"They're going to bury you three feet deep, because you've only ever been half a man" sounds like a raw ass line from Shakespeare or something buts actually from me yelling at my cat for stealing my sandwich while I was getting a drink.
being a guy in love with a guy is not always cute or romantic or soft or tender. sometimes it's pushing your boyfriend's face away yelling because you have viral bronchitis and he keeps trying to kiss you knowing this because he's a himbo with no sense of self preservation
A gentle embrace, an arm around my shoulder as a feathered awning shielded me from rainfall. His own comfort abandoned, he raised his wing to protect me from the yet-unknown elements.
I turned to face him, his head tilted back as cool water soaked into his hair and robes.
He splashed at me, and we laughed.
That was the first time I saw him smile.
A smile I'm never to see again.
It didn't matter how many times he did it, or how far apart they were, but the gentle touches of his hand to mine always seared into the skin of my palm. I'm unsure whether that was simply his angelic grace, lingering in unholy flesh, or perhaps another feeling altogether.
His lingering touches never faded in my memory, even when clouded by poison or pain. The laudanum dulled my senses that night, but I can still clearly recall the gentle yet firm grasp on my waist, urging me to stay upright.
Angelic protocol was to smite their foes, envelop them in holy fire, to better ensure victory against their adversaries.
Smitten indeed.
Such a strange word.
Meant originally to define destruction, pain, and defeat.
And yet, now? Another definition makes it seem so much more...amorous. struck down, not by a weapon, but by emotions. Those ridiculous feelings that cause nothing but trouble.
Perhaps those definitions were more alike than I realized.
The searing touch I'd once been lucky to feel grew to a stinging, roaring fire that day, in his stuffy old bookshop.
Even now it burns to think about.
My lips, molded against his own in a moment that should have been our greatest. We were going to be together; we were going to be, well...us.
He was going to say something, then. I saw it. His too-soft lips had formed the start of a word,
And then he forgave me.
Forgiveness...indicative of a prior trespass. It was something he didn't want, and it had only then occurred to me that perhaps he and I were not nearly as alike as I had wanted to believe.
Falling hurt. That's the first concrete memory I have, the oldest and most vivid one I was able to hold on to. Agony, fear, frustration, and all manner of emotions that I'd never even known existed before that moment...none of which were pleasant.
And now I understand why love is called falling for someone.
It hurts when they don't catch you.
I wanted to forget it all. Surely an empty mind would be better than painful memories.
Six thousand years of useless devotion.
I wanted it gone.
But- no. My traitorous mind, perhaps fueled by a broken, empty heart, decided to use its imagination once more.
Gentle touches, on my face, my hands, my hips, anywhere that he was willing to reach. Phantom tingles flash on my skin any time I dare to consider it.
Gifts exchanged, lingering touches as an ancient book or ceramic pot sat between our grasp. My fingertips burned.
Lazy kisses, exchanged in passing or on the verge of sleep, always the final assurance of companionship before we part ways into unconsciousness.
An arm draped over my shoulders, or soft snowy hair in my lap, as he endures a film I recommended. Or my head on his chest, squinting my eyes as he reads his favorite book in our bed.
I felt like I was aflame.
No no no no no no no
I dont want to think about that.
It hurts to think about that.
He left, and he isn't coming back.
The life I wanted wasn't his.
I wasn't his, and he was never mine.
I can't keep holding on like this.
My heart (if a demon is even capable of possessing one) can't handle it.
I need to forget.
Take it all away.
Remove it from my head, so my heart stops burning.
Forget.
Forget.
Forget.
---
....
I own a garden shop now. My plants are the most elegant and lush in all of London, and I make sure it stays that way. I tolerate my patrons but otherwise I'm more than content being alone.
But a customer keeps coming in. He looks as if he knows me but, outside our short conversations I've never seen him before. He does his best to hide a glance of painful recognition, but I notice every time, and I don't know why.
Every time he waves at me, and buys something small. A flower, or a vine. He seems to favor yellow blooms. His striking white hair is the only thing that I recognize of him, a beacon of warmth whenever he walks in. Its...nice. almost familiar, with our daily habit.
One day he walked in, a small pot already in hand. I smiled at him, then gestured to it. "Are you needing to make a return or something?"
He chuckled drily. "No, no, my dear. Erm, its...perhaps rather silly, considering your profession, but...its a gift. For you." He set it on the counter. The pot held a growth of long, thin stems, clusters of tiny, pale blue flowers around the top. A golden ribbon was tied around the terra-cotta base.
"They're, ah...myosotis flowers....sometimes called 'scorpion grass'...but their most common name is...'forget-me-not'." He suddenly paused, reaching out to take my hand. Tears glistened in his too-blue eyes. "...Crowley...please. Forget me not."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 8/?
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Additional Tags: Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Post-Season/Series 02, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, First Kiss, Guilt, 6000 Years of Repression (Good Omens), Arguing, Crying, Rejection, Getting Back Together, First Time, Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary:
“And we’ve spent our existence pretending that we aren’t,” Crowley’s voice cracked.
There was a forceful, anxious kick in Aziraphale’s chest. Oh, God, he was actually going to talk about it. Neither of them dared to for 6,000 years.
Crowley tossed his head to the side. “I mean…The last few years, not really. And I know why we’ve had to pretend, of course. That’s obvious.” His eyes lowered to the floor. “Can’t ever forget about that, can I?” he said under his breath.
~~
After being punished in Heaven for being in love as angels, Aziraphale and Crowley spend the next 6,000 years pretending their relationship never happened.
~~
This chapter concludes the events of s1, and explores them adjusting to the new normal of being unemployed, and living together during a global pandemic after the failed apocalypse 👀
I love our angels, and Lollipop does such a fantastic job writing them. Their prose and vocabulary is downright poetic, and they're able to embody Aziraphale's inner monologue in an incredible way.
On that note, I don't see very many Aziraphale-centric fics often, and this one is amazing :)
Pleeeease go read it, it is without exaggeration my absolute favorite fanfiction I've ever had the pleasure of reading :D
That was true, wasn't it? No matter how badly Aziraphale wished it wasn't. Those beautiful brown eyes that shimmered with wonder in Creation's light, forever replaced by serpentine yellow and slitted pupils. Cast out of God's light and condemned to monstrosity.
