important decisions to be made so we are rereading some ending the children home early." "Of course sir" Crowley was not looking forward to upsetting the antichrist. He resigned himself to it, and set about locating the boy again. Every person who cast doubt on his relationship with aziraphale upset him more until he was eager to get out. But of course, every time he looked back at his angel, Azira seemed to be having fun. Laughing and chatting with whoever they had bumped into. And of course, there were people who weren't entirely surprised. Which made it a little easier for Crowley to stomach socializing. Every chance he got to tell someone that he and Azira were dating, he took. He adored being able to say it. Although, he noticed, it did seem to put his date a little on edge. Finally they found Warlock. Or... he found them. "Nanny this is boring, I want to leave." Crowley sighed. "Well you're in luck. Your father is sending you home. Come on now, let's get your things." If crowley were anything other than a demon he might be ashamed to admit that he used a minor demonic miracle to get than hem out without people noticing. As an angel Aziriphale is rather distraught over his own use of a miracle to keep people from noticing them. On the drive home even Warlock can tell that it's tense. Azira waits for Crowley to put the child to bed before saying anything. But as soon as he walks down the stairs. "I can't do this." And he can see Crowley break. Anthony Janthony Crowley, demon from hell, nearly starts sobbing on the stairs. But only for the fraction of a second when that wave of emotion first hit's him can you tell. Then he carefully packs it away. "Can't do what Angel?" And Crowley knows. And aziraphale gives a sad little smile, because he knows. "We aren't right Crowley. Every single person could tell. You could tell" "Aziraphale it's not about what some stupud humans think. We are doing this because- so that you can spend a little more time with the kid. Put us on even ground. Who cares what people say. We can do this." And Crowley hates that he's practically begging and Aziraphale hates that he's practically begging and they both hate this situation. "I can't do this Crowley. I. Me. I cant. I'm an angel Crowley and it's just wrong to lie about something so... intimate. So human. It's wrong to lie to everyone." And Crowley can see that tidal wave comming in again. So why not swim out to meet it. In a flash he's right in front of his Angel. Holding his face. Pleading. "Why does it have to be a lie?" And he hates himself for leaning foreward and kissing that stupid, stupid angel. But for the briefest second he sees heaven. Then Aziraphale pulls away. "I've said it once, I'll say it hundreds of times. Until you understand. You go to fast for me" It crashes over him and he's drowning. "Go. Go away. Go back to your own house tonight. Don't bother comming in tomorrow. Itll be too rainy for you to get any gardening done" "Oh, Dear don't-" "Get. Out. Aziraphale." And he leaves. And the door closes. And Crowley barely makes it up to his room. He doesn't make it up to his room. "Nanny, why are you crying?" Warlock steps out of his bedroom door and puts a gentle hand on Crowley's arm. "That party was just so dreadful" and -for the first time since Warlock had learned to walk- his nanny picks him up, carries him to bed, and tucks him in. "Thank you, Warlock." And then he leaves. ~~~Time skip brought to you by a lazy author and stuff~~~ "He HATES me Phil." Crowley sits in the corner. To dry to cry. He just sits there, staring at the plant. "He he's me and you know what I hate me too and I bet you hate me. Warlock doesn't hate me though. The one person that I need to hate everything doesnt hate me." A dry sob shakes his rib cage. "I've made a discovery though. I do believe angel saliva is some weird form of holy water. I thought ink he was about to kiss me back. Right before he pulled away. His eyes were closed I know it." It's silent for far too long. "I love him, Phil." Ahnhdmhxnabdh I haven't gotten a prompt in like ever. I love you sm. I haven't written GO fic in forever. I did more research for this than for my actual writing projects because I did not preciously know what a male nunnery was called. This was fun. Btw- Phil is a fake plant. Crowley doesn't know yet.

#I know it's been forever #eat my ass #I'll be posting again soon okay #calm down #anyway #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #fake dating au #???

14 notes · View notes

mortuarybees · 5 years

Note

do u have any more good omens fic recs?

oh boy do i. some of them are fics that i have included in my fic rec tag so if you’ve been in that bear with me there will also be others. basically my preferred and only accepted genre of anything is “unbearably tender” and “aziraphale is extremely neurotic and crowley loves him anyway” it’s therapeutic

at some point im going to update the original reference post with like. all the amazing content ive come across since making it but until then:

one may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel by lumosity aka @femmeaziraphale aka my very best friend

they have started another fic intended to destroy my life in which hell wins the next round and divines a special torment for crowley pls read it and encourage them to finish it because they don’t believe me when i tell them it’s amazing and i am d e s p e r a t e for more.

“You know, you’re very familiar,” Aziraphale said, breath stinking of the sweet wine.

“Oh? I guess I look like many goat herders,” Crowley allowed. Aziraphale snorted, nudging Crowley’s shoulder clumsily.

“No! I mean that you just seem like someone I’ve known before,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt that familiar ache in his chest. Suddenly he wished he was sober.

“I have a common face,” Crowley dodged.

“Say whatever you like, but I feel like we fit together quite nicely,” Aziraphale said, resting his head against the bark of the tree. Crowley took the opportunity to watch Aziraphale while he had his eyes closed. There were the same old blonde eyelashes against his cheeks, the one little drop of sunlight that formed a mole at the corner of his eye. Crowley wished to kiss his cheek only once. An apology for not losing. For not giving Aziraphale an eternity of listening to celestial harmonies.

wings and how to hide them by triedunture

Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends? // if you follow me you’ve probably seen me post or quote certain excerpts a million times you may recognize it as His Body Is A Place And It’s Filled With Love.

He swallowed. So bloody awkward, staring up at Aziraphale like this, having his face held. Was he supposed to maintain eye contact? It seemed impossible. His gaze darted away.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Aziraphale admonished, giving his cheek a little pat. "Try to imagine, I don't know...slipping into my body the way you'd slip into a new coat." His smile was weak.

Crowley made a face. "Sounds grotesque."

"It isn't! Come now." His voice and eyes softened. "Please. Try."

Deep breath in. He would try. For Aziraphale's sake. "All right." He opened his eyes, held Aziraphale's plaintive stare, and pictured how it would feel. To be a part of Aziraphale. To be held inside him, to surround him at the same time.

To be loved.

hand in unlovable hand by courfeyrock (les mis solidarity)

“Goodnight, my dear,” he says, and Crowley swears, Aziraphale could call him my dear for six thousand more years and he still wouldn’t be able to get used to it. // it’s tender it’s bed sharing it’s “i love you in the human way” it’s quoting that unspeakable broadchurch scene its title is from no children by tmg; in short, it’s specifically designed to torment me.

Crowley’s head snaps around as if on a swivel. “Shall we… what?”

