#so Crowley is simply - reluctantly - accepting that truth

[littlehollyleaf]

You know it's the putting the glasses back on that really breaks me...

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens spoilers #Crowley closing himself off from Zira - putting that barrier between them back #only not... it's not that Crowley is putting it back - he's recognising what Zira isn't - that ~Zira has built the wall between them again #so Crowley is simply - reluctantly - accepting that truth #returning to where Zira has put him - behind darkened glass - his true self obscured and tainted and not clearly seen #he ~wants Zira to see him - to see ~them - for how they really are - and for how they could be #but Zira can't/won't #god it's so perfect i want to cry

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

When Love Must Die (chapter 9)

Quick author’s note for your attention, please.  I’ve noticed that the interest in this story has waned quite a bit (here on tumblr at least), and (since I’m an absolute whore when it comes to feedback and I have a hard time getting inspired to write more when I don’t get much of a response) I’m considering stopping updates for it on here and sticking with AO3 updates alone. I’ll see how this chapter does and decide accordingly. Just wanted to give everyone a heads-up.

Link to Chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging:  @armaggedidnt @oh-hamlet @foxyfoe-reblog @s3dgy @butttteeerrrrrr @swanheart69 @giulisetta  @tonystark5ever @agentlokii @tardisoftheshire @maehemscorpyus

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Chapter 9

 A soft rustle of movement beside him breaks through the light doze he has finally allowed himself to sink into what seems like moments ago, and he startles awake, arms tightening instinctively around the stubbornly unconscious man-shaped being tucked safely against his side.  He blinks, disoriented slightly from his not-quite-sleep, lets his bleary gaze focus on the young witch who stands less than a foot away from the bed, a tray of food in her hands.  

“Sorry,” she murmurs, looking contrite, “I didn’t mean to wake you.  I’ll just…”  Carefully, she sets the tray down onto the nightstand beside him, moves to step back.

 “Don’t…,” Aziraphale raises a hand to stop her.  “It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep.”

 She cants her head knowingly, her mouth tight with worried disapproval.  “Perhaps you should be,” she chides.  “You look absolutely beat.”

 He believes it, too. He hasn’t had a moment’s respite since he popped back into Anathema’s living room with Crowley’s limp, mangled form cradled against his chest, shouting for Adam to encase the fragile, dying essence in a protective corporeal sheath – a temporary patch, a desperate attempt to keep the severely damaged essence from simply breaking apart in Aziraphale’s arms.

 Since then, the only thing the angel was focused on was keeping Crowley alive and healing, healing, healing. Properly, thoroughly, completely. Determinedly undoing all traces of Hell’s purposefully, ruthlessly crude patch-up job: gently straightening out the twisted, crookedly knitted bones, mending the terrible scars that mar every inch of Crowley’s beautiful skin, soothing away the deep, devastating burns.

 And it was working. Aziraphale could tell it was working. Could feel the broken, jagged edges of Crowley’s abused essence slowly, oh-so-slowly, pulling back together, its worryingly feeble glow becoming just a bit stronger in response to every pulse of angelic grace Aziraphale infused into it.  And Crowley was blessedly, completely out of it throughout the harrowing procedure, remaining loose-limbed and pliant under the healing glow of Aziraphale’s hands.

 Until Aziraphale started on his wings.  

 He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the awful, soul-rending scream that tore from Crowley’s throat when Aziraphale hand first ghosted over one of the mutilated appendages in an attempt to infuse a bit of healing grace into the worst of the damage.  He’d pulled back then, shocked to frozen horror by the tidal wave of pain and fear that crashed against his senses.  It was… it was…

 Aziraphale swallows down an uncomfortably human swell of nausea as he thinks back to those harrowing and seemingly endless hours of the night, during which Anathema and Newt stood on either side of Crowley, pinning him down on his stomach as he thrashed and writhed desperately in their grip, while Aziraphale himself, his corporation’s heart bleeding, ripping at the seams in the face of his friend’s interminable agony, wrestled the wildly flapping wings into submission one at a time, forcing as much healing energy as he could spare into each quivering appendage, trying his best to ignore Crowley’s raspy, throat-tearing howls of pain and the sobbing, gut-wrenching pleas for him to “stop, please, stop!”

