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castthy-nightedcolour · 3 years

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One- Shot: The Seaside Dream (written as part of my series ‘don’t worry about a thing’ on AO3, link can be found at the bottom of the post as it won’t let me embed it)

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: GN Reader, Aziraphale, Crowley

Warnings and Tags: depression, skipping meals, dynamic duo, here come the boysssss, soft crowley

Summary: you don’t show up for wine with crowley and aziraphale, and the two hurry to your apartment to see what’s going on

Word Count: 2281

Link to original: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31055930/chapters/83889112

‘Crowley, please hurry!’

The pained cry of the angel came from the top of the flight of stairs in your apartment block, echoing off the concrete walls. This mixed with the reverberant sigh of Crowley, and the ever- so- slow tread of his footsteps.

‘CROWLEY. This is important! Do you not care?’

The demon stopped dead in his tracks, planting his feet at the bottom of the set of stairs that the out of breath Aziraphale stood at the top of.

Crowley was not at all happy with the angel’s question.

‘Do I not what? Care? Oh Angel, you’re asking to be pushed down these stairs,’ he responded, almost growling under his breath. In any other circumstance, this might have actually pleased Aziraphale, however this time, he was actually terrified.

The scenario had started with what Aziraphale called ‘a dreadfully funny feeling.’

Since Armageddon was narrowly avoided, the angel and the demon had found themselves at somewhat of a loose end on Earth, enjoying their free time together but still constantly striving for some higher purpose.

That’s where you came in. Little did you know that a walk into a lovely little bookshop called A.Z Fell & Co. one day to search for an overpriced illustrated copy of your favourite book would lead to drinking a couple of bottles of wine with the owner and his companion for seven hours straight, and that this would become a weekly tradition. You just clicked with the pair, you found them magnetising and, well, you were a fascinating human to the angel and the demon, so they quickly grew fond of you.

The two supernatural beings then decided that their purpose would be caring. Caring for you.

Not in a suffocating way though, at least that was never the intention. Between the two of them, Crowley and Aziraphale decided from the get go that they would just be there for you as a friend, with little extras added on top like going out and buying your shopping for you whenever there was a thunderstorm, or baking you enough cake to feed the 5000. But, the pair’s talents in observance and intuition slowly made them realise that something was always just slightly off with you.

To them, it seemed like there was always something hidden behind a wall in your head, like a pretence that you constantly held up. Granted, part of their realisation came when in one of your drinking sessions at the bookshop, you let slip that you hadn’t eaten a proper meal for two days and they both nearly hit the roof. They asked you why, and kept asking why (Aziraphale in particular was extremely persistent) but you brushed it off- you always brushed it off.

‘No no, it’s nothing to be worried about, I promise! I’ve just been so busy, y’know? It’s nothing, please Aziraphale, you can sit down. Don’t you worry about me.’

Now, Crowley could sense a lie from a mile off considering he was the lord of them, and Aziraphale could feel that your inner emotions were about as steady as a mongoose riding a pedal bike, and they therefore deduced that they should in fact worry about you.

And so the slightly incompetent suffocation began.

This was definitely mainly from Aziraphale, as his senses for detecting emotional suffering and hurt were a lot stronger than Crowley’s- this was just down to how long he’d been pulling angelic manoeuvres. Crowley was a lot less practised however when he felt that something was off, he really did feel that something was off. This however meant that wherever in London you were, Aziraphale would realise that something was wrong, no matter how small the inconvenience.

Notable occasions included when the tubes on the Central Line were running one minute late and Aziraphale unsuccessfully attempted to miracle another train up, causing even more delay and destruction, when the bottom of your shoe fell off in a puddle and Aziraphale got so upset that he cried for an hour, (to be fair, he’d had a long day; someone had tried to buy a book from the shop which had displeased him greatly) and when a seagull crapped on your shoulder while you were sitting outside a bar at Canary Wharf and the angel managed to manifest a fluke bolt of lightning which struck the seagull down right into your food.

And all this from the comfort of his own home.

Crowley had tried to tell the angel that not every inconvenience could be sorted out, that the pair needed to pick their battles with the perils of the human life.

‘Yes yes, I understand. I’ll stop, I promise. We’ll stick to the original plan. Now have you seen my banana bread recipe? I think they could do with a pep up.’