“Go to sleep? Normally I would love to stay up and have a drink or a chat but you see I really am exhausted and I--”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Idiot, Crowley thinks. I am such an idiot. "I'll uh, I'll sleep underneath the covers, and you can sleep on top." He waves his hand in a forcefully casual gesture that he hopes conveys just how normal it is for two platonic friends to be having this conversation.

everything just stops by witching

they are drunk and crowley wants to take a bath so he miracles one and they have. the most unbearable conversation ever fucking put to fiction literally returning to it to select one single quote was nearly impossible for me emotionally. god the tenderness the yearning!!!! “i like your silly aziraphale things”!!!!!!!!!! “i love you deep, angel”!!!!!! i hate it! just read it please i cant actually keep describing it or i’ll have to lay down for a little while.

“Are you –” the angel’s voice was hoarse, and he paused to clear his throat, “are you playing some sort of game right now?”[....]

“I am not,” Crowley whispered fervently, his face frighteningly close to Aziraphale’s. “Six thousand yearsss, angel. You’re a part of me, and I jussst – just wanted you to know, is all.”

Without warning, Aziraphale reached with both hands to pull Crowley in closer, forcing him to drop his own hand from the angel’s face. Aziraphale held him gently, pressing a single chaste kiss to the demon’s forehead, his lips lingering as his thumbs slid tenderly along his cheekbones, his fingers wrapped up in dark, dripping hair.

When Crowley responded not by recoiling, as Aziraphale had expected, but by melting against his skin and sighing contentedly, the angel placed another kiss on one cheek, then the other. He moved to kiss Crowley’s eyelids, his jawline, his chin, the corners of his mouth, all the time cradling Crowley’s head in his hands, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Crowley to rebuff his affection.

Crowley, ever one to defy expectations, continued to allow the angel to kiss his face to his heart’s content. It was only when he heard Crowley sniff and let out a pitiful whimper that he pulled back, looking at the demon with concern.

hard feelings/loveless by witching

Aziraphale said it was like the opposite of the feeling you’re having when you say things like “this feels spooky.” Crowley didn’t know what to make of that, but he expected it was something like the opposite of the feeling you get when the only person who truly knows you makes a cryptic remark suggesting that you can’t understand love. Crowley understood love all too well. // crowley. crowley can’t sense love bc he is so goddamn full of love that he can’t see past it he’s just so full of it that he can’t separate it from just how he always is c r o w l e y. also angelic/demonic mindmelding.

“What about - I mean, if that’s… love,” he struggled to get the word out, “then what’s this other feeling? The one that I’ve been calling love for all this time?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t possibly imagine.” He didn't have to voice his surprise at the fact that Crowley had an emotion he called love. It wasn't that he had truly thought Crowley was incapable of such an emotion; he was deeply aware of the power and range of the demon's feelings. He simply hadn't thought that Crowley was in tune with his own mind enough to understand it in those terms.

“Can I show you?” Crowley blurted without thinking.

come as you are by punkfaery (explicit; trigger warning for body dysmorphia and disordered eating)

Aziraphale visits a modern art gallery, goes on a diet, and submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Not necessarily in that order. // this mugged me in an alleyway and ruined me emotionally for a whole night but like whatever. it starts with a mary oliver quote so idk what i expected

He dragged a kitchen chair out and sat in it, looking like he wanted to set fire to things with the power of his mind. He was probably angry enough to try it, too. Aziraphale moved a nearby copy of The Earth Compels out of the way, just in case. “It wasn’t really because of him,” he said. “It just made me realise, that’s all.”

“Realise what?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “That I’m not… quite as I should be. That you deserve better.” He lowered his head, feeling wretched. “That’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t say something from the start, but it seemed like a difficult sort of thing to bring up.”

Crowley’s face was indescribable.

“You thought I’d stop liking you because you’re not thin,” he said. His voice was utterly toneless. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Well, naturally when you say it like that it sounds – ”

“Seriously? After six thousand years of, of whatever you want to call this? After we literally saved the fucking world together?”

salinity (and other measurements of brackish water) by drawlight

It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching. // michael sheen has read and recommended it. god. it starts with a quote from eros the bittersweet. it took me a full half hour to read past the first paragraph or so it’s so Much.

"I want to see you cook." (Something made from his hands. Something purely Crowley. Nothing pulled from the ether. Nothing sourced and given, no. Something made from his hands.)

He looks at his hands. Holds them up, splays them against the shale backdrop of his ceiling. His hands are always the same, day to day. They are clean but stained. His long and dawdling fingers, his bit of knuckles, his veins and tendons beginning to show a little more. Yes, more, he doesn't know the age of his body but he keeps it somewhere here, at indeterminate forty. There is a hangnail on the ring finger, there are stains of belladonna on the sides, on the rough spots.

Belladonna, that green plant sick with chlorophyll, sick with poison. Crowley is a gardener and he grows belladonna in his bedroom. He knows poisons the way Aziraphale knows the Dewey Decimal System. Yes, he knows them intimately, bent over his long counter, pulling the leaves apart, peeling the stems. Crushing the seeds. He knows not to lick his fingers after, that the leaves and berries are toxic to a grown man, that maybe even Livia had used it once, dripped into Augustus' wine. Not, really, that poisons would matter . It’s one of those little perks of the demon gig, that whole immortality thing. What can get at him; what can cut it short? Only holy water and other blessed things. (Aziraphale is an angel, made out of blessed things. Crowley does not know how it might be to kiss him, mouth to wet mouth. If holy water might burn him, what can he expect from the freshwater mouth of an angel?)

birds of a feather by idiopathicsmile

Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals. // look....im weak for home decorating as proxy or metaphor for domesticity and familiarity and this trope is literally this. i die

“Demons definitely don’t court,” says Crowley. “They fuck sometimes, but it’s—I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anything about the mating practices of insects but it’s more—like that. There’s no guarantee all parties will come out in one piece. Never seemed worth it, frankly. I like my pieces where they are.”

Aziraphale takes this all in with a series of slow, horrified nods.

“Wait,” says Crowley, “what do angels do?” He’s never pictured angels engaging with each other at all, outside of maybe mandatory team-building exercises.

“They nest,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley waits for this to all make sense. “What, instead of fucking?”

“No,” says Aziraphale primly. “Not instead. It’s—it’s part of the courtship ritual. You have to be able to build a decent nest if you want to be seen as a viable mate—”

“Like birds,” Crowley repeats, disbelieving.

“Not like birds, birds got it from us,” shrills Aziraphale.

men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that by mercuryhatter

Aziraphale finds an age slipping away from him. // aziraphale and crowley attend robbie ross’ funeral, and aziraphale mourns the loss of the old circle. also there’s some brief dunking on bosie. i adore this fic with my whole heart

“Listen.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s elbow and dragged him out of earshot of the funeral, releasing him under a nearby tree. “It’s not that I’m not glad you’re back. Remember that, because I’m about to be very short with you, but it’s not that.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly and Crowley nodded.