And then came the nightmares.  Vivid, brutal and just as relentless.  And Aziraphale was helpless against them.  Helpless to calm the wild, defensive flail of the long limbs.  Helpless to soothe the pained furrowing of the sweat-stained brow, the quiet, pitiful whimpers and full-on wretched sobs.  Helpless to chase away whatever awful images that passed before Crowley’s wide open but unseeing stare, as his friend screamed himself hoarse into the haunting void visible to him and him alone. Helpless to do anything but sit there with silent tears streaming down his cheeks and his trembling arms wrapped around Crowley’s guitar-string taut, twisting form as tightly as he dared so as not to hurt him and to keep Crowley from further hurting himself.

 He never felt more exhausted in his life.

 And yet he didn’t dare leave.  Didn’t dare step away even for a moment lest Crowley should fall prey to another vicious nightmare.  Or, worse yet, lest he should awaken and find himself alone.  Aziraphale couldn’t do that to him.  Not after everything that dear boy has been through for his sake.  

 And so even now with the near-overwhelming and heretofore unfamiliar to him urge to sleep, he politely declines Anathema’s offer to keep watch over Crowley so he could go to the spare bedroom and rest.

 “I’m sorry, my dear girl,” he shrugs, apologetic, shifting to pull Crowley closer as if afraid that she would physically try and force them apart.  “I… I can’t.”

 She shakes her head at him with the chiding look of a mother disappointed in her child.  Concedes with a sigh, moving as if to leave.  Then pauses, her gaze lingering on Crowley’s slack features.  “It’s strange,” she muses, almost too quiet for Aziraphale to hear.  “He doesn’t look much different.”

 “How do you mean?”

 “Oh,” she looks back up at him, flustered.  Shrugs, gesturing awkwardly toward Crowley,  “I just… I mean… I know Adam gave him his old body back, but I thought… with him being an angel now and everything… that he would…”

 “Look different?”

 She purses her lips, sheepish.  Reaches up nervously to tuck a stray lock behind her ear.  “The other demons I saw, they… well, they all looked and felt very different from the angels.  Their appearance, their auras.  So I thought that he’d feel different, too, now, but… he doesn’t really.  I mean… his eyes are different now and all, but he… he feels the same.  Do you know what I mean?”

 Aziraphale nods, smiles wistfully, looking down at the man in his arms.  “I met him before, you know,” he murmurs, a seeming non sequitur that she frowns at, confused.  “Raphael,” he adds in lieu of explanation.  “Before the Fall.”

 “You knew him?” And he can feel the weight of her stare on him, the shocked judgment of her realization. “Then why didn’t you–”  She stops short, hand flying up to cover her mouth before she says too much.

 But it doesn’t matter. He knows what she’s thinking. Lord knows, he’s been thinking the same thing ever since he saw those images in Hastur’s head.  Has been judging himself for that ever since, too.

 “Why I didn’t recognize him?” He looks up to find silent confirmation in her expression.  Huffs out in tired self-condemnation, “I forgot.” And that’s as simple an answer as he can give her.  As truthful as it is damning.  “I’m pretty sure none of us were supposed to keep any memories of the Fallen.  They were… some of us were very close back in those days.  Brothers, sisters, best friends.  Having the memory of those we’ve lost that day, it… it would have caused quite a lot of grief, I imagine.”  His lips twitch, morphing into a bitter smirk, “Perhaps She was afraid that it would lead to more unrest.”

 “But you’re remembering now?”

 Aziraphale hums, raising an eyebrow in contemplation.  “Not… all of it,” he admits reluctantly, “not exactly.  Just… flashes, really.  Random bursts of images… feelings… impressions.” He shrugs, a bit helplessly, “It’s… it’s hard to explain.”

