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clanwarrior-tumbly · 3 years

Note

My friend is a big fan of you as well and asked me to request this:

A Janus fic based on the song Monster by Dev https://youtu.be/5iA_oFDNt9E

I think the song could fit him quite well, maybe with the others being like “out of all of us, h i m???”

-🦑

Songfic?? With Janus angst?? My time has come *ascends*

CW: Unsympathetic Light Sides (they're not assholes but they're basically unsupportive, concerned for Reader, and hateful/distrustful of Janus)

...........

Call the doctor, call the doctor Must be something wrong with me He's a monster, why do I want ya Please tell me, please tell me

"What?!! [Y/n] this..this cannot possibly be true!"

"Roman-"

"You could've had any one of the fine gentlemen here...but more importantly me.."

"Roman, just calm-"

"And yet you chose him?! That wretched slimy snake?!" The princely Side pointed rudely at Janus, who was just sitting on the couch beside you. He frowned as he fiddled with the chain of his capelet, finding more interest in that than the uncomfortable conversation currently taking place.

This wasn't even the direction you nor him expected it to take. It was already going south..straight towards hell.

All because Remus couldn't keep his mouth shut and blurted out the revelation that you and Janus were dating.

Ironically, he was the one who confessed to you first--something that you're certain no Side would ever believe.

"There's got to be something wrong with your head." Roman shook his head in dismay, before approaching you. "Come now. We'll find you a true Prince Charming! One that's not a vile fibber like-"

Suddenly you sprang up, moving away from him. "You don't get to choose who I fall in love with. Remus.." You glared at the dark half of creativity. "I'm gonna kick your ass if you don't leave right now."

"Do ya promise~?" He giggled, refusing to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. "You know I'm into that."

"Let it go, [y/n]." Janus tried to assure you. "They're both bumbling fools."

"A fool?!" Roman gasped. "The only fool here is YOU!! Trying to tempt them with your false promises of love and affection! What do you know about romance?!"

"Apparently more than you." You interrupted, standing by your lover in a defensive manner. "I know this isn't exactly how I planned to tell you but god just calm down for a minute."

You definitely didn't anticipate this kind of freakout from him. You thought he'd be asking about the how's and when's of falling in love, as one would expect from the "romantic expert" of the Sides.

You had a plan to tell all of them individually, but..starting with the guy who was deceived most and openly mocked his name probably wasn't a good idea.

Eventually the two halves of creativity left you both alone. And only then did you sit back down next to the now-dejected Janus, holding his hand. "Sorry you had to hear all that."

"Oh don't worry, it'sss new to me." He muttered, squeezing your hand in turn. "I'm sure Roman will have a tough time realizing he's definitely the most handsome one around here." The smirk he gave made you chuckle.

"Yeah, well..he'll get over it. We got off on the wrong foot with him, but I'm sure the others will be more accepting."

He's a monster He's a monster That boy, he's a motherfucking monster But I love him, yeah I love him Ooh ah, ooh ah ah

"Seriously? That guy?"

"Just hear me out, Virgil-"

"Oh I've heard plenty. I'm just warning you that it's a bad idea." Virgil huffed as he put his phone down. "He's a monster who's gonna use you for some selfish gain. You've seen it. He only cares about himself and hurts people to keep it that way."

"I know you've known him longest but...I'm pretty sure at this point he's moved past all of that." You pointed out. "Honestly, the only one being hurt here is him. First Roman, and now you?"

Despite your arguments, he just didn't seem convinced. "I'm not doing this to give you anxiety...I can only do that to Thomas. And I'm not gonna say "breakup with him right now". I'm just telling you that he's not what he seems."

"I appreciate your worries, but I love him and that's that." You insisted, crossing your arms over your chest as you stood defiant. Obviously it was in his nature to tell you to stay cautious, and he'd probably say the same if you were dating anyone else.

But calling Janus a monster seemed awfully harsh. You haven't even heard him call Remus that, which was odd.

'Seriously why is he being such a prick?'

"..whatever you say." Virgil shrugged before sinking out, leaving you alone by the staircase.

"I wouldn't worry. His opinion of me has never changed."

You realized Janus was eavesdropping and turned to face him, sighing. "Jan, are you doing something that's making them be so... brutally honest? This just seems unusual for them."

"Not that I'm aware of." He had briefly removed his glove, indicating he was tell you the truth.

"Hm..then again, Roman and Virgil are sorta the least-rational ones. One's jealous that he doesn't have a date and the other overthinks a lot."

"Wonderful observations, my dear."

"Patton and Logan are more down-to-earth and clear-headed so they might have more understanding."

"I'm sure they will." Janus' tone didn't match the optimistic words he uttered as he slipped the glove back on. "Oh and..I'll try not eavesdrop anymore."

Little did you know, that would be two lies.

Most people are scared When they look him in the eyes, all they see is fear (but) Let me make this clear I want him near

"How can you look into his eyes and..and.."

"Go on."

"And not be scared?! I know I would be, kiddo."

"...Patton, is that seriously your only argument? That he looks creepy?"

"No, no! I just..." For a moment the fatherly Side paused, before he sighed and patted your shoulder. "Listen, I do think you're being a good influence on that wriggly snake but...I only worry he's being a bad influence on you. Every time he's near you I-"

"It sounds like your only argument is "he's a creepy crawly snake so I shouldn't trust or love him". Is that all?"

"It's...a bit more complicated than-"

"It's a yes or no, Pat."

"...I'm trying to look at the bigger picture and, sure there's some good in him but..I worry he's gonna hurt you in the end, that's all. Like he hurt us several times by impersonating us." He tried to reason, but you just brushed his hand off your shoulder in disbelief.

"Wow, I didn't think you'd be one to judge books by their covers." You frowned slightly. "Well let me make this clear: I want him near me. I feel safe around him. I love him, outward appearances and all. So if you can't accept the way I see him then...we're done here."

With no more defenses, Patton sank out as you left the room. But in the hallway you spotted a familiar capelet vanish around the corner, and you found Janus, who manifested a brown eye contact over his snake eye. His scales almost vanished under his skin, but you called out to him before they could disappear entirely.

"Janus? I thought you weren't going to-"

"I..n-never expected Patton of all people to say that.." He held the side of his face shakily, keeping his head lowered so you didn't see the gradually forming tears. Only now he was starting to feel the impact of everyone's words. "If..it's my looks then...I can surely make adjusssstments.."

"No, sweetheart. You don't have to change your looks or be anyone else for me." You cupped a hand over the one that still covered the scales. "C'mon. You can't seriously believe Patton's dumb reasoning, right?"

"........."

All you got was a silent nod.

Most people can't sleep Feeling he's out, on the streets (but) He is my creep He is my creep

"While I see your relationship to Janus is beneficial-"

"Actually, nevermind. You're just gonna tell me the same shit everyone else did."

"...now [y/n], remember what we've discussed on cognitive distortions-"

"Jumping to conclusions? Overgeneralizing? I know. But I have valid reasons for those. You all think Janus is gonna hurt me because he's some "freaky selfish snake". But he's not, alright? He's been more truthful with me lately and I'm sick of the others not believing anything we say. So please, Logan..can you take my side for once?"

Logan was surprised by your outburst. He didn't even know you've talked to the others about Janus and assumed he'd respond in a similar fashion.

But he adjusted his glasses and looked at his notebook, all traces of emotion vanishing. "Logic can't take sides. If you would just listen..I've observed that your interactions with him have been generally positive, and that's helped Thomas-"

"There you go again..why does everything always gotta lead back to Thomas? Can't you just recognize Janus as his own person without assuming I'm only dating him to help-?"

"Because he can't be distracted from his core function!!"

You jumped a bit as he slammed down the notebook, scowling at you with a slight orange tinge behind his glasses. Though it was quick to disappear as he sighed. "He can never be his own person. You two will never have a truly normal relationship. I only advise that you keep that in the back of your mind."

And just like that, he left.

Every discussion you've had with a "Light" Side only left the bitter taste of frustration in your mouth...

Now what should you-?

You were startled again as you heard a nearby door slam shut, before realizing who overheard this conversation.

"Shit."

Is he human, does it matter I know he's what I'm after I can reel him, from disaster I know

"So..th-that's how they all see me, huh? A monster..n-not even a person."

"Jan.." Joining your boyfriend on the king-sized mattress, decorated in black and gold much like himself, you could finally see those walls he built up now crumbling to pieces.

One way or another, he heard what every Side had to say about him. And it was more than enough for him to realize they not only shun him for simply existing..

But they refuse to accept the idea that he's worthy of love, too. He can take the name-calling and insults in the videos, but this is what truly broke him.

He just scratched at his scales, his human eye already red and raw from crying as he wondered why you went through all of this just for him.

Any sane person would listen to the others and just breakup with him. He wasn't worth the effort.

You clearly deserved better.

You deserved someone who's more handsome, chill, kindhearted, or sensible-

"I know you can't truly be human but..does it matter?"

"...does it?" He sniffled, leaning into your touch more as you ran a hand through his hair. "Because apparently not. I know I'm not a perfect, flawless individual..I-I don't expect any of us to be. But if only I-I never-"

"Jan..you can't focus on what you can't change. I know you feel guilty, and if the others can't see that...it's their own fault. I won't stop fighting for us and for your happiness. I love you, okay?" Turning to him fully, you cupped both sides of his face and looked into his eyes.

"And in case you think I'm lying, I'll say it again: I. Love. You. None of their words will change that."

Hearing you become so determined to love him despite all odds made him sob again, this time from relief, as you put your arms around him.

Nobody's ever taken his side on anything...and certainly never defended him the way you did.

You felt several extra arms manifest to hug you back, and you smiled, closing your eyes.

Maybe in time the others will understand. But while it's true he looked like a monster and had his deceitful ways..

You knew what you were after.

And so did he.

Call the doctor, call the doctor Must be something wrong with me He's a monster, why do I want ya Please tell me, please tell me

#clanask #squid anon #sanders sides x reader #sanders sides imagine #janus sanders x reader #janus sanders #angst #hurt/comfort #songfic

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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

Text

Park Days (Winteriron)

Previously a KOFI exclusive fic!

THERE’S MORE WINTERIRON ON MY MASTERLIST

***************

Saturdays were park days and Tony's favorite day of the week. He and Morgan didn't get a whole lot of time to just have fun together, not when Tony averaged sixty hour work weeks between home and office and Morgan did ballet every day after school.

Their life was hectic and hurried and more often than not, dinner was eaten at close to eight pm at night, both Tony and Morgan sprawled in the living room as Morgan finished her homework and chattered about her day and Tony listened as well as he could while filling out reports for work.

But Saturdays? Saturdays were park days, and there was no homework, no reports, no phone calls. Just Tony and Morgan doing whatever they wanted for an entire day and it was Tony's favorite.

"Slow down, Bug!" he called when Morgan's skipping turned into more of a sprint. "I'm getting old, can't keep up anymore!"

"Get a cane then!" Morgan sassed and Tony threw back his head and laughed out loud. At eight years old, Morgan was smart snarky, petty and hilarious and even though Tony knew he would be in trouble when she hit teenage years, for now he just laughed and enjoyed the attitude.

"Alright, seriously!" he called a little louder when the little girl really took off. "You might be shockingly grown up at eight years old, but I still need to be able to see you at all times! Stay close!"

"But Daddy!" Morgan pointed towards the branches of a tree. "It's a cyanocitta cristata! I need it for my science class bingo board! Quick, take a picture!"

"Cyanocitta cristata." Tony repeated. "A blue jay? For science class bingo?"

"Bring your phone! Get a picture!" Morgan darted off the path and into the wooded area of the park, ducking and dodging branches, then throwing herself onto her belly to get under a particularly thick bush. "Daddy! Come on! Or Jimmy's going to win Bingo and I hate that guy!"

"Oh no, not Jimmy!" Tony called back, gamely diving into the woods as well. "I'm coming. Just hold on."

God, it was ridiculous how quick eight year olds could be when they were chasing something interesting, not to mention Morgan was much better suited to navigating bushes than Tony. Tony was still getting slapped in the face by leaves and branches while Morgan had already popped out the other side and was screeching for her dad to hurry before the cyanocitta cristata flew away and then screeching louder, "OH NO! ICE CREAM! I'M SO SORRY!"

And just as Tony was skirting the last bush, wondering why the heck Morgan was wailing about ice cream, he heard a deep voice ask, "What'r'ya doin' chasin' blue birds, honey?"

Uhhhh what?

In no universe ever did Tony want a strange man ever talking to his daughter, much less a man who was calling her honey and apparently had ice cream and--

Tony crashed through the bushes and back onto the path ready to rip some jerk a new asshole for even daring to approach his daughter, but he stopped short when he saw Morgan with both hands over her mouth and tears in her eyes, a man kneeling down in front of her with his hands out placatingly.

"Hey hey. It's alright. No harm done." he was saying in that same deep voice. "No harm done, ice cream is replaceable. But blue jays? Definitely need a picture of those. Don't cry, little darlin'. It's all okay."

"What's going on?" Tony asked slowly. "Bug? You okay?”

"Daddy." Morgan ran to his side and hid her face in his shirt. "I tripped chasing the blue jay and ran into him and spilled his ice cream and I know you told me to slow down, I should have just slowed down, I should have listened and--"

"Easy easy, sweetie. It's alright." Tony soothed her quickly, his heart clenching at Morgan's rambling. She had the same anxiety he'd had his entire life, and no amount of comfort or reassurance seemed to settle the little girl once she got worked up. In moments like this, all Tony could do is stay calm and try to calm her as well.

"Ice cream is easy to clean up, easy to replace, and there are a thousand blue jays in this park.” He murmured, “Plus I'm sure Mr.--" Tony raised his eyebrows and waited for a name.

"Bucky Barnes." The stranger stood up--holy crap was he tall-- and flashed Tony a quick smile, apparently not bothered in the least by the smear of vanilla and chocolate ice cream down the front of what looked like a very expensive sweater. "But Bucky is fine."

"Mr. Bucky." Tony finished. "Will let me pay to get his sweater cleaned and buy a new ice cream cone. You aren't in trouble for running, sweetheart. This is a park, we are allowed to run at parks, right?"

"I'd be running if I saw a cyanocitta cristata too." Bucky informed her, and Morgan peeked out at him curiously. "They sure are pretty, huh?"

"You know the scientific names for blue jays?" she asked, little nose wrinkling in near suspicion. "Do you like science?"

"I've destroyed a few science fair projects, sure." Bucky said gravely, but he winked at Tony. "Do you like science?"

"I passed an six grade chemistry exam yesterday." Morgan got a little braver. "And I'm only eight."

"Wow." Bucky whistled "You are much smarter than me, Ms.--"

"Bug." Morgan prompted and Tony hastened to correct, "Her name is Morgan."

"But Daddy calls me Bug." she finished. "Because I'm creepy crawly."

Bucky chuckled, warm and inviting and Tony cleared his throat because not only was Bucky tall as hell and filling out the ruined sweater with the sort of muscles Tony had only seen in magazines, Bucky's laugh was pretty amazing too.

Wow.

"It's uh--" Tony cleared his throat again. "From when she started to crawl. She did the stink bug thing, you know? Butt in the air?"

"My nephew crawls the same way." Bucky grinned in understanding. "Well Ms. Bug. No harm done, my sweater is fine. Go get your blue jay and have a real good rest of your day, alright?"