“That being said.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. His voice was shaking slightly and he tried to press it back to steadiness inside his throat. “You will not get near one more human under my charge this decade, are we clear?”

“Angel–” Crowley started, surprised, but Aziraphale cut him off. Fury was bubbling up inside of him, bright and brittle and with a deeply-buried thread of exhaustion that he couldn’t afford to think too long about.

“No.”

where you stay i will stay by mercuryhatter

at the hundred guineas club, men went under women’s names. aziraphale went by naomi and he paid! to keep ruth free! for crowley!!!! while crowley slept! it stopped my tender heart

“Let’s see. We all know Victoria, of course. Betsey, Henrietta, Georgiana, Chastity, that’s rich, and Temperance too, particular friends of each other, I imagine? A few Elizabeths, not particularly creative… oh.” Crowley nudged Aziraphale until he peeked up from his place hidden in Crowley’s sweater. “Aziraphale.”

“No, dear, I didn’t put that one down.” Crowley huffed in fond exasperation.

“No, honey, you put Naomi.”

“So I did.”

“And… I don’t see a Ruth.”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “No, I paid them an extra hundred pounds a year to hold that one for me.”

“For you or for…”

and this isn’t a fic but another essay that means the world to me, making an effort: queer (trans) masculinity in the ethereal & occult beings of good omens by elegantidler and irisbleufic

#henry speaks #good omens #fic rec #ineffable husbands

261 notes · View notes

fataziraphale · 4 years

Text

The Best and Wisest Man Whom I Have Ever Known (A Good Omens Secret Santa)

Happy holidays, @ditherwings!!! I was your Good Omens Secret Santa! I had oodles of fun writing this—I too adore literary history and Aziraphale being a dork. You have excellent taste! I hope your holidays are wonderful and you enjoy this offering from me.

When Aziraphale sent a letter to cancel their dinner plans, Crowley dropped a potted plant in shock, scattering ceramic shards all over his kitchen floor. Aziraphale never turned down the Café Royal. He relished in running into all those authors he was fond of, like the unsettlingly tall one who flirted a bit too much for Crowley’s taste. Plus—and this generally piqued Aziraphale’s interest even more—their French patisserie was to die for.

Perhaps more alarming, Aziraphale’s elegantly looped handwriting announced he was cancelling dinner because he was currently in mourning.

In mourning? For a human, then? It didn’t seem in-character. Among their other arrangements, Crowley and Aziraphale had made a pact, some drunken night in 1431, that they weren’t going to love any specific humans. Sure, it was all right for Aziraphale to go the salons and debate the merits of various magazine poems, or be on a first-name basis with his local baker. It was another matter entirely for him to become attached.

It all got too messy. They’d agreed on that. They’d practically emptied out a winery after Boccaccio died—Aziraphale because the man had made such incredible contributions to the literary canon, Crowley because he’d inspired a whole generation of women to take up masturbating, but both because Giovanni was a friend. They knew what happened to humans after they died, they knew the man’s soul would live on until at least Armageddon, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they would miss him, and they couldn’t keep going on like this, becoming blubbery messes incapable of doing their duties every time a good drinking buddy got ill. So they’d decided not to. They’d promised.

So then who the dev—who was Aziraphale mourning now?

Miffed at Aziraphale going back on his word (and certainly not worried about the angel, don’t be daft), Crowley fetched his hat and coat and set off into the streets of London. Carriages crowded the road, humans weaving in and out of the foggy air. Crowley flagged a cab and rattled off Aziraphale’s address, tapping his foot against the carriage floor as it bumped against the cobblestones.

It was awfully inconvenient, relying on humans for transport, but he had never been particularly good with horses. He’d read in the paper about a German woman who’d traveled a great distance in some sort of horseless carriage. He’d been thinking of heading to the continent to see what the fuss was for himself. He wondered if Aziraphale would like to come along—they could go hear that new Brahms piano thing everyone and their mother raved about.

But no. Aziraphale was in mourning.

Not for the first time, Crowley wondered if it wasn’t simply a euphemism. If Aziraphale wasn’t angry with Crowley but too polite to say so. Sure, they’d had that tiff in the 60s over holy water, but Crowley had thought they’d patched things up. He’d bought Aziraphale his weight in apology chocolate. So what could be the matter now?

Yet as he exited the cab onto Aziraphale’s street, Crowley couldn’t help but notice a pattern: young men sporting black armbands. Yes, there were bucketloads of them—this one hurrying into his apartment, that one buying flowers from a stand on the roadside, those two comforting a weeping woman. Crowley remembered himself just enough to push one mourner into the street, making sure to do so when no carriages where heading his way.

The bookshop was closed, but that was normal for Tuesdays. Crowley rang the bell and, when no one answered, willed the knob to turn.

The angel Aziraphale sat his desk, sniffling over a copy of The Strand.

Crowley stared at him. Indeed, Aziraphale did appear to be mourning—he wore a black crêpe around his upper arm, and another adorned the hat hanging on his hat stand. He put down the magazine with a sigh that came from the very depths of his soul, if angels had that sort of thing (Crowley wasn’t entirely sure). He removed his spectacles from his nose, tucked them into his pocket, and caught eyes with Crowley across the room.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured. “You’ve read it, haven’t you? Do sit down. Would you like some tea? No, you’ll likely need something stronger.”

Mystified, Crowley lowered himself into a chair, stopping first to lift a heap of books off its seat and onto the floor. “Read what? I saw the men in the streets. Who died? Is it someone important?” His eyes widened. “They didn’t catch that friend of yours, did they? That author who wears all those gaudy green flowers?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oscar is perfectly sound, though I’m not sure A Woman of No Importance was his tightest work. Perhaps he should stick with prose rather than drama.”

“Then what’s this about? Someone from your gentleman’s club? No, it’s got to be some famous bugger if everyone’s gutted about it.” Crowley cast his eyes around for inspiration. “It’s not the Queen. I would have heard if it were the bloody Queen.”

Aziraphale drew a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. Crowley had never known Aziraphale to be a crier, but now he was getting the disturbing impulse to start saying things like “There, there” and “It’ll all be all right in the end.”

“He was a great man,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps Britain’s finest. Crowley, I simply don’t know how I will go on without him.”

Crowley had already reached across the desk for Aziraphale’s hand before he remembered he was supposed to be a demon. “I thought we said we weren’t going to do this. Not after Joan. We weren’t going to get close to humans.”

“Oh, he and I aren’t close. Goodness, though, I should think I’m going to write the man a very stern letter. You simply can’t go playing with people’s emotions like that!”

“It probably wasn’t his fault,” Crowley said. “You know, dying. Humans tend to do it whether they want to or not.”

“But humans can choose not to murder a beloved cultural figure!”

This caught Crowley’s attention. Murder wasn’t always the work of his side, but it was certainly more in his wheelhouse than the angel’s.