 She nods mutely, seeming to accept his jumbled explanation.  Perches cautiously on the very edge of the bed.  “So what do you see?”

 There’s a prickle in Aziraphale’s eyes, a too-too familiar burn, and so he raises his gaze to the ceiling in a vain effort to contain the traitorous gathering moisture.  “Light,” he whispers, unable, unwilling to keep the awe from his voice.  “Beautiful and mesmerizing… like the stars.  And kindness,” he adds, his voice trembling just a bit, “So… so much kindness and love! I don’t think I’ve felt that much from any other angel.”  He blinks, shifting his gaze back down to Anathema.  Smiles brokenly as he feels a tear spill over his eyelashes to drip onto his cheek.  “Perhaps that’s why he managed to hold on to it?  He had so much of it within him that the Fall simply couldn’t burn all of it away,” he muses, as more tears follow down the same track.

 It feels right, what he’s saying.  Feels true. And he knew the truth of it, for thousands of years he knew.  Had seen it in the begrudging care with which Crowley treated those around him; in the compassion (no matter how desperately, but, ultimately, poorly, hidden) that he exuded towards humans; in the untainted, gentle affection he showed towards Aziraphale himself.

 But Aziraphale rejected it. Pushed that truth away, buried it under layers upon layers of denial, relying on blind obedience and mindless indoctrination instead of allowing himself to open up and see proof of the opposite that was right there in front of him, centuries upon centuries.

 What a fool he was. What a naïve, blind fool.

 “So you’re right, my dear.” He forces another smile for Anathema’s benefit – a pale, trembling thing.  “He really doesn’t look that much different because… because he never really changed that much.”  

 He raises an equally trembling hand to swipe at his rapidly dampening cheeks before looking down to gaze with tearful fondness at the former demon asleep in his arms. Lovingly, tenderly, he threads his quivering fingers through the tangled, sweat-matted locks. Places a ghost of a kiss, soft and apologetic, onto the pale strip of skin where it meets the hair’s flame-red edge.  Whispers, barely audible, “Did you, darling?”

 Crowley’s face tightens as if in response, a deep furrow of pain cutting across the smooth skin of his brow, and Aziraphale reaches out, unhesitating.  Presses his fingers over the crease, willing his own still healing-weary essence to release just a tad more of angelic grace.  Slumps in grateful exhaustion as he watches Crowley’s pain-tightened features soften and go lax with proper, mending sleep.  

 There’s a brief moment when he wonders if he should take Anathema up on her offer after all, to take a much needed break from his healing vigil and allow himself to rest, to give his own powers a chance to recharge.  He opens his mouth, a humble request for Anathema to stay with Crowley while he follows Crowley’s example and lets himself relax into a blessedly restful slumber ready on the tip of his tongue.

 And snaps it shut a mere heartbeat later as a powerful and dreadfully familiar presence rattles sharply against the protective network of wards surrounding the cottage.  

#good omens fic #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #hurt/comfort #angst #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes #sjsob good omens fics

[bestiesandagents]

Looking Up

Picks up right where Stuck in the Middle (With You) leaves off.

-12x12 spoilers below-

Crowley has had quite the day, and just when he thinks the worst of it is over and he can drink away his worries, he gets a call from none other than Dean Winchester. It might not have been so bad, if he didn’t have Lucifer shouting in the background, saying all the things that the King of Hell did not want Dean to know. But when he finds out why Dean is calling... well, maybe things are looking up.

Word count: 1650

“That’s not my name,” Lucifer growled.

“It is now,” Crowley muttered. He was about to take another drink when his phone began to ring. He wanted to ignore it, but it might be word on the Colt, so he sighed as he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.

“Who is it?” the devil cooed.

Crowely shot him a narrow-eyed glare, but otherwise ignored him as he answered the phone. “Haven’t I done enough for one day?”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Dean answered, as Lucifer began humming an annoying tune that Crowley did his best to block out.

“Then why are you calling, squirrel?”

“Ooooh, it’s Dean,” Lucifer gushed. “Do you think if you confessed your love to him he would reciprocate or kill you? See, my money’s on him killing you.”

“Because… Who’s that?” The hunter’s voice was only vaguely curious, assuring Crowley that he didn’t hear clearly enough to make out any words, or to recognize the voice.

“No one important,” Crowley said coolly as he rose from his throne and strode out of the room.

“Awww, why are you leaving?” Lucifer shouted after him. “You don’t want me to overhear you compromising yourself for the idiot you love?”

Crowley growled to himself as he closed the door behind him. He needed to find a way to muzzle him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Um…”

He froze. “You heard that?”

“…Yeah…”

Crowley nodded. Of course he heard it. “That was just an attempt to piss me off,” he tried to smooth it over.

“I know you don’t let your demons talk to you that way,” Dean pointed out.

“That wasn’t anyone in my good graces, and I assure you, he’s already suffering quite nicely. Now, I’m assuming you called for a reason.”

“Yeah…” Dean took a moment to collect himself. “Um… you kinda zapped out before we got a chance to thank you.”

Crowley blinked in surprise. “You’ve never thanked me before.”

“True, but Cas would be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Not for the first time.”

“Yeah, I know. And I know it’s not the first time you’ve come through for us, either, but… look, I’m thanking you now, okay?”

“Well, you’re welcome.” A small smile turned up the corners of his lips.

There was a pause long enough that Crowley would have thought Dean had hung up, if it weren’t for the fact that he could still hear him breathing. “Hey, so… why would a demon say that to piss you off?”

Crowley gritted his teeth. He did not want to be having this conversation. “Because he was fishing for anything to use against me.”

“But… that had to come from somewhere… right?”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you insinuating, squirrel?”

“Oh, calm down, I know better than to think you actually love me. I was just wondering if demons actually thought you would compromise anything for my sake?”

His expression turned incredulous. “Are you serious? I just confronted the most powerful demon in the world to intervene on your behalf, when he had told me that if anyone came near him, it would be on my head. I sacrificed one of the most powerful weapons in the world to save your best friend. And that was just today, shall I go on?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “I just figured you had some ulterior motive,” he finally muttered.

“If you count keeping the three of you alive as an ulterior motive, then yes. But the point remains that I have compromised a lot for you, so don’t you tell me I never would.”

“But… why?”

Crowley sighed. “I doubt you’d understand,” he said bitterly.

“Try me.”

He hesitated for several seconds before deciding to simply tell him a sub-reason. “The world needs you three.”

Dean took a moment to process that. “Yeah, see, I can understand that reasoning. Which tells me that that’s not the real reason. Come on, Crowley, what’s the truth?”

“There’s no point in telling you.”

“Won’t know unless you do, will you?”

Crowley didn’t respond. He should probably just hang up, but something stopped him. Probably the same thing that stopped him from snapping Dean’s neck whenever he pissed him off.

“Alright, well I have a theory,” Dean continued when it became clear that Crowley wasn’t talking. “Will you tell me if I’m right?”

“I might,” he hedged.

“You care. Somewhere deep down in your cold, black heart, you care about us.”

“That would be a fundamentally stupid thing for me to do.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, it would be. Believe me, I thought the same thing when I realized I care about you.”

Crowley’s eyes widened slightly, and it took him a moment to respond. “Guess we’re both idiots, then.”

“Guess so.” He could hear the smile in Dean’s voice. “Does that mean you’ll join us for a drink?”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “You sure moose will be okay with that?”

“You saved Cas’s life. He’ll be okay enough.”

He smiled. “Well, then. Power down the wards, and I’ll be right there.”

“Done,” Dean replied a couple seconds later.

