PAIRING. Aziraphale x Crowley x Reader
GENRE. Fluff.
REQUESTED? No.
WORD COUNT. 1.5k
SYNOPSIS. Mornings with your local angel and demon would seem chaotic to most, but to you, nothing could be more soothing.
WARNINGS. Can be read as platonic or romantic.
NOTE. This is my very first Good Omens work. Please bear with me as I am also particularly new to the fandom. Suggestions and corrections are welcomed! You can also send requests through my ask box! <3
The streets of SoHo bustled with busy crowds as you made your way down to the coffee shop. It was still early, only a few minutes past 8 am. You woke in a cheerful mood, excited to spend another day with your two most favorite people.
They weren’t exactly people, but who’s asking?
You push the door to Nina’s coffee shop open, and you’re immediately greeted with the smell of coffee in the air, along with the figure of Nina standing behind the counter.
“Good morning, Nina!” You greet her with a smile, walking towards the counter.
“Morning,” she greets back. She offers a kind smile, but she is busy, drying off some glass mugs by the counter. Nina takes a quick glance at you. “You’re awfully cheerful this morning.”
You give her a shrug. “Woke up feeling like this, I guess.”
“Good for you,” she muses. She places the last dry mug to the side, before turning herself towards you. “What can I get you, then?”
“One black coffee, one flat white, and a serving of Eccles cakes, please,” you quip.
“To go, I’m guessing?” Nina responds with a smirk, inputting your order on her register. The machine dings with the total of your order, and you grab your wallet from your bag to pay.
“You already know it,” you reply with a laugh and hand her a wad of cash.
Nina takes the money. “You’ve been over Mr. Fell’s a lot recently,” she points out. “Almost as much as that Crowley fellow.”
MORE UNDER THE CUT.
“I like it there,” you simply state. “I have nothing much to do at home, anyway.”
“I see,” Nina hands you your change. Her tone of voice shows no judgment, but her face says otherwise. You know she means no harm behind it, so you let it go.
She leaves the counter for a minute and returns with a paper bag and a disposable tray filled with your drinks. You bid her thanks and a goodbye, before grabbing your order and stepping out of the shop.
You cross the street into Aziraphale’s bookshop. The sign at the door says “closed” but you pay it no mind, pushing the door open with your hip and entering the familiar establishment.
“I’m afraid we are still closed,” the man announces into the room, back towards you, as he seems to be busy arranging books by the counter, but once he turns, his face lightens up, immediately delighted to see you. “Ah, it’s you! Come, my dear.”
You give Aziraphale a grin, stepping further into the shop. Aziraphale runs around the counter to help take the items off of your hands, placing the bag on one of his tables, and the drinks by the counter.
“I bought us breakfast,” you timidly say, still a little embarrassed to be barging in so early that Aziraphale hadn’t even opened up shop.
“Oh you didn’t have to, deary,” the angel crooned and offered a smile. “But thank you.”
You grinned, happy to have made the angel smile, but your curiosity continued to pique as moments passed, and no sign of your third companion came.
“Where’s Crowley?” You couldn’t help but frown. As much as you loved Aziraphale’s company, not having the demon around felt almost wrong. Incomplete.
“He’ll be here a moment. He’s a bit… preoccupied,” you’re not quite sure what the angel means, but you don’t pry further. It was probably about angel and demon business, anyway. “Shall we start on breakfast?”
Albeit you feel sad at the absence of your other favorite being, you try not to let it spoil your and Aziraphale’s mood as he settles on the couch, patting the space beside himself for you to sit.
You take a seat just as he begins to set the drinks on the table, grabbing the cakes from the paper bag and placing them on the table as well.
“I didn’t buy tea because I knew you liked to make your own,” you explained before Aziraphale could even speak, worried that he might have gotten upset at the lack of drinks.
But this was Aziraphale you were talking about. The angel never got upset, especially never at you.
“You know me so well, dear,” he smiles, before standing from the couch. “I’ve already got the kettle boiling!” He cheers, almost as if he’s proud of himself for thinking ahead. You can’t help but grin from ear to ear as you watch him shuffle into the kitchen.
You spend a moment by yourself in silence, humming away as you watch strangers pass by through the window. You are tapping away on the coffee table when the bell by the front entrance chimes, and the doors swing open, and a figure walks in.
“Having breakfast without me, are you?”
“Crowley!” You chirped, delighted to see your favorite demon walk into the shop.
“Missed me, love?” He gives you a cheeky wink and you hide your blushing face with a laugh, rolling your eyes at Crowley’s playfulness.
“Crowley, what took you so long!” Aziraphale emerges from the kitchen, with a cup of tea in his hands.
“Long line at requisitions, had to cut in line, in front of an old lady just to get things done,” Crowley sighs exasperatedly.
“Cutting in line, how very ill-mannered!” Aziraphale complains, now having sat back next to you on the couch. His tea sits next to your coffee, which you hadn’t yet touched. “In front of an old lady, no less!”
“Why was the old lady down there in the first place, hn,” the demon begins to take quick strides towards the two of you, grabbing his cup of coffee by the table. “Must’ve murdered her husband’r something.”
You sat in silence and grabbed your coffee from the table , listening to the two bicker back and forth amongst themselves. Your days usually start this way anyway, drinking coffee and listening to the angel and demon argue on about some nonsense you knew almost nothing about. It was therapeutic, in a way.
You had yet to tell anyone this, but you loved mornings like these. It’s been a little while since you’ve moved to SoHo, but the one-bedroom apartment you rented just a few blocks away seems so foreign to you now, since you spend nearly all of your time in Aziraphale’s bookshop.
Of course, sometimes you’re elsewhere, like Nina’s coffee shop, mostly, buying treats and drinks that you knew Aziraphale would like. (Crowley likes them too, but wishes Nina would branch into an alcoholic line of drinks).
On rare occasions, you’d visit Maggie’s record shop with Aziraphale. Even though in the beginning, you viewed records as “impractical” (to which Crowley had given a hearty chuckle to), you’d grown to love it, asking Maggie for the latest copies of Hozier or, if she was lucky to land a copy, Laufey.
Your fondest memory, however, was during a time when the three of you decided to dine in the French restaurant across the road, Marguerite’s. Usually, the two preferred to visit the Ritz, but you managed to get them to try out the local shop. The three of you dined under the sun, sharing stories and laughing as Aziraphale yet again attempts to avoid Mr. Brown, the chairman of their Street Shopkeepers’ Association.
In truth, you’d only been staying with Aziraphale and Crowley for a few months, but you’ve honestly felt more at home here on Aziraphale's couch than your own.
You suddenly realized you had been daydreaming, as you’re rudely awakened from your thoughts by the sound of someone snapping their fingers.
“—hello? Earth to, [name]? You with us, sugar?” It was Crowley, still standing in front of where you’ve set yourself down on the couch, wearing a worried expression, despite the sunglasses on his face.
“Are you alright, dear?” It’s Aziraphale who asks this time, and you turn to the side to meet his worried face as well. “You’ve been really quiet this morning.”
“I’m alright, really,” you reassure them both, and Crowley takes this time to seat himself next to you, opposite of where Aziraphale is. “It’s just a little too early, I think.”
“Would you like to take a nap here?” Aziraphale offers. “There is another couch in the back room, if you’d like to settle down there.”
You shake your head. “I’ll be fine, thank you. Can we eat breakfast now?”
Aziraphale nods, but you can hear Crowley tsk quietly from where he’s sat beside you. “Bit too sugary for breakfast, don’t ‘ya think?”
He’s looking right at the Eccles cakes, and you frown, wishing you had chosen another treat from the coffee shop.
Aziraphale immediately notices your saddened expression. “It’s fine, Crowley! A little sugar won’t hurt.”
“Won’t hurt you! What ‘bout [name] over here?” Crowley complains.
“You’re the one calling her sugar all the time—!” Aziraphale retaliates.
You merely sip your coffee and grab a pastry, tuning out the tones of the two idiots arguing beside you.
Mornings were always the same.
NOTE. This wasn’t the best but I’m not too ashamed of it! Please do send in requests! <3
Hi! How are you? This is my first time requesting something. I'm a bit nervous 😅 Can you please write something for Crowley (Good Omens) and maybe Aziraphale too if you have the time for it? What would perfect dates and/or activities with them look like? What would they plan for their crush or surprise their partners with? I hope that request is okay 😊
Hi there! I’m so sorry this is so late, life has been quite crazy recently! I hope you enjoy this!
Crowley:
• Would love to go on drives with you, either round the countryside, with quiet music, or speeding down the motorway with the music loud, whatever you prefer
• Like he does with Aziraphale, he would book your favourite restaurants and treat you to a lovely meal
• He is 100% a romantic and no one can convince me otherwise, but more in a “you better not tell anyone I love you” way
• So he would find out what you love to do or your favourite thing and would take you to do said thing or surprise you with your favourite thing
• Be it, tickets to see your favourite musical, a vinyl you were looking for or even just a plushie
• Also, whenever he “gets rid” of a plant that isn’t performing right, he gives it to you, because he knows you have the love in you to help it perform and grow right
• He would definitely act like he hates whatever you two are doing together, but you sometimes you catch him with a small love sick smile on his face
Aziraphale:
• Zira would absolutely shower you in gifts
• He loves taking you to your favourite places,
• takes you to all the restaurants and cafes that he thinks are hidden treasures
• Obviously you go to the ritz
• Whilst he would love going to the theatre and fancy events with you
• He would also love to sit in the bookshop and either talk or read
• He would show you his favourite and most prized books and would want to hear all about yours
• If you’re not a reader, that’s fine! He would love to hear all about whatever you love doing
• Art? He buys you supplies
• Writing? He gifts you beautiful notebooks and stationary
• Anything you love, he would love to shower you in things that associate with that thing
• But if you tell him you’re not the biggest fan of being showered like this, then he’s more than happy to walk through the park with you and feed the ducks or people watch
can i pls request good omens uriel x reader cuddles? :3
Yeah definitely!
———
When you heard the door open and the sound of a briefcase hit the table, you knew your partner Uriel had had a long day. Though, everyday was a long day in Heaven- mostly because their ‘days’ didn’t stop nor start, only shifts did. So really, Uriel had had a very long shift, filing papers and filling out reports- it was all the work of a desk jockey, but someone had to do it.
“Hi Darling,” You greeted as they made their way into the living room. With a flick of their wrist they were out of that stuffy beige suit and into something more comfortable- a T-shirt and soft sweatpants, which was probably their third favorite thing about Earth- Next to you and vanilla cream soda, of course. “Rough day?”
“Yes,” Uriel sighed as they thought back to the hours spent shuffling through reports- you’d think with the amount of spare hands they had up in Heaven there wouldn’t be so much paperwork for one angel. “Extremely.”
You chuckled, oh poor them, before patting the seat beside you, beckoning your love to join you on the couch. Uriel didn’t think twice about it.
They flopped down next to you and buried their head into your shoulder blade. You wouldn’t have expected angels to be so cuddly if you hadn’t been the one on the receiving end.
You pulled Uriel closer, wrapping your arms loosely around them as they made a soft noise, following suit by linking their hands together at your neck. It was so sweet and comfy.
“This is the best part of the day.” Uriel said smoothly.
You smiled in response. “Oh yeah?” You said, “I would hope so. Best part of my day too.”
“How was work?” They asked, peering up at you.
“Fine, same as usual.” You said- your job didn’t really change much. “I was thinking of ordering take out tonight.”
“Sounds good, because I don’t think I’m moving from this spot.”
You laughed, and their heart fluttered. Which constituted that they snuggled closer.
“You’re such a lovebug, I swear.” You said on the tail end of a giggle. “Not that im complaining, that is.”
“What can I say, you’re the first person to ever give me so much love.” Uriel said. “Only fair I give back just as much.”
hi emcon! im here for the 500 follower celebration! my character is crowley from good omens and my favourite trope is /obviously/ bed sharing. thank you love, i appreciate you!
gif // a/n: i hope you like it! vine voice “and the was only one bed” “oh my god.... there was only one bed”
Perhaps some part of you assumed that Crowley didn’t sleep, you couldn’t imagine it, even for a moment. Perhaps it seemed impossible, that in the midst of everything going on, he would want to sleep. So, the single bed in your hotel room didn’t seem like an issue, and as you crashed on the bed, not even bothering to change first, you could hear Crowley pacing the hotel room, studying everything. “I’m going to sleep,” you said. “See you in the morning.”
You felt one side of the bed sink down next to you and you cracked open an eye. “What?”
“Move over.” He picked up the pillow you were laying on so that you rolled over to the one on the other side of the bed.
“Hey!” you protested as Crowley took over the other side of the bed and rearranged his pillows to his liking. “What are you...”
“Sleeping?” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m going to have a nap if we’re stuck waiting here.”
Huh. Learn something new every day, you thought. He tossed the entire comforter over to your side and climbed into bed while you stared at the ceiling, perplexed.
“I thought you were going to sleep,” Crowley asked as you watched through the side of your eyes while he settled in. “Go to sleep.” He waved his hand. “Go.”
Hide My Wings Tonight: Not Another Gloomy Play (Chapter 5)
Surprise! Not dead! I suddenly got the oomph today to finish not one but TWO chapters. Chaoter Six will be posted later, but I figured after two years of waiting I would go ahead and put up Chapter 5 right now.
Read it here on AO3!
Or read it below the cut
Based on the one-shot request by @jinxthequeergirl
---
Aziraphale had not seen his sister filled with such joy in centuries as he did in the years following the beginning of her and Crowley’s arrangement. Not that he knew of said arrangement of course, but he didn’t question what his sister did as long as she was happy. He worried about her, that much was for sure, but after she’d blown off his question the first twenty times he’d stopped asking, and started to enjoy the smile she once again gave so freely.
And (name) enjoyed learning to dance. Her demonic partner was not the best at the task, but they were learning together by watching others, and interacting. No one would question their presence at parties and masquerades. And though (name) would never admit it, she enjoyed spending time with Crowley. There was something about him that drew her in. Perhaps that was just how demons were. Enticing to even the purest of minds. Or maybe just to her.
She didn’t like Crowley, Heaven’s no - how could she, he’s a demon - but his company was a nice change from her doting brother and the snobs up in Heaven.
And of course, with their first arrangement, came another one. One that would change the world forever
You see, arrangements can be a tricky thing.
The one that (name) had with Crowley was simple enough - Crowley would help (name) learn any new dance she desired, as long as she was willing to help him with small things. She had been a bit reluctant to these terms at first, but found that there was some joy in her disobeying Heaven. It was like a huge fuck you to Gabriel behind his back.
Did his coat need mending? Simple enough - it might not look beautiful, but it was presentable. Did Crowley need a name? Most certainly, (name) could get that. Did he need help getting into somewhere he couldn’t get into otherwise? Not a problem, (name) was good at talking her way into places. Did he need Aziraphale distracted for a while while he did some misdeeds? (Name) could turn a blind eye and take her brother out to lunch. Whatever he asked for, (name) was willing to do it.
Aziraphale had caught onto them rather quickly, much to (name)’s dismay. He’d been upset. He didn’t know about the dancing, but he knew that she’d been sneaking off to see Crowley and to help him with his hellish intentions. It had taken hours for (name) to get him to calm down and listen.
And that was how the second arrangement began. This one was just a bit trickier to get away with. After all, hiding something from Aziraphale was one thing. But hiding something from heaven was another - they had eyes everywhere. Even if it didn’t seem like it, someone was bound to be watching. And if not now, then later.
Aziraphale had been against the idea for so many years, helping Crowley, or God forbid, getting Crowley’s help. But with the way (name) and Crowley insisted it could do us some good, how was he to resist?
So that was how it had been, for many years. The angels helped the demon, and the demon helped the angels. Heaven hadn’t noticed, and as far as (name) knew Hell hadn’t either. That didn’t mean any less sneaking around - Aziraphale refused to meet with Crowley privately. It always had to be in a crowd, somewhere inconspicuous.
And the Globe Theater during the preview of Shakespeare's new play, Hamlet, was anything but.
Aziraphale had promised a crowd, but (name) could count no more than fifteen heads among the crowd - that included the Bard himself, and the woman carrying snacks, Juliet. As they waited for Crowley, Aziraphale purchased himself a bunch of grapes, miracaling a coin out of nowhere.
“If you were going to do that,” (Name) said as Juliet walked away. “You could have just miracled yourself some grapes.”
“Now where would be the fun in that.” Aziraphale said, smiling down at the fruit before popping one of them into his mouth. He glanced around quickly. “He’s late.”
“Really, I hadn’t noticed.” She teased. “Stop looking so nervous. You’re the one who wanted to meet with him here.”
“Yes, well, I assumed there would be a much bigger crowd.”
“There’s never a crowd for a show like this.” (Name) argued. “People are depressed enough as is, they don’t want to be going to a show that will just make them feel worse.”
“I don’t feel any worse.” Aziaraphale argued.
“Yeah, well, you’re also not like everybody else.” The two were silent for a moment. Then, almost as if she could sense him, (name) turned her head and watched as Crowley sauntered into the arena. He saw them, and took no time at coming to stand beside (name).
“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here. Blend in with the crowd.” (Name) wanted to smile at this. Aziraphale, on the other hand, huffed, and ate another grape before he spoke.
“That was the idea.” He grumbled, glancing over at the demon. Remembering his manners, he offered the fruits to him. Crowley, however, ignored them.
“Ah, hang on.” The demon grimaced. “This isn’t one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it?” He scrunched up his nose. “No wonder nobody’s here.” (Name) smiled at this.
“Shh, it’s him.” Aziraphale grasped his sister's arm, catching her attention.
“Prithee, gentles, madam.” He said. “Might I request a small favor? Could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?” (name) tried not to frown at this, but she had never been very good at controlling her mouth - both what came out of it, and what shapes it decided to make. Shakespeare didn’t seem much interested in her tho, his eyes focused more on Aziaphale who asked;
“You mean, like when the ghost of his father came on, and I shouted ‘He’s behind you!’?”
“Just so!” Shakespeare said. “That was jolly helpful. Made everyone on the stage feel appreciated. A bit more of that.” (name) wanted to argue. She wanted to say that it made no sense, but she didn’t have the chance. “Good Master Burbage, please! Speak the lines trippingly.” The actor on stage didn’t take the advice too well, and (name) was sure he was ready to explode on the bard at any moment.
“I am wasting my time up here.” He hissed.
“No, you’re very good!” Aziraphale insisted. “Isn’t that right, my dear sister?”
“I-” She bit her tongue. Aziraphale has a bad habit of putting her on the spot like this. That, plus a loose tongue, was never a good pairing. “Yes. I just love all the… talking.” She said.
“And what does your friend think?” The actor asked, clearly looking towards Crowley.
“He’s not our friend. We’ve never met before, we don’t know each other-”
“I think you should get on with the play.” Crowley interrupted Aziraphale, and (name) had to raise a hand to cover her mouth. If Aziraphale heard her laugh, he would surely lecture her later.
“Yes, Burbage. Please.” Shakespeare said. The actor continued.
“To be or not to be - that is the question-”
“To be!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I mean, not to be! Come on, Hamlet. Buck up!” He turned to (name) with excitement, but it quickly died when he saw the bored look on not only her face, but on Crowley’s as well. Still, the actor gave him a grateful thumbs up and continued on. (name) had to keep from laughing when she noticed Shakespeare mouthing along to the soliloquy, looking very proud of himself.
“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Aziraphale gushed.
“Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety.” Crowley dramatized. (name) watched as Shakespeare reached for his pocket, stating how he ‘liked that’ and wandered away while scratching it down on a scrap of paper.
They stood there a few moments longer, listening to the soliloquy.
“What do you want?” Aziraphale finally spoke, popping another grape into his mouth. (Name) took this opportunity to snag a few, cradling them in her hand as she trained her eyes on the man standing on stage.
“Why might you be insinuating that I might possibly want some?” He was behind them now, coming to stand on Aziraphale’s side.
“You’re up to no good.”
“And the two of you are up to good, I take it? Lots of good deeds?” (Name) spared him a glance. He wasn’t even trying to pretend that he was watching the play. Even behind his glasses she could see him glancing at her, then back to Aziraphale.
“Well there is no rest for the…” Aziraphale paused, causing (name) to snicker. The actor on stage threw her a look, which she chose to ignore. “Good.”
“We’re meant to be heading up to Edinburgh at the end of the week. Aziraphale has a couple of blessings to do and I have a minor miracle to perform.” (Name) popped a couple of the grapes into her mouth - they were the perfect mixture of sweet and sour, causing her to hum with joy.
“Oh? Is that right?” Crowley looked at her again and (Name) fought to keep a smile off her face. “Well, I’m meant to be heading to Edinburgh end of the week as well - tempting a clan leader to steal some caddle.”
“Doesn’t sound like hard work.” Aziraphale piped in, too focused on the play and his food to realize what was coming next.
“Well, that’s why I thought…” this caught Aziraphale’s attention, and he all but snapped his head in Crowley’s direction. “Well, it’s be a bit of a waste.” Crowley was starting to smile again. He knew exactly what he was doing. “All of us going all the way to Scotland.”
“You cannot possibly be insinuating,” Azirapahe was beginning to raise his voice, and (Name) hushed him before the actor could throw another tantrum. “What I infer you are implying.” He said in a hushed tone.
“It’s not like we haven’t done it before.” Crowley was turned to watch the play now, but (name) never looked away from him. “The arrangement-“
“Don’t say that.” Aziraphale demanded.
“Our respective head offices don’t actually care how things get done, they just want to know they can cross it off the list.
“Yes, but if hell found out they wouldn’t just be mad,” Aziraphale reminded him. “They would destroy you.” The joy of seeing the demon had finally worn off as (name) let Aziraphale’s words sink in.
They would destroy you.
“Nobody ever needs to know.” Crowley said, lifting a hand to show them a rusted coin. “I’ll toss you for Edinburgh.”
There was a pregnant pause. (Name) could feel the words forming on the tip of her tongue. We shouldn’t do this, she wanted to say. It’s way too dangerous. But she couldn’t. Because a life without seeing Crowley every now and again would be… well, she’s not sure it would be worth living.
“Fine,” Aziraphale sighed. “Heads.” Crowley smiled. Then, he held the coin out to her.
“Would you do us the honor?” He asked. As (name) took the coin, her fingers brushed gently against his own, and despite how well dressed he was and how warm it was, his fingers were cold. Aziraphale’s eyes were trained on the coin so he didn’t see when Crowley gave her a sly wink.
The other arrangement.
(Name) held onto a sigh as she flipped the coin, fingers snapping gently as she did. When the coin landed, she knew it would be tails, but she played her part and gave a small groan of annoyance.
“Well, brother of mine, it looks like we will be the ones going to Scotland.” She displayed the coin. “Guess I’m just a bit unlucky.” She lied.
Before either of them could speak, they heard the bard moaning from the other side of the pit.
“It’s been like this every performance Juliet, a complete dud. It would take a miracle to get anyone to come and see Hamlet.” (Name) didn’t miss the look Aziraphale gave Crowley. The same face he gave her when he wanted something sweet, or was begging her to help him get a new book.
Crowley scrunched up his nose, but let out a defeated sigh.
“Fine, I’ll do that one.” He said. “My treat.”
“Oh, really?” (Name) shuffled a bit, annoyed words threatening to spill from her lips. But Crowley spoke up quickly.
“I still prefer the funny ones.” He gave (name) one last glance before making his way toward the exit of the theater, probably on his way to start on his demonic miracle. It was at that moment that (name) realized she was still holding Crowley’s coin.
“Oh, bugger.” She muttered. “Could you hold on a moment, brother. I will return in just a moment.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Quite. Just need a breather, is all.” He didn’t seem to like that answer, but didn’t argue as (name) tore away from him and walked towards the theater exit. As she popped out onto the empty streets, she could feel eyes on her. To her left, Crowley was leaning up against a wall, waiting for her.
“Sneaky bastard.” She said, “You forgot something.” She said, holding out the coin to him. He stared at it for a moment, but didn’t hold out a hand to take it. So she pulled back, slipping the coin into a pocket she had secretly sewn into her dress. “Is everything okay, Crowley?”
“How are you?” (name) was taken aback by the question, but Crowley seemed genuine in his curiosity.
“I am… fine.”
“You seem happy.” He said. “Even if you weren’t enjoying the show, you just seem… happier.”
“Well,” (name) started. “I am. Times are changing. I haven’t had to visit upstairs in quite a while. And Aziaraphale is happy. So I am happy.”
“Good. That’s… good.” There was silence between them. “I still owe you from last time, too.” He said. (name) hummed in agreement - she hadn’t gotten her promised dance lesson for the last temptation she had assisted him with.
“I guess this next one will just have to be a bit longer, then, no?”
“It would seem.” Crowley was smiling. “Have fun in Edinburgh, Angel.”
“Have fun with Hamlet, Demon.” She shot back, trying not to laugh as he grimaced. Crowley pushed off the wall and began to saunter off, leaving (name) to return to her brother. When she reached into her pocket, she couldn’t help but laugh to herself.
Warnings: demon summoning, this is honestly just a crack fic, vulgar language, a moody demon
Word Count: 2K
Summary: Out of boredom, you decide to summon a demon, not believing that it would actually work. You end up summoning Crowley in your apartment. A very worried angel comes looking for him as well. That’s how you meet Crowley and Aziraphale.
Author’s Note: This has been on my mind for a while now. I don’t actually know how to summon a demon so please excuse how I wrote it. It’s not meant to be taken seriously. Please enjoy <3
THIRD POV
It was a silly idea, truly. Y/N and her friend had been out at the nearest bar and after a few drinks, they ended up discussing paranormal stuff. Somehow the conversation morphed into the two of them planning on playing with the Ouija board Y/N had somewhere in her apartment, possibly hidden in her closet or underneath her bed to gather dust. In their tipsy minds, it sounded like a perfect plan.
As Y/N returned home alone, she remembered that. She decided to find the board and get it ready for tomorrow. But as she found it hiding underneath her bed, she got an idea.
What if she played alone? It’s not like anything would actually happen, but it could be fun nevertheless. Surely, she would laugh at herself about it afterwards. So that’s what she did. Y/N set up the board on the floor, lit up a few candles to set the mood. She turned off all the lights and covered the mirrors in her bedroom. In order to play, she quickly read the instructions. Just like that, she was ready to get started.
As much as she was convinced that it was fake, it still made her nervous. There was always that small chance that it would work, right?
“Okay, I’m calling in good spirits. No negative entities are welcome here,” Y/N started as the online instructions had instructed her. “If anyone’s actually there, I would like to play with you.” Gosh, that sounded so wrong, she thought.
She sat on the floor with her fingers on the pointer. After a few moments of silence later, nothing happened which relieved her. She sank her shoulders and smiled, feeling much more comfortable now that it hadn’t moved. “This is so stupid, it’s not like this board could actually summon a demon,” The woman laughed by herself, giving her words zero thoughts whatsoever.
If only she had known the power of her words.
As if on cue, something happened. The pointer began to shake underneath her fingers which startled her out of her skin. Y/N let out a scream as she got up from the floor, watching in horror as the Ouija board shook wildly. That was not supposed to happen! “Holy fuck, shit…fuck!” Y/N whimpered in horror. Her eyes were glued to the board. Once it began to levitate, she almost passed out.
Was she dreaming?
Or was she drunk? Y/N hadn’t had that much to drink either.
Her heart was pounding so hard from fear that she felt it all the way up in her throat. She wanted to run away, but her entire body was frozen in shock. Her fight or flight response seemed to betray her.
A bright light came seemingly out of nowhere. It was so bright in fact that Y/N had to close her teary eyes. A few moments later, the light seemed to vanish, and she heard that the board dropped back on the floor. Terrorized by what she saw, she still decided to look at the board. What she saw next was definitely not a Ouija board.
There was a man, a tall man in fact, standing right in front of her. He had ginger hair, an all-black outfit and round sunglasses. Although the lenses were dark, she noticed that he had yellow eyes. Yellow! The man, or whatever it was, seemed annoyed. “Aw fuck! Couldn’t this have happened a little later? I was just in the middle of something!” The stranger groaned in a…British accent?
“What the fuck are you?” Y/N cried in fear, wanting to keep a distance between her and the man.
“There’s no need to be so rude, damn,” the ginger man, creature, whatever replied to her. Shivers ran down Y/N’s spine. In her mind, she was convinced that she had just summoned death itself into her own bedroom. She wanted to scream and cry, to run as far away as she could, but she could only stand there as her world began to spin wildly. Her vision began to brighten until she saw white. A split second later, her body failed her as she lost consciousness.
The demon, Crowley, wanted to leave. But he had been summoned and now there was an unconscious woman on the floor inf front of him. As pissed off as he was, he decided to wake her up. Surely, the candles would burn down her house if he just left her like that. “Get up, will you?” Crowley sighed and squat down on the floor right next to her. He poked her body with his long fingers, noticing the details of her appearance. He wondered why on earth she had summoned a demon and why it just had to be him! Crowley had been at Aziraphale’s bookshop as he was summoned. Surely, the angel was worried as hell over his disappearance.
When his poking didn’t bring her back, Crowley cursed under his breath. He wanted to leave, truly, but he couldn’t. He had been summoned. He had to end this ritual she had started, and he couldn’t do that when she was in an entirely different world than him.
Y/N furrowed her eyebrows together as her headache grew worse, so bad in fact that it woke her up. Carefully, she rubbed her temples and moaned in pain. Did she really get such a terrible hangover over a couple drinks? She opened her eyes and noticed she was in bed, although she couldn’t remember ever getting in it. Then she heard two men talking. Quickly, she was fully awake, and she remembered what happened.
The man!
Y/N got out of bed and followed the voices. Although she was terrified, she was curious. She walked out of her bedroom and looked into her living room. There were two men there, talking until they noticed Y/N. One of them was the same man that appeared out of thin air. The other one looked much kinder. He had light locks of hair, big blue eyes and beige clothes. For a moment, it was perfectly quiet in her apartment. Little did Y/N know she had a demon and an angel in her living room. She was convinced at this point that this was a fever dream.
“Someone’s finally awake! Great. Now just end what you started so we can leave,” The ginger one broke the silence. He sounded angry which was indeed horrifying. Y/N didn’t know them or what they were capable of.
It made the other man sigh, “Crowley, can’t you see she’s terrified?”
What kind of a name was Crowley? Why was the other one so considerate? Nothing made sense to Y/N in that moment.
The same man continued, “Hello, I’m Aziraphale and this is my friend Crowley. I know you’re scared, but I promise that you’re just fine,” Aziraphale tried to ease her mind a little bit as Crowley rolled his eyes in the background and crossed his arms like a grumpy child.
“How did you…where did you come from?” Y/N managed to say something despite her worries.
“You summoned me, remember? Aziraphale just followed me,” Crowley snapped.
Aziraphale couldn’t just ignore it when Crowley vanished into thin air right in front of his nose. Of course, he followed the demon! A little curiosity went a long way. “This doesn’t usually happen. You see, in order to actually summon a demon…”
“A demon?!” Y/N breathed out in shock and her eyes widened. It sounded absurd, but it would explain what she saw.
“He’s not a bad demon! You know, he used to be an angel…” Aziraphale tried to speak, but he was cut off again.
“Aziraphale!” Crowley hissed, angry that the angel had to mention it to this stranger woman.
What the hell was going on? Had Y/N lost it? She was beginning to believe that.
“As I was trying to say,” Aziraphale raised his gentle voice ever so slightly, “summoning a demon requires a lot of spiritual power. You didn’t summon him for no reason. Now would you like to introduce yourself, dear?”
Something about Aziraphale was so calming. Yes, the situation was absolutely wild and unbelievable. Y/N was scared because there were two men in her home claiming to be demons. But this man had a presence which helped her relax. It was so overpowering, so magical. “I’m Y/N,” She said surprisingly calmly. The closer Aziraphale was, she more relