A small idea I've been doodling over the last week or so. So putting Crowley and Aziraphale into any historical setting is technically possible right? So I would like to offer up a Plague Doctor Crowley to you all.
Last night as I was driving home in the middle of a tornado warning, with thunder and lighting all around me, my car literally shaking in the wind, Bohemian Rhapsody blasting out of my one working speaker, while wearing one shoe, I realized that if this is how I die, itâs how I want to go.
#crowley (in my fic) 6000 years ago when aziraphale first invented pockets:#haha neat itâd be a shame if something were to ~happen~ to them#crowley now: heCK#local demon cannot stop inconveniencing himself with own wiles (via @dwarven-beard-spores)
so iâm currently working at a law firm and the other day one of the attorneys was talking to me and he mentioned that heâs ânot very confrontationalâ and i was like you are?? a lawyer???
and he said âyeah but in court there are rules. i can argue with some shmuck in a suit in front of a judge no problem, but when i leave the courthouse and go home iâm not gonna argue with my wife about dinner. there are no rules in our kitchen. i would die.â
Have I entirely spent my only free day drawing the Ineffable Husbands? Yes, yes I have. Crowleyâs fashion appreciation post! And David Tennantâs facial expressions! And swaying hips walk cycle! With a close up on John Lennon-ish Crowley!
I feel like crowley with amensia would be even more emotionally vulnerable and just go for the solar plexus with the questions that crowley has learned not to ask over time. Heâd be like âare we together?â and aziraphale would be like ânoâŚweâre justâŚvery..good friendsâ and crowley would be like âWhy not? I clearly want to date you, have I not said anything about it after all this time? That doesnât feel like who I amâ And aziraphale is like (deepest sigh in the world) âyouâveâŚmade yourself clear over time. Itâs complicated. Because of who you are and who I am. You donâtâŚlove me. The feelingâŚitâll pass.â And crowley is like âso you donât like me back? so I have asked you out and you turned me down? You donât like me? Am I a bad person when Iâm me? am I bad? You donât want me at all? Then why were you by my bedside stroking my cheek when I woke up! Itâs not fair!â And aziraphale is likeâŚ*script book voice* softened by it
on the other hand aziraphale is THE quintessential fic tropeâŚlike, once he wakes up unencumbered by all the Rules and Societal Heaven Programming heâs just likeâŚâoh hello, this is frightful i donât remember a thing but i do Know that youâre my husbandâŚoh no ring, boyfriend? donât want to scare you off there heheh oh you look so pale! letâs not fret, iâm sure it will all come back to me soon, weâll find a way! i love you.. it will be okâ and crowley is just like ââŚ.god i have to tell him,..how do i tell him..this i s the worst day of my lifeâŚâ
AU where Aziraphale fanboys over the (mostly forgotten) works of a little no-name poet who merely signed all of his work as A.J. and spends centuries trying to get his hands on everything the poet had ever written and has in fact published scholarly papers about this poet over the years, claiming that no one has ever written about love half as well as this little unknown author only to find out that the poet is one A.J. Crowley and the poems are all about him.
Prompt: Crowely tells Az he loves him by accident while going on a big long rant about (dealers choice) Az catches right away and just smiles and waits as Crowely comes to the realization of what he said
Anon. Anon. I love you for this.Â
***
âSee, thing is-â
Crowleyâs words elude him- as they have a habit of doing, the sneaky buggers. He watches the white lines in the middle of the road streak by, feels the tarmac roaring beneath the car. Itâs a rainy evening and theyâre driving home from a restaurant north of Watford that Aziraphale has been banging on about for months. Since the world had ended- and then promptly not ended- the angelâs zest for food hasnât lessened in the slightest. In fact, itâs only gotten bloody zestier, as if their near-apocalypse experience has made Aziraphale realise that life is too short. Even an immortal life such as his.Â
Crowley loses his track of his thought entirely. âThing isâŚâ
âYou were talking about-â
âKINDLES!â Crowley exclaims, taking his hands off the wheel to celebrate this eureka moment. Aziraphale straightens out beside him nervously and grabs a fistful of his corduroy trousers. Crowley slaps the leather of the steering wheel enthusiastically as he continues, âKindles. Are not. Demonic! We didnât come up with them- that was all you, Iâm certain!â
âWhy on earth would I invent the Kindle, dear boy? Do you even know me at all?â
âYou-plural, not you-singular. Angels you, Heaven you.â
âWell, I certainly didnât sanction it.â
âAlright but- listen- whatâs the problem with kindles? Whyâre- whatâs the problem? I mean really, itâs a book, isnât it. Just a book on a screen. Whatâs the problem?â
âThe problem-â Aziraphale begins confidently, bordering aggressively. Then the wind appears to be knocked out of his sails. âWell,â he tries again, a little weakly. âThe problem, the problem lies therein. In that. Well-â
âSee! See, itâs clearly a good thing, I donât understand what all the fuss is about- all these people going âoh, ho-ho, oh dear, books arenât physical anymore, what a travesty! Letâs all- grab our pitchforks! And lament the loss of our childrenâs educationâ.â He adds a mocking, whinging voice to this last bit.Â
Aziraphale tuts, stretches his legs out in front and crosses them.Â
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