HIBERNATION - ONESHOT GOOD OMENS
It was the sort of rundown bar where the lights flickered, the floor stuck to your shoes, and the air smelled permanently of stale smoke and cheap alcohol.
Drowning in a depression so dense it could have been filed as a weather phenomenon. His whisky had more rainwater than alcohol because, in his misery, he had apparently brought the storm with him. He had been drinking for hours, scaring off anyone who tried to approach. He didn’t even have the energy left to be sarcastic; he just stared at his glass as if the melting ice might eventually provide an answer to the question he didn’t want to ask.
—That’s enough —the bartender growled.
Crowley looked up, his dark glasses reflecting the dim light.
—You leave, or we throw you out —said a man beside him. Security, or something like that.
Crowley didn’t have the energy for a fight. So, with a snap of his fingers, everything froze: the beer mid-fall, the music stretched into a single distorted chord, the faces caught somewhere between annoyance and anger.
He stood with a sigh, stepped over a man about to fall off his chair, and walked out into the rain.
Crowley drove with no destination, faster than was strictly sensible—though at this point he had long since surpassed his own standards. Somehow, out of all the roads he could have taken, he found himself unconsciously returning to the old bookshop.
The storm roared as he pulled up sharply. He got out of the car and crossed the street in long strides, pushing the door open just as lightning lit the entrance.
—Oh! Mr. Crowley! It’s good to see you again…
Crowley didn’t answer. He collapsed onto the sofa, curled in on himself as though the weight of the universe had decided to take a seat on his shoulders.
Muriel barely finished the sentence before Crowley jerked inward, his clothes darkening and liquefying like ink as they merged with his skin. Shadows crawled over him, stretching and blurring his shape. In the soft light of the shop, a brief flash of scales flickered before the transformation completed.
And then there was only a large red-and-black serpent, coiled tightly on the sofa.
The snake tucked its head between its coils and decided not to exist.
Muriel swallowed and returned to the difficult task of not selling books. Best not to disturb the great serpent.
A warm golden glow filtered through the curtains of a small house in South Downs…
The afternoon breeze moved gently through the trees, carrying the scent of lavender and damp earth.
—Alright then, which one of you is faking illness just for attention? —he murmured, adjusting his glasses.
Behind him, in the doorway, Philip watched with his arms crossed and infinite patience.
—Darling, come inside —he said, with equal parts affection and resignation— It’s six o’clock.
Anthony grumbled something incoherent and glanced sideways at him.
—You do realise these things depend on me, right? If I leave them alone too long, they get depressed.
—I don’t know if you mean the plants or yourself.
Philip took his hand gently and pulled him inside before he could invent another excuse to stay out.
The table was already set. A steaming teapot, porcelain cups, and in the center, a small homemade cake that smelled of butter and vanilla.
Anthony sank into his chair with a resigned sigh, removing his glasses and running a hand over his face. Philip handed him a cup, and he accepted it with a carefully rehearsed smile meant to suggest mild annoyance.
—You know —Philip said, deliberately ignoring his husband’s small performance as he cut a slice of cake— I think you could help me with dinner tonight.
Anthony raised an eyebrow and took a sip of coffee.
—You know cooking is your thing.
Philip rolled his eyes with the patience of someone who had had this conversation far too many times.
—I’m not surprised. What will we do when I can’t cook anymore, hm?
Anthony didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took Philip’s hand across the table and ran his thumb over his knuckles, as if the question deserved something more than words.
—Then we’ll starve together.
Philip huffed, but didn’t let go.
Night fell over their home with the same softness as the curtains moving in the window breeze.
Philip sat on the bed with a book in his hands, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he read aloud in a low voice. The lamp cast a warm, gentle glow across the room.
Anthony, meanwhile, was curled against him, head resting on his chest, eyes closed. Philip slowly ran his fingers through his hair, as if he had all the time in the world to memorise each curl.
Until Anthony sighed deeply.
—What are you thinking about, darling? —Philip asked softly, still reading.
—Oh… just how lovely it would have been if you had chosen to stay, angel…
Philip frowned slightly and looked down at him…
Uriel’s voice still echoed in his mind.
The celestial desk in front of him was covered in papers he didn’t remember reading. Uriel was watching him with disapproval.
Aziraphale straightened and adjusted his sleeves.
—You really should abandon these human habits.
She left a report on Earth in front of him. Aziraphale took it without a word.
As the archangel walked away, her presence fading through the endless white corridors, Aziraphale lowered his gaze.
And a thought slipped through, sharp and unwelcome:
“If you had chosen to stay…”
Hi! English isn’t my first language. This fic was originally written in Spanish (“Hibernación”, Feb 2025), and I used a translator to bring it into English so more people can read it.
Thanks for being here ^_^ <3
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