He felt partially responsible for it, sometimes. Back then, it seemed as if Aziraphale was the first person who held a conversation with them. Perhaps he could have tried harder to silence the questions that the little Starmaker had asked. 'How much trouble', indeed. If he had managed to talk them out of asking, maybe they wouldn't have Fallen.
He remembered that angel well. They were so sweet, so innocent. They stared in awe at the wonder before them, as if they themselves weren't responsible for making it. They giggled as countless nebulae took shape, forging by their hand permanent pieces of the infinite universe. Their very being radiated with love and, although they had yet to know the name for the feeling, pride. Not the sort of pride that inflates oneself and breeds arrogance, no. They were proud of the stars. Proud of their creation.
They were happy.
Aziraphale had only ever seen them smile like that once, and it was when they were marveling at their own creation. That smile went away the moment he told them that it was all temporary. Six thousand years...for an immortal, that's nothing, isn't it. Yet...six thousand years without seeing them smile that way again...it felt...empty, somehow.
Then Aziraphale was made an offer.
"He said...I could appoint you to be an angel!"
It didn't even seem possible. The very idea of restoring a demon didn't, until now, even bear thinking.
It's not as if Aziraphale didn't like Crowley as he was, quite the opposite in fact. Whether or not he cared to admit it, he loved the demon more than anything else in the world (and perhaps, one may argue, even more so than Her, but that's a dillema to unpack another day). He adored everything about him, his curious nature, his imaginative mind, his boldness, his bravery, his kindness that he refuses to acknowledge, even those striking golden eyes that Aziraphale once felt uneasy around. In a general sense, Crowley was just...so perfectly Crowley, that the angel couldn't do anything but utterly Fall (figuratively!) for him.
When the Metatron first made the offer to make him Supreme Archangel, he smiled, politely shook his head, and said: "I dont...want to go back to Heaven." I dont want to leave Crowley behind, he's more important to me than choosing sides. But then the Metatron told him that Crowley could come with him, and-
And be an angel.
That changed everything! He could work with Heaven, to change things for the better, and he would have his dearest Crowley with him. Not only that, Crowley would be an angel again. They could work side-by-side, without fear of retribution from their superiors. He could be like he was before, he could...he could be the Starmaker again.
He could forge galaxies and nebulae at his fingertips, breathe life into empty space, and marvel in the wonder of existence. Just like before.
He could be happy.
Maybe Aziraphale could once again watch his eyes light up and hear him squeal with excitement in the endearing way he once did. Maybe they could work together, officially, and create something marvelous hand-in-hand.
But when he told Crowley the news, he...didn't look nearly as thrilled as Aziraphale had hoped. He seemed...upset, even. Had he done something wrong?
...and Crowley asked him to run away. Together, of course, but fleeing nonetheless.
But...why? They had just been given an option to remain together, without the need for secrecy or fear of punishment! They could do this, together! They could fix things! They could help people!
"Come with me! Angels, in Heaven! Doing Good!" He pleaded, hoping to somehow convey the absolute depth of his desperation and longing. "I-I need you!"
Then...
"You can't leave this bookshop."
The bookshop...? Well, sure, change was always a big and frightening thing for Aziraphale, but...this change was going to be a Good thing. A rather important thing. Besides, thanks to this proposal, no matter where he went he'd always have Crowley with him. As much as he loved his books, they were, after all, just books. He'd found something much more important.
"Oh Crowley...nothing lasts forever." This bookshop doesn't have to last forever. Nothing does, and I'm sure nothing will. But no matter what, I'll have you, and that's all I need. We can last forever.
And then....then he left. After all that. He left, and Aziraphale was suddenly alone. The space across the street, between the elevator and the car, only a few meters apart, felt almost as if the entire universe was between them instead.
What had he done wrong? Was it something he said? Something he did? He offered for Crowley to return to God's light, to join him where he wouldn't have to be afraid anymore.
He offered for him to be happy again. That's all Aziraphale wanted. He wanted to bring him back to a place where his smile shone brighter than the stars he made, where his eyes glittered like swirling galaxies. But...it seemed that wasn't what he wanted anymore, clearly.
"I know the angel you were."
"The angel you knew is not me."
They aren't, are they...he realized that now. That angel is long gone. And no Miracle could ever bring them back.
(I'm moving to ao3, so the link to the full chapter will be linked below)
~~~
In the nearly five and a half thousand years Aziraphale had spent on this earth, in all the days he'd experienced, the last few have probably been the worst.
He had never seen so much suffering before.
Humans were a resilient type, they could handle a large number of afflictions and injuries, and recover within a relatively short period. Rather incredible creatures, humans.
But this disease was...something else entirely.
He tried to ask Upstairs about it, but Michael brushed it off, saying it was a third-party influence (the Horsemen, they believed), and 'not our business to deal with'. Despite it being none of their business, Aziraphale was told it was still part of the Divine Plan, and that it wasn't his place to intervene.
Well...perhaps he couldn't do anything to stop the entire plague, but surely it was Good to heal individuals who were afflicted?
Aziraphale thought he was very clever, indeed.
After he had finished his latest assignment, he found a small village on a map, within the same region.
It was...well, hardly anything. The most notable aspect was that the little town was vaguely known for its wine, produced by the vineyard it was named for. The grape field itself seemed larger than the area where the homes and buildings were.
It was perfect. Tiny. Insignificant, in Heaven's eyes. Such a small population, such a small place. Surely Upstairs wouldn't notice if a few extra Miracles took place here.
But this way, at least Aziraphale could make a difference. He could help, if only a few people. If only for a little while.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I'm going to be moving mostly to Ao3 for fanfic posting!
(Find my stuff here)
I'll mostly use this account for promoting said ao3, and maybe still posting one-shots and shorter pieces, but it's just a heads-up :>
As of right now, the biggest thing this is going to impact is An Ancient Nursery Rhyme, the chapter one of which can be found here. Chapter two will be posted (soon!) exclusively on ao3, though I will post a teaser/promo here because of course I will.
Anyway thanks for your patience and I hope yall enjoy! Have a good night folks :)
The silent seconds that followed were the most terrifying moments in Crowley's existence.
