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kaylinelizabeth4004 · 9 months

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Sky Full of Song

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley listen to some music. Then Crowley decides to make something special for Aziraphale.

Title from a Florence + the Machine song, I don’t know why but Florence and Good Omens are connected in my mind.

When they had first settled upon the idea of Crowley living inside the bookshop, along with Aziraphale, they had a few small technicalities to work out. Where Crowley would sleep was easily sorted out with a quick snort by Aziraphale, who called it their bedroom, as though it were the most obvious thing, which only shut Crowley up and make him cover his face with his hand to hide the blush across his cheeks.

And of course, there was the matter of Crowley's plants. There were 23 of them to date, all named and specialized with their own personal stories - of which we will dive into a different day. Aziraphale didn't hesitate to set aside some books, miracle some new end tables, and create space for the plants. They were Crowley's version of books, he argued, and deserved their place in their world. So there they stay, Orion up near the front to stare at anyone who dared to actually purchase a book.

Naturally, Crowley assumed that his moving in would eliminate the need for a flat at all. That flat was cold, damp, and terribly inconvenient to get to, quite like the rest of London. He saw no reason to cling onto a place that never felt like his home. However Aziraphale had a different approach.

"Well, dearest, it's not that I wish to be away from you, of course. It's rather that you, err, you might wish to be away from me," Aziraphale had explained over some delightful wine from the '20s.

"Wot?" Crowley asked, furrowing his brows in genuine confusion.

"It's just, I worry you feel as though you have to stay here all the time. I want you to have an, err, an out. An out from me. If you wish to do something without my presence."

Crowley thought for a moment then scoffed, "if you didn't want me around all the time you could have just said so."

"No!" Aziraphale stiffened in his seat, reaching out to place an eager hand on Crowley's arm. He looked so warm and inviting to Crowley, as though his very existence was one large hug you didn't deserve. "Dear, I adore having you here. I want you here as often as possible. I just don't want you to feel as though you have to, for my sake. You are more than my... person. You shouldn't have to sacrifice your life for mine."

What Crowley wanted to say was, 'I'd sacrifice my life for yours any day. I want to be with you every moment of every day, even if it means I stare into space while you pour over the same book you've been pouring over for two centuries. You aren't a sacrifice, you're a gift in my life.'

What he actually said was, "s'alright then. I can store... things there."

Aziraphale smiled that proud and yet shy smile, patting Crowley's arm. He rose from his seat, placing a soft kiss on Crowley's temple as he went towards the record player. He lifted a record from his collection with a flourish as he said, "Wonderful, my dear."

"S'bloody brilliant," Crowley mumbled before swallowing a large mouthful of the truly delicious wine. Aziraphale had such a wicked taste in wine, it was unmatched.

"Oh I think you'll quite enjoy this one," Aziraphale said with a giddy smile, sitting down as the record played that dull hum before the music actually started. Crowley tried to contain his smile as he watched Aziraphale wiggle from excitement, shake his body like he couldn't contain it.

It was jazz, that much Crowley could tell. He took extra care to pay attention to the song being played, and when he realized what it was his brows lifted. "Angel, is that Nature Boy?"

"It is!" Aziraphale giggled. "I know you just adored Nat King Cole's music and I found this record, I just knew we had to have it."

'Adore' might have been a stretch in Crowley's mind, he'd never been outright obsessed but he did enjoy listening to him. Nat King Cole's voice did something to Crowley that few other artists could do. Sure Elvis Presley made him nostalgic, Queen made him feel alive, The Smiths were all he wanted to be, KISS was all he wanted to dress like, and somewhere in there Nat King Cole's voice floated around. Nothing specific, but nothing unspecific either. An emotional blob that just existed.

He wished he could explain it, tried to reason that maybe he loved the way his voice seemed to slide through the room like butter. It was smooth, calm, deep. The lyrics to Nature Boy didn't help that ache in his soul, their story echoing in a room full of stories. It was beautiful and simple, but it seemed to reach a part of him he didn't quite understand. But he felt his heart tighten, threatening to burst as the sweet Angel across from him closed his eyes and listened to it all. He bought this for him, knowing he loved it.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved, in return," Crowley murmured along with the record. Aziraphale looked up suddenly at Crowley's voice, and took a small, selfish smile. This was everything.

There they were, one late evening in a quaint, unassuming little bookshop, on an unassuming street, in an unassuming city, a demon and an angel sat in the music. They didn't say a word, letting the chords glide through them as one. It was always something that united them. Even when good and evil seems blurred and the world might actually fall apart because of a preteen, the music never faltered.

———

Sometimes ideas seem a lot better in words than in action. While Crowley had agreed that he could 'store stuff' in his now empty flat, he stared at it like it was a beast. Apart from Aziraphale, huh? Bah, it would never happen. Crowley scoffed as he left, locking up quickly as he sauntered out of there. He didn't see any reason he needed to abandon his Angel.

On the walk home, - yes walk. Unfortunately Aziraphale had decided the 'our' in 'our home, our bookshop, our hot chocolate', now applied to Crowley's Bentley. His sweet, precious Bentley. Now turned as yellow as piss while Aziraphale went to collect a package an hour outside of town. No, Crowley supposed it didn't really look like piss. But anything other than her true, dark beauty seemed deceiving. She did belong to a demon of all things, not Miss Frizzle. Whatever, he blew a breath and continued down the road.

Crowley chuckled to himself for a moment, Aziraphale was one strange dress and some box dye away from becoming Miss Frizzle. Though he didn't suppose Aziraphale would appreciate the reference as much as Crowley liked it.

He stopped for a moment outside one of the shops, catching a glimpse of his hair looking positively on fire. It wouldn't be the first time he was literally on fire, and he worried he'd been smoking without realizing. Pissed off some good people last time he let that get out of hand.

As Crowley turned to leave, he noticed what sat on a little stand in the window. A knitting kit. Along with various shades of blue and yellow yarn, laying on a sweet basket that seemed to have all one would need to knit. Needles and what not, Crowley wasn't actually sure what was required to knit but some of the ladies back in the 1790s loved to do it while the aristocracy lost their heads. One lady made him a love scarf, he still has it somewhere. Bloody good wine, then.

He didn't really know why, but against his better judgment Crowley strolled right in and purchased the kit. Then he went and stood on the street corner for a full two minutes, trying to decide what to do with his 30 quid worth of knitting supplies. He very well couldn't bring it back to the bookshop.

Not only does Aziraphale know how to knit, he's good at it. And Crowley doesn't necessarily feel like having him linger around, breathing softly down his neck and completely unaware he was doing it. Then he would sit down, away from Crowley, nose shoved in a book with wide eyes over the edge. And each time Crowley would do something wrong, Aziraphale would whisper a little "oh dear" before avoiding Crowley's gaze. This was part of the reason Crowley gave up on sewing. That and the needle was too damn small for his eyes. It was sweet and infuriating all at the same time. Aziraphale meant well, Crowley knew that, the Angel never meant poorly. But it wasn't worth the trouble.

So that was why Crowley ended up make in a cold, damp, inconvenient flat with a basket full of knitting supplies sitting on the empty floor.

"You s'can't be worth at the trouble," Crowley mumbled to it, poking it with his foot.

They stared at one another in awkward silence for about a minute before Crowley broke, sauntering through the different dark rooms of the flat. He loitered in his office, remembering fondly when Ligur melted into a puddle at the entrance. His desk still had the scratch from his vintage message machine. Crowley let out a breath.

Then he found himself back where he started, staring at a basket full of knitting supplies as though it were going to bite him. He wishes it would, it would be better than the mocking stare it presented instead.

"Ngk, fine, you stupid bloody thing," Crowley said in an agitated voice, sitting on the empty floor beside it. "You s'better be the best damn kit money coulda bought."

He dumped the supplies in a heap, going straight for the needles and the blue yarn. This should be easy. People been doing it for hundreds of years. Easy. Easy peasy, tickety-boo as his Angel says.

20 minutes later and it was most certainly not tickety-boo. Crowley had pin pricks along his fingers, fraying yarn on the cuffs of his jacket, and one massive knot he couldn't comprehend how it had happened. His phone buzzed in his pocket, giving him a chance to escape this nightmare. He could feel the steam coming from his ears and he threw the offending material down to stand and answer it.

"Ah, Angel, was wondering when you'd bother to call. I've been left alone for days."

"Oh don't be dramatic," Aziraphale said, but Crowley could hear the smile on his face. "It should be I who is upset with you. Where are you? I returned home to find an empty bookshop and some very rude individual trying to open the door to buy books!"