"Do you want to help me find one?" Morgan asked excitedly, derailed from her earlier worry by the prospect of trying to find the bird with someone else scientifically inclined. "Maybe you could take the picture cos you're taller than my dad and could get better pictures!"

"Morgan, I'm sure Mr. Bucky has something to do with his day besides chase birds." Tony started to say, but Bucky interrupted--

"You know what, Ms. Bug? I think that would be real fun. Especially if your dad comes along." Bucky's light blue eyes landed at Tony's bare ring finger, then tracked up his frame to meet Tony's gaze. "That alright with you, Mr. Bug Sr?"

"It's Tony." Tony blushed a little at Bucky's suggestive smile. "And um-- park days are days just for me and Bug so--"

"Oh I don't mind!" Bug called over her shoulder as she wandered down the path, concentrating on the branches. "Come on, Mr. Bucky!"

Bucky raised his eyebrows and Tony hesitated, torn between wanting to keep park days just for them and the suddenly startling realization that not only had he been dateless for almost three years, but that life had been so busy late he couldn't remember the last time he'd had some... private... time.

And whew Bucky was gorgeous and smiling and obviously checking him out...

"What do you say, Tony?"

"If Morgan's okay with sharing park day, I guess I am too." Tony finally answered and Bucky's smile widened. "Let's go find us a blue jay."

Morgan clapped her hands in excitement and took off down the path, checking behind every few minutes to make sure Tony could still see her, and with his eyes firmly on Bug as she ran around, Tony asked,

"So. Saturday's are park days for you too?"

"Oh." Bucky pulled a hair tie from his pocket and swept his hair up and away from his face, highlighting a defined jaw that Tony had a hard time looked away from. "Saturday mornings I do tai chi in front of the gazebo, so I was just cutting through to get back to my place. Stopped for ice cream."

"Tai chi, huh?" Tony asked skeptically. "In a two hundred dollar sweater?"

"Is this a two hundred dollar sweater?" Bucky looked down at his ruined shirt in surprise. "I stole it from my friend Sam. He's such a cheap ass when it comes to paying for drinks I figured he was a cheap ass with his clothes too!"

Tony laughed out loud and Bucky waggled his eyebrows. "Knew you were checking me out, by the way. Good thing Morgan spilled ice cream on me, huh? Otherwise you'd have to find another reason to stare at my pecs."

"Oh my god." Tony laughed again and waved when Morgan pointed out a patch of wild flowers. "Was it that obvious?"

"I only noticed you staring cos I was staring too." Bucky assured him in that same easy tone. "And don't worry about the sweater. I'll get it dry cleaned and Sam won't know the difference. Besides, if I told him I got flattened by a kid chasing a blue bird he'd never let me live it down."

"He sounds like a peach." Tony said dryly and Bucky snorted something in agreement. "I'll reimburse you for the dry cleaning, just send me the receipt."

"So that means I'll get to see you again, right?" Bucky prompted. "If I have to find you to get the receipt, I mean. We should make it dinner, you like steak? I know a great place on 4th. Food so good it'll put you in a coma."

"Wow." Tony blinked. "You always ask random guys out for dinner when you walk through the park?"

"Only when they are gorgeous and smart enough to teach their kid the scientific names of common birds." Bucky replied. "And you know--" a quick glance. "Only when they're as good looking as you."

"Wow." Tony said again, and this time his laugh was a little nervous. "Well um--"

"Daddy!" Morgan shouted. "Mr. Bucky! I found one! I found one!"

The question of a date was sidelined till later as both Tony and Bucky took off jogging to catch up with Morgan, who was practically dancing in place and pointing up the tree.

"Look look look." She said impatiently. "Right there! Quick! A picture!"

"I got it." Bucky lifted his phone and snapped a few pictures, zoomed in and snapped another one. "There, how's that?"

Morgan checked the pictures over then gave Bucky a thumbs up. "Thank you! It's perfect!"

Morgan was off like a shot again, heading towards the swings at the far end of the park and Bucky turned to Tony. "What's your number, I'll send these to you."

"Look." Tony took a deep breath in. "Bucky. I'm um-- well I'm flattered as hell by the invitation to dinner and it's been so long since I've had a date I probably don't even remember how to do this sort of thing, but I gotta tell you--"

"Your whole life revolves around your daughter and you don't have time to date." Bucky finished, and when Tony's mouth fell open, he nodded. "I get it. But you know--"

"I was going to say it's hard to take you seriously when you have pieces of waffle cone on your shirt." Tony interrupted. "I mean yes, the daughter thing too, but also you know--"

He reached out and plucked a piece from Bucky's shirt. "You've been walking with us for like fifteen minutes and haven't made a single attempt to clean up, which is both hilarious and makes me worry about how messy you're going to be at dinner."

"Ah." Bucky looked down and then up again. "Well I can fix the sweater issue." One smooth motion and Bucky stripped the sweater right off, showing off a whole lotta muscles that his black tank top barely covered.

"Oh, look at that." Tony gulped a little, then glanced up to find Morgan, grateful that she had found the swings and wasn't currently watching her Dad drool over their new friend. "Tai chi, you say?"

"On Saturday's in front of the gazebo." Bucky sounded like he was thoroughly enjoying Tony's gawking. "So. If I promise not to spill steak sauce on myself? Dinner?"

"...Bug doesn't like steak." Tony said slowly. "And I'm sorry, but between my work and her school we hardly have any time together and you're-- wow you're gorgeous. And I'm flattered, but I'm not giving up time with my kiddo--"

"What kind of food does Morgan like?" Bucky interrupted. "And if you turn me down, I'll leave it alone. I'd just like to see you again, and Morgan seems great, so bring her along. We'll get chicken wings and pizza. Pasta. Hamburgers. Whatever."

"Really?" Tony said skeptically. "You don't mind?"

"How many times do you run into someone that is not only smoking hot but super smart and has a smile that makes your knees feel all jello-y?" Bucky asked bluntly. "Cos you tick all those boxes for me and I think I'd be a damn idiot to not pursue it. What do you say?"

Tony sent one more look at Morgan, and then pulled out a business card.

"Here's my number." Bucky's eyes lit up and Tony smiled. "Um, Saturday's are always park days, so why don't I take the sweater and get it cleaned, I'll give it back to you next week and you can buy Bug and I some ice cream. Too boring a date for you?"

"Sounds great." Bucky handed over his sweater. "I can't wait till next Saturday. Can I text you in the meantime?"

"...yes." Tony fought against another blush. "That's fine. Cos you um-- you tick all those boxes for me too. In fact, you said cyanocitta cristata and I think my heart skipped a beat."

"Ah good, my master plan." Bucky's wink was practically lecherous. "To spout scientific names and have nerdy single dads fall for me."

"Working like a champ." Tony informed him, cheeks burning when Bucky laughed out loud. "Alright, I've got to go catch Bug before she attempts something very dangerous off those swings. Um-- Saturday?"

"Definitely." Bucky held out his hand and when Tony went to shake it, Bucky turned Tony's hand over and pressed a kiss to his palm. "Nice to meet you, Tony."

"Nice to meet you too."

Bucky headed back the way he came sweater-less, and Tony stood right where he was, debating whether or not he was going to actually smell the sweater to get another hint of Bucky's cologne.

"Daddy." Morgan popped up beside him and Tony jumped.

"Sorry Bug, did I miss your trick?"

"No." Morgan wrinkled her nose up again. "No, I did some math and I don't think I can do a back flip. Not enough time to get a full rotation before dealing with some serious face-plantery.”

"That's my girl." Tony kissed the top of her head. "Where to do you want to go now?"

"The carousel."

"Sure baby, come on."

Tony's phone buzzed and he opened his messages to the unknown number.

Ask Morgan if Tyrannus tyrannus is on her bingo list, there's one by the cotton candy stand.

"Bug?" Tony asked. "Is the Eastern Kingbird on your bingo?"

"YES!" Morgan shouted. "DO YOU SEE ONE?!"

"Um, Bucky did, apparently."

"HE'S THE BEST!" Morgan darted away and Tony sighed and took off after her. "I LOVE PARK DAYS!"

....Tony loved park days too.

**************

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***************

@ships-galore @ceealaina @izziebladez @cwar1864 @hausoffro @lookuplaughing @tonystarkisanangel @multishippinglife @girlnic @iam93percentstardust @water-colouredmemories @paranormalmoonlight5 @igotloki @moosette05 @wayward-student-philosopher @kaz-brekkers-gloves @atomicfandombomb @1fuckingshitup69 @agentlokii

#ncts fics #winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes #morgan stark

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phlintandsteel-ao3 · 5 years

Text

Before The Beginning

"Do you think of me, while you're out building stars?"

A flutter of wings.

A whisper in the spaces between their atoms.

Red hair lit up like its own halo, like Raphael is twice as holy, twice as important as any other angel.

And he is...

He is.

"Every moment, angel."

<//>

The moment after the Heavens are created, they are drawn to each other. From the dawn of existence. Time hasn’t been invented yet, so there’s nothing to mark the passage. There is only brushing against their brethren, light interweaving as they rejoice.

When She gives them corporations, it makes many out of one, and secretly, not all are happy with it.

Raphael misses belonging. But when fingers run through his hair, marveling at the color, at the curl, he recognizes.

“Oh. It’s you.”

A nod.

“Your hair is the color of flames.”

“Yours is the color of starlight.”

They explore their new forms, tracing each other with fingertips, then palms, then pressing close in a snug tangle of limbs.

If they share enough skin, they can feel each other again.

(The other angles do not feel like they do.)

<//>

She gives them jobs, right after She creates time.

Something to pass it.

<//>

They cling close, spirits mixing and dipping into each other along the places where their skin touches.

<//>

“This nebula is truly one of our most beautiful projects to date… Did She give you the suggestion for the color?”

“No. It’s the color of Jehoel’s eyes.”

Gabriel blinks, stares at him too long.

“But since She made Jehoel, I suppose in the end, it actually was Her idea…”

The corporation that is Gabriel relaxes.

It is the first time that Raphael wonders.

(The questioning comes later.)

<//>

“I miss you when you’re off creating constellations… It’s...cold without you.”

“You know my hair isn’t actually made of fire, right? Isn’t that supposed to be your element anyway?” Raphael teases, pressing his forearms all along Jehoel’s back, crisscrossed in between his wings, holding him close.

(Curse these corporations that keep them apart.)

“I meant inside,” Jehoel admonishes, pressing his cheek more firmly against Raphael’s neck, baring his soul to him as best as he can.

“Shhh, I’m here now, angel,” Raphael squeezes him tight.

<//>

(Isn’t it blasphemy, for Her Grace to not be enough?)

<//>

"Do you think of me, while you're out building stars?"

A flutter of wings.

A whisper in the spaces between their atoms.

Red hair lit up like its own halo, like Raphael is twice as holy, twice as important as any other angel.

And he is...

He is.

"Every moment, angel."

<//>

“If the forms of our existence can change, cannot the names attached to them as well?” Jehoel asks.

Raphael blinks at him.

“Why do you call me ‘angel’?” Jehoel frames Raphael’s face with his hands.

Their legs are twined together, stomachs pressed close.

They only breathe to feel the rise and fall of each other’s chests.

“Because…”

(Because he’s not Jehoel. He’s not. We should be the same, but admitting it feels too much like a reprimand.)

“Because ‘Jehoel’ has never felt quite right, has it? Not to you, and not to me,” Jehoel admits, his eyes tracing the thoughtful curve of Raphael’s brow.

“What do you want to be called, then? What feels right?” Raphael asks, shifting to rub a thumb over the back of the hand cupping his face.

“In my spirit? ...I would be called Raphael,” Jehoel whispers.

“We can’t both be Raphael,” he reminds him, voice shaking as he yearns.

(Yearns for when the two of them were made of the same atoms, the same light.)

“Then I shall be Aziraphale, instead.”

Raphael’s soul sings as a joyful smile spreads over his face. He can feel the harmony it creates with Aziraphale’s, so close, right there under his skin. They both move to get as close as possible as quickly as they can, pressing against each other even more, willing the torrent of emotion to spill over into light, into the oneness that they lost.

In their haste, Aziraphale’s smile bumps against Raphael’s.

Oh.

Neither of them thought the parts they used to communicate could be used to communicate this.

“Aziraphale…”

Raphael presses their mouths together again.

The veil is lifted.

Aziraphale surges forward, in corporation and in spirit, filling Raphael with a hurricane of suppressed longing. He’s swept aside in the torrent of it, gone. He isn’t just himself anymore, they’re them.

(He yields instantly.)

(Willingly.)

It’s not the all consuming oneness of before, but it’s close. So close.

“Oh, my clever Aziraphale…”

“Stop talking, my dear.”

<//>

They don’t talk to each other for a long time after that. Three nebulae and a galaxy’s worth. They have better things to do with their mouths once obligations are done.

<//>

(They should have talked.)

(Maybe Raphael wouldn’t have questioned, if they had...)

(But maybe Aziraphale would have where he hadn’t before…)

<//>

When She creates the humans, everything changes.

Raphael can see why she adores them.

(But the other angels do not feel for humans like She does.)

<//>

It takes the humans a much shorter amount of time to realize the intimacy of mouths on mouths than it did Raphael and Aziraphale.

<//>

(Why?)

(Why not?)

(Why us?)

(Why them?)

<//>

Raphael is on shift during The Betrayal.

When Lucifer betrays Her, Gabriel bears witness against Raphael and his questions.

Light cannot escape the strength of his grief when Raphael realizes that questioning will be punished with losing everything.

(At the center of a black hole is love.)

<//>

Good and evil.

Light and dark.

Up and down.

You and me.

All Her creations are double edged swords.

(Be careful how much you want to know.)

<//>

It is supposed to be part of their punishment, that demons remember while angels do not.

For Crawly though, it is only mercy.

If his angel suffered without him as he did, well… Then he would have lost faith entirely, like the rest of his brethren.

(As it is, he's the one who’s lost both the most and the least.)

(He isn’t sure what Lucifer is on about, that prat never loved anyone but himself.)

<//>

The forces of Hell spend rather more than seven days trying to break in to the Garden.

In the end, it is Crawly and Crawly alone who can slither through.

(Go up and make some trouble.)

He can feel it as he burrows, feel it in his bones, that the only reason he can pass through the barrier is because Aziraphale is on the other side.

(But he keeps that to himself.)

<//>

When he stands in Aziraphale’s presence for the first time in an eon, he can tell his angel is...diminished…

(But still Aziraphale.)

(Always Aziraphale.)

<//>

“You gave it away?!?”

<//>

(He gave it away.)

<//>

Aziraphale may be a Principality now, and Crawly may be a demon, but there’s still a strange sort of leftover resonance in their souls, drawing them to each other, only feeling truly at ease in each other’s company.

<//>

“What? You can’t kill kids!”

Crawly can feel the vacillation in him, even if Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, and he clings to it.

(It feels like hope.)

<//>

“What was it that he said that got everyone so upset?”

“Be kind to each other.”

“Oh, yes, that’ll do it…”

(There are too many conflicting emotions in him to parse each one out.)

(So he just watches on in horror.)

<//>

Crowley gets called back down below, where all Hell has broken loose.

Because the keys have been taken.

Lucifer’s lost his greatest leverage in his self proclaimed war against Her, which was the human souls he’d been hoarding down there.

Everyone has to report back for some sort of giant strategy meeting.