“Do you want revenge, angel?” Crowley tried his best to snarl, but his tone came out more like sympathy. “Because I can help you with that. I can turn the murderer’s… undergarments into ants. I don’t know, give me time to think of something really devious, I’m a bit rusty.”

“Perhaps you could write him a letter too,” said Aziraphale, and then his eyes lit up. Something inside him clicked, and a smile lifted his chubby cheeks to Heaven—just as it had when he’d first tried bread back in Mesopotamia, or last week when he’d showed off his charmingly bad gavotte.

“We could start a movement,” Aziraphale gushed. Crowley’s heart, despite not strictly needing to beat, threatened to give out altogether. “Yes, I believe we could! One letter might not sway the man, but twenty? Fifty? One hundred? We could rally the men in the streets! Tape up posters in Trafalgar Square! I could make a picket sign! I’ve always wanted to make a picket sign.” He stood up, raising a triumphant fist as he glared righteously at a stack of encyclopedias. “Why, if we put enough pressure on the man, he’ll have to cave! He’ll bring the dead back to life in no time at all!”

“Er,” said Crowley. “I’m not sure that’s how that works.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. If anyone can think of a way to bring back the world’s greatest detective, it’s Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Why would this Conan Doyle bloke kill a detective? Did he do a crime he wants covered up? Does the detective owe him money?”

“What? Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale chuckled. Crowley could feel his cheeks growing pink for at least three reasons. “Sherlock Holmes is fictional. He’s Doyle’s literary creation.” He frowned. “I gave you The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes last Christmas. Did you not read it?”

Crowley stared. “Do you mean to tell me, all this time, you’ve been planning to skip out on dinner because you’re mourning someone fictional?”

“He’s a very good detective.”

“I don’t believe this! Angel, I thought you were actually depressed!”

“I am depressed!” Aziraphale scoffed. “And it’s perfectly reasonable to be affected by literature! Why, just last year, I closed my bookshop for a month to recover from The Picture of Dorian Gray!”

“I thought you just didn’t fancy dealing with customers!”

“And you, my dear.” Aziraphale jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you! 1806 BC! You cried after reading The Epic of Gilgamesh! At seeing the humans’ first attempt at truly great literature!”

“Angel, those were tears of laughter! That guy Enkidu had a hard-on for two bloody weeks! Could you keep a straight face reading that?”

“There’s no need to be crass.” Aziraphale coughed into his handkerchief, but Crowley could recognize those upturned lips anywhere. “Anyway, I’m hardly alone in this. Plenty of readers lived for the Holmes stories. It’s a true pity there won’t be any more.”

“Good. Oodles of angry humans. Doyle did my job for me.” Crowley was already mentally drafting a very threatening letter. Naming the man’s children should do the trick. In the off-chance he didn’t have any children, well, the replacing Doyle’s undergarments with ants idea was growing on him.

“But you see, this is why I mustn’t go to dinner with you.” Aziraphale assumed his most sincere expression. “It would be disrespectful to be seen lavishly dining and carrying on when such a tragedy has befallen the literary world. Why, none of my friends there would let me hear the end of it.” He gazed forlornly into an empty mug, rimmed around the top with cocoa stains.

“What about lunch?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “Oh, excellent. I’m simply starving. And a man must eat. No one could blame me for that.”

Crowley’s mouth curled into a devilish grin. He held out his hand, and Aziraphale took it. “I won’t tell any of your author friends if you don’t bring up me and Gilgamesh.”

“Perhaps only in private.”

“It’s a funny poem! The bloke had sex for two weeks!”

“Ah, that reminds me. If you truly don’t want your first edition Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, may I have it back? It would make an excellent addition to my collection.”

“You devious bastard. You only bought me that bloody book because you wanted it.”

Crowley weaved between dusty stacks of hardbacks and emerged blinking onto the Soho street. Remembering the mourner with his arm around his compatriot, Crowley vaguely thought of putting an arm around Aziraphale.

But that wasn’t the way their love language worked. Crowley’s love was showing up. Was badgering Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle to a bloody pulp until he brought Sherlock Holmes back to life, logic be damned. Was giving Aziraphale an excuse to pig out on French pastry. Was hailing a cab and taking Aziraphale’s hand to pull him up inside.

As Aziraphale’s plushy hip pressed into Crowley’s, he thought of the new electric lights they’d shown off at the Paris Exposition. He could feel that current now, running through the angel’s body into his.

He realized Aziraphale had only broken his promise if their pact not to love humans extended to fictional ones. At any rate, if it included falling in love with angels, Crowley was in an awful lot of trouble, and he owed Aziraphale about £15.

Perhaps some promises were made to be broken.

#good omens #GoodOmensSecretSanta #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #bodiekayfanfic

21 notes · View notes

erislovelorne · 5 years

Note

"Who cares about what they think?" + gomens!

Crowley was very drunk, probably the most drunk he’d ever been in his life. He’d been at a crowded bar, it was the 40s and he was supposed to performing a temptation, or at least he was pretty sure that’s what he’d originally been there. But then he’d seen a flash of golden hair and a cream suit jacket hung carefully on the coat rack on the entrance and he’d gone straight to the bar for another round of whatever was strongest. And then another and another and another when he saw another man’s hands around the waist of his blond friend.

He took one last shot and then stumbled towards the door when he saw how close they were together, purposely shoulder checking Aziraphale’s… companion as hard as he could. The man turned on Crowley, cursing, but Crowley ignored him, pushing his way to the door more viciously than was strictly necessary.

He fled as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him from the love of his life.

Crowley couldn’t even remember what city he was in by the time he made it to the street, much less where he’d been staying. So he just picked a direction and began lurching that way. The buildings the ground under him seemed to tilt and he suddenly found himself staring up at the night sky, back to the pavement.

Fuck it, he thought. Then closed his eyes, passing out right there on the cold uncaring pavement.

He awoke in an entirely different place, but he knew where he was instant. The familiar ceiling and smell of old books told him everything he needed to know. Shit.

If he was being honest he’d been avoiding Aziraphale for the past few years, ever since the church. He’d known since the day Aziraphale gave his sword away that he was hopelessly, helplessly, completely and entirely in love. But recently it had just been too fucking much to bear. He couldn’t look at Aziraphale without his heart aching so hard he felt it was going to rip its way out of his chest. But he knew that his angel had no interest in him, just a convenient business partner, and on a good day, friends.

His head hurt. He just closed his eyes and pretended to go back to sleep. Hoping if he just willed it away hard enough this whole thing would resolve itself.

Footsteps approached.

Shit.

A warm hand touched his forehead, stroking his hair back. A cold cloth was pressed to his forehead. A small sad sigh.

He was going to discorporate right then and there if this kept up.

He opened his eyes. Aziraphale was kneeling beside him, his lips pursed and brow creased with worry.