"Shit. Okay..." he took a deep breath. "Im gonna open my eyes now. If...if you're still there...dont look at me."
He lowered his hand from his face, keeping his gaze low. He searched the space in front of him, stopping when he saw stone feet. His face paled, at least more so than usual.
"....Fuck."
He stood on trembling legs, approaching the sculpture with bated breath.
"Oh, angel..."
With one hand he reached up to touch the cold surface of Aziraphale's face, and with the other he laced his fingers between those of the statue's open hand. His vision blurred with tears, and he leaned his forehead against Aziraphale's.
"I....oh gods, I didn't mean to...I...I'm so sorry, Aziraphale...can you hear me? Gods, please..."
A sob caught in his chest. "Look at you, you're gorgeous...absolutely incredible, angel...I-I always wanted to see you, but...fuck, not- ...Not like this...never like this..."
He stepped away from Aziraphale, his mind reeling. His fingers clawed into his hair, pulling on it as he fell to his knees. "Damn these serpents! Damn these eyes! Damn this fucking curse!" His life, his peace, his sanity...were those not enough? It had to take his only friend as well? What more could it want? What more could it do to him? What more could it take, that it hasn't already stolen?
Crowley looked up, tears falling down his cheeks. "Please, gods, if any of you are listening...please...he's all I have...all I've ever had...please, don't take him too. Please..." his entire body trembled as he pleaded to the heavens.
"Can any of you hear me?" He whispered, desperate and broken.
...nothing.
He gritted his teeth. "...Athena. You did this to me. I suppose if any of the gods could do anything about the curse, it'd be the one who made it." He sighed. "I mean it, anything you want. Whatever I can offer, it's yours. Please...I just...I can't lose him."
Crowley could have sworn that the silence was mocking him.
He scowled and got to his feet. "Fine! Who needs you, anyway?! None of you cared to interfere when I 'earned' this curse, why would any of you show up now?! Tell me, was I forgotten, or simply ignored?!" He waited a moment, then scoffed. "Figures you still wouldn't answer."
He let out a long sigh, turning back to the marble visage of his dearest angel. Crowley reached out, but stopped just shy of touching it. "...Aziraphale...would you ever forgive me?"
His lip quivered, and he threw his arms around the statue, sobbing into its chest. The snakes in his hair coiled around wherever they could reach as well, trying their hardest to embrace him.
"Oh, angel...I just...I wish I had told you before...I wish you knew how much I loved you." Crowley's voice was soft, reverent. Nearly a prayer, only intended for Aziraphale.
No one really knows what happened that day. Perhaps the gods felt sorry for the lonely gorgon. Maybe an Olympian was bored. Maybe, just maybe, the forgotten serpent was finally heard.
Regardless of the reason,
After sobbing alone in his empty garden for what felt like hours, Crowley felt soft fingers gently combing through his hair. His shoulders tensed, his eyes shut tight on instinct, and a tender hand lifted his chin. "Oh, my dear Crowley...I love you too."
He remained frozen even as warm lips brushed against his forehead. "Can you open your eyes for me, dearest?"
Crowley could only shake his head. "...if...if this is really happening...I...no, I won't. I can't lose you again...I'd sooner go blind than watch you turn to stone a second time. I...I can't."
He felt hands on either side of his face. "Trust me, Crowley...open your eyes."
Bit of a different take, this time, what if it wasn't just that he didn't talk, but he couldn't?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a shitty day.
All the days had been shitty.
Aziraphale had lost count how many there had been so far, and rain doesn't exist in Heaven. But clouds massing over Soho suggested that the newest thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one.
Earlier...
"No, no, please, you can't do this!" Aziraphale thrashed about, trying to loose the grip of the Powers who held onto each of his arms. One on either side, holding tight to ensure he couldn't move.
Uriel sneered at him, their eyes flaring with anger. "I already told you once, Aziraphale. You ask too many questions. Supreme Archangel or not, there still remain standards that must be met. Lines that cannot be crossed."
Aziraphale frowned. "It still seems quite reasonable to me to demand why! The very idea of creating Humanity, just to destroy it, it's...well, it's senseless! Sure, they've made mistakes, but they don't deserve utter annihilation for it! And they definitely don't deserve it if the only reason is 'the Almighty has grown bored of Her little social experiment'! That logic is, quite frankly, nothing short of childish and ridic- !"
One of the other angels cut him off with a knee to the stomach. He winced, letting out a huff of air as he sank to his knees.
"Thats enough!" Michael frowned. "I'm not sure what the Metatron saw in you before, but I'm glad He finally came to His senses." She leaned down, inches from his face. "I've half a mind to strike you down where you stand, traitor."
"S-surely," Aziraphale whispered, his voice hoarse. "Surely, this can't be what She wants. This can't be Her will."
“You don't have the right to suggest what She wants.” Michael scowled. “such blasphemy begs execution.”
“I think you and I both know what happened the last time you tried.” Aziraphale managed a smirk.
“We're well aware, thank you.” She huffed. “we had to get creative this time around, I hate to say.” She waved a hand. “Uriel!”
She stepped aside as the other archangel approached, some sort of weapon in hand. They raised their arm to strike, and Aziraphale flinched, his eyes shut tight.
…
He paused. Wasn't something supposed to happen? He opened his eyes, only to find Uriel already putting their weapon away.
What happ- he paused. His mouth had opened, his lips formed the words, but…he didn't say anything. No sound came out.
He tried again, getting the same result. Michael chuckled. “A fitting consequence for the angel who talked too much, no?” she waved to the angels on either side of him. “You know what to do.”
Aziraphale struggled in their grasp as they dragged him away, far past the point of no return.
~~~
It burns...
It's so cold, but it burns...
Aziraphale wasn't sure how long he'd been falling.
He felt infernal wind flying around him, whipping in his hair and tearing through his feathers. It was completely dark, he couldn't see anything. The only reason he knew which way was down was because thats the direction he was going.
Hellfire lashed at him as he Fell, flicking at his clothes, his skin, his wings. Every burst of flame stung with a flash of icy, searing pain that burned deep into his soul.
He wanted to cry out, to scream, to call for something, anything, but when his mouth opened he was still trapped in the same empty, maddening silence as if he had done nothing at all.
He wondered if this was how Crowley felt when he Fell; freezing, burning, hurting...alone. Thinking through everything that led him here. Wondering if he did the right thing. Wondering if there was anything else he should have done, anything else he could have done, to possibly have changed what he now faced.
Crowley...
What would he say, when he saw Aziraphale like this? What would he do? Would he even do anything? Would he glare down at him? Say 'I told you so'? Grin and laugh? Or maybe he'd just walk away, not even dignifying a response. Aziraphale wouldn't even blame him for that, considering how he left things. Whatever Crowley decided to do, it was definitely going to be deserved.
He put a hand to his throat, realizing that, whatever happened, he wouldn't be able to say anything. Wouldn't be able to explain himself, or say anything that he wanted to, or... he paused, then hugged himself. For the rest of eternity, no matter how much he may want to, no matter how hard he'd try, he would never be able to tell Crowley those three bloody words that he'd always wanted to say. Those three blasted words that had been on the tip of his tongue for millenia. Those three damned words that he should have said before.
But...even if he said them now...there was no guarantee (or, at this point, no chance) that Crowley would accept it, surely. Not after everything he did...after everything that happened.
He hugged himself, pulling his knees to his chest, and choked on a silent sob. Everything hurt, he felt confused and scared and ruined. All he felt he could do was fall, and wait for the crash.
~~~
Aziraphale's eyes opened. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what he was. He felt nothing at all. But at the same time he felt everything…and it all hurt. His lungs burned and his eyes stung. A cloud of ash lingered around him, smothering the nearby air and nearly making him choke.
He wanted to curl up, to cry, to never move again. He felt like he couldn't move, yet still that he had to. His face hardly moved, his expression limp and exhausted and miserable. In all fairness, that's exactly how he felt. Nothing.
He gathered what strength he had and pulled himself to sit up, looking around. His skin stung with burns and his eyes couldn't quite focus. His fingers curled in coarse, sharp, black sand beneath him, and waves lapped at his feet. A burnt smell came from the bubbling ‘water’. Sulfur…? It looked like some sort of…infernal beach.
He got to his feet, brushing the sand off his coat and beginning to walk. Hell's offices must not be far from here.
Sure enough, after walking for a while he made it to a dim-lit building, greenish light spilling out of the few windows. Heaven's basement, indeed.
When Aziraphale opened the doors, all went suddenly still and silent. All eyes fell on him. The cramped crowds parted as he walked past, perhaps out of recognition, perhaps out of fear. He stopped one demon on his way, asking for directions by simply pointing a finger up.
~~~
The clouds overhead were dense and dark, nearly blotting out the natural sunlight of the late afternoon. Thunder rolled in the distance, deep and low, a promise of the storm that was to come.
A distinct ding echoed in the empty Soho street corner, and a cloud of ash spilled out onto the sidewalk.
As if to gather what dignity he had left, Aziraphale straightened his coat, straightening the wrinkles in the fabric, and approached A.Z. Fell and Co. The first raindrops of the oncoming tempest splashed against the pavement.
He hesitated as he reached for the door. The bookshop was an embassy after all. Demons aren't allowed to pass without permission...would he even be able to go inside his own- well...not his anymore - home? His fingers clasped around the doorknob and gently turned it, breathing out a sigh of relief when nothing stopped him.
The familiar chime of the doorbell was almost comforting as he stepped inside, but relief was quick to be replaced by regret.
It was dark. The lights were all out, the shades all drawn. The shop looked untouched, and while ordinarily that would be a good thing, not like this. Everything was covered in a visible layer of dust. He swiped his finger on the till counter, carving a revealed line of clean wood beneath the soft gray film. Not just untouched, but abandoned.
You poor thing...wasn't Muriel supposed to look after you?
Among the stagnant, silent scenery, a mop of long red hair was draped across a table. The body slumped beneath it stirred at the sound of the doorbell. Golden eyes blinked slowly, adjusting to the shift in lighting.
Aziraphale stood still, saying nothing, doing nothing. What happened to you? How long was I gone? How long have you been alone? His mind raced with questions that he couldn't voice.
Once he noticed the figure in front of him, Crowley was quick to sit upright, eyes wide. "Oh..." Frantic emotions of all natures flashed across his expression as he tried to determine whether the sight before him was really and truly there.
"Oh!"
He got to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well! Look who bothered to show up!" A sharp grin took over his face as he sauntered up to the visitor. "The Supreme Asshat of Heaven, dirtying his clean little shoes to come and laugh at the pitiful, sad demon." His voice came out as a hiss, laced with bitter sarcasm and poorly-disguised sadness. Aziraphale didn't move, didn't respond. He couldn't.
I'm so sorry, dear…is that what you think ive been feeling? What I've been up to? Why would I ever mock you, I could never-
Crowley put his hands up and spoke in a mocking tone. “‘Ooh, poor Crowley, he must be feeling so pathetic, all alone’.” He grinned wider, his arms flat at his sides. “Well. The joke's on you. I'm better than ever on my own. Just me. A team of Myself.” He stepped forward once more, blinking away tears. “I don't need you!”
Aziraphale just looked at him, part of his mind wondering if this new form could cry.
Inches away from his face, Crowley nearly shouted, “So tell me, Angel, why did you come back?! Why are you here, Aziraphale?!”
With a shaky breath and a whoosh of feathers, Aziraphale answered his question. It…seemed the easiest way to communicate, considering the circumstances. Thunder cracked outside, a flash of light through the windows highlighting the jet-black wings from behind. He could do nothing but watch, as the color drained from Crowley's face.
“You….you-” he was still for a moment, quiet and shaky. His anger seemed to shift, still present but no longer directed at Aziraphale. “You idiot!” He launched forward and grabbed Aziraphale by his jacket’s lapels. “Why, Aziraphale?! Why did you leave?! Why did you go back?! Why?” He finally choked on a sob, collapsing against Aziraphale's chest. “Why, Angel…why…why…” He dissolved into broken cries, sinking to his knees as he begged for answers.
Oh, Crowley…
They sat in silence for a long while, Aziraphale unsure of what to do. He certainly couldn't say anything.