(Which is ridiculous, because they’re all just doing as they’re told.)

It’s a pain and a mountain of paperwork and a swearing of allegiance to a new plan and all Crowley wants to do is run his fingers through hair like strands of starlight again.

(He remembers the stars.)

(He’d trade them all to feel the touch of Aziraphale’s skin again.)

<//>

Lucifer leans forward on his throne, head tilted just so, to make sure the light of the flames bounces properly off his cheekbones.

“Do you love him?”

Crowley doesn’t think of warm hands and warmer mouths.

“I remember him. I remember what loving him cost me.”

(He thinks of stars collapsing instead.)

By some miracle, Lucifer is placated. It might be for the very first time.

(What the devil is She playing at?)

<//>

Crowley isn’t sure which is the worse torment, being in Hell without Aziraphale, or walking the earth with him so close and yet so far.

<//>

(Is this part of your plan?)

<//>

He takes it back. Being friends by Arrangement is the worst chaos of a feeling ever.

(But it’s also the best.)

At least they can make up for all the talking they didn’t do before.

<//>

It takes everything in him not to grab Aziraphale by his frilled lapels and kiss him senseless in France. But he knows it wouldn’t go over well.

He has to keep telling himself that this isn’t his Aziraphale.

(But it is.)

(It is.)

He’d do anything just to be allowed to stay at his side.

<//>

“Anthony?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that… I’ll get used to it. What does the ‘J’ stand for?”

“It’s, uh, just a ‘J’, really…”

(Lies told in a temple should burn more, shouldn't they?)

(It’s a ‘J’ to remind him that angels have free will too.)

Their hands brush as he hands over the rescued books, and there’s shock in it, shock at the tendril of love interwoven.

(It’s enough to sustain Crowley for another 6000 years, the whisper of love in Aziraphale’s touch.)

(He wishes he could craft another hundred nebulae the exact shade of Aziraphale’s eyes in that moment, but his angel isn’t the only one who’s been diminished.)

(Falling made them all less.)

<//>

“Anywhere you want, anywhere at all,” he offers.

But what he means is please, choose me.

<//>

And suddenly, he’s out of time.

The End is upon them, Hell is onto him, and Aziraphale doesn’t remember him.

“The forces of Hell have figured out that it was my fault. But! We could run away together! Alpha Centauri, lots of spare planets up there, no one would even notice us!”

(Choose me, his soul screams, just for once, choose me!)

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous. Look, I’m quite sure if I can just, reach the right people, that I can get all this sorted out…”

“There aren’t any right people,” Crowley says, dumbfounded, getting right up in his face, “There’s just God, moving in 'mysterious ways’ and not talking to any of us!”

“Well, yes, and that is why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it.”

“That- won’t happen… You’re so clever, how can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?” Crowley asks, aghast.

“... I forgive you.”

(So that’s it, then.)

(After 6000 years, Crowley snaps.)

(What reason is there to keep holding on?)

(Maybe he’s been deluding himself this whole time….)

“I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving! And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!”

<//>

(Well, he thought he’d snapped at the time.)

(When he really snaps is screaming at both Heaven and Hell on the floor of a burning bookshop.)

(He imagines this is what Falling felt like for the rest of them.)

<//>

"I lost my best friend…"

"I'm so sorry to hear it…"

(Something in Aziraphale shifts, to see that Crowley didn't leave without him after all, that Crowley stayed.)

<//>

After the failed End, things are almost too quiet in comparison.

Aziraphale wears his own face again.

Perhaps it’s for the best that he doesn’t remember, in this moment.

(Because the symbolism would break his heart.)

(God knows it would break Crowley's, if he allowed himself to think about it.)

They stay together, without going off anywhere, just living their lives, but together.

<//>

The first time Aziraphale leans toward Crowley with the intent to kiss, there is no other word to describe Crowley's posture but nervous.

"Is this alright?" Aziraphale whispers.

"It is. God, Aziraphale, it is. It's just, I'm not sure what will happen…" Crowley confesses.

Aziraphale smiles at him indulgently.

(Because he doesn't know.)

(Maybe Crowley should stop him…)

(But he doesn't have the heart to seriously consider it.)

(It feels like he's been waiting an eternity for Aziraphale to choose him.)

When Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s, it’s soft, no surging or toppling him over onto his back like the first first time. Aziraphale kisses like he doesn’t know that souls are for pouring, but it’s more than Crowley ever expected to feel again.

“I… Crowley, have- … Have we done this before?” Aziraphale asks him, confusion writ hard upon his face, “I would remember if we had done this...but…”

“But not if She took it away…” Crowley whispers, his eyes still closed.

(Were they told not to speak of it, or was that just his own self preservation? It’s not like any angel would have ever believed a demon about it…)

(But now...)

(But now…)

“What do you mean She took it away?”

Crowley opens his eyes.

“I mean… In the beginning, there was us. Before.”

“Us?” Aziraphale asks, a slow terror dawning over his face, “Before what?”

“Before I questioned!” Crowley answers, his voice too loud compared to Aziraphale’s. “Before the Fall, before the humans, before time itself was set spinning, there was us.”

“Us,” Aziraphale echos, brushing his fingers over his own lips. “I… I think I believe you… But why-”

“Oh, come off it, angel,” Crowley practically jeers, his emotions spinning completely out of control.

(Healer, heal thyself.)

“It was part of our punishment, to remember. Think about it. You know all demons were angels before the Fall, but do you remember any of us? Do you remember me? I know you don’t,” Crowley spits out, so close to breaking that he risks complete and utter ruin if this goes badly.

Aziraphale looks terrified as Crowley is speaking, but instead of answering, he kisses him again.

And this time he pours his heart into it, no holding back.

It burns.

(But god, Crowley could die happily this way.)

“Is… Is it supposed to feel like this?” Aziraphale pulls back, tears in his eyes.

“You were the angel of fire, you’ve always burned a little…”

“Of fire?... No I wasn’t. I’ve always just been, me,” he frowns.

“No...you weren’t...” Crowley insists softly, “Well, you’ve always been you, but you used to be more, just like I did…”

Aziraphale shakes his head, like he can’t fathom the concept of everything he’s finding out, everything that’s been taken from them.

“Wait. The angel of fire’s name was Jehoel,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, like he isn’t sure if he wants Crowley to be lying to him after all or not.

“Yes. But you chose to be Aziraphale instead,” Crowley makes a helpless motion with one shoulder.

“I chose? I… I don’t remember...” Aziraphale adds, sounding frustrated.

“I know…”

“Crowley, what were you the angel of?” Aziraphale asks, as if he’s just now realizing how strange it is that he’s never asked before.

Then it’s Crowley’s turn to shake his head.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Leave it, angel.”

“You can’t tell me things like this and then not answer my questions, Crowley,” Aziraphale chastises him, starting to look distraught.

Crowley gives him a horrified look, just now realizing what Aziraphale is dancing along the edge of, by questioning.

Aziraphale’s face softens, but he still looks hurt, confused. Not by Crowley, but by the situation. “Why would I be diminished? I didn’t fall… Did?... Did She change me? From Jehoel into-” Aziraphale pauses and motions at himself.

Crowley jumps into the pause and says, “No, angel. You chose to be Aziraphale, long before the Fall, ages beforehand. That wasn’t what diminished you, that was...that was something She did later...” Crowley trails off.

(He’s not going to say the words ineffable plan. Not here, not now.)

Aziraphale stills. It’s not the peaceful stillness that angels are supposed to be known for. It’s an angry, teetering stillness. One that when it tips over, promises violence.

“Crowley, what was your name, before you fell?”

(Damn his clever angel.)

Crowley hesitates, swallowing hard as his throat threatens to close up.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats himself, insistent, “What was your name?”

With a trembling hand, Crowley reaches up and cups his angel’s cheek.

“It was Raphael.”

Aziraphale’s face looks like it’s about to shatter.

Crowley is ready to grab the pieces of him, if need be.

(Always Aziraphale.)

And then the anger comes flooding forward.

“How dare She.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley whispers, not sure if he can or should or even really wants to calm him down...

“How dare She,” Aziraphale repeats, his anger far beyond righteous.

(Words like primal were invented for this.)

Before Crowley can say anything else in return, the two of them are suddenly bathed in a blue-white light from above. He freezes in terror, eyes going wider than they ever have before.

But Aziraphale, his clever, beautiful Aziraphale, looks up, and rages.

“Give it back.”

Crowley’s heart skips a beat.

“Aziraphale, you don’t know what-”

“Give it back!” Aziraphale cuts off the Almighty, “He may not have known the consequences, but I do. Give me back my memories,” he demands as angry tears start to pour down his face.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley says helplessly, his whole corporation starting to shake and tremble.

“You said we had a choice, but you took mine away from me,” Aziraphale admonishes God, “You had already taken my memory of him away when you told us of the Fall. That’s not a choice, that’s a lie.”

The sadness clinging to the air around them is so strong that Crowley feels like he’s choking on it.

When no response is forthcoming, Aziraphale turns his face down and away from the light of God.

Sparks and embers begin to swirl upward out of him, like a log disturbed on a campfire.

(This is what happens when you kick the angel of fire too many times, Crowley thinks a tad hysterically.)

Aziraphale falls to his knees, crying out in pain.

Crowley catches him, eases him down while they cling to each other tightly.

(God, it burns.)

(It was always going to.)

The sparks intensify, until Aziraphale is consumed, until they both are.

But Crowley doesn’t let go.

This is their choice.

An informed one this time.

(We should be the same.)

(The same light.)

(The same fire.)

(The other angles do not feel like they do.)

(He yields instantly.)

(Willingly.)

(He remembers the stars.)

(So that’s it, then.)

(At the center of a black hole is love.)

Falling made them all less, but somehow, it makes Aziraphale more. And Crowley is swept along with him, their fetters removed, shackles broken, fire and stars at their fingertips again, now that they’re on the same side.

(God, show me your Great Plan...)

After She leaves, it’s silent for a long time while they exist.

“Raphael?...”

“That’s not my name anymore, angel…”

A thoughtful hum.

“But I remain Aziraphale yet... I think, because I chose that, She cannot take it away from me...”

Crowley lifts his angel’s hand, presses a kiss onto the back of it. They’re still laying on the floor, all pretenses and trappings of humanity stripped away, burned away by the Almighty’s light.

“Do you want to call me ‘Raphael’ again?” he asks, quiet, accepting of any outcome.

“Aziraphale is my rebellion, but ‘Crowley’ is yours, my dear. I’m not going to be offended if you want to keep it. I’ve grown rather fond of it, actually.”

“Ok, angel. Ok,” Crowley finds himself smiling.

“You know, I’m not an angel anymore…” Aziraphale points out.

“That’s not what I mean by it,” Crowley assures him, still smiling.

Aziraphale smiles back.

“I know.”

When Aziraphale rolls them over, hovering over Crowley, the intent to kiss him for eternity written plainly on his face, it takes Crowley’s breath away to see his new form.

“Aziraphale,” he says, a benediction now, no longer a plea, “Your wings are red…”

A nod.

“Yes, I thought we’d go well together that way, without being too matchy-matchy.”

Crowley is laughing when Aziraphale finally leans down to kiss him, unable to resist tasting the joy on his lips for a moment longer.

Kissing on the floor of Crowley’s flat for a year and a day may seem excessive, but it’s not.

(It’s not.)

(It’s really not.)

They used to kiss for decades, they used to kiss for centuries when they could get away with it.

(Plus, in Heaven, there was nothing else all that interesting to do but steal each other’s atoms and tuck them up close inside their hearts.)

But Aziraphale pulls back after only a year, and Crowley whines in protest, following his lips upward.

“I’ve been thinking…”

“Well I haven’t, I’ve been kissing you,” Crowley complains ineffectually, already feeling the stretch of their souls separating and settling back into their own corporations like taffy pulled too far apart.

Aziraphale smiles indulgently at him.

“Some of us can do more than one thing at once, my dear.”

“Not all of us are Cherubim of unfathomable power, angel,” Crowley grumbles.

“Are you, overwhelmed?...” Aziraphale grins, leaning down close again.

“By you?” Crowley says, wrapping all his limbs around Aziraphale like a limpet, “Always.”

He tucks his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and just, holds on tight.

“Oh darling… I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through, these 6000 years,” Aziraphale cups the back of his head, sliding fingers up into his red locks.

(In his true form, Crowley’s hair was like a tumble of lava, like a curtain of a million red stars burning and twisting around each other at once.)

(Aziraphale could spend eternity running his fingers through it.)

“Don’t get all mushy on me now, angel,” Crowley says, his voice cracking.

“I make no promises...”

Crowley squeezes him extra tightly for a moment, before settling back against the floor again.

“What have you been thinking about?” Crowley asks, knowing they really aren’t going to be able to just kiss for the next century, as much as they both might want to.

“Us. And Heaven, and Hell,” Aziraphale tells him, growing pensive.

“We… Surely, we must have a little more time?” Crowley says.

“If we didn’t, would you have wanted to spend it any other way?” Aziraphale asks, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“...No,” Crowley admits, “Is this it, then? Can...can you feel them coming for us, somehow?”

“Not as of yet,” Aziraphale shakes his head, “But it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?”

“What are we going to do?”

“Well, the way I see it, we have two options. We could run, but, it couldn’t be to any place within Creation. She’d still be able to find us, no matter how distant the nebula…” Aziraphale tells him sadly.

“The only thing outside Creation is the Void, Aziraphale, we can’t go there. No one but God Herself has ever survived it. There’s no stars, no space there, just nothingness…”

“And yet, every constellation brought into existence overwrites it…” Aziraphale points out. “Also, it has come to my attention recently that omission is not the only lie being perpetuated upon us by the Almighty.”

“Even if we could survive it,” Crowley says, scrubbing a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose, “Honestly? That kind of sounds like the easy way out now, running from our problems… And, there’s no books in the Void, no Bentley’s… What’s option two?”

“Well, in order to fix all this, truly fix it… I believe we will have to kill Lucifer.”

“...” Crowley blinks at him. “Angel, my darling, I think the Fall may have gone to your head a bit...” he suggests calmly, eyes worried.

“I don’t mean to rule Hell, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Aziraphale tuts, because it’s very obviously what Crowley is thinking. “What I mean is to end the War, but not by fighting it. I don’t think I need to explain to you the impossibility of getting Lucifer to call things off on his end. But if it wasn’t his call to make anymore…”

“Exactly how is that not ruling Hell, again?” Crowley asks.

“Because once Lucifer is gone, we will tear it down.”

Crowley surges forward, sits up so that he and Aziraphale are on a more even level.

“Aziraphale, you cannot set loose the hoards of Hell upon the earth. I didn’t think I needed to explain to you how completely awful I am at being a demon, I am, literally the worst demon in existence, going off evilness, you cannot base the rest of them on me. Granted, some of them are only half bad, but, there are some beings down there that would like nothing better than to reek havoc and terror on humanity for the rest of their days…”

“That is why they would not be let loose, they would be watched, retrained, so to speak, by me.”

Crowley doesn’t question his ability to do it.

As a one of the Cherubim, protecting the Garden, and by association the entire earth, had been Aziraphale’s job.

“That’s a...rather hands-on approach…” Crowley says, jaw hanging open.

“Well, someone needs to take one. Humans get a second chance, why shouldn’t demons? This is getting rather ridiculous, don’t you think?” Aziraphale counters. “Why do we have to serve Lucifer just because we refuse to serve Her?”

(How do you refuse to serve a plan you don’t understand?)

“Thinking you’re better than your superiors is a dangerous game to play, Aziraphale, he’s the Morning Star,” Crowley says, shaking his head.

Aziraphale reaches out and cups Crowley’s cheek, stroking a sword-callused thumb over it.

“How many suns have you created?”

Crowley’s eyes go wide.

“That’s different...”

“What are the odds,” Aziraphale says slowly, so that it has plenty of time to sink in, “That Lucifer is diminished as well?”

(Falling made them all less.)

“Ok... But. Even if we could kill him, that doesn’t guarantee that She’ll stand down, Aziraphale, She could still set Heaven upon us and try to wipe us all out.”

“She could… But worst case scenario? The absolute, most final, irreversible scenario? Is that She undoes us completely, erases us from existence. And my dear, I think, if She really meant for it to end like that? That She would have already done it. But She didn’t. She let me Fall instead…”

“Fuck... Are we really doing this?”

“If we want to stay together, here, on earth, I think we have to. Besides, even if we had another 6000 years of being ‘left alone’, it wouldn’t be enough. I demand eternity at your side,” Aziraphale declares to him passionately.

(And sometimes, that’s all there is to it.)

<//>

(In the Beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth.)

(And God looked upon Her creation, and saw that it was good.)

(Who judges, when God is created?)

(What good is just beginning over?)

<//>

Having watched Crowley go in through the front door so many times, Aziraphale certainly knows the way into Hell.

He does not saunter in.

He unfurls his wings, all four of them, blood red and shimmering, and calls up an armor he has not worn since before the invention of man.

The front doors explode inward under a single touch of his finger.

Demons scream and scurry away from his presence before even having a chance to see him.

“Lucifer!” Aziraphale calls out, making his intentions clear, “Where is he?”

He meets no resistance, absolutely none, until he gets to the little throne Beelzebub has set up outside the Dark Counsel’s chambers.

And even then, it’s hardly resistance.

“What’s going on here?” they bluff.

But Aziraphale can feel their fear.

(No other Cherubim has ever Fallen.)

(And the only Seraph who did, well…)

“You have taken him, and I intend to get him back,” Aziraphale seethes.

(He doesn’t need to elaborate, because now he knows that demons know.)

(Know what Crowley is to him.)

(Know what they were.)

(Know what was done to them.)

Beelzebub steps aside, even as they say, “He’s not here, we don’t have him…”

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we.”

Aziraphale floats up the steps to the chamber’s doors, rolling his eyes internally at the ridiculous figures and symbols carved into it.

(They mean nothing to a being of his power.)

For these doors, he uses his whole palm. They dissolve with a boom under his power, leaving a gaping space that four of Aziraphale could walk though.

(He manages to fill it up though.)

The Lords of Hell turn from their various debaucheries and hiss at him, drawing their weapons, leaping toward him with murderous intent simply for daring to be an intruder.

Aziraphale raises both arms out in front of him and snaps his fingers, wiping all of them out of existence at once.

There’s a strangled sounding noise from behind him, probably Beelzebub.

(Good, let them bear witness to what’s about to happen here.)

Even the Dark Counsel's playthings are erased, leaving Lucifer and Aziraphale alone.

(Small mercies.)

Lucifer stands up from his throne.

He tilts his head, hands clasped behind his back like he’s unfamiliar with taking any pose but condescension.

“If this is supposed to be an...audition, you’ve got my attention-” Lucifer squints at him, tilts his head the other direction, “...Aziraphale.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale says at the same moment that Crowley, in snake form, jumps quick as lightning from his hiding place under the throne.

He wraps himself around Lucifer’s hands and middle, like a living restraint, keeping his arms behind his back.

“How dare- You insolent piece of scum!” Lucifer rages. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I believe,” Aziraphale says as he summons his sword to him, his old sword, the broad one that takes two angelic hands to wield and could cut down a dozen foes at once, “The technical term is an execution.”

Lucifer laughs, incandescent rage still pouring off of him in waves.

“You think I need my hands to fight you? You think this very realm itself doesn’t obey my commands?” Lucifer sneers.

And then everything is on fire.

The very air itself is made of flame, and not just of regular hellfire either. This is The Fires of Hell, that which destroys even demons, that which torments the very souls of humans, long after their bodies are gone.

There are multiple screams from the doorway, where the gathering watchers have to suddenly reel backward for their lives.

Lucifer laughs maniacally for a long minute, which, that alone would make an observer question his sanity, forget everything else…

Eventually, he stops laughing though, and wills The Fires away.

“You know, you always were the brightest star,” Aziraphale says, causing Lucifer’s jaw to drop, “But not exactly the brightest pupil.”

“What!? How!?”

“I’m The Angel of Fire, idiot,” Aziraphale says primly, then takes the Morning Star’s head clean off with one swing.

(There are perks to being soul bound to the former Angel of Fire.)

(And Crowley likes this whole immunity to fire thing too.)

“Don’t forget hisss heart,” Crowley stays holding on tight, even through the pain of being in contact with Lucifer’s bare skin this whole time.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, stepping forward, “I’d not forget a thing like that. Are you out of the way?”

Lucifer’s corporation is still standing, still struggling, even as his head comes to rest a short ways away.

“Yesss, jussst do it!”

“You fools, we’re on the same side now!” the head screams at them, blood already matting his golden locks.

Aziraphale looks Lucifer directly in his decapitated eyes as he says, “We’re on our own side.”

Then he pierces the blade through the Morning Star’s chest.

What’s left of Lucifer falls to its knees.

“Leave the blade in, he’sss not dead yet!” Crowley warns, tightening even further against the thrashing.

“Oh? What was your first guess?” Aziraphale says, motioning to the head that’s begun screaming continually.

“Jussst end it already!” Crowley urges him.

“What else do you want me to do? I can’t take the sword out again!” Aziraphale says.

“I don’t know, angel, killing isssn’t my department,” Crowley hisses, “Jussst, do sssomething!”

Aziraphale looks between the severed head and Crowley, back and forth, until suddenly an idea flashes across his face.

(To err is to exist.)

(To be inspired is divine.)

He drops to his knees, placing his hands on Lucifer’s forehead, and calls up all the power he possesses within him.

(How many times did he see Crowley do this?)

(How hard can it be to do the reverse?)

(What’s the opposite of healing?)

Light bursts out of Aziraphale and Crowley both.

The face of the Morning Star crumbles.

The screaming stops.

His corporation is crushed within Crowley’s coils, leaving only ash behind to float on the super heated air.

It’s dead silent in the throne room of Hell.

Aziraphale grimaces as he wipes the ash off his hands.

Crowley slithers over to him, climbing right up him and draping himself around his angel’s shoulders.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, running soothing hands along Crowley’s scales.

“Yesss. It ssstingsss, but I’ll live.”

“Not that I don’t love having you all over me, dear, but perhaps it would help to transform back?” Aziraphale points out as he climbs the few stairs up to Hell’s throne.

“Perhapsss,” Crowley says, but makes no move to disentangle himself.

Aziraphale smiles to himself as he turns around and sits on the throne.

A mass of demons, lead by Beelzebub and Dagon, are all gathered at the doorway, watching in shock.

“Right,” Dagon seems to come to her senses first, before any of the others, “We’re under new management, then.”

And she takes a knee.

All of Hell is quick to follow.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Aziraphale says, his voice carrying to all of the corridors of Hell.

Before he can continue though, Crowley turns back into his human corporation, right there on his lap.

Aziraphale quickly steadies him, to keep him from falling to the ground.

“Really, Crowley?”

“What? You look just as powerful with me sprawled over your lap in this form,” he grins, flashing some fang.

“Lord have mercy…” Aziraphale sighs.

The demon hoard gasps.

“Listen, everyone,” Aziraphale says, getting back on track, “The War is off. There will be no more evil for evil’s sake, no more temptations, no more discord and discontent. Hell, is hereby closed.”

Before the shocked exclamations can even begin to rise from the crowd, a blue light envelopes them all.

Not the solitary spotlight of God’s attention, but a diffuse glow that builds and builds until it’s blinding, until there’s nothing left in all of existence but The Light.

(And God looked upon Her creation, and saw that it was good.)

Crowley and Aziraphale come back to consciousness clinging to each other tightly. They’re hovering in the clouds, with every angel and demon accounted for behind them. This is the Heaven Aziraphale remembers from before, just majestic clouds and light and gentle breezes, not the corporate police state the angels turned it into after being left to their own devices for too long…

“What’s happening?” Crowley whispers, looking around as everyone else looks back at them with the same confusion.

“Judgement,” Gabriel says, his face determined.

“Um, not quite.”

Every being looks upward at the source of the voice like they normally would. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide though, and he forcibly grabs Crowley’s head and turns it back down, covering him with one of his wings.

“It’s ok, Aziraphale, I’m going to tone it down for you guys.”

It’s not until God has fully descended and Her Majesty has been tucked away enough that She’s no longer glowing, that Aziraphale releases his protective stance over Crowley.

(Even as angels, very few types of them were made to withstand God’s presence.)

(Archangels were not one of them.)

“Let me just start by saying that I am, so, so glad that you stayed,” God smiles at them kindly, almost proudly.

Crowley leans over to Aziraphale and whispers, “Is it just me, or does she look exactly like that chick from Star Wars?”

“Star Wars? What are you- Crowley, focus,” Aziraphale hisses at him.

God folds her hands, as if in a mockery of waiting patiently.

“Oh, uh, were you talking to us?...” Crowley looks around and then winces, pretty much preparing to be smote right there.

“Were any of the rest of you thinking of running off to the Void?” She asks, giving them a wry smile.

There’s a murmur through the assembled masses behind them.

But no one speaks up.

(No one has a single, solitary clue as to what’s going on.)

“I wanted to thank you, too,” God says, “For taking care of Lucifer. I just couldn’t finish things up knowing he’d still be around to terrorize the humans afterward.”

“You’re welcome?” Aziraphale says, incredibly confused.

“Wait, so this is The End, then?” Crowley asks.

“For some of us,” She answers. “Look, I appreciate the sentiment of you taking care of ‘The Enemy’ for me, but, guys, come on. The opposite of Life, isn’t evil,” She tells them, “Lucifer may have been a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t my other half. He wasn’t the first one to screw up,” She assures them.

“I… I don’t understand…” Aziraphale says.

“Let’s just say, that when we went through our crucible, we were too afraid to stay… It, changed us, though… And we regretted it…” She sighs, her gaze going out past them, out into the distance.

Crowley turns around, some unknown danger pricking at his senses.

Behind them, moving slowly but steadily toward the crowd, is Death.

God lifts her arms, making a parting motion in front of her. The angels and demons are separated like the Red Sea, with Heaven and Hell mixed on both sides.

Aziraphale tugs on Crowley’s arm, pulling him with him out from in front of God.

“This is not our fight, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers to him.

Crowley steals a look at God’s face.

She doesn’t look determined or angry or even riled up. She looks sad.

“Are you sure this is going to be a fight?” Crowley asks him, asks Her, asks for anyone who’s listening.

“It's ok,” God assures them all, “I wasn’t sure if it would be this way or not, you know, with free will involved and all, but I’m glad it is. I’m glad we get a chance to fix our mistake. You all know enough now to hold on to your existences yourselves, without my help. My Son will shield the humans, but the rest of you are kind of going to be on your own,” She adds, like She really does regret that, but there’s nothing to be done for it.

As Death approaches, the group of angels and demons closes up behind him, silently and unanimously, as if by a higher power’s will.

“Oh my God, you’re just going to let him?...” Crowley blurts, cringing at how it comes out halfway through. He pushes on though. “If you’re just going to abandon us, then what was the point?”

God takes her gaze off the approaching finality and addresses Crowley with glowing, starlit eyes.

“The point was, to teach you that dichotomy is a trap. Don’t fall into it,” She says, turning to look back at Death, “Or you’ll end up just like us...”

Death stops in front of her, reaching out with his free hand that isn’t occupied with his scythe.

God reaches up, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I’m so tired,” She whispers, tears starting to fill Her eyes.

“I know,” Death whispers back.

And then he runs her through.

Thousands of angels and demons cry out in sadness, cry out in agony at the loss of Her Grace, all at once.

Death holds God as She dissolves into a million points of light in his arms.

(Who judges, when God is created?)

(Who judges, when God is killed?)

(Who is created, by good existing?)

(Why?)

After She is gone, Death drops his scythe.

He tips his face upward.

He dissolves into a million points of darkness.

And the Heavens shake.

“Uh, we need to get out of here,” Gabriel says, panicking.

“It’s too late for that,” Crowley overrides him, “Everyone! Form up!” he yells, waving his arms just a touch desperately.

“Yes, quickly now, stay together!” Aziraphale adds, shedding his human form as existence starts to tremble around them.

Everyone copies him, wings and eyes and claws and eyes everywhere as they huddle together, angels and demons, creations of God and abandoned of God, all together, all at once.

The Seraphim and Cherubim form a protective circle around the rest of them as the lesser start screaming, feeling their selves being eroded away. Those protecting turn up their power, as high as they can, willing with every miraculous allotment ever given them, for it to be ok.

Aziraphale’s fire-red wings are the only point of color on the outer circle of white.

Crowley slips inside his wings, the sacred ones used to cover himself, and he presses their lips together, one last time.

The Void beckons.

(At the center of a black hole is love.)

Nothingness begins to creep in between the angels’ wings.

(At the center of a black hole…)

Tears flow freely down Crowley’s face as he and Aziraphale kiss and kiss, their atoms sliding in between one another’s, the light of their souls the only thing they can see behind their eyelids.

(At the center…)

Something wild and desperate at the very core of Crowley clicks.

Wonders.

Questions.

“There’s another option,” he suddenly says, breaking away from Aziraphale’s mouth.

“What?”

Crowley looks around quickly, not leaving the safety of Aziraphale’s arms and wings.

“Gabriel!” he yells, catching his former co-worker’s attention from across the huddled masses, “The Pillars!”

The fear on Gabriel’s face flickers as it competes with dawning comprehension.

“Go!” Crowley waves at him, pointing to the other side of their angelic shield.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley turns back to him, sticking his hands through the gap on either side of the Cherub’s shoulders and out into the Void.

“If this existence is going to insist on unraveling,” Crowley hisses, because fuck, that hurts, “Then we’ll just build a new one.”

And stars explode from his finger tips.

Crowley leans in and kisses his other half again, and a hundred blue nebulae the exact shade of Aziraphale’s eyes are born in succession.

(Suns burn.)

(Planets spin.)

(Galaxies twinkle in the sky.)

(The universe is a lot smaller afterward, but at the center of it all, is love.)

<//>

“What now?” the humans ask.

The Son of Man looks up at the night sky, filled to the brim with new constellations that have never been seen before, never even been dreamed of, and a knowing smile spreads over his face.

“Now we’re free.”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #ineffable husbands #crowley-as-raphael #aziraphale-as-jehoel #playing fast and loose with angelic mythology here #i hope you all are up on your good omens meta #all you really NEED to know though is that Aziraphale basically means “Also-Raphael”#that’s like a major plot point #on a side note i just gained like 500 followers in less than a week?#you guys are crazy and i love you #here have some fic #i actually titled it this time #fair warning i made myself cry while writing this

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my-mixed-fandoms · 5 years

Text

Two Demons

If you have any more Good Omens request please send them in!!

———————————————————————————–

The Fall

The Fall was violent. Crowley liked to joke that he ‘sauntered vaguely downward’ but he was tossed from heaven straight into the burning sulfur pits just like everyone else. The fire burned your feathers black and the wind tore at your skin, leaving scars that even miracles couldn’t heal. But you weren’t the worst off, some of the others had permanent boils on their skin, or missing limbs, even worse most of the ones who fell had their wings completely burned off.

“R-Raphael! Raphael! Where are you?!”

Bright red hair slowly came into view, “Here! Y/N, ‘m here!”

You quickly drag yourself closer to the other Archangel, “You’re alright, I couldn’t find you at first – I thought …”

Raphael flicked his, now golden-silted, eyes up at you. “I’ll be okay, Y/N, just a bit of a sulfur bath, nothing you didn’t go through too. And I don’t – I don’t think I want to go by Raphael anymore, now that we’ve been kicked out.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Whenever you decide on a name, just let me know. For now, I’ve been told to ‘go up and make some trouble’ care to join me?”

“Anything to get out of here”

The Garden

Crawly, as Raphael now wanted to be called, could turn into a snake. A very convenient corporation to sneak around Eden with. You can turn into a sleek black cat, which is lovely for climbing trees and stalking the smaller animals the She made.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon”

You take shape on the other side of the angel, “Quite, I really wasn’t expecting that kind of reaction, but then with the Almighty’s reaction to a couple questions I really shouldn’t be surprised”

Crawly looks over at the empty-handed angel, “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

“What?”

“You did! It was flaming like anything! What happened to it?”

The angel glances over to you, but you just raise on eyebrow in question, “I gave it away!” Crawly gives an incredulous look, “I gave it away! It’s dangerous out there, and she’s already expecting!”

Crawly and the strange angel continue talking and you watch as the humans fight off a lion. When you Fell, you and Crawly had vowed to stay together, and now you had a feeling that this angel would be regular presence in your life.

1347 - Italy

“Aziraphale, how lovely to see you again” You quickly glide by the angel, black robe fluttering.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Aziraphale quickly trotted behind you, trying to keep his tights and tunic clean on the filthy streets. “Is this whole Plague nonsense your lots doing? And where’s Crowley? The two of you are usually inseparable”

“Crowley is probably doing the same thing I am trying to do, Aziraphale, which would be stopping people from dying as Heaven deemed it necessary”

“I’m sure I would have been told if Heaven was responsible for this! And besides, how are you explaining to Hell that you’re saving humans?”

You step into one of the many houses with a string of posy on the door, “Well, we tell them that we’re working against that Ineffable Plan, saving humans so we have more time to tempt them into giving up their souls to Hell. It’s quite simple really”

Aziraphale watches as you quietly heal the boils on two of the children’s faces, as you turn rotted skin whole again, and as you quietly purify the air, getting rid of all trace of disease.

The two of you step back out to the street, “You really do heal them”

“Of course I do, and the ones that are too far gone to save I ensure have a peaceful passing. Crowley and I … we try to make this time as easy as possible for the ones we can save.”

“But why? You are a demon! Healing … that seems more like my sides job”

If Aziraphale’s asking this, then he doesn’t know who Crowley was before his fall, and he hasn’t connected your name. “Human’s don’t deserve everything they’ve been handed, their lives are so short and neither of us like to see people suffer, especially children.”

1862 – London

Aziraphale stares down at the note that Crowley handed him, “Holy water!? I’m not – I’m not going to give you a suicide pill!”

“Neither of us want to find out what happens if Hell finds out about you, Aziraphale”

The angel glares at the two demons, “Well, Heaven wouldn’t be too happy if I was caught fraternizing with some of your lot”

“Fraternizing!”

“Well, whatever you want to call it!”

Crowley’s face twisted up in a sneer, “I have plenty of people to fraternize with, angel!”

You reach out and gently place a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, “We’ll think of something else, Crowley. If they find us out … we’ll have to deal with it”

Aziraphale throws the paper in the river, and storms off, while you and Crowley turn towards the other direction.

1967 – SoHo London

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything when he first approaches you, just stands back and watches Crowley with his group of thieves. You … have not been very kind to the angel since his comment about fraternizing in 1862.

“I don’t believe I ever apologized for what I said to you, about fraternizing. I didn’t truly mean it. The thought of you or Crowley going to that sort of extreme … is quite terrifying to me, in all honesty.”

You let out a sigh, “I know, I was angry because I consider you a very dear friend and you hurt both myself and Crowley with your comment. You realize that the holy water would be a last resort, don’t you? We didn’t make the request lightly, nor would we take our own demise lightly”

The angel let out a heavy breath, “I know, that’s why I’m giving you this”

Aziraphale hands you a tartan flask that you assume is filled with holy water, “I’m really not sure if I should thank you for this, angel, but I will anyway. So, thank you”

It’s about that time Crowley finishes talking to the humans and decides to join you and Aziraphale, “Well hello, angel. Wasn’t expecting to see you here”

“Just dropping a little something off”

Crowley smirks and raises an eyebrow, but you subtly shake your head, “Well, at least let me offer you a ride. Anywhere you want to go”

The angel lets out a soft sigh, “You go too fast for me, Crowley”

11 years before the End of the World

“The bloody Antichrist! Why would we be chosen to deliver the bloody Antichrist?! You know I’m quite fond of Earth, I’d rather not be the catalyst that helps start the apocalypse!”

Crowley groaned softly, “I know! But we’re ‘well liked’ down there. Apparently, Lucifer still thinks we’re good enough to trust with his son”

You peek into the basket containing the Antichrist, “We need to tell Aziraphale, we need to figure something out”

“We will, Y/N, but we have to deliver the baby. We don’t have much of a choice in that”

“Unfortunately not. Drive on, then. We have a nunnery to get to”

———————————————————————————–

Let me know what you think! Send any ideas or requests you have to my Ask Box!

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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

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humananalytica · 4 years

Text

Good Omens Holiday Swap

Fic for @maandarinee, based on two promps:

I always love Crowley and Aziraphale having some magic Connection where they're Connected for whatever reason and can hear/feel/whatever each other;

Aziraphale or Crowley gets summoned/captured/trapped and the other goes into Rage Mode while getting them back (alternative: one THINKS the other is dead [pls don't actually kill anyone/ bring them back miraculously] and goes into Rage Revenge Mode)

Hope you enjoy! Fic under the cut.

“Where the Heaven are you, you idiot? I can’t find you!” Crowley cast around wildly for even a hint of Aziraphale’s presence. He’d been terribly worried, and frustrated, then there’d been a flash of pain, and now- “Aziraphale, for God’s- For Satan’s- Ah! For somebody’s sake, where are you?!”

A wall of water slammed into Crowley’s chest and knocked him to the ground.

At the same time, a trace of demonic essence collided with Crowley and settled back in his ribcage, just as lost as the rest of him felt. “You’ve gone,” he said to the empty bookshop, “Somebody killed my best friend!”

“Bastards! All of you!” he screamed, disoriented and grieving. Aziraphale was gone and he wasn’t coming back, not ever, and the bookshop was on fire.

His gaze fell on a book that had, somehow, not yet gone up in flames. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. He picked it up. He could, perhaps, save just this little something from the fire. Crowley willed the doors to open for him and left the bookshop.

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

Getting summoned was an exercise in bending quantum mechanics that always left Crowley vaguely nauseous. He didn’t really appreciate his corporation being jerked around without a warning. As a result, the small handful of humans [1] who had actually managed to summon him over the centuries tended to find him in a bad mood.

This particular attempt was one of the worst that Crowley had ever experienced. It was full of metaphysical holes, less of a net and more of a tangled mess of rope. It pinched his noncorporeal being uncomfortably when he pushed against the bounds of the circle, but didn’t offer burning pain or impermeable resistance.

“Demon Crawly, serpent of Eden.”

“Don’t use that name anymore.” Crowley drawled, tucking his fingers into his pockets. “Haven’t used that name in a couple millenia.” He rotated slowly, studying the summoning circle from all angles.

“It was the name that I invoked to summon you.” The summoner replied, without a whisper of confusion or doubt. “It is the name we will use.”

‘We?’ Crowley mentally hissed in irritation, even as he began cataloguing the ways he could get out of the situation. So far, it was looking like his summoner was working with outdated material, felt entitled to . . . whatever he was going to demand of Crowley, and seemed completely convinced that he hadn’t made a mistake. Relatively straightforward to work with, if you had a few milennia’s experience working with Hell.

“I need to learn how to have sex with a woman.” The summoner dramatically threw open the door to the windowless room, revealing a young-ish man with a sweatshirt hood pulled down to his nose.

Crowley blinked, trying to parse why sex with a woman was in any way relevant to what he’d, specifically, had ever done in Eden. Well. Better to let them tell you what they think they’re getting.

“So you came to me,” Crowley tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, as if asking a question.

“Yes,” he said, shuffling inside and shutting the door behind him. “I summoned you because you were the giver of all knowledge and the first tempter, and now I need that knowledge to be given to me.”

There were so many reasons why giving humans knowledge of Good and Evil did not equate to Crowley having some secret knowledge of how to convince a woman to have sex.[2] But Crowley guessed- he wanted what he wanted, and telling him ‘no, sorry, can’t help you,’ would have been met with hostility and disbelief.

“Well, you’ve certainly done your homework.” Crowley pressed against the boundaries of the summoning circle again, trying to gauge if the human took notice. No reaction was forthcoming.

“Can you help me or not?” the man whined, eventually.

“Possibly, but it might take a while.” Crowley hedged. “In the meantime, what should I call you?”

“Uh,” he stuttered, flustered, “‘Sir’ would probably be alright, ‘Master’ is a little gay, I think-”

“How about your name.” Crowley crossed his arms and gave a little half-smile. “Most people prefer that.”

The man paused, then seemed to collect himself. “Tristan.”

“Right, Tristan, I’ll see what I can do for you.” He glanced down at the circle, and his gaze caught on a phrase that defined him as ‘bound to be a servant’. A spark of an idea began to form in his mind. “We may have to make a few revisions to this circle, though.”

“What’s wrong with the circle?” Tristan snapped. “I didn’t make any mistakes. I checked.”

Crowley dropped to one knee and swept his hand over the characters in question. “Look, if you want to still have your soul after losing your virginity, you’re going to have to listen to me.” Tristan’s focus sharpened, and he knelt down opposite Crowley with palpable concern.

He pointed out a handful of words. “This bit defines me as servant of Hell. [3] Now, I’ll be sporting and fill you in on how it’s relevant here. Means that I’m obligated to deliver your soul to Hell if I hold up my end of the contract, deserving or not.”

“When I die?” He made no move to get an eraser or writing utensils, so Crowley pressed on.

“Preciscely,” he hissed, “And it’s whether you have sex once or you do it every day for the rest of your mortal life. Going to Hell for a shag is a load of bollocks, if you ask me.”

The subtle admonishing flew completely over Tristan’s head, not that the demon had expected much. He waffled for half a minute, then dragged a box of chalk out from under a stack of notebooks. “Which one makes you tied to Hell? I’ll just-” He mimed erasing with his free hand. “-and that should be good, right?”

Crowley mentally calculated the metaphysical gap that would result from an unbalanced circle without a complete binding clause and concluded that his odds were relatively good. “Here,” he tapped a single fingernail on the concrete floor, “In the lines closest to me.”

Tristan nodded, then crouched on the floor with an eraser. Crowley’s entire body tensed up on the physical realm as he focused on reaching through the holes in the binding towards home. The eraser wiped the characters into oblivion, and a half second later, Crowley tumbled into the back room of the bookshop. [4]

Aziraphale arrived a moment later, brandishing a teakettle in a manner that carried a subtle threat of bodily harm.

And caught sight of Crowley slowly rising to his feet and straightening his clothes. “What on Earth are you doing?” he asked, relaxing his stance.

Crowley, satisfied with the state of his clothing, flopped into an armchair. “I need a drink.”

[1] And in one memorable instance, some poor woman’s pet cats.

[2] Though he could guess that not summoning demons into your cellar whilst doing a low-budget impersonation of Emperor Palpatine would be a step in the right direction.

[3] This was a lie. In actuality, it defined him as bound to serve in general, implicating the summoner. Tristan, who was not remotely fluent in any of the Old languages, did not cotton on to this bit of deception.

[4] The exact mechanics of this maneuver are, naturally, beyond the human ability to observe. If one were looking for a good analogy, it would help to imagine Crowley as a rubber band, forcing himself through a very small opening by stretching very thin, and then abruptly springing back into his normal state once through. It was exactly as uncomfortable as it sounds.

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“Right,” Aziraphale said, adding generous pours of bourbon to two mugs of earl grey tea. “What has you so shaken?”

“Wiggled out of a summoning.” Crowley explained, turning his attention to his drink, taking a long swallow and relaxing back against the cushions. “Some idiot who wanted me to help him have sex.”

“Certainly not with-”

“With women.” he cut Aziraphale off. “Young, pretty ones if I had to guess a type.”

“I see,” Aziraphale replied, in a tone that encouraged more details.

“The entire thing was ridiculous, Aziraphale, you have no idea. He did a lot of research, only to put out the whole bloody thing out on a cellar floor with some school chalk. ’S insulting.” He took another swallow of tea, then reached over and topped up his mug with more whiskey. “I should probably try to track down where he got his materials, unless I want to be summoned every time one of his mates decides that I’m the solution to their dry spell.”

“I can reach out to some of my associates and see if any of them know anything about old summoning manuals reentering circulation.” The angel offered, eyeing Crowley with some concern. “There can’t be very many of them in circulation.”

Crowley nodded, accepting. “I’d wager that he found it online, but he also called me Crawly, so the original text is going to be from some point B.C.”

“That does narrow things down considerably.” Aziraphale fished out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “It’s quite late now, but I can sort out a few leads and make calls in the morning.” he glanced up to see Crowley pouring more alcohol into his mug. “My dear, are you alright?”

“Just. Eugh. Aftereffects from forcing myself outside of the circle without it breaking.” Crowley took a gulp of lukewarm tea-flavored bourbon and winced.

“Crowley. You’re shaking quite badly.” After a second of hesitation, Aziraphale gently prised the trembling mug from his grip and set it down on the table, keeping a hold on his twitching fingers.

Crowley blushed. “Sorry.”

“Apologising isn’t necessary.” Aziraphale frowned. “I can feel how distressed you are. It’s usually quite difficult for me to pick up on negative emotions.”

“Maybe you’re looking for it.” Crowley muttered into his free hand. “I can feel happiness and love if ‘m trying to find it. Usually just keep an eye out for the negative stuff, though.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale agreed. “I should be in better practice when it comes to sensing distress.” He did not release Crowley’s hand, and the demon felt him probing further. “Well, you’re certainly not all right, I can tell that much.” The angel’s gaze was sharp.

“‘Sss fine. Aziraphale.” Crowley decided that he was not inebriated enough for the conversation and took more bourbon-with-a-splash-of-tea with a still shaking hand, swallowed hard.

“Is this how you would find me, when I would get into a spot of trouble?” he asked. “Tracking feelings of distress and worry?”

“Sssort of.”

“Well, what else then?” he pressed, and if he had noticed Crowley’s embarrassment, he ignored it. “Crowley.”