This lasted for 22 hours.

You hadn’t shown up to the bookshop like you did every week.

‘Oh Angel do stop pacing, they have a life of their own you know,’ Crowley nagged, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand as he stood in the doorway between the main shop and the back room.

‘Something is wrong, Crowley. I have a dreadfully funny feeling,’ Aziraphale insisted, wringing his hands and pacing at twice the average speed of an angel.

‘Right, yes, okay but the problem is, you’ve said that every night for two weeks and it hasn’t been true once.’

‘You can’t sense it like I can.’ The angel stormed towards the coat stand, reaching for his coat.

‘Oh no no no, we agreed, no suffocation. Put that down, you’re not going anywhere,’ the demon asserted.

‘Oh yes we are. Put that wine in the back, you’re driving.’

Crowley had rarely heard Aziraphale’s voice like this before, low and extremely demanding. There wasn’t any way he was getting out of this, the angel was on a mission.

And so, Crowley drove the angel to your apartment block and the two of them ended up in the stairwell facing off with each other. Too highly strung for their own good.

‘What if this is the one time that I’m right? You’re here getting all… demonic on the stairs and-‘

‘I will get demonic, Aziraphale. I am in fact a demon, plus if this is the one time that you’re right then you’re holding both us back by squabbling. Move out of the way.’

Crowley marched up the stairs stony faced, swooping straight past Aziraphale to your front door.

He did care. He really did. He just didn’t like to show it around Aziraphale because he always felt inferior in they way that he cared compared to the angel. He didn’t have those massively intuitive senses, his baking skills weren’t up to scratch, he felt held back by control. But something in the demonic form burned when he thought of the idea that you were hurting- and that burning was made more painful by Aziraphale’s suggestion that he didn’t care.

He snapped his fingers at your door, and it violently swung open, hitting against the wall of the hallway as it did. He stormed inside, barely letting Aziraphale follow behind before he snapped his fingers again to close it. Darkness and silence fell over the hallway as the angel and the demon stood completely still, their anxious breathing slowly filling the space.

They could both easily sense one important thing- you were present in the apartment, you were safe within the four walls. There was a collective sigh of relief.

‘Told you,’ Crowley sneered under his breath, trying to hide his still present anxiety. As much as he could feel your presence, he was struggling with any of the finer details, your emotional state or your exact whereabouts.

‘Don’t be like that. I was only trying to help,’ Aziraphale whimpered, taking a small step forwards. Unlike Crowley, he could just about tell that you were somewhere in the general direction of your bedroom. The angel clicked his fingers and uttered a small ‘let there be light’, allowing the hallway to be illuminated by a faint white glow. There was no other light coming from anywhere due to a distinct lack of windows in the architecture of this building, the only three were in your living room, your bedroom and your kitchen and even then, you’d shut all of the curtains and all of the doors in the place.

The angel padded further down the hallway, leaving Crowley to look at the prints on your walls like an awkward cousin at a party. By the time Aziraphale had reached your bedroom door, Crowley had moved onto examining the items on the coffee table that was slightly further down the hall. There wasn’t a lot to examine, a couple of books, your keys, an Alexa that you’d turned the microphone off on. The one thing that caught Crowley’s eye was a small painting of a seaside town just laying down on the table. It wasn’t anywhere near being finished and much to Crowley’s dismay, it was crumpled up. He assumed two scenarios from this, either someone had given you an unfinished painting and you felt so strongly about it that you took to crumpling it up, or this was in fact your handy work that had been partially destroyed.

‘Crowley, what now?’ Aziraphale whispered from the end of the corridor, bringing Crowley’s gaze up from the table and back to reality.

‘Uhhh, don’t scare them. Don’t just burst in,’ the demon responded, moving down to meet Aziraphale by the bedroom.

‘I wasn’t planning on doing that! I just mean, do I knock? Just go in? Announce our arrival?’

Crowley rested his hand lightly on your bedroom door, looking quizzically at Aziraphale who was jumping through every possible scenario in his head. The demon sighed.

‘Just, shush. Okay, let’s just be quiet. Follow me, angel.’

Crowley very slowly pushed your bedroom door open, being greeted with yet more darkness from inside as he did so. Aziraphale hung over his shoulder to try and look inside, with Crowley grunting slightly at this. Through the darkness, Crowley made out a shape in the bed.

You, curled into a ball and fast asleep. Your breathing was heavy, but not laboured, and the bedsheets rose and fell accordingly. You were as close to comatose as could possibly be, dead to the world but luckily, very much alive.

‘Aaah. Oh, look,’ whispered Aziraphale. Crowley glared slightly at the angel, but inside, his sentiments were very similar. The pair stared at your form resting in the darkness for a few seconds, relieved with every breath that you took. With anyone else? It would have been creepy.

But not with these two. It was a deep devotion and concern.

Aziraphale went to take a step forwards but Crowley stopped him in his tracks, stopping the angel from getting anywhere near you.

‘Don’t even think about waking them, look. They’re deep in dreamland,’ the demon hissed, meeting Aziraphale’s puppy eyes.

‘Oh please, I just wanted to check that they’re okay.’

‘Aziraphale, they’re very clearly shattered. I think that we’ve discovered that they’re definitely not okay, but interrupting their sleep won’t help anyone. Let’s just, y’know, help where we can.’

‘But their soul-‘

‘I know. We’ll help with that tomorrow. For today, they sleep.’

Aziraphale eventually backed off slightly, looking down while nodding in defeat. While his deep concern could only ever have come from a place of love, he realised that stepping back for a second could be beneficial to everyone. He started to head towards the kitchen to see if there was anything that he could help with in there, turning back round for a second to ask Crowley what he should do. Crowley however was no longer stood in your doorway, and was instead sat on the edge of your bed, resting his hand on your leg.

The angel went to protest in some jealousy for a moment, but the warm glow that filled up his heart because of the sight stopped him. He just smiled, and turned back.

—

Between the pair of them, you were treated to a clean kitchen, a full fridge, a massive fuzzy blanket for the bed and soft, warm light for each room.

But there was one final detail bugging Crowley.

As the pair crept down your hallway back to the front door, Crowley let out a soft whistle to his friend as he stopped beside the coffee table. The angel turned his head, looking at the objects scattered about the surface.

‘What’s this?’ He asked, strangely intrigued by the small speaker- like object.

‘It’s an Alexa, it’s like a - y’know what, doesn’t matter. That’s not what I need you for. Look at this.’ Crowley picked up the ruined painting that he’d spotted earlier, showing it to Aziraphale. The angel scanned over it.

‘Ooh, its Whitby, the place with Dracula!’ He half gasped half squealed, failing to see what his friend was seeing.

‘It’s fucked is what it is, angel. I think they’ve crumpled it up in frustration or something, which I’m not exactly thrilled with. I’m out of niceness for today, can you do something?’ Crowley sighed, thrusting the painting towards his friend slightly.

‘Oh, easily. Your wish is my command, dear.’

Aziraphale swiped his hand across the paper and watched as the creases disappeared and the smudges eased. The colours got just a little brighter, and the beauty of your half- finished painting was restored.

‘We’ll help them finish it tomorrow, yes Crowley?’ The angel continued. Crowley gave a small smile with all the good energy that he had left in his body.

‘Yes angel. That would be nice.’

#good omens #good omens one shot #good omens fanfic #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader

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charlottebent-blog · 7 years

Text

Reasonable Rationale

Everything is a see-saw, full of ups and downs. Overall on average I am happier, with a more positive outlook. The ups are higher; intense moments of ambition, motivation, freedom and happiness. But this is counteracted by the downs. The downs that are lower than ever (lower than George Ezra’s soulful voice). Having received zero psychological support (minus my Mum’s attempts to fearlessly grasp me and tell me to ‘open up’) in the past two weeks, I rely solely on my own ability to resist/ignore Shanna and prevent any reversal of my recovery so far.

The coping strategies I have used so far- i.e. ferociously walking the dog, pulling my hair out and screaming/sobbing/wailing along to the Arctic Monkeys - haven’t been remotely effective. Therefore, after yesterday’s low spent viciously weeping, whilst my Dad on the other side of the door makes an effort to emerge me back to a sane(ish) state and make me laugh by giving the dog a Mohican hairdo, it’s time to brave a new strategy. It’s time to challenge Shanna and the hurtful thoughts she feeds me. In my manic state of self-hatred, severe anxiety and general worthlessness, I noted down the pessimistic thoughts that result in the world’s ugliest tantrum. By acknowledging the harsh cognitions that descend me delicately into a deeper madness, I aim to use sensible rationale to fight off any negative cognitions and reassure myself. The highs are worth the pain. There’s not even a Scrabble word to describe how I feel during my manic, food-induced, extreme melt-down, however these are the predominant and recurring thoughts that haunt me when this happens.

I am a burden to my parents, and cause them stress/worry/accumulated grey hairs. They’re constantly on my case about food and timings, but only because they care. They would rather I was a burden than continue on the downward spiral of anorexia, or be hospitalised. Plus, being naturally overprotective, nosey and irrational (my Mum would refuse to take us to the park as young children, in fear that by going down a slide we would carelessly lose our balance and plummet to our death in the local playground) they will never stop interfering, anorexia or not. As for the grey hairs, my Dad’s hair 'matured’ LONG before Shanna even made an appearance.

I have no purpose and nothing to live for. My purpose is to win this battle. My purpose is to get better and return to normality. It may not seem like a great purpose or means of existence, however once I’ve tackled this defect and passed this point of my life, I can focus on something significant, something meaningful. Until then I have to be patient. I can’t expect to progress leaps and bounds when I eat well for a few meals. I just need to hurdle each day as it comes, whether it appears purposeful or not.

I hate myself. I would trade lives with anyone within a second. I do not like myself, and there’s a long list of people that I would rather be right now. However, there’s also a lot of people I dislike more than myself. Murderers, rapists, adolescent males who are naturally driven to walk around with their hands down their pants as if their manhood is in jeopardy. I may hate myself, but not everybody hates me. Therefore I should be thankful that I am me and not someone detested by the majority of the nation, such as Peter Andre (although he has a cracking tan, if you think he’s even remotely tolerable then you’re more mentally deluded than I am).

I am fat and ugly. Quite possibly the hardest one to challenge. On a daily basis, my Mum reminds me that I’m too skinny, but the more she says it the more I feel like the blind girl off of the video for Lionel Richie’s 'Is It Me You’re Looking For?’. I don’t see the skin and bone she refers to. So yes, I may be fat and ugly, but (as we’ve already established) at least I’m not Peter Andre - that’s got to count for something surely.

I have achieved nothing. Not entirely true. Despite having dropped out of my teaching degree, I have achieved things, just not what most 22 year-olds would be proud to have accomplished. For example, I’ve read every single book ever published by Jacqueline Wilson, perfected how to make the ultimate brew and successfully trained my dog to poo only when my Dad walks her - all of which I believe I would still be more proud of than if I’d actually finished my teaching degree.

I am selfish for being anorexic and self-pitiful. But the more I dwell on this, the more selfish I am being and therefore more likely to sit in bed, sucking my thumb, watching Bambi and drinking tea (the definition of self-pity). Also once I’ve recovered I can dedicate the remainder of my life to being selfless by; helping old people cross the road, making puppets out of old socks and donating them to a children’s hospital, and being an overall good Samaritan (i.e. informing people when they have loo roll stuck to their shoe or dress tucked into their knickers).

I am greedy. I never want to eat again, I don’t deserve food. So realistically never eating again isn’t a viable option. Plus, not eating got me this way, therefore eating less is only going to worsen the situation. Continuing a no eating pattern will only indefinitely result in me becoming a crazy fleece-wearing cat lady. Furthermore, I don’t have to deserve food, it’s not something that needs to be earned. Even criminals in prison for life are granted 3 meals a day. I have not committed or been involved in any illegal activity (disregarding the odd pirate music download), thus I am entitled to a minimum of 3 meals daily.

I am weak, a strong person would be able to beat this. Just because I feel weak now, it doesn’t mean to say that I will be forever. It is testing me. I am weak; mentally, emotionally, physically, there’s no denying that. However, if I’m able to come out of this with regained sanity and a bit more podge then I will be stronger. Someone with consistently lacked strength wouldn’t attempt recovery or fight Shanna. Everybody has moments of fragility, this is mine.

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