Crowley hung up, and after snapping his fingers for his decanter (no point in forcing down the alcohol they would have on hand), he teleported to the bunker. Sam and Castiel were sitting at the table, each with a beer in hand, and Dean was walking back over to them.

“You’re looking better, feathers,” Crowley noted.

“Thanks to you.” Castiel inclined his head slightly towards him.

He shrugged. “Just had a hunch.”

“Well, I’m glad you acted on it,” Sam turned to him.

“Me too.” He strolled over to take the seat beside where Dean had just sat down. “If anyone would like something decent to drink.” He shook the decanter slightly before pouring himself a drink.

As soon as he was finished, Dean snatched it from his hand and poured his own glass. “Thanks.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Since when do you have a taste for the finer things?”

“Well, I’m not gonna turn my nose up at it.” He smirked at Crowley as he sat the decanter down in front of him.

Crowley quickly decided that drinking with the Winchesters was much preferable to drinking in his throne room with only the caged Lucifer for company. Sam was being nicer to him than usual, Castiel even more so, and Dean… well, Dean was actually treating him like a friend.

“I suppose I should get going,” Crowley said a couple hours later, after Sam and Castiel had both turned in.

“Right,��� Dean muttered, almost reluctantly, as he followed Crowley’s lead and got to his feet.

Crowley arched an eyebrow at him. “Unless you have a reason for me not to.”

“Not really a reason, just… a question.”

“Oh?”

Dean licked his lips nervously. “That demon that was trying to piss you off… he was half right, wasn’t he? I mean, he said you were compromising stuff for us… except, he was saying it was for me… because you love me.”

Crowely kept his face expressionless. “What are you asking, Dean?”

“I-I don’t think you love me, but… was he onto something? I mean, you’re closer to me than you are to Sam or Cas.”

He took a deep breath as he carefully scrutinized Dean’s expression, trying to get a read on what he was thinking. “What do you want me to say?”

Dean sighed. “The truth would be nice.”

Crowley nodded slowly as his gaze darted away. “Alright, then…. Yes. He was onto something.”

There was a pause in which Crowley couldn’t bring himself to look at Dean, and then the hunter’s lips were on his. It only lasted a second, and then Dean was watching him hopefully as Crowley fixed him with a steady gaze.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Crowley said smoothly, carefully reining in his emotions.

Dean shrugged. “Maybe. Doesn’t change anything, though. Okay, well, I might not have actually kissed you if I’d been sober, but I’d have wanted to.”

The corners of his lips twitched up as he fought against the hope he felt. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly.

“In that case…” He took a step closer, resting his hands casually on Dean’s waist and getting a thrill at the ability to do so. “How about we make this just you and me next time?”

Dean smiled. “Tomorrow work for you?”

“Eager, are we?” Crowley taunted, though his smile matched Dean’s. “I’ll be here at seven.” He leaned in for another kiss, teleporting back to his throne room just a couple seconds after their lips met. As much as he would have loved for the kiss to last longer, he couldn’t resist teasing Dean.

He had a large smirk plastered over his face as he stepped in front of the bars separating himself from Lucifer. “Pay up.”

The devil’s eyes were narrowed as they turned to Crowley. “Excuse me?”

“You said that your money was on Dean killing me if I admitted my feelings for him. You couldn’t have been more wrong. So – oh wait, you don’t have anything to pay me with, do you? Because you have nothing.” His smirk grew as Lucifer glowered at him. “I suppose I’ll just accept you getting me a date as payment. I don’t know that Dean would have asked me out if it weren’t for what you shouted earlier, after all. Good dog.”

The incredulously furious expression on Lucifer’s face was easily the second-best thing to come out of the night. Before he could muster up a retort, Crowley teleported from the room to ensure that he had the last word for the night. The day had been far from perfect – being thrown around by a Prince of Hell and losing the Colt being the most troublesome parts – but things were definitely looking up.

#drowley #crowlean #dean x crowley #crowley x dean #12x12 #drowley:fanfic #my work