Bless it. Aziraphale was getting more worried, and more curious, which was a dangerous combination. His desire to soothe the angel managed to overpower his embarrassment, just barely. He finished what was left in his mug and tried to not think too hard about him still holding his hand.

“Do y’know,” Crowley said at length, “How little traces of demonic or ethereal energy can be left around if you try?”

“Yes.”

“Went a little further. Stuck a little bit of my soul with you back in Rome by accident. And it was useful to find you later, so I didn’t take it back.” And it had been a mistake. Crowley had been drunk on Roman wine and angelic company and he had been preemptively grieving losing Aziraphale’s presence for the night, and likely for the foreseeable future. He’d barely noticed when a piece of himself had wrenched its way out of his corporation and onto Aziraphale [5]. “I could sense your distress because part of me was always next to you. In a way.”

Aziraphale got a quiet, faraway look that, Crowley knew, meant he was very quickly sorting through new information. “I know that I shouldn’t have left it for so long, and, ngk” -I’m sorry that I did it without asking or telling you, the actual apology died in his throat.

The bookshop was silent, save for the clocks and the creaking of old furniture as Crowley sank down into Aziraphale’s chair, incandescent with shame. “It’s gone now, anyway. Got it back in the bookshop after you’d discorporated.” He had half a mind to withdraw away from Aziraphale’s judgement, but stayed resolutely in place. The angel deserved to know, at least.

The clocks continued ticking. Crowley resisted sliding onto the floor. Aziraphale had not removed his hand from his. He could sense sadness and maybe a little pity from the angel, if he looked, but there wasn’t any anger or fear, so the demon kept still.

Finally, Aziraphale shifted and sighed. “I suppose it could be considered an invasion of privacy, but I can’t say that I personally mind, the thought of you leaving a bit of your soul within my corporation.” Crowley wasn’t looking, but he could feel the angel’s smile. “It got us out of a fair bit of trouble.” His thumb stroked Crowley’s knuckles.

He vaguely wondered if drinking more would make the situation more or less bearable to deal with.

“Would you like to do it again?” Aziraphale said, at length. “And I could, perhaps, do the same for you, place a small part of my soul in your corporation permanently. If you’re amenable.”

Yes, a thousand times yes, I would do anything to be able to find you if you needed me. I’ve missed it. I would love to hold a piece of you with me always, Crowley thought, aching with hope. “Are you sure about this, angel?” came out of his mouth.

“Only if you are,” Aziraphale countered, radiating steadfast certainty. “I would like it very much. We’re on our own side, I want to reflect that.”

“I’d like it too,” Crowley managed, swallowing. “Just don’t want to saddle you with my emotions.”

“Crowley.” He finally looked at Aziraphale, startled by the intensity of frustrated love that flowed under and with the angel’s conviction. “I want to know when something is wrong. I would love to be able to feel you, Crowley, and I cannot imagine growing tired of you.” He smiled again. “If anything, all the past six thousand years have done is made me want to spend even more time with you.”

“‘Ziraphale.” Crowley whispered, nervous and elated and so in love that it ached. “Now?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale glowed, rising to his feet. “Just one moment.” He went around and drew curtains shut, concealing them completely from outside view. “Would you like to sober up a bit, dear?” he asked, straightening his clothes.

“I was incredibly drunk last time I did this.” Crowley protested, shuddering alcohol out of his bloodstream anyway and getting his legs underneath him.

“Do you remember how you did it?” Aziraphale gestured vaguely. “You may have to show me.”

“Here.” Crowley fumbled about in the metaphysical plane, pulling out roughly the same amount of himself that he’d unintentionally recovered in the bookshop fire during The End Times That Hadn’t Been. It manifested in his hand as an odd, shifting shadow, dancing around his fingertips and reaching for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed, and then the rest of him glowed, the vision of his true form superimposed over his corporation. With the infinite care of an antique book collector, he steadied Crowley’s wrist with his left hand, and with his right, drew the offered piece of Crowley into himself, guiding the little shadow to coil up and around his left arm.

Crowley felt as it settled against Aziraphale, and his sense of the angel sharpened into comfortable clarity.

Aziraphale inhaled and exhaled slowly, the image of his true form fading from view. With another breath, he brought a little bit of his soul out of his corporation, a white-gold flame that hovered in his cupped hands.

Crowley offered his left arm in kind, watched his true form as a piece of Aziraphale slid up his palm and forearm in an uneven starburst. It shivered as it settled in, mirroring the angel’s pleased wiggle in Crowley’s periphery.

“I’ve never felt you with such clarity before,” Aziraphale said, awed.

“Sorry.” Crowley offered on reflex, feeling a sleepy, pleasant buzz settle over him.

“Really, now.” the angel reprimanded gently. “It feels lovely, dear, and I don’t wish to be without it.”

“Mmm.” he mumbled, nearly unhinging his jaw with a yawn and sitting down on a couch. “Does feel nice.”

The cushion dipped with Aziraphale’s weight, and Crowley tried to discreetly scoot closer. The angel took notice and guided his head to his shoulder. “It was a bit reckless of me to do that, wasn’t it?” His thumb traced a delicate pattern along Crowley’s jaw.

“A bit.” He yawned again.

“Then again,” Aziraphale continued wryly, “It has been over a millenia since we established the arrangement, one could argue that this was a long time coming.”

“Hm.” he mumbled into the angel’s shoulder, all but melting into the touch. “Got there now.”

“You can sleep, Crowley.” He said, reclining and pulling the demon closer. “I’m not going anywhere.” The lights in the bookshop dimmed invitingly, and Crowley drifted off with Aziraphale’s hand in his hair.

[5] In his inebriated state, Crowley had been unable to distinguish it from the human version of heartbreak.

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Crowley could not relax. There was something irritating brushing at his consciousness, like a shirt tag. He couldn’t place its source, exactly, and over the course of the week he became increasingly more frustrated. Aziraphale had quickly noticed the frustration despite Crowley’s attempts to downplay it, proving to be a frighteningly quick study.

It wasn’t the new link between himself and Aziraphale, as far as they could tell. Neither one had particularly wanted to dissolve it to be certain.

He had been walking towards the Bentley, intending to return to the bookshop after caring for the plants in his flat, when the irritation that had been following him around intensified to a sharp tug. Ah, he thought, preparing to return to the not-quite-broken summoning circle, that explains it.

He rematerialized in the same circle, with its erased parts redrawn and an extra circle of text around the whole thing, adding a layer of restraints that Crowley couldn’t see an easy way out of. Tristan was standing with his arms crossed in front of Crowley, wearing a slightly different hoodie from the last time.

“Hi.” Crowley said, desperately trying to tamp down on his panic before it could show in his voice. “What brings me here?”

“You got out. That’s not going to happen again.” The man said, sounding understandably (if unjustifiably) pissed.

Crowley decided to try for honesty. “Look, I really can’t help you.”

“You will.” Tristan insisted. “I command you to!”

“Commanding me to do something-” Crowley hissed and recoiled from where he’d been probing at the barriers, nerves burning like they’d been sliced open and dipped in acid.

“So you found my extra protections.” he observed, “good luck getting out of those, Serpent.”

“Still won’t change the fact that I can’t help you. Both of us are wasting our time.” Crowley pushed again. The burning flared against his consciousness, greying out his vision. When he blinked himself back to awareness, he was kneeling on the ground, shaking.

Tristan was watching him, now seated on a rolling office chair. “Keep struggling if you want. You’re only making it harder on yourself.”

Crowley hissed at Tristan, dragging himself to his feet, spitting out blood from where he’d accidentally bitten his cheek.

“Crawly, Serpent of Eden, you are bound to serve me.” Tristan intoned, reading from a computer printout. “You will remain bound until I release you.”

“What do you wish of me, master?” the demon spat sarcastically. “Shall I perform a resurrection? Balance the moon on top of Everest? Either one would be easier than convincing a woman to ever have sex with you.”

“You’ll regret that!” Tristan glared at Crowley, then began rifling through binders. “I have something here that shows me how to punish you.”

Crowley stayed stubbornly silent, still aching from probing the barriers and trying to tamp down on his panic.

“You,” Aziraphale was suddenly there, voice flat and cold, “are going to stop this nonsense at once.” The angel, glowing, wings out, and eyes piercing, loomed over Tristan, who flinched in shock and scrambled away.

Crowley noted, distantly, that he could see the shadow of his essence snaking up Aziraphale’s arm in this form. Aziraphale cast a concerned glance in his direction.

“Ugnnnn.” The man whined, pressing himself against a wall. The angel huffed, and a moment later appeared much more human shaped [6].

“Now. You are going to listen to me.” Aziraphale said. “You are going to erase the circle immediately, in its entirety.”

“You can’t make me!” Tristan protested, even as he reached for the eraser and crouched down in front of the circle. “That demon will attack me.”

“You have my word as an angel that you will come to no harm from him.” Aziraphale said. “And I suppose that I can’t make you, but it will be much easier to restrain him if my hands aren’t busy from doing the erasing.”

He cast a wary glance between the two supernatural entities and began erasing. Crowley made a lunge at him as the circle was broken, just for show, and was caught by Aziraphale, who supported the demon’s weight without flinching.

“Thank you.” The angel said, when it was finished. “I would also like you to tell me where, precisely, you learned this ritual.”

The human sat down at his computer and navigated to a forum, gesturing wordlessly to the screen. Aziraphale shifted Crowley off of him and peered at it. “Fascinating.” He said, “Tell them that it didn’t work.”

“It did work!”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But anyone who summons Crowley will have to deal with me, and believe me, I will know if someone summons him with bad intentions, and I will end it by whatever means necessary.” Aziraphale said mildly, putting himself between the back of the chair and the rest of the room.

Tristan looked at him, then mulishly informed his contacts that the ritual had been ineffective. [7] “That’s not gonna stop everyone.”

“More fool them.” the angel replied primly, then tapped the computer, which sparked and died with a few alarmed beeps.

“You can’t just do that!” The human wailed, scrabbling to unplug the computer and inspect it for damage. Aziraphale stepped back to support Crowley again.

“You’ll find that I have.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers. “We’re leaving now. Do not try this again. Goodbye.” He snapped again, and Crowley found himself standing in the middle of his flat, being held upright by the angel.

“Thanks.” He said, sore and delirious with relief.

“You’re quite welcome. Would you like to go lie down?”

Crowley did not want to leave Aziraphale’s company. “Are you going to come with me?”

“Of course.” His voice was warm and fond, and he swept Crowley into his arms. “You really did give me quite a fright.”

Crowley, too tired to care about the loss of dignity, steadied himself by looping his arms around the angel’s neck. “I suppose you would have felt the summoning.”

“I did. It was highly unpleasant, and I do not wish to repeat the experience.” Aziraphale nudged the bedroom door open and deposited the demon onto the bed.

Crowley stretched and removed his shoes. “Speaking of, what about his binders full of notes? They were everywhere.”

“Yes, I had noticed those.” Aziraphale said. “I took care of them.” [8]

Changing into sleep clothes was the work of a couple miracles, and then Aziraphale was sliding under the covers next to Crowley.

“I memorized the screen name of the original poster. I’ll have to look into it, see if they’re the rightful owner or if one of my contacts has been stolen from.”

“Can that wait until tomorrow?” Crowley grumbled. “I’m comfortable here.”

“Of course, dearest.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt a pulse of love from the angel. “Would you like me to spend the night?”

In response, he wrapped himself around Aziraphale, burying his face into his neck. Aziraphale chuckled and put his arms around the demon, pressing his lips to the top of Crowley’s head. “Sleep well, Crowley.”

[6] But no less furious.

[7] Which, if you want to be technical, was not really a lie.

[8] The angel had miracled all of the ink off of the pages and back into the ink cartridges that it had come from. One didn’t want to be wasteful, after all.

#good omens #fanfiction #my writing #this got longer that I was expecting it to.#maandarinee #go holiday swap #long post

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philosopherking1887 · 5 years

Text

The meaning of Aziraphale’s name

Angel names in Judeo-Christian angelology all mean something in Hebrew. Gabriel means “God is my might”; Michael means “who is like God?”; Uriel means “God is my light”; Raphael could mean either “God healed” or (as an imperative) “God, heal!” I’m not completely sure that Gaiman and Pratchett intended for the name Aziraphale to mean anything in particular in Hebrew, but because I’m obsessive, I wanted to figure something out. People who know more Hebrew than I do are welcome to make corrections or suggestions.

I think Neil Gaiman said in an interview at some point that the original spelling was Aziraphael, in keeping with the typical -el ending of angel names. If that’s the correct spelling, then the name might be a strange way of saying “God, my strength, healed” or “God, my strength, heal!” Or it might contain the name Raphael as a part, meaning “Raphael is my strength.” I don’t really buy the recent fanon proposal that Crowley was Raphael before his fall, because all the angel lore, including the Book of Tobit, has Raphael as an angel long after Lucifer’s rebellion would have taken place (in Paradise Lost, Raphael is the one who tells the story to Adam). But if we do go in for that bit of fanon, then we can imagine a scenario like the one at the beginning of this fic, in which our two heroes were in love in Heaven before the Fall and Aziraphael (who we assume ranked lower) had a different name to start with but took the name “Raphael is my strength.”

But there are other interesting translation possibilities if we take the current spelling to indicate that the name has 4 syllables rather than 5 (i.e., there’s no extra aleph between the pheh and the lamed). I’m not aware of a Hebrew root rap[h]al, so that means we’d need to break the name up into Azir - aphel or Azir(a) - phel. As noted in this wonderful post, in which someone wrote a letter from “Crawly” to Azirapil in Akkadian cuneiform (!!), the “Azir” part can be derived from a Hebrew root and mean “helper, one who helps.” That speculative translation continues:

The second element appears to be āpilu, literally “the one who answers,” but also used to mean “the one who dissents, the one who talks back.” Thus, together, the name would mean “the one who helps the dissenter.”

Which is very cool, but I wasn’t sure whether there was any Hebrew equivalent, so I went looking for the meaning of a Hebrew root ‘ap[h]al. The first thing I found was this article called “The Sin and Danger of Presumption,” which I immediately knew was a Christian thing because Christians get way more worked up about presumption than Jews do. Anyway, here’s the relevant bit:

apal - presume. (So ASV, RSV; NASB, “to be heedless.”) - This root, to which we may compare Arabic gafala “to be heedless, neglectful, inadvertent,” is found in only one OT passage, Num 14:44 (Hiphil), of Israel’s rash and reckless attack on the Amalekites and Canaanites, following her lack of faith and great rebellion. There are some authorities who suggest that the Pual of apal in Hab 2:4 may be from the same root, “to presume, be proud.”

Whoa this is getting super long. The rest is under a cut.

So I tracked down the verses as translated by Jews, because I trust Jews more than Christians to not read anachronistic concepts into Hebrew words. In my tiny little JPS (Jewish Publication Society) Tanakh, vaya’pilu la’alot (Num. 14:44) is translated as “they defiantly marched,” with a footnote saying “meaning of Heb. uncertain.” OK, something to do with defiance... interesting. The first half of Hab. 2:4 is translated, “Lo, his spirit within him is puffed up, not upright,” and the Hebrew word translated as “puffed up” is ‘uplah (no, I’m not making that up).

Bible Hub is another Christian thing, but they’ve got a useful entry on the root aphal (that’s with an ayin at the beginning) with translations from a bunch of different concordances. It appears that the original literal meaning is “to swell,” and it acquired metaphorical meanings related to arrogance (having a swelled head or an inflated sense of one’s own importance), rashness, and/or defiance. So assuming the Azir- part means “helper,” Azir’aphel or Azir’aphal might mean “helper of the arrogant/defiant one,” which could refer to his relationship with Crowley; or it might mean “heedless helper,” which could describe the morally dubious action of giving Adam and Eve his flaming sword.

I don’t know how to deal with Hebrew characters in Tumblr, so I’m going to do something dumb and put in a screenshot of how his name might be spelled in Hebrew:

The other possible way to break it down would be with the second ‘a’ just as a link between Azir- and -phel or -phal rather than the vowel associated with a ‘silent’ consonant (it’s silent now, but it used to be some guttural sound that doesn’t exist in Hebrew anymore). In Biblical Hebrew there isn’t a two-letter root pal, but I did find this old and not at all sketchy-looking e-zine entry about the root palal, which can mean “to intercede,” “to interpose,” “to arbitrate/judge,” “to pray,” or (apparently) “to think.” According to the not-at-all-sketchy e-zine, the Biblical Hebrew root palal is derived from the older parent root pal, which means “to speak to authority.” Supposedly that has something to do with the fact that the letter peh is a picture of a mouth and lamed is a picture of a shepherd’s staff, but it is absolutely fucking insane to derive the meaning of a spoken word from the meanings of the letters in which it is written, so I’m taking that with a whole handful of salt.

Somewhat more reasonable is the assertion that the root means “to fall,” and thus the connection with prayer, intercession, or pleading one’s case to an authority has to do with the practice of prostrating oneself in supplication. The root meaning “to fall” is nap[h]al, but nun is one of those funky semi-consonant letters (like heh, vav, and yud) that has a tendency to disappear or turn into something else when the verb is conjugated, so it’s not insane to think that the pal part is what’s core to the meaning and the nun is just there because roots gotta have 3 letters. It’s also not totally insane to think that this is somehow related to the root palal, because I also vaguely remember that in roots where the second and third letters are the same, they have a tendency to get mushed together, as in the palal derivative that’ll be most familiar to Jews, t’fillah, the noun meaning “prayer.” (Well, it’s a little vague because it’s spelled with two l’s in English but there’s only one lamed in the Hebrew... but there’s also a little dot in the lamed, which indicates that it’s a geminate consonant, serving as both the coda of the second syllable and the onset of the third.)

OK, so, what would that mean for Aziraphale’s name? Obviously the most exciting possibility would be that it means “helper of the fallen,” because duh. “The fallen” or “the one who falls” would be nophel, but if the nun gets dropped in conjugation, it might also fall out when it’s getting mashed together with another word in a name, right? Alternatively, going with the “prayer/intercession” meaning of palal, Aziraphale might mean “helper [and] intercessor,” which would make sense with his role as the one who attempts to plead for human beings and the Earth with his superiors who are happy to see it destroyed to settle their scores with Hell. If either of those is the meaning, it would be spelled like this:

So, to sum up: depending on how we imagine Aziraphale to be spelled in Hebrew, it could mean:

“God, my strength, healed”, “God, my strength, heal!”, or (less likely) “Raphael is my strength”

“helper of the arrogant/defiant one” or “heedless helper”

“helper of the fallen” or “helper [and] intercessor”

#i can't believe i just wrote that #that took way too long #aziraphale #aziraphale's name #aziraphale meaning #good omens #good omens meta #ineffable husbands

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lywinis · 5 years

Note

Also our fave snake them's full name is Anthony Janthony Crowley, he just got embarrassed because he never expected aziraphale to actually ask what it stood for and he didn't have a backup plan

You know, with all due respect that people are having fun with this fanon, and if this is what you choose to think, so be it, but me? I don’t much care for it. Specifically because Names are exceedingly important to Crowley.

Let me elaborate.

What’s the first thing she does in Golgotha when she sees Aziraphale again? (As Crowley is presenting female in this scene, she gets referred to by these pronouns.) She makes small talk about Aziraphale coming to smirk at the Christ as he’s crucified, but when Aziraphale uses the old name, Crawly, she immediately corrects him.

She tells Aziraphale her new Name.

It’s clearly important to her that no one call her Crawly anymore. “A bit too squirming-at-your-feetish.” She says it with a sort of quiet disdain, as though trying to distance herself from the name even as she speaks it. It’s very clearly a dead name, and Aziraphale treats it as such - he calls Crowley by it the next time they meet in Rome, then corrects himself. (He does it once more, in Essex, 537 AD, but I like to think it’s because they haven’t seen each other in quite a while, and Aziraphale has slipped. He gets corrected by Crowley, and because it’s important to Crowley, he doesn’t slip again.)

Crowley names himself. Names have power, not just here, but in occult magics; it’s also likely he chose his own name so that he might not have someone hold that power over his head. But it might also serve a dual purpose, to both distance himself from Hell and to protect himself from would-be occultists trying to bind him.

The first name, Crawly, I think is assigned by Hell, as a sort of punishment. We’re not allowed to use the Names we had in heaven, so this is your new Name. Crawly, cursed to slither on your belly through the dust and the muck, forever.

Not creative, but it gets the point across. Message received, Crawly thinks, squirming out of his pit of sulfur.

He makes a choice, choosing Crowley. He becomes something Other, staking his allegiance to Hell with lip service but becoming something entirely different. He created his name, gave it to himself. He’s the only demon with imagination - you notice how the Chattering Nuns all Name Hastur. I doubt he uses any sort of moniker or code name whilst he’s aboveground - he’s a very straightforward demon and doesn’t much care what people call him.

Crowley, though? Crowley cares, quite a bit, what one being in particular thinks of him. He likely saw the bookshop, saw the name, and did a double take.

A. Z. Fell & Co.

What a delightful pun, and Crowley had to wonder exactly what the letters stood for, had to quietly have tried to work it out over several years worth of clandestine meetings, quiet questions when Aziraphale’s guard is down. Sometimes he goes decades without speaking to the angel. He has to have thought about it considerably, in between his scheming.

He finds out that it doesn’t mean anything; it’s just a play on words. His own disappointment surprises him. Maybe because it really is a good play on words. Maybe, though, it’s because he’s always felt Names should mean something. They’re just like his clothing and his hair, they’re armor that he wears to broach the outside world. They’re things he can change about himself, even if he can’t change what he is inside.

He will always be a demon, but he can be anyone he likes on the outside. Snakes are good at shedding their skins, after all. Each time his name changes, a part of him is made new again.

Then, we fast forward to 1941. The church is iconic in many ways, but we see another Name crop up.

“The mysterious Anthony J. Crowley, your fame precedes you.”

Crowley has been testing names. Seeing which ones fit, which ones settle right over his shoulders, tumble out of his mouth and feel like they were made to be there, shaped by his forked tongue. This is the first time he’s seen Aziraphale in almost a century. It’s been 79 years since 1862, and that nasty tiff in St. James’s park.

The first thing Aziraphale does is scold him for being in the church at all.

The second thing?

He softens, realizing that Crowley came after him. Then–

“Anthony?”

“You don’t like it?”

And that’s the one thing that would make Crowley think of something else, another Name to call himself. You can see it, in the way his bouncing walk slows, as the disbelieving tone of the angel means that there might be Disappointment there, as well.

But then–

“No, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.” And he will, because that’s what Aziraphale does. He takes whatever changes Crowley makes with remarkable steadfast acceptance and just sort of chalks them up as things that make him Crowley. There’s relief there, even as there are guns pointed at them, bombs starting to fall.

They’re still friends. They’re still…them. That’s enough, it’s more than enough, after the shouting match they’d gotten into that had startled the ducks away from Aziraphale’s bread crumbs.

“What does the J stand for?”

And that’s the thing. Crowley hasn’t decided yet. He’s still testing out that letter, seeing if it works with what he’s already got. With Anthony. Which Aziraphale is going to get used to, which is far better than the angel telling him to change it.

“It’s just a J, really.” Because it is, at that moment. He’s still in the process of Becoming, he hasn’t got that far, but a stubborn angel has walked into a Nazi trap and Crowley was never one to let Aziraphale get himself into trouble without sticking his nose in and getting them both out of it, so there he is, and here they are.

And the J doesn’t mean anything, not then.

Not yet.

It does, eventually. But not until long after Armageddon’t, long after Adam has returned to Tadfield and they’ve pulled the wool over Heaven and Hell by swapping their bodies and mercifully not exploded in the process.

Aziraphale asks him, as they walk out of the park towards the Bentley. They’re not quite arm-in-arm, haven’t gotten to the point where everything that’s been boiling beneath the surface rushes forth and foams into something entirely new and never before done.

But it’s near there.

“Did you ever decide what the J stands for?” Aziraphale asks.

“Mm?” Crowley tips his head at the angel, brows lifting.

“The J, my dear boy. Did you ever pick something that fit with Anthony?”

To his credit, Crowley doesn’t falter much. His steps stutter a bit, but he attributes that to the park’s smooth pathways. They’re too smooth in his opinion. Tripped him up.

But Aziraphale knows. Has known, likely, for a long time, that this is how Crowley does things. He chooses, carefully, draping himself in fabrics, in adornments, carefully assessing each thing to give it maximum weight and gravity. It is armor, after all. It must protect the soft heart of him.

And much like his clothing, his hair, and his Name, he’s entrusted Aziraphale with that, somewhere along the line.

“Might have done,” he says as they continue along toward the Bentley. Aziraphale doesn’t push. He never does. He knows Crowley will tell him in his own time.

Right. Time to leave the Garden. But that doesn’t mean that Crowley can’t take a piece with him.

Anthony James Crowley sounds about right, when he considers it.

One must be careful with Names, after all.

#Good Omens #Ineffable Husbands #Crowley Aziraphale #lywinis writes #meta-ish #prevalenceofinsanity

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Quote

“What’s wrong, Crawly? You don’t like me as much now? You don’t love me?” “This … this isn’t you, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, hand up in defense as he climbs to his feet. “This is something else. Something dark. We have to get you help before it’s too late.” “No, Crawly,” Aziraphale says, strutting up to Crowley, a wealth of power brewing behind indigo eyes. “You’re wrong! This is exactly who I am! You said I was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. Well, I’m not just enough of a bastard anymore. I’m the bastard! I’m a Duke of Hell! And you …” Aziraphale snickers “… you’re scared of me now, aren’t you?” Crowley shakes his head. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared for you. Because I love you. I do.” “Right. No, you love Aziraphale – the impotent weakling you let follow you around everywhere like a puppy dog to feed your own ego. The demon I am doesn’t need to follow you anymore. Now I’m the leader.” “Y-yes, you are,” Crowley says, inching forward, trying to come up with a plan before Aziraphale miracles back to Hell. “You are the leader, and I … I give up. You’re in charge, and I … I’ll follow you.” “Oh, you will, will you?” Aziraphale chuckles. “The great Anthony J Crawly is gonna follow little old Aziraphale now that I’m stronger than you.” “I’ll follow you anywhere. Power or no power. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. But I’m following you now, see? Demons, you know, they usually work in pairs. I’ll work with you … for you. You’ll call the shots.” Aziraphale watches Crowley creep forward, practically crawling towards him. Man alive, how did he never realize how well his demon named suited him? “Well, then, if I call the shots, prove your loyalty to me.” “How?” “Why don’t you start by kneeling? I always thought it would be kinda hot to see you on your knees.” “Of course,” Crowley says, immediately stopping and dropping to his knees. “Whatever you say.” “That’s a good boy,” Aziraphale purrs, running a hand through Crowley’s hair. And Crowley can’t help himself – he bends to Aziraphale’s hand on him, touching him. Even if he’s mocking him, he misses him too much. He cares too much. He can’t lose him. Crowley lifts his eyes to look at the demon who was once his angel, but Aziraphale puts a hand to his forehead and tilts his head down. “No, no. You haven’t earned the right to look at me yet.” “Of---of course,” Crowley says. “I apologize. I …” He glances left, his attention caught by something beside his cheek. It’s Aziraphale’s wrist, a black tattoo showing through rows of silver bangles. Crowley should know it. It’s the sigil he put on Aziraphale’s wrist. His sigil, the one that started all this. But he doesn’t recognize it. It’s changed. It’s still changing, right before his eyes. And whatever language it’s written in, Crowley doesn’t understand. But whatever it is, it’s Aziraphale’s name now. His demon name. And Crowley needs figure it out.

His Lover’s Sigil

(Yeah, so, I fell down the rabbit hold of writing this while I have a million other things to do, inspired slightly by Michael Sheen’s character in Laws of Attraction XD)

#good omens #teasers #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #frankie writes

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why-not-go-with-style · 5 years

Text

Some demon!Aziraphale stuff (because I am on a train and really bored)

I borrowed Aziraphale’s demon name idea from @phemiec’s post (I’m sorry, it just fits too well–)

Anyways, here we go.

———

When angels Fall, they Fall metaphorically. There is usually no actual falling involved, no matter how beautiful the humans make it look in their paintings. The Morning Star has, of course, taken a tumble from heaven, wings aflame, the dramatic bugger, but those who followed him Fell much less theatrically. There are whispers going around Hell insisting that the Prince has simply walked out of the Heaven’s South Gate and waited outside of it for the flies to follow.

Anthony J. Crowley, for his part, likes to say he sauntered vaguely downwards. But sometimes he tells people he fell, literally, as it were, because it makes the second part easier to explain.

“I fell,” he shrugs, if a need arises. “And as I was falling, I grabbed Azazel’s hand.”

They don’t get to keep their names – unless they’re the Morning Star, because he’s always been special – but they get to pick new ones. Crowley – not Crowley back then, not even Crawly yet, but not Raphael anymore either – strains his ears to listen to the buzzing whispers. Some can’t bring themselves to do more than swap out a couple of letters, and some assemble entirely new identities. Lucifer weaves his way between them, approving or denying, an uncrowned king of a burninh kingdom.

Beelzebub gets a pass. Hastur chokes through at least half a dozen variations.

“Crawly,” Crawly hisses when the turn comes to him (along with the Morning Star, whose eyes burn with what will later come to be called hellfire). His hair is pulled back, and the serpent mark on his temple itches something wicked.

“Crawly,” Lucifer repeats. He raises his arm and drags his finger across Crawly’s skin, presses them against the mark. “I like it. Crawly.”

Lucifer’s touch turns the itch into a burn. Hellfire dances across his fingers, finds its way through the cracks in Crawly’s skin, slithers inside his being and rages through his body, following predetermined pathways which humans will, much later, come to call arteries veins. All Crawly can do is keep from screaming, and his eyes open. The Morning Star doesn’t like disrespect.

“Azazel,” someone blurts out next to them. “Uh. I’ll. That is. If you wish, Lord.”

Lucifer lets go, slowly, leisurely draws back his fingers. Crawly screws his eyes shut, forces the fire under control. His throat is sore, and his wings ache, but the flames under his skin subside, coil up tightly inside his chest. He thinks he should open his eyes again, should look at who it was that dared to interrupt, but he doesn’t need to. There’s only one angel reckless enough.

Or – well. Not quite an angel anymore, is he?

“Aziraphale,” Lucifer drawls.

Crawly forces himself to look.

Aziraphale stands to his right. His wings – still white, not blinding, but soft, as the foam of the Heaven’s waterfalls – are spread proud, and he looks Lucifer in the eyes. Crawly doesn’t think he could do it. Not for longer than a couple of seconds anyways.

Well, Aziraphale has always been... something else.

“Azazel,” the Morning Star repeats. “Very buzzy. Beelzebub would approve.”

Azira– Aza– the angel, still an angel, Crawly thinks to himself stubbornly, doesn’t look away.

“Yes, well,” he says. “I was not asking them.”

Lucifer smiles. When Lucifer smiles, it feels like a noose of thorns slowly getting tighter around your neck. Crawly can’t remember it being like that in Heaven, but then, there are a lot of things he can’t remember back in Heaven, such as the smell of burning flesh and his own stubborn urge to hiss.

They’re not in Heaven anymore.

“No,” Lucifer agrees, “you weren’t.”

And then he wraps his fingers around Aziraphale’s neck.

The angel doesn’t scream either. His eyes well up with tears, and his tears vaporise when they touch his skin, for his skin burns with hellfire too. Crawly watches, powerless to do anything, too slow too weak too scared, watches as the foam-white wings shrivel up into a mess of greys and blacks.

Lucifer hums.

“No wonder you‘re here,” he says, and his voice is fire. “A packaged deal, are you?”

He lets go. Aziraphale falls to his knees. Crawly strokes the charred feathers, and the angel’s wings shudder.

“We are,” Crawly says.

Lucifer smiles again. The noose winds itself around their throats.

“Well then,” he says. “Welcome to the club.”

Azazel stands.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #demon!aziraphale #lucifer #aziraphale and crowley #allie scribbles

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dutchcementmixer · 5 years

Text

What we used to be (and whatever the hell we are now)

Read on AO3

It is said that angels are beings of love, but only in the general sense, as in, an impersonal love for all things.

That is incorrect.

--------

In the Beginning, there was an angel and an angel.

One of the angel's name was Aziraphale, and the other's was not so important - it'll be forgotten soon anyway.

And, had the word been invented, they would be called soulmates.

It is said that angels are beings of love, but only in the general sense, as in, an impersonal love for all things.

That is incorrect.

~O.o.o.O~

In the Beginning, there were angels.

Each angel found a pair, another angel whose soul sang a complimentary melody, whom they gravitate toward. Another one whom they Loved above all else. And, had the word being invented, they would be called soulmates.

Those were the simple days at the dawn of Creation, though neither day or dawn existed yet.

~O.o.o.O~

In the Beginning, there was an angel and an angel.

One of the angels’ name was Aziraphale, and he was a Principality, though he had no idea what that had meant, nor what he was supposed to do. Nobody did1 – it hadn’t been invented yet. He did what many other angels like him did – running errands for the others, training,2 and occasionally, taking care of the prototypes of Creation.

The other angel’s name was not so important – it would soon be forgotten anyway. He laboured in the far-off corners of the universe, building the galaxies, hanging the stars. He worn the stardust with something akin to vanity, scattered around his form, until he was almost too bright to look at, too beautiful for even angel eyes.3

They were very different angels, with different Spheres and different friends, but they found each other anyway.

(If asked why, Aziraphale would tell you it’s Her ineffability. The other would simply shrug and mumble something unintelligible. But if you listened closely enough, it might amount to something to do with how his angel is special.)

Those were the good days, the simple days, because not much has happened yet. Those were the times they will both remember with something almost akin to fondness, though they would never admit it.

~O.o.o.O~

The Almighty showed Her angels a new Creation called man, built in Her own image.

Some were outraged.

Some were delighted.

~O.o.o.O~

There was a Rebellion.

There was a war.

The Morningstar was cast out of heaven.

And along with him, many followed suit, wings burnt, haloes broken, Her Grace torn from their bodies.

It was called Falling.

It was called pain.

~O.o.o.O~

In the vast halls4 of heaven, there was something new called grief.

Those who lost their pair mourned for them. Those who hadn’t were immensely, immensely grateful.

Because Fallen means they are gone, erased from their existence as an angel of the Lord.

~O.o.o.O~

Amongst the angels, there was a new thing called Sides, called good and evil.

The Fallen are evil, they are the enemy, and we are good.

Good will always triumph over evil, they say. 5

~O.o.o.O~

What they did not discuss is the pain.

It was assumed that Downstairs invented it.

That is, strictly speaking, false.

They felt it too, the ones who remained. They too felt the hellfire, searing into their soul, burning through the line that connects them to their Fallen mate, until it could be barely felt anymore, leaving only the pain.

~O.o.o.O~

What they did not mention is the emptiness, the void left behind, when the fire had burned through, when the pain had faded to grey, and there was just nothing.

~O.o.o.O~

Somewhere in the vast halls of heaven, an angel was sceptical.

His name was Aziraphale, and he thought, how can they be truly gone when he had seen them land? How can they truly be gone when, if he tries hard enough, he can still sense their presence?6

But that is ineffability, he supposed. And he did not voice those thoughts out loud, out of a fear of Falling, but also because Good angels are not meant to question God.

And he mourned too, for the one he lost, the one dearest to him.7

None of his other friends have Fallen, and he was nothing if not grateful for that.

~O.o.o.O~

More angels Fell, this time because they dared to question it, dared to wonder where the Fallen has gone, dared to voice it aloud.

They know, now.

The image of their falling figures, leaving behind great trails of fire, was burnt into Aziraphale’s mind, along with those thoughts he hadn’t dared to speak aloud.

~O.o.o.O~

They say that God made the earth in six days, and rested on the seventh.

That is too incorrect.

The “blueprints” of the world has been set out ages in advance, and besides, “day” is quite difficult to measure when it has barely been invented yet.

~O.o.o.O~

The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, that’s who he is now.

And so he watched the Garden, watched the strange new thing called man with a odd sort of fascination.

And he watched outside too, sight set on the vast wasteland outside Eden, and wondered.

~O.o.o.O~

Meanwhile, down Below, a new being called Crawly emerges from the flames and sulphur.

Get up there and make some trouble, they tell him.

And so he does, slithers his way up into that place called Eden, right up to where the new thing called man lives.

And he is oddly fascinated too, by the man, and the woman8 and that small, fragile slice of paradise.

~O.o.o.O~

It is said that demons remember nothing of their time in heaven.

That is, like many things humans think of the universe, wildly wrong.

--------

Footnote

1Except God, but that’s different

2Though what for, they had not known

3They didn’t have eyes, not in the physical sense, but they could See

4No, not literal halls. Those haven’t been invented yet, though a prototype of architecture has in fact emerged.

5Of course, good and evil are, has always been, subjective

6Even the void counts for something, right?

7And it hurts, it hurts like hell

8And her, more so

#good omens fanfiction #angel crowley #aziraphale #my writing #ineffable husbands #soulmates #fanfiction #crowley

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maggiemaybe160 · 5 years

Text

The Sound of Longing

Fic written for @ficfacers 2019. My winning bid was from AnonGrimm. I had so much fun writing this fic. Full 5 chapter fic on my Ao3 (Rated Mature)

Look, I’ll be honest. The house I’m looking at doesn’t have a monster. It doesn’t have a victim, ghostie, or creepy crawly. It’s just a house that’s empty. The owner hasn’t come home yet. If he has any sort of life on a Saturday, he won’t be coming home tonight at all. I don’t know why Sam is having me waste my breath on this case. There’s nothing in this town. He’s still strung out from our last two weeks.

Douche with wings zapped us into the corporate life with no memories. We spent two weeks living the lives of civilians with desk jobs. He’s itching to prove that it will never happen again and that he doesn’t want that snoozefest of a life. He’s too busy trying to prove that he chooses hunting to see that there is nothing here to hunt.

I know I’m happier staking out, cleaning rifles, loading salt rounds, and ganking evil sons-of-bitches, but it felt like a vacation. It felt like a rest from Hell, a moment to breathe after torturing Alistair.

Sam wants to wash it off and pretend it didn’t happen. He wants to forget the two friends he lost while he was trapped in the mind of an IT pencil-pusher. I could do without the memories of that poor kid in the bathroom. He didn’t deserve to go out just because Zachariah chose to stir up our brains. We could have had that ghost before… What’s his name? Ian? Ian died. I didn’t know him. Sam did. I called him “pencil-neck” and Sam didn’t take it well.

“He had a name.”

His name was Ian. He was Sam’s friend, but we’re still not allowed to have friends. Not ones with nine to fives and no supernatural protection.

I am glad to be back, though. Back to eating bacon cheeseburgers and drinking beer. Back to long hours driving and highlighting newspapers. Back to normal, health-insurance and pay free. I’m back to staring at a boring house and sitting in the car just so I can think.

I keep running over why I said yes to torturing someone, no matter how evil he is. I had waited thirty years of what I thought was going to be eternity to start torturing anyone. I didn’t want to go back to it the second I was back topside. I didn’t want to look into his ugly face and hear his slimy voice. I know why I said yes, though. He asked me to.

Mister blue-eyes-and-trench-coat showed up and asked me to do him one little favor and there I was like a lost dog. Any other angel and I know I would have said no. If Zach had asked, I might’ve even told him where to stick it. Junkless did ask, and I told him no. I made the mistake of asking to talk to Cas alone. Talk to the only being that could make my heart run wild and make him convince me to help him with those eyes and that voice. No, it had to be Castiel. It had to be him.

Something keeps coming up with him. Uriel and Cas have both said that Cas is getting too close to me and that he likes me. The words are a fist around my heart. I don’t know why I care. Anna already told me that angels can’t fall in love. Not that that’s what I’m thinking about because it’s not.

Love. I can repeat the word over and over and I’ve always just seen a blank screen. I guess that’s not true anymore, but who knows what that means? I’m not allowed to fall in love. I’m a solider for Earth, Hell, and now Heaven. I’m a bullet-shield if anything and unworthy of that kind of feeling. It’s not like I hear that word and think about my pounding heart and sparking lights. It doesn’t mean anything if I hear that word and feel my stomach twist because I think about him. He doesn’t think about me. Not as anything more than some rescue dog from Hell anyway.

What does it mean he likes me? What the fuck does that mean? It can’t mean anything. I want it to mean something. I want it to mean anything and everything.

“Hello, Dean.”

I jump out of my skin and look over to the passenger seat of my previously empty car. “Don’t do that!” Always. Whenever I have a moment to just think, here he is, sitting next to me with his blue eyes narrowed like he can read my thoughts. “Why are you here?”

“I always come when you call,” he says, the gravel in his voice raking over me.

“False alarm. I didn’t call.” There’s no point in trying to look back at the most ordinary house. Cas’ eyes are pools to drown in. I can’t breathe.

“I can hear longing, Dean.”

What the fuck? What kind of thing is that to say? I don’t long for things. Especially not people. Or angels. I don’t long for him. I don’t long to run my hand down the side of his face or feel his lips on mine. I do not long for his arms around me. I don’t long to be shoved against a wall by him, our noses touching, eyes locked. I definitely don’t long for Castiel.

“Excuse me? You’ve got the wrong number, pal.”

“What number? I didn’t call you.” Cas shifts, his eyes cast down to my lips before finding my eyes again. “It hasn’t stopped, though. I don’t understand.”

I force myself to look away and find myself staring at the boring house again. This is the most pointless stakeout in the history of our hunting career. I could be at a bar drinking and flirting with anyone who walks by. Instead, I’m biting my tongue and contemplating how badly I want him.

“What are you doing here?” Cas asks, his face turning toward the same building that I’ve been watching.

“Humoring Sam.”

He doesn’t say anything else. I should’ve said something to keep him talking. I could have told a joke that would have gone over his head just so that he would tell me that he doesn’t understand.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” I wasn’t expecting that. I look back over at him and watch his head turn slowly. His eyes are filled with his apology. “I’m sorry about what happened with Alistair. I should have protected you from Heaven’s orders. I should never have let you walk into that room.”

“Don’t like what came out?” I don’t mean to joke or throw my words back in his face, but I am scared of the answer. His apologies could be his goodbye, and I’m not ready for that.

“That will never happen.” My heart lodges itself in my throat. “I tried to redeem myself for that by protecting you from Zachariah, but I was detained.”

“You were detained?” The way he talks drives me insane. He’s poetic and formal for no reason.

“Yes.”

When he doesn’t say more, I feel like it’s my turn. I’m supposed to accept and forgive him. I’m supposed to acknowledge that he’s sorry so we can both move on.

“Yeah, okay.”

“I have to apologize for my actions after you and Anna…” Can angels blush? Is that what’s happening? “I was jealous. That was one of the reasons I was kept from you. They accused me of getting too close to my charge. I can’t deny that accusation, but jealousy isn’t something that is allowed in Heaven. I could have protected you more effectively if I hadn’t let myself feel so strongly.”

Jealous? Jealous of Anna. Jealous of Anna when she was a human and asked me for her last night as a human. Jealous of the kiss in the barn before she powered up. Castiel was jealous? Jealous of me or her? Please be jealous of her.

“What do you mean, jealous?”

“It’s not of import. I… I should go.” He can’t leave now. Not after he opened that up.

“Cas,” I hear myself begging as I grab onto his arm. I can’t let him leave. Not now. “Talk to me.”

Cas sighs and I’m sure I’m wrong. I’m wrong in thinking he was jealous of her. Why would he want me? Now my hand is on his arm and I can’t take it away. If he can hear longing, he can probably feel it through his arm by now too. I shouldn’t have stopped him. I could have gone my whole life without this conversation.

“Uriel wasn’t lying to you when he told you of my affections.”

I want to scream. I want to ask him to clarify. I want to hear him say it. I need to hear him say it. His affections . What? Can you have a heart attack from thinking someone may have a crush on you? I think I’m having a stroke.

“I thought angels couldn’t fall in love.” Love. He never said he loved me. He said he has affections . Whatever that means. Now I’ve ruined it. I’ve lost all of my chances by using the world’s dumbest word.

“They can’t.” Fuck. “At least, I thought we couldn’t.”

I remember my hand on Cas’ arm and rip it away. He can’t mean it. He has to mean it. “I’m not allowed to fall in love. I’m just a soldier.” I repeat the words that I’d heard and told myself repeatedly through the years. I’m just a soldier. I’m disposable. I’m not meant for love or ‘ affections ’.

“That does apply to both of us.” Cas reaches out and takes my hand back. I should keep it from him, but his touch is all that I can think about.

“I guess it can’t be love then.” I lose the fight of not staring at his lips.

“I don’t think it matters what we call it.”

Cas drops my hand to cup my face instead, leaning in and pressing his lips to mine. It’s warm and soft and now I think I’m definitely having a heart attack. My heart slams in my chest as if it’s trying to escape as Cas’ mouth opens mine. I feel his fingers dragging through my hair as I pull him against me. His kisses swallow me whole.

@destielhoneybee @thekingofselfloathing @ain-t-bovvered @iamcharliebradburylevelperfect @adventurous-blob @anarchiana @blueeyesandpie @samatedeansbroccoli @skittles-rainbow-cat @lily-t2019 @fandom-is-my-middle-name @soloarcana @destiel-honeypie @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @spn-bad-bitch @awkward-penguin-in-a-trenchcoat @castibella-shipper-of-the-lord @telefunkies @aestheticallydyke @righteouscomeuppancejogstheliver @deanwinchesterswitch @royalrowena

#maggiemaybe160 #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #fluff and angst fic #angst fic #first person pov #dean winchester pov #dean winchester #castiel #cas #dean x cas #dean x castiel #ao3 fic #ficfacers #ficfacers 2019

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