When Crowley's sobs slowed to soft whimpers, the angel stepped back. Crowley looked up at him, confusion in his gaze.
Aziraphale took a breath, then recited the simple, memorized steps in his head. Stepped forward with one hand up and the other on his hip, kicked his leg back and lifted his arms, spun around on one foot, and ended in a bow. You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right. He sunk down on the bow, propping himself on one knee and keeping his head low.
Crowley was silent, his jaw slack as he processed what just happened.
“...Angel-”
He reached up, gently holding Aziraphale's cheek with one hand. Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning into the demon's touch.
“...say something…please…” He whispered, leaning closer.
‘I can't,’ Aziraphale mouthed, trying to gesture to his neck. ‘I'm sorry.’
Crowley paused, nodding slightly. He seemed to understand. He pulled him close, pressing their foreheads together. “...Heaven took it from you…didn't they.” It was more of a statement than a question. When Aziraphale nodded, he sighed. “Those angels and their ‘poetic justice’, huh? They…they think they have the right to take everything…I get it. I've been there. Though I'm sure you know that already, heh.” He smiled weakly, and he felt a silent chuckle shake in Aziraphale's chest.
“...im glad you came back,” Crowley whispered. “I…im sorry how I acted…what I said, when you left…a-and…the…the kiss, i…im so sorry…I wish it had happened under better circumstances…or…maybe even just…never at all, I…I just…you…” his rambling trailed off, as Aziraphale cupped his face in both hands, gently lifting his chin.
The little space between them closed, their lips falling together as both demons desperately clung to one another, their only lifeline in an otherwise empty world. This wasn't like the last one. The last one was a plea to stay…this one was a promise.
Tears finally fell down Aziraphale's cheeks, stinging his skin as he pulled Crowley closer still. He pressed kisses to his lips, his cheek, along his jaw, anywhere he could reach. He mouthed what he couldn't say against Crowley's skin, three words over and over, whispered silently wherever he touched. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Crowley pulled away, if only to breathe for a moment. “Aziraphale…” He wiped at the tears on his cheeks with his thumbs.
He hugged him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “my offer still stands, you know…our side…together. Just us…if- if you're interested, I mean. I…I know, it…sounds lonely…but…nothin’ wrong with being lonely together, is there?” He offered a weak smile.
Aziraphale smiled, a real, true smile for the first time since getting on that bloody elevator oh-so-long ago, nodding as he clung tightly to his other half.
Together. Our side. As long as we have each other.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 7/?
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Additional Tags: Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Post-Season/Series 02, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, First Kiss, Guilt, 6000 Years of Repression (Good Omens), Arguing, Crying, Rejection, Getting Back Together, First Time, Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary:
“And we’ve spent our existence pretending that we aren’t,” Crowley’s voice cracked.
There was a forceful, anxious kick in Aziraphale’s chest. Oh, God, he was actually going to talk about it. Neither of them dared to for 6,000 years.
Crowley tossed his head to the side. “I mean…The last few years, not really. And I know why we’ve had to pretend, of course. That’s obvious.” His eyes lowered to the floor. “Can’t ever forget about that, can I?” he said under his breath.
~~
After being punished in Heaven for being in love as angels, Aziraphale and Crowley spend the next 6,000 years pretending their relationship never happened.
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We’re finally at the events of s1! Read on for a different version of the wall slam scene, and an even more painful version of their bandstand breakup 👀
You were born to a brood of hundreds, your siblings all hopelessly mindless and brutal, yet you somehow were born with sentience, now you have to find your own way in a world of monsters and monster hunters.
I flinched and crossed my talons over my head to try and block the blow. The young adventurer, at this point quite confused, hesitated and lowered his blade. "You can talk?"
I frowned. "Yes, I can, and I would have explained that to you if you hadn't chosen to wake me from my nap with a sword. Quite rude, by the way, attacking an unarmed and unconscious adversary."
His stance loosened and he sheathed the blade. "...apologies...this is....a unique situation, it seems."
"Youre telling me. Try being born with the ability to think while the rest of your kind are running solely on instinct." I shook my head. "Not to mention every other thinking creature is either terrified of you or out for your head."
"Oh...um." his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and he rubbed the back of his neck. "...sorry."
I sighed. "Its fine. I don't think anyone's ever apologized for it before, not before either they or I fled at least, so that's a first."
He nodded. "...wait...but...why should i...believe you? You're still one of those feral beasts...maybe if you can talk, you're their leader or something!" He reached for his sword again and I rolled my eyes.
"Boy, I am older than you, stronger than you, and far more experienced. If I wished you dead, believe me, you would be. But lucky for you, I'm not much a fan of humans. Too much trouble." I let out a huff, a thin swirl of smoke puffing out of my snout. "If you're not here to fight me, or talk to me civilly, or do anything else productive, you're best off just...leaving." I sat down, crossing my front talons neatly in front of me. I looked at him expectantly.
He frowned. "Well...i- I can't just leave you here! You're still a monster, and it's still my duty to make sure you can't cause any harm!"
"Harm? Me? What have I done? I've certainly never seen you before, how could I be part of your personal vendetta?"
"Thats not the point! Your kind are an invasive plague on this world!"
I raised an eyebrow. "And humans arent?"
He paused, thinking for a moment, and I could almost see thoughts stirring in his mind as he considered it.
"Besides, we already established I'm not like them. I'm more than capable of complex thought and communication, and function well beyond the limits of instinctive response. I, personally, am no threat to anyone, save the creatures I do eat."
"Even so, how can I be sure you're not still like them? You ravage our fields, slaughter our livestock, and steal women from the villages! It's not right!"
I sighed. "Still an overgeneralization. And hardly true, at least not for me. I usually consume wild vegetation. Your domestic plants are all far too sweet. The juice of the fruits gets everywhere, and becomes far too sticky to clean easily from fur. Any beast with a sense of order and cleanliness would know to stay away from human fruits if they want to stay well-groomed.
"The animals are a very similar story. I hunt and catch exclusively wild beasts. The only exception is when I see one within your livestock is ill, and it simply becomes waste to you anyway. Even then, that's on very rare occasion.
"As for the women...?" I paused. It wasn't often that my kind would run off with anything. Either eat it or leave, usually. And beyond that, I'm not sure they're smart enough to differentiate specific types of human. So then...ah. I chuckled. "That one may have been my doing, actually."
He gasped and drew his sword. "So you are a monster! How could you, taking all of those innocent people?!"
"Goodness, you'll look for anything to find a guilty verdict, won't you?" I frowned. "Every human I 'captured' came with me by their own will. By their own request, in fact."
He frowned. "And why should I believe you?"
"Any human I've taken has come to me of their own volition. Yes, they're mostly women, and yes, I do take them far away, but does that make me a villain? They ask me for a chance to escape. Usually from their spouses or parents." I chuckled. "Really, if they're approaching me, and asking me to take them away from you lot, which of our species should be considered a more dangerous beast?"
He shook his head. "Stop trying to dissuade me with your twisted words! Nothing you can do changes what must be done."
I paused. "You do seem rather set on this, don't you. At first you apologized, now you're very stubbornly talking as though you're trying to convince yourself that I'm a threat worthy of death. Why is that?"
He gripped the sword tighter. "...I have to. I need to keep my people safe...I need to prove that I'm strong." He frowned.
"Prove what? To who?"
"...." he shook his head. "...my father said that if I didn't come home with a monster's head in hand...that I shouldn't come at all. That a weak man is a dead man. Worthless. Useless."
My expression softened. "...I see. That sort of situation is...a lot more common than I ever expected. Your kind can be harsh sometimes...even to their own. Especially to their own. Kindness or sensitivity is seen as weakness, and those who are different are cast aside. Is that correct?" When the boy nodded I sighed. "Its...rather unfortunate for you, then."
"Do you even wish to go back? It sounds like you are mistreated. I don't think anyone should stay in a place where they are unloved." I stood up. "That is why I have been everywhere. I leave when I am chased or threatened. No point in staying in a place where I know I am hated."
The boy nodded, contemplating silently. After a while, he spoke with a quiet voice. "...can you take me with you?"
"Oh?"
"...youre right. I...I don't want to...go back..." his hands fell to his sides, the sword clattering to the ground as he let go. His shoulders were shaking, and his eyes looked...wet. he was....lonely. A creature isolated, and alone.
Just as I am.
I smiled. "Perhaps it would be nice to have someone to speak to as I travel. I have heard many different voices speak the same tale, that adventures are more pleasant when shared with another."
The boy paused. "...perhaps we can go home, so I can gather some of my belongings?"
"Of course."
~~~
"Monster!"
"A beast in the village! Run!"
The humans scattered as I walked past, and I sighed. Why must they all be so afraid?
A broad-shouldered man stood in the street, spear in hand as he glared at me. "I warn you now, beast! Come any closer, and you're as good as dead!"
I frowned. "Certainly not. I'm not here for blood, and I'd like to keep it that way." I shook out my fur, flexed my wings, and at last revealed the boy at my side. The man's face turned white.
"What have you done to my son?! Release him, now!" He raised his weapon, terror and rage in his eyes.
"Release? If anything, he should be the one to do so. Do you not see his hand around my horn? Or his fingers, dug into my mane?" I frowned. "You told the boy to return with a monster's head in hand, and he has done exactly that."
The man scowled. "Th-this has to be a trick! What have you done to him?!"
"Nothing at all, I swear it on my neck. He is free to go where he pleases, which is certainly much more of an offer that you gave him." I frowned.
The boy stepped forward. "I...im leaving. I'm going with her. She said she could show me the world...and I want to go. Monster or not...shes kind to me." He walked over to his father. "She never once hurt me...or anyone, for that matter."
"Its tricking you then, it must be! Those things are not able to be reasoned with!" The man growled. "How can you be so foolish?! Not only did you not do as I asked, you led a monster here, putting our home, our whole village at risk!" He raised his arm, and the boy flinched.
In an instant, the man was on the ground, pinned beneath my talons. My eyes blazed with fury, and a growl rumbled in my throat. "Do not lay a finger on that boy! He is not an object at your disposal, he is your child! How dare you even think to harm him!"
The man sneered. "See? Youre a beast. Nothing more than a savage monster. Speak as you may, nothing can change what you are."
I paused, then stepped off of him, walking back toward the boy. "...I will be leaving momentarily. It's up to you whether you wish to join me."
The boy was silent for a moment, looking at me, then at his father, then went to my side, putting a hand on my wing. "...lets go."
I walked down the streets of the village, the other humans looking on in awe and fear. I left, my first and only friend at my side, to share our loneliness together.
Little piece vaguely inspired by @camilleflyingrotten , a drawing I found on their Insta.
The Bubonic Plague is literally one of my favorite periods in history (to learn about), I'm shocked at myself that I haven't already done something with it. I know aziraphale would do his best to help where he could, in a time and place of such suffering. I'll say they're probably in a tiny village in rural Italy during this time.
(This is a part 1)
1500 words of angst and sad angel snuggles :3
Or read on Ao3
~~~
Crowley hated the fourteenth century.
One of the nice things about Time, Crowley always said, was that it was steadily taking him further away from the fourteenth century.
He enjoyed Torment and Sorrow as much as the next demon, but this...this seemed a bit much.
He walked out of the latest house of victims, pulling the beaked mask from his face. Needed a breath of fresh air after that, the stench of Death was becoming far too overwhelming.
Speaking of, Crowley didn't think he'd ever seen the man so happy.
Death and Pestilence worked hand in hand, now more than ever. Somehow they concocted a disease so deadly, so volatile, so malignant and grotesque, that, once afflicted, the human body could succumb to failure within half a day of exposure to it.
A condition so severe its name was simply Death.
After a few clear breaths (not that he needed to, but old habits, you know), he replaced the mask over his face, once again inhaling the gentle scent of lavender and sharp mint. Apparently someone, somewhere, determined those particular plants good for keeping sickness at bay.
He walked to the small village's church, little more than a rectangular building with a few rows of pews and a small pulpit. Nowadays it served as a different sort of sanctuary, the benches pushed aside in favor of cots and bedrolls, a sort of infirmary for those who hadn't yet been holed up in their homes. Once he arrived, he just stood silently outside the door. Anyone who questioned why was simply told there wasn't enough space for him to enter without causing trouble.
The doors opened, and a few beaked people in cloaks walked out, all practically indistinguishable from one another. Crowley made a 'psst!' noise to attract the attention of the last doctor in the crowd. When they didn't answer, he cleared his throat. "Doctor Fell."
The beaked figure stopped at that, turning around to stare with empty, dark, round eyes. "...yes?"
Crowley walked over, gently putting a hand on the other's shoulder. Though it was impossible to see, the touch said it all. He was trembling.
Just as I thought.
"Come with me a moment...I think we could use a break." He studied Aziraphale, trying to gauge his reaction, but the masks proved such a task impossible. He was more relieved than he'd like to admit when the other beak bobbed up and down in a nod.
Crowley took his hand and gently led him down the silent, empty streets, all the way to a now-abandoned vineyard at the edge of town. He sat down in a shaded spot amongst the vines, and pulled down the mask and hood. His auburn hair fell behind him in a loose ponytail, and he tossed the beaked face aside.
Aziraphale was silent, but eventually sat down next to him. He carefully took the mask off, then pulled his knees to his chest.
They sat in somber silence for a while, and eventually Crowley pulled a cluster of grapes from a nearby vine. While on the plant they looked a bit underripe, and far too sour, but by the time they were in front of him they were plump and purple. He plucked one and tossed it in his mouth, then held it out to Aziraphale. The angel hesitated, and he sighed. "Th' field's been abandoned...the owner already died...'s'not theft if it was gonn' go bad anyway." Aziraphale seemed satisfied with that argument, and held his gloved hand out to take them.
The silence stretched until crickets and frogs chirped in gentle harmonies, and the sun sank over the horizon. The first few stars dared to peek over the sky's veil. Each of the pair had a few bunches of grapes while they sat, simply basking in the other's company.
Just before the moon made her entrance, Crowley let out a long sigh and turned to Aziraphale. "....'s'not your fault, Angel."
Aziraphale flinched at the words, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Tears stung his eyes, and all he felt he could do was lean to one side, laying his head on the demon's shoulder. Crowley nodded, putting an arm around him in a gentle embrace.
"What have they done to deserve this?" He finally whispered, his voice breaking. "How could they have possibly angered Her this much, that they all have to die?" He was shaking more now, and Crowley just held him tighter.
"...im afraid that's just how it'll be sometimes, Angel. 'S'outside our control, unfortunately." Crowley did his best to keep his tone gentle. If he wasn't careful, this was going to end in an angry rant to the Heavens. No one wanted that.
Aziraphale shook his head. "I've been healing as many as I can...but they deteriorate so quickly...its been impossible to remain on top of it all..."
They had shifted by now, the angel cradled carefully in Crowley's arms. "I know."
"It seems that every time I try to help, I'm always just barely too late."
"I know."
"They're innocent, they don't deserve something like this."
"I know, Angel."
Aziraphale finally choked out a sob, and Crowley was certain he'd never heard anything so devastating before. His heart ached in a way he couldn't quite place.
"The last one I tended to....it was a little girl. A child, Crowley." He sounded so desperate, so shaken by what he had seen. "The sores had already taken her beyond my ability to help...and- and she just...she kept asking me when it would stop hurting..." his voice was little more than a whisper. "...I told her the truth. 'Soon,' I had said, much as I didn't want to. I wished to tell her it would be alright, that it would be better...but...you know how I feel about lying..." he shook his head. "So I did a smaller Miracle...told her to close her eyes...and dream of whatever she liked best." Fresh tears spilled over his cheeks. "I've never killed anything before, Crowley....but what else was I meant to do...?"
Crowley sighed. "...y'didn't. Not really. You gave her peace. She was heading there anyway...letting her sleep through it was the best thing you could've done, I think..."
"It- it felt so...wrong, though...letting her fall away....and practically doing nothing for it." His fingers curled into fists, the leather of the gloves creaking under the pressure. "....I felt her grow cold in my hands...and could do nothing but watch, only praying that the pain faded." He shook his head.
"...you did your best, Angel...thats what matters," Crowley said softly, wrapping his arms tighter around him.
He felt shaky arms around his back eventually, Aziraphale clinging to his slender form and sobbing quietly into his shoulder. The angel's cries echoed across the vineyard, fading into the skies and meshing with the chirps of the crickets in a grieving song.
Crowley held on to him tightly, looking up at the sky. He felt...angry. Angry with the World, for being so awful...Angry with Death and Pestilence, for being the cause of such severe suffering...Angry with God, for letting this all happen...and Angry at Himself, for not knowing how to fix things. For not being able to help. For feeling so...useless.
He wasn't quite sure who to be upset with for making the angel cry.
Aziraphale wiped his eyes, sniffling and sitting up. "...i....I should be okay, now..."
Crowley sighed. "...you've been under a lot lately. You need rest."
"I don't sleep..."
"I didn't say sleep. I said rest. You're exhausted. I don't think ive ever seen you this tired before...not to mention this miserable. You need a break." Crowley frowned, gently taking hold of Aziraphale's hands.
The angel frowned, sorrow returning to his expression. "But...those people...they still need help..."
"And so do you, it seems." He shook his head. "Youve already helped the humans way more than your assignment requires. Besides, at this rate you're going to work yourself to discorporation. Im-" his voice caught in his throat. "Im...worried. Ab- about you." He tried to ignore the sudden flush of heat in his cheeks, and looked away.
Aziraphale sighed. "And...I suppose there's no talking you out of this?"
The slight pull of a smile tugged at the demon's lips. "Angel, in all the time you've known me, have I ever been anything other than a stubborn bastard?"
His companion responded with a weak smile of his own. "...no, I suppose not."
Crowley grinned. "Lets go, then. I think I know just the place." He grabbed his mask and gloves and stood up.
Aziraphale nodded, following suit. As he stood, his stance swayed slightly, and Crowley reached out. "...you alright, Angel?"
"Hm? Oh...yes, I'm alright, Crowley...just...a touch dizzy, all of a sudden...give me a moment."
Crowley frowned. "...youre absolutely pallid, are you sure you're feeling okay?"
Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, of course, my dear boy...I just...perhaps I should...sit down..."
He took a step, then stumbled, falling forward against Crowley. He looked ghostly, his skin flushed and pale and hot to the touch. The demon caught him, a colorful string of curses falling from his lips.
"Angel? Angel, talk to me! Shit! Angel, say something! Wake up! Aziraphale!"
Crowley paced the shelves of the bookshop. He always did. If there was nothing else to do, then he would spend his days looking over the dragon's hoard of literature that built up over the past millenia or so. Why was he there anyway? Perhaps waiting for something? But Heaven knows - no, he knows - that what he's hoping for isn't going to return.
The new guardian of the shop found this to be a normal occurrence now. She would watch the demon wander aimlessly for hours at a time, keeping an eye out for nothing at all.
Muriel occasionally brought him pastries and to-go coffees, by Nina's recommendation, so that he wasn't walking a marathon indoors on an empty stomach.
After far too long of walking toward an unattainable destination - onlookers could argue he'd carved a groove in the hardwood floor of the path he'd followed - his legs led him to the chair of Aziraphale's desk in the bookshop's study.
They collapsed beneath him as he finally sat, the overworked limbs numb from use. Now that he was still, he was exhausted. His whole body felt heavy, weighed down nearly equally by fatigue and sorrow. His eyelids were heavy, and after a moments' hesitation, he let them close.
The door's bells chimed, not necessarily uncommon for this time of day, but the footsteps that followed made their way...right to him.
"...Crowley..."
The demon froze and his eyes shot open, now quite awake and very aware of his surroundings.
He scrambled to his feet, pulling his glasses off his face, hoping this wasn't some sort of trick of the lighting.
He reached out, tentatively, as if the being in front of him were to shatter or vanish at his touch.
"Angel?"
Aziraphale gently took hold of his outstretched hand, his crystal blue eyes gazing lovingly at Crowley.
He took a breath, then opened his mouth to speak. "Crowley, i-"
Nothing else got through. The angel was cut off, his lips interrupted as the demon pulled him into a tender embrace, and an even gentler kiss.
This one was different than the last time.
Last time was rough, aggressive...afraid. a desperate pull, a final plea for Aziraphale to see things from Crowley's perspective. Begging him not to leave.
But this one?
Both angel and demon were clinging to one another with the same level of need. The same want, the same desire. The same mournful feeling of having missed the other for so long. Crowley's fingers curled in the hair at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale, still quite unsure what to do, rested his hands on Crowley's back.
The kiss broke breathlessly, the pair leaning their foreheads together. Neither dared to break contact with the other, lest his beloved vanish before him. As long as they could feel one another, they would remain. As long as they held each other, they were real.
Aziraphale reached up, gently swiping tears off the demon's cheeks with his thumbs. "Please don't cry, Crowley..." he whispered.
Crowley shook his head, reaching up to hold the angel's hand against his cheek. "I...i didn't think you would come back..."
"I'm so, so sorry, Crowley, I really am," Aziraphale said gently, looking up at him. "I was so...overwhelmed by heaven's offer...and...i...I really did think I would be able to make a difference. I thought that...together, I - we could..."
"Doesn't matter," Crowley muttered, pulling his angel into a tight hug. "Because you're back. You're here. We're together again. And-" he took a shaky breath. "I can tell you what I wanted to say before..."
He stepped back, taking both of Aziraphale's hands into his own. He breathed steadily through his nose, gazing intently into his eyes. Those eyes he missed so much, those eyes that, no matter what else changed over time, were always the same gorgeous sapphire shade. No matter what happened, he knew his angel would stay the same.
"Aziraphale...i- ngk-" his voice caught in his throat, and he took another breath. "I'll spare you the dramatics. I think I used 'em all up last time anyway." He let out a weak chuckle. "...i...I love you, Aziraphale. I don't know how long I have, maybe always, but I need to say it now. You're the only thing I know I can count on. You're everything to me, and you always have been. You were my first, only, and best friend, and my heart broke when I thought i lost that. It's unfortunate that it's taken this long for me to say so, I know...but...we have the rest of, well, forever, to try and figure this out. And no matter what comes..." he squeezed their hands. "We can do it together."
As he spoke, Aziraphale's eyes welled with tears, and for the second time in existence, he found himself completely speechless. He reached up and kissed his demon once more, pouring his entire heart into their embrace. He didn't know what to say, he couldn't find the words. The depth and feeling of everything he could never tell was coming out through his actions now, or at least he'd hoped so.
When they parted for breath, he hugged him tightly. His entire body was shaking as the tears spilled over his cheeks, feeling too overwhelmed to say everything he wanted. After a long moment, he finally pulled himself together enough to whisper, "I love you too, Crowley."
They held each other for a long time, neither wanting to let go.
"Crowley...?"
"Yeah?"
"Crowley...."
"I heard you, angel...what is it?"
"Mister Crowley, are you okay?"
"...why are you talking like that, what's going on?" He opened his eyes.
Muriel stood over him, shaking his shoulder gently. "Mister Crowley, you're crying...you were sleeping..."
The demon sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. He was still at the desk. Still sitting. His legs still burned from walking so much. Tears blurred his vision and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He felt like everything was shaking. Muriel studied his expression intently. "...are you alright?"
Crowley let out a long sigh, putting his glasses back on and lightly pushing her aside as he stood up. "Im fine."
The young angel looked at him worriedly, while he made his way to the shop's door. "Where are you going?"
He sneered, pushing open the door with a familiar ding. "I need a drink."
‐
The Archangel Aziraphale looked at the square, a little window to Earth that he couldn't quite call a screen. His vision blurred with tears and his shoulders shook as he watched Crowley empty another glass.
They'd been apart like this before, but...this time he felt further away than they ever had been in six thousand years.
Due to his new assignment, he couldn't leave Heaven...no matter how much he wanted to.
He'd remembered stories through history where angels visited in dreams, and he wanted to try. It worked, but not nearly as long as he had hoped it would.
He didn't get to say what he wanted to. It always seemed to work out like that. His heart ached with everything he couldn't say. "Im so sorry, Crowley...."
He sighed, closing the 'window' and slumping down in his desk. "If only I could've asked you to forgive me..."
He choked back a sob and held his head, the angel's cries echoing in the empty, endless halls of what humans called paradise.