“Crowley!” he cried, happily. Crowley winced at the loud noise.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Crowley!” said Aziraphale, but in a whisper this time.

“H-hey, angel,” he said, in a manner which he felt was cool. It was, objectively, very much not, but Aziraphale didn’t notice.

“I'm so glad you’re alright, darling,” said Aziraphale, his face lighting up, Crowley’s heart skipped a few beats at the pet name.

“‘Course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” he said, sitting up, feeling nauseous, then lying back down.

“Well, you’ve been asleep for about three days.”

“Ah,” said Crowley. “Well. Hm. That's no good.”

“No, I was worried sick about you,” said his angel, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Crowley was silent, thinking that he shouldn’t say the words he wanted to say next, but then he did anyway.

“Why do you give a fuck?”

He could see the moment Aziraphale’s heart shattered on the floor.

“W-why, of course, I care, we’ve been friends for over 6000 years!”

“Of course, friends.”

Crowley got to his feet, still very unsteady, his head pounding and his feet not quite cooperating. He could’ve miracled it away, but it just felt like the proper time to feel like absolute shit.

He stumbled into a bookshelf, nearly knocking it over.

“Whatever do you mean by that?” said Aziraphale, putting himself between Crowley and the door.

Crowley pushed past him, stumbling to where he knew Aziraphale kept his wine and grabbing a bottle. He popped the cork and chugged quite a fair bit of it.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished, snatching it out his hands and taking a swig himself.

“This is not,” he paused. “A conversation I’m willing to have sober.”

“What ever do you mean?”

“I don’t want to be, your fucking friend ‘Zira,”

“What?!” he looked heartbroken and some part of Crowley felt a sick satisfaction in hurting him the way he’d been hurt at the bar.

“I, have been in love with you, desperately, hopelessly, painfully, sickeningly in love with you since the say we met. There is no one in the world I want more than you. I need you Aziraphale. My bones fucking ache every second I’m not with you. I feel like I’m drowning every time you look at me. I think I’m going to die every time we brush hands. But we’re just fucking friends, and it’s killing me.”

“I-” said Aziraphale, he looked as though here were about to cry.

“I know, you don’t fucking love me, I know! I’m the fucking filth under your feet, I’m fully fucking aware.” Crowley was raising his voice, actually yelling now.

Aziraphale actually started crying, angry tears. It was in that moment the gravity of what he’d done hit him in the gut.

“Shi-”

Aziraphale cut him off, grabbing him by the lapels and smashing their faces together, pushing Crowley back up against the wall. Crowley dropped the bottle in shock, it smashed on the floor.

They kissed, hard and hungry. Aziraphale bit Crowley’s lower lip hard enough for the both of them to taste the bitter tang of ichor. They kissed, deep and ravenous, until Crowley was panting and out of breath. Aziraphale grabbed his jaw, tilting his head to make Crowley look him in the eyes.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, spitting ichor on the ground where it mixed with glass and spilled wine. “I’ve loved you since the day we met.”

“You’re an angel, you love everyone,” said Crowley, trying to look away.

“Not the way I love you. I love you like I’m going to burn up every time I’m away from you. I’ve been trying to put you out of my mind for the last six thousand years, I thought you didn’t give a shit about me. I would do anything for you Crowley, anything, as long as I could be with you till the end of time.”

“B-but, what would they think?” he looked upwards. Aziraphale took the opportunity to viciously sink his teeth into the side of his neck, Crowley groaned.

“Who cares what they think?” he said, gently kissing the mark he’d just made. Crowley felt like he was going to die.

“F-fuck,” he moaned.

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m saving you, you’re tempting me, and we’re just doing above and beyond at our jobs.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley as Aziraphale continued to run his hands over his chest and kiss his neck.

“Does that sound agreeable?” he asks. Crowley nodded frantically.

“P-please,” said Crowley, grabbing Aziraphale's face and kissing him desperately, miracling himself sober and fixing the broken bottle of wine.

He pulled back, pressing their foreheads together and holding the sides of Aziraphale's face.

“I love you, angel,” Crowley whispered.

“I love you, too, always, forever,” murmured Aziraphale against his lips.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #angsty #possessive!crowley #this is like... very angsty #original #crowley #aziraphale #I Am Sorry For My Crime #anon #asks

38 notes · View notes

charnamefic · 5 years

Photo

There was some interest in the introduction to the William the Antichrist book that came with the Ineffable Edition of the Definitive Good Omens, so here are the pictures of that. As with the rest of my posts on the book’s contents, I’ve provided a transcript below the cut.

I was twenty-six. I had just finished writing Don’t Panic!

The Hitchhiker’s guide to the Galaxy Companion. There was something comfortable about the style I was writing it in: I wasn’t trying to pastiche Douglas Adams, but I was trying to write in a style I thought of as ‘classic English humour’ – P. G. Wodehouse was in there, and so were Alan Coren, Richmal Crompton and Stella Gibbons, Caryl Brahms and S.J. Simon, and many others. And by the end of the book, in the spring of 1987, I felt comfortable writing in that style.

In the summer of 1987, several odd ideas came together: the film The Omen; a scene in Christopher Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta; Richmal Crompton’s Just William books. I found myself imagining a book called William the Antichrist, in which a hapless demon was going to be responsible for swapping the wrong baby over, and the son of the US Ambassador would be completely undemonic, while William Brown would grow up to be the Antichrist, and the demon would need to stop him ending the world. The unfortunate demon, whom I called Crawleigh, because Crawley was a nearby town with an unfortunate name, would have to sort it all out as best he could.

It felt like a story with legs.

I wrote an opening. It was 5,000 words long, and I sent it to several friends to take a look at, and one of those friends was Terry Pratchett.

And then, in October 1987, a hurricane hit England, and in its aftermath I plotted the first eight issues of a monthly comic called Sandman, and pitched it to DC Comics as soon as the power went back on. They said yes.

My life was swept up by a whirlwind of work: I was writing Sandman, and pretty soon afterwards I was also writing The Books of Magic. William the Antichrist was going to have to wait until The Books of Magic was done, before I could get back to it.

In the middle of 1988, Terry Pratchett called. ‘Are you doing anything with that thing you sent me?’ he asked. l told him that, no, I wasn’t. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Sell me the idea, or let’s write it together. I know what happens next.’

‘Let’s write it together,’ I said.

So we did. Terry took the 5,000 words, and rewrote them, calling me to tell me what he was doing and what he was planning to do. The biggest thing he was going to do, he told me, was split the hapless demon into two characters – a would-be-cool demon in dark glasses (which was, I think, Terry’s way of making fun of me, a never-actually- cool journalist in dark glasses) who had renamed himself Crowley, and a rare-book dealer and angel called Aziraphale, who would embody all the English awkwardness that either

of us could conceive.

Once he‘d done that (bringing us the Chattering Order of Saint Beryl on the way, to replace the nurses that I’d invented) he sent his new version to me to read, and then we began to plot. There was a lot of plotting. And there was a lot of writing and rewriting and re-rewriting. Neither of us was precious about our words, so we cheerfully footnoted each other, adding in jokes or lines if we thought the work would be better for them.

There were very long daily phone calls. There were floppy disks that were posted back and forth weekly.

Terry had written a dozen novels by that point, but this was my first. My books to this point had been non-fiction. I learned so much from him. I felt like an apprentice to a medieval guild master, enjoying Terry’s confidence that, even if we didn’t know how the plot would sort out, we were certain that it would sort out. And it did.

We enjoyed the writing-together process, enough that when it was done we plotted a sequel to the book we had written, and a book about a serial killer who killed serial killers (we didn’t write it, and I was pleased, some years on, to see the Dexter books, as it meant that the Universe hadn’t wasted the idea on us).

William the Antichrist XXX being finished, we reached out to the Richmal Crompton estate to see if they’d countenance the book being published with their characters. They didn’t reply, and we were already talking about some of the fun

things we could do to the characters if we weren’t stuck with William Brown’s world – Adam’s second in command could be female, for a start – so our second draft of the book formerly known as William the Antichrist, which was mostly an attempt to make it look like we knew what we were doing all along, and not just filing off the serial numbers and doing a Find and Replace to change William to Adam (although we did that, too, resulting in Gollancz’s copy editor asking who composer Vaughan Adams was). Then we just had to title it – I suggested Good Omens, and Terry suggested The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, so we compromised, as we usually did, and used both of them.

Rereading my Very First Draft here, I’m struck by a number of things. The first is how much of an early pencil sketch it was by a young man who had sold at most half a dozen short stories. And the second is how much Terry, wisely, changed about it, and how much he left the same. Once he had changed my first 5,000 words into our first 10,000 words, the book had a voice, and it kept that voice until the end.

When we finished the book we estimated that the words were 60% Terry’s and 40% mine, and the plot, such as it was, was entirely ours.

Nobody has seen this original opening before. Not since I sent it to half a dozen friends in 1987, anyway.

I’m so glad one of them was Terry.

He told people in interviews that he didn’t collaborate well, but I look back on the writing of Good Omens with nothing but joy. It was an education.

Neil Gaiman

#good omens #Definitive Good Omens #ineffable edition #william the antichrist #williamtheantichrist #transcript #sIp

46 notes · View notes

ourloveisforthelovely · 5 years

Text

Time to Waste 3

Good Omens story.

As always a big thank you to @brokencasbutt67-writer

Warnings: smut warning

Link to Chapter 2

Pairings: Gabriel x Reader/Crowley x Aziraphale

______________

You followed Gabriel to a small cafe that was off of the main street. Stepping inside, you knew why he had brought you here. It was small, quiet, and nobody really was in the place.

“At least you know why I brought you here.”

Gabriel said as he led you to a small table in the back. The table was blocked by a rather large bookshelf.

More privacy…

You looked back to the archangel with a displeased frown. He was lucky that he was so handsome. Had he been any other random guy; you would have left him by now.

“Reading my mind is rude...again.”

Gabriel chuckled. He already liked your face. It was too bad that he couldn’t “let” himself fall in love with you. That would be letting Michael down. It would be letting all of heaven down!

He tried not to let himself frown too much. Gabriel had always stuck by the rule book. If there was a job that needed to be done then Gabriel got it done.

“You’re not going to smite me are you?”

He said in an extra sassy tone. You looked down at the ground as Gabriel stepped forward. He reached down and tilted your chin up so you had to look at him. Why did he have to be so dreamy?

“There is nothing wrong with what you are. You are one of the most powerful creatures in creation. You deserve some respect.”

You stepped forward so that your body was pressed against the archangel.

“Then why are you coming onto me?”

Gabriel chuckled and stepped back and sat down at the table.

“Maybe I like you.”

You sat down across from the archangel. His eyes were focused on you like a hawk.

“I think you are interested in me because of my power. You strike me as someone that likes power so much that you would do anything for it.”

You replied with a pleased smirk. Gabriel was clearly a bit surprised by your answer but quickly recovered.

“What is wrong with liking power? I get that you don’t trust me. It seems like you have been let down by a lot of people in your life. Not everyone is out to hurt you, beautiful. Let me gain your trust.

You considered his words. Gabriel was right about one thing. You weren’t one to trust anyone. Again, you thanked your mother for that one too. Anytime that you had trusted someone resulted in you being hurt!

Would Gabriel hurt you? What if his intentions weren’t fucked up and he was a good lover? You really weren’t giving him a fair shake by just going off of Aziraphale and Crowley’s word.

You trusted Aziraphale. Maybe that's why you were afraid to trust the archangel. That’s left you with your father’s opinion. Crowley would probably say anything to keep you from Gabriel.

“Nothing is wrong with liking power. I have to keep myself safe. It isn’t my father, Aziraphale, or Beelzebub’s place to keep me safe.”

Gabriel frowned.

“You know Beelzebub?”

You nodded. Of course, you knew the prince of hell. They had been trying to win you over for ages now. It was a bit of a shock when the prince of hell turned up on your doorstep one day telling you your whole life story and wanting to “get to know you.” It was no secret to you that the prince of hell really didn’t give a damn about knowing who you were. They were interested in the power that you could bring them. It was definitely an awkward friendship! Awkward was the best way to put it. The two of you didn’t go to the movies or out to eat. There was no Friday “friends” night where the two of you did anything.

It was just Beelzebub turning up at your doorstep and questioning you about your latest doings or how your powers were working out. They would lounge about your apartment for a day or two before disappearing again.

For the first few months of your “relationship” with Beelzebub, you wondered if the prince was interested in you in the “romantic” sense. That was quickly shot down when you nonchalantly asked if they “dated” often. The poor being just looked at you with wide eyes. After that Beelzebub's visits became few and far between.

You hadn’t even told Crowley of your friendship with Beelzebub. After learning of your father’s last run-in with the prince of hell, you had often wondered what exactly it was Beelzebub’s interest was with you. It didn’t take you long to figure it out. It was the power. If the prince of hell had you on their side then they could potentially be unstoppable.

Feeling like a bit of a hypocrite, you smiled at Gabriel. Maybe the idea of power was appealing after all. If you accepted his advances then you could have plenty of power at your disposal as well.

“Yes. I know Beelzebub. I don’t know if you would consider it a friendly relationship or not. Maybe just an awkward acquaintanceship.”

Gabriel laughed.

“I’ve met Beelzebub. It wasn’t the best of days.”

You smirked.

“Oh I know all about that day in your life.”

Gabriel’s smirk fell instantly and for a moment you were afraid that he would try to attack you. You stood up with a smile and walked behind the archangel. He didn’t move but instead looked at the table in front of him furiously.

Maybe the two of you could have a pleasant exchange of powers after all? You knew that Crowley would probably through the biggest hissy fit known to man. You could practically hear him yelling all the way from the house at the meet thought of sleeping with Gabriel.

Aziraphale...you didn’t even want to think about that one. You felt guilty about that one. Aziraphale was the one person that you didn’t like to think of hurting. You could only hope that if this thing with Gabriel turned into something that your family would understand.

As you stood looking at Gabriel’s back that feeling of attraction came surging right back. You snapped your fingers, leaving yourself dressed in a long black dress that left little to the imagination.

With a smirk you walked behind Gabriel and wrapped your arms around him. The archangel stiffened for a moment before he slammed you against the wall. His eyes looked hungrily down your body.

“I think you like to play games. I must say that I am not at all surprised.”

Gabriel lifted your thigh and placed it over his hip.

“You are playing hard to get then you are dressing like this for my attention. Here I am. I think you are just afraid to get with me because it would upset daddy Crowley.”

The taunt hit you on a new personal level. You scowled at Gabriel a moment before reaching out and pulling the overgrown archangel to you.

“Kiss me, asshole.”

Gabriel looked a little surprised by your sudden outburst. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was slow at first before increasing to a hungry passion driven make out. You had the feeling that he was about to be bossy or as Crowley put it “the biggest bitch on the planet.” Even his kisses were commanding.

“I want to know what the rest of you tastes like...unless you want to get your father’s permission first.”

Gabriel said in your head as he pressed himself against you. Your eyes snapped open. For some reason, you were afraid to see Crowley standing in the corner ready to kick Gabriel’s ass back to heaven. Upon realizing that there was no Crowley in the corner, you focused your attention back on Gabriel.

“Just get me somewhere, angel.”

Gabriel pulled you tighter to him.

“I thought that you would never ask!”

When you opened your eyes again, you stood in a hotel suite. Gabriel stood behind you taking his suit jacket off. He backed you against the wall and held your hand over your head.

“You’re mine.”

Gabriel said in a deep commanding tone. You pressed your legs together. God, why was his voice like a vibrator on your clit?

Before you could give any objection, Gabriel’s mouth was on yours. You knew that you could fight back and be difficult. The idea sounded fun, however, at the same time, the human in you said no. Your human side wanted to be dominated. The human in you wanted to be weak for the archangel. The demon in you, however, was fighting mad! How could you let some angel show you who was boss?!

The better question was how were you not supposed to start developing feelings for the archangel? One date in and you were beginning to feel “things.” Why you weren't sure? Gabriel still hadn’t “warmed” up to you. There was nothing in the date that showed that he would be a “sweetheart.” What were you supposed to expect anyway?

“You’re mine to touch. Mine to have and mine to please.”

You swallowed as his teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your neck.

“Gabriel...”

You whimpered his name as he continued to suck deep purple bruises on your neck. How would you explain that on to your father, you had no idea. Crowley and Aziraphale weren’t stupid. They would both certainly know what love bites were.

You could always say that you got into a bar fight and some jerkwad punched you in the neck. There was no way that they would fall for that.

“Stop thinking about your parent would you? I am trying to make love to you.”

Gabriel said coldly. He barely lifted his mouth from your mouth before biting down harder. You whimpered Gabriel’s name as his free hand squeezed your ass.

“Yes. Keep saying my name. Say that you are mine.”

“Gabriel.”

“Say that your mine.”

He said, curtly. Gabriel knew that those words would be a real struggle for you today. He slowly stood up straight before letting his finger traced his finger over your cleavage.

“You’re mine, Y/n. I think that you like knowing it too. The demon in you makes you not want to say yes. I also know that you want to make love as much as I do. I won’t touch you until you give me what I want. I’m going to break you in, Y/n. You’ll be submissive to me whether you like it or not. You can be sassy as much as you want but you’ll give me what I want too...”

You swallowed as he slipped a hand up your thigh.

“Damn it, yes!”

“Sorry?”

He replied, innocently.

“I’m yours.”

“See. Was that so hard?”

Gabriel waded you legs apart and lifted you up by your thighs. You reached out to pull the archangel to you by his tie. Gabriel quickly grabbed your hands.

“Naughty girl. Tell me, has anyone touched you? Some nasty human maybe?”

You shook your head quickly. Gabriel was clearly pleased with your response as he pressed his body against yours. You wrapped your legs around the archangel’s waist.

“I like a girl with fight in her.”

“You struck the jackpot then.”

You sassed. Gabriel's hand squeezed the plump flesh of your ass. You hissed as the heat seared through you.

“I also like a girl that I can break into what I want.”

Meanwhile,

Aziraphale stood in the kitchen making his fourth cup of tea since the time that you left. He looked up when Crowley walked into the kitchen looking confused.

“Is Y/n still not home?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, I tried calling her phone and she’s not answering. I’m a little worried, Crowley.”

Crowley put his hands on the counter and looked down at the floor.

“How long does it take for a girl to pick out a face wash?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“I don’t think 5 hours is a suitable amount of time.”

Crowley muttered a few curse words under his breath.

“I am going to put a GPS on that girl! If she is with that archangel, I am going to find Adam and asking him to change his mind on restarting the apocalypse. Screw that, I am going to find them myself.”

Aziraphale winced.

“Do you really think that it is a good idea to go out and stalk around London looking for her? We don’t even know where Gabriel would have taken her.”

Crowley spun around.

‘I can feel her. Kinda like a sixth sense….I’m following that! You stay here in case she gets home before me!”

Aziraphale put a hand over his face. It was about to be a long night in London.

__________

@brokencasbutt67-writer

@supernaturalways

@delightfully-anonymous

@authoressskr

@marichromatic

@hankypranky

@fand0maniac

@fandom-trash-worth-it

@deanwherescas

@mycuddlycorner

@shadows-and-padlocked-hearts

@sprnaturallover

@emiwrites3reads

@summer-novak

@shaylybaby2032

@tas898

@li0nh34rt

@untoldshortsofthefandoms

#Good Omens #Gabriel x Reader #Good Omens fan fiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #Crowley #aziraphale #Gabriel #Time to Waste #Good Omens reader insert #reader insert #Time to Waste Story

58 notes · View notes

hekate1308 · 5 years

Text

Driving Lesson, Fictober #1

Genre: Fanfiction

Fandom/Pairing: Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale

Warnings: No warnings apply

Prompt: “It will be fun, trust me.”

“It will be fun, trust me.”

Aziraphale studied the steering wheel in front of him sceptically. “I highly doubt that”.

“Angel” Crowley sighed, “We did agree that now we’ve got nothing left to worry about, we can do what we want…”

“And me learning to drive is what you want –“

“Hey” Crowley snatched his left hand off the wheel and pressed a kiss against it. “That’s not what this is about. Thing is, since we finally talked, we’ll be spending a lot of time together, and I want the two loves of my life to get along when we do.”

Aziraphale felt himself blushing furiously. This was just the kind of thing Crowley did and said all the time now, ever since their bus drive back to his place and the talk they’d had there. When Aziraphale had asked him after the first couple of days why he felt the need to be so utterly romantic, he’d looked him in the eyes and said “I’ve been waiting for this long enough, angel” and that had been that. He’d been steadfastly ignoring his hints that he’d like a more explanatory answer ever since.

And yet there could be no mistaking the gestures he’d bestowed on him in the last few months, no thinking he was just trying to tempt Aziraphale to his side – something the angel had been very good at pretending at, for the first few centuries – no telling himself that they were at best friendly adversaries, not even friends.

And now Crowley only wanted this little thing. Just wished for Aziraphale to learn how to drive.

“What do I do then, dear?” he asked softly. In all the years Crowley had had the Bentley, he’d been content – and sometimes terrified – sitting next to him. If he had paid attention to him at all, it had most certainly not been because he had any desire to pick up on his driving techniques.

“Oh. Right” Crowley looked pleased; Aziraphale wished he’d take off the sunglasses so he could see his eyes – he loved it how they glittered in the sunlight; but Crowley wasn’t so far to leave them behind quite yet, not yet comfortable enough even if it were just the two of them, but they would get there – “So first of all you have to turn on the motor.”

“But there’s no key in the ignition” Aziraphale pointed out, feeling rather smug as he did so. There. He knew some things about cars.

Crowley rolled his invisible eyes. “That’s because I would never do that to my dear girl” he all but cooed at the car. “Just tell her to start. Nicely.”

Aziraphale had known that Crowley poured quite a bit of magic and miracles into the Bentley, of course – otherwise, especially considering his driving style, there’d hardly have been a chance that the car would have survived the past ninety years. Still, this seemed to be a bit excessive.

But that was what they had saved the world for, wasn’t it? So they could indulge and be together.

So he very gently told the Bentley with his mind that he’d like to take a drive now, please, because Crowley wished them to, and suddenly the motor was on.

Crowley grinned. “See? Told you.”

He nodded, then gripped the steering wheel.

“Oh no” Crowley rubbed a hand over his knuckles “This is supposed to be a nice experience for all of us. You have to relax.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing” he confessed.

“That’s alright, you’ve got me and the Bentley to take care of you” Crowley told him with the expression of a demon who hadn’t known what to do when he first purchased his beloved horseless carriage either and had early on become determined never to learn the way humans did but was now expecting it of his – lover? He supposed they were lovers.

His heart warmed as he thought of them as lovers, and he decided to try and do this.

“We can go as slow as you want, angel” Crowley said, voice rather thick with emotion all of a sudden, “That’s why we’re here.”

Here being in the middle of the night at Tadfield air base, where it all had started, really.

No, Aziraphale suddenly realized; it had started long before then. Maybe even…

He took a deep breath he didn’t really need and decided to try and drive.

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

“Alright, angel, I know I said we could go slow, but you’re driving less than ten miles an hour” Crowley pointed out.

“I am just trying to get the hang of things” he defended himself.

“You won’t if you keep doing thisssssss. You can’t jussssssst drive ten miles an hour in London” Crowley hissed, although his smile rather ruined the overall impression.

“I would say it’s impossible to drive ninety miles an hour in the city, and yet you do so on a regular basis.”

“That’s because I let the streets know who’s boss. You’d just be politely asking them to not inconvenience you. This won’t do” Crowley decided.

He sighed. “Fine.” The car accelerated slightly.

“See? Told you this was fun.”

Aziraphale said nothing, but in truth, he was starting to see why one would just take drives for pleasure. In the past, he had mostly seen the road trips Crowley took him on as more chances to spend time with him, but it was surprisingly pleasant to just sit there and… go somewhere. Even if he’d still have preferred to drive slower, but knowing his demon, he wouldn’t be allowed to.

“Maybe we could put on some music?” he suggested.

Crowley grinned, proving that he too had noticed that Aziraphale was enjoying himself, the pleased, happy smile of someone who’d made his lover happy. “Alright. I just bought these yesterday, so they should be alright –“

And it was indeed Vivaldi’s Four Seasons that started playing instead of Queen, which seemed to be the Bentley’s go-to music, usually.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley mostly listened to classical music when they were together, simply because the angel liked it. Recently though he’d admitted that he’d now and then gone to a concert over the last six thousand years when he’d missed him – “That kid Mozart was really talented, wasn’t he”.

He smiled to himself.

“Good. You’re starting to relax.”

“Of course I’m relaxed, dear. I’m with you.”

And, almost as if it were sentient and could understand what was being spoken, the Bentley’s motor hummed.

To Aziraphale’s utter delight, Crowley blushed. “Both of you should shut up” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

“It’s true” Aziraphale told him, because he wanted to see him blush again. He wasn’t disappointed.

They drove on; the guards ignored them due to a convenient miracle Crowley had performed. And anyway, there wasn’t much to guard, was there, they would have said; just computers, and computers only did what the people punching the keys told them, so there was little to no danger there.

Aziraphale smiled to himself once more as he recalled the day of the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. It had taken him a long time to get to admitting that he and Crowley were on their own side, but he’d got there in the end.

“We should stop soon” he said.

“Why, angel? You already have enough?”

“No” he answered simply, “But I want to hold your hand, and I can’t do that when I’m not supposed to let go of the steering wheel.”

Crowley spluttered. “I – tsk – agh – you can’t just say stuff like that!”

“Why not? You do it all the time.”

“That’s different!”

“How?”

“I told you – I’ve been waiting to do so.”

Aziraphale wanted to ask again, but wasn’t keen on hearing another excuse as to why Crowley wouldn’t answer him, so he didn’t.

Still – eventually, he stopped the car.

They watched the stars from the hood of the Bentley, holding hands.

“I really like doing that one” Crowley told him, pointing at a constellation with his free hand.

“It’s beautiful, dear” Aziraphale replied even though he wasn’t looking at the stars; watching Crowley was enough for now.

Then, before he even knew he’d ask, he quietly added, “How long were you waiting for this?”

At first, he thought he would once more fail to get an answer, but then, Crowley, looking anywhere but at him, quietly replied, “Since some foolish guardian of the Eastern Gate told me they’d given their flaming sword away.”

“Oh Crowley.”

“Yes, yes, well, all over and done with.”

A shy Crowley was something Aziraphale had come to know and appreciate in the months since the world didn’t end. “You were right” he told him softly.

“What about?”

“This – driving is fun.”

Now Crowley looked smug again. “Told you.”

“Yes, dear, you did.”

And he kissed him.

#fictober19 #good omens #my writings #ineffable husbands #aj crowley #aziraphale #cutting it close but still lol #enjoy

18 notes · View notes