"Bloody idiot."

"That's what I said, in less offensive terms, of course. Dearest, you didn't answer my question. Where are you?"

"I'm..." he debated the different possible answers he could be giving Aziraphale. Admitting he was at the flat would excite him, but it could also prompt questions about the purpose. Saying he was anywhere else would be lying, and that didn't feel quite right. Not anymore, though he supposed it never did. So he sighed and just said, "I'm at the old flat. Checking in."

He could hear Aziraphale's giddy voice, "oh wonderful. I'm so glad you have that space."

"M'yeah, it's, uh, it's nice."

"Goody!"

There was a moment of silence on the phone. Aziraphale was moving some items around to accommodate the rare Walt Whitman he had just spent 2 1/2 hours of his day acquiring. Crowley was staring at the blue heap of yarn on the floor.

After a few moments of companionable silence Aziraphale sighed and said, "Well I'll be the first to say it. I'd like you here, to spend time with me. I miss you."

Crowley fought the smile on his face as he teased Aziraphale, "wot? Wot'd you say? I missed it, signal totally blew."

"I said I missed you!"

"Wot? Say it again, Angel, totally lagging over 'ere."

Aziraphale puffed out in a whined voice, "oh you wily serpent, come home! I missed you today!"

"Ahhh, you missed me. And here I was thinking you said I pissed me, and that doesn't make bloody sense does it," Crowley said with a sarcastic tone, walking outside and towards the bookshop faster than he intended to.

"Oh just hurry on home, my love."

Crowley was stunned for a moment. 'My love' was a new nickname, and one he had always considered cheesy with other pairs. But instead, with Aziraphale it just made him blush and walk faster than he meant to.

"On it, Angel."

———

A week and a half later, Aziraphale was off at Maggie's little record shop helping her organize and try to market to the current generation. She wasn't getting much busy, which Aziraphale thought to be the most disappointing. Records were his favorite form of music.

As Aziraphale tucked every Nat King Cole into their proper place, Crowley was across London in a damp, cold, inconvenient flat hunched over and trying to knit. He'd bought a book full of patterns and instructions, and was now on his third iteration of the same scarf. The two previous attempts were in burned heaps in the corner, neither even close to completion. They had started to go horribly wrong and Crowley got so angry he accidentally set them on fire.

This time around, Crowley was taking his time with each action. He was terrified of mucking it all up. This was important to him, even if it was just a bunch of fibres looped together.

"If you s'don't do exactly as I tells you I will make your life hell," Crowley muttered to the yarn. "And's I can actually do that. Think hard on your decision."

Whether it was the slowness, the patience, or the fear of Crowley installed in the bundles of pale yellow and blue yarn, it was actually started to turn out his way.

———

Aziraphale hummed to himself a song he'd heard for the first time over at Maggie's shop. 'Unforgettable' by Nat King Cole. He realized he might have started to develop a real love for that man's music, all because of how much he knew Crowley enjoyed him. He never imagined himself a jazz fan, far too eccentric for his tastes, but the smooth notes got stuck in Crowley's head as he made the pair hot chocolates.

He was still humming softly as he returned to the main area of the bookshop, eyebrows raised as he saw a small white box with a yellow ribbon on his desk.

"Crowley, what's this?" Aziraphale asked, setting his mug down beside the box and walking over to where Crowley was sprawled across a chair.

"Wot?"

"The box, what is it?"

Crowley shrugged, sipping the hot chocolate Aziraphale gave him and looking out the window, "I dunno."

"You don't know? What do you mean you don't know?" Aziraphale scoffed as though it was completely impossible.

"I said I don't know, Angel. Might as well open it and find out."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and looked at Crowley with confusion. Crowley didn't always love to communicate well, though neither did he - a sin they both unfortunately share - but this was entirely new. Despite all this, Aziraphale did go to the box. He gently undid the pale yellow ribbon, it was so beautiful he took extra pains to not rip it, and lifted the the lid.

He gasped slightly at what he saw, "oh Crowley."

Crowley cringed, expecting Aziraphale to hate it. But that was quite the opposite. Inside the box sat a scarf, blue and yellow and hand knit, with a small card sitting on top of it saying 'Happy Creation Day.' Aziraphale glanced up and was surprised to find that it was, indeed, October 21st. Creation Day, the Earth was now 6,027 years old, and Crowley remembered.

Aziraphale lifted the scarf from the box, seeing it for what it was. It wasn't perfect in the slightest. The yellow and blue made an awkward, uneven contrast at some parts. Knots made lumps throughout the entire scarf, and one color was at least an inch and a half longer than the other. But all the same, it made Aziraphale tear up, "oh Crowley it's beautiful."

"You really think so?" Crowley asked timidly, now standing stiffly near where he was sitting. His eyes were looking anywhere but Aziraphale, scared if he looked at him he'd be humiliated. His cheeks were pink as Aziraphale looked at his work.

"Oh dearest, this is amazing. How long did it take you?"

"Oh, just, you know normal knitting times..."

"Crowley?"

"2 months," he mumbled.

Aziraphale dropped the scarf into the box, walking over to Crowley and gently placing his hands on his cheeks. Though he closed his eyes, he leaned his head into the touch. "You spent 2 months making this for me?"

"S'course, Angel. Woulda spent longer, got rushed."

"My darling, it is absolutely beautiful. Thank you so much for this gift. You have outdone yourself."

It was these words that made Crowley open his bright, yellow eyes and look at Aziraphale. He wasn't lying, he wasn't lying in the slightest. All he saw in Aziraphale's eyes was admiration, love, and the glassy look of someone trying to hold back tears. Crowley whispered softly, "why are you crying?"

Aziraphale laughed softly, letting a tear fall at this, "Oh my sweet, it's good tears. I'm just so overwhelmed. It's so beautiful and you made it for me."

"S'course."

Aziraphale let his forehead fall against Crowley's. There they stood in their little bookshop, two angels holding each other. After a few moments of this, Aziraphale broke away, kissed Crowley forehead and wiped away his tears.

"Well, shall I treat you to a spot of lunch?"

"I think a table at the Ritz just opened up," Crowley smiled, hiding the mist in his own eyes.

"Oh, what a miracle!" Aziraphale giggled. "You go on and warm up the car dearest. I'll only be a moment."

"M'kay, Angel." Crowley walked out and greeted his lovely Bentley with an appreciative whistle. "Such a beautiful girl, can't wait to ride you."

A woman walking puffed up and said, "shut it, you creepy bloke."

Crowley, offended, scoffed, "I- I was talking to my car. Not you!"

She rolled eyes, "sure, mate, I believe ya."

Crowley took on a taunting tone, "You're not even my type, you- you- you box dye brunette!" He couldn't think of a better insult and she just flipped him off and stalked off.

"Oh bugger," Crowley murmured, going to open the driver's door. Then he stopped, looking up at Aziraphale who was now on the steps of the bookshop. He was wearing the scarf he made him.

He was wearing the scarf he made him.

And proudly too. Despite it's lumps, it's unevenness, and it's wonky patterns, Aziraphale wore the scarf like a badge of honor. He was showing off to the world that Crowley was his, and Crowley was talented, sweet, and anyone would be lucky to have him. But they couldn't have him, because Crowley was Aziraphale's, as Aziraphale was Crowley's.

"Ngk-wow, Angel."

"Don't you like it?" Aziraphale asked, preening like a peacock. "I had it handmade by the most talented man. I shall give you his number if you like."

"N-nah. I'm not a knit type of guy."

"Oh shame, he really is quite good. And he looks fantastic is those leather jackets," Aziraphale says with a wide grin.

"Just get in, Angel." Crowley was now blushing violently, and got in the car to avoid turning into a hot pink mess out there. Aziraphale slid in beside him, sitting pin straight as he does but with a little proud wiggle in his seat. He was so fucking cute it hurt sometimes, so Crowley turned on the radio.

In the silence of the car ride, Nat King Cole's mesmerizing voice called out, "the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved, in return."

#good omens #good omens season 2 #fluff #so much fluff #fluff so sweet you’re teeth will rot #slice of life #like seinfield episodes but less funny and more sentimental #Crowley is trying #no beta we die like crowley’s heart in s2 e6 ouch neil gaiman #asexual relationship #Nat King Cole reference that is actually a Moulin Rouge reference in my little heart #Crowley is a simp #Aziraphale is proud #I’m actually so proud of this please enjoy it #neil gaiman notice me #david tennant #michael sheen

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