An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This is a self-rec, with an abridged excerpt. First fic ever because Good Omens got me that bad! Rated T for lots of swearing. Later works in the series will likely bump up to E but the first several can be read as ace.
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The bus ride back to London was utterly silent. But only for the first seven minutes.
...The other passengers on the bus began to share looks and psychically bond in their terror, wondering when this ordeal would end with the loud drunken incomprehensible laughing sooty -- what were they even? Londoners. Must be Londoners. And when was the Gloucester Green Station stop coming up?
Crowley and Aziraphale laughed til they cried and it wasn't about exorcisms anymore. They were overcome by the Day, by the decade, by 6000 years of the Ineffable Plan itself. They set one another off again each time relief seemed near.
"You'd be proud of me,” cackled Aziraphale. “I swore something awful just as I ascended. The timing was lucky, I nearly said it on the other end, up in Heaven."
Crowley raised his glasses enough to wipe his eyes. "Wish I'd've heard that, hoohoo, phhhoooooooo." He threw an arm across the back of Aziraphale's seat.
"You know my dear, just today I've been exorcised, I've been a spectral appler -- apparition, I possessed a medium. And I lied to you, I lied to the Metatron, I renounced the military duty for which I was created, I attempted murder, I stood against the Heavenly Host, and I faced down the devil. I Questioned the Great Plan to Gabriel himself!"
"You even held hands with the Antichrist."
"Quite. It's been a rather demonic day for me, my dear."
"Pffffffffft sssss, 's well done then, couldn't be prouder." Crowley patted his arm approvingly.
A small frown. "Stay tuned for my grand finale," Aziraphale declared in his stage magician voice. "A promise of hellfire or your money back." He laughed one last time, dark and fey, before lofting the wine and closing his eyes.
"Thass not -- 's not funny angel."
"I know." Another drink. "But it is a bit."
"...So what you're telling me is," Crowley recounted, "you rode to Tadfield on a flying scooter inside a dominatrix wrapped in the arms of the double agent subcontractor of Heaven and Hell who discorporated you not two hours earlier."
"With a tuba gun, yes, dearest."
"Angel, this must all be ineffable as fuck, I can't make heads nor tails."
The whole thing’s at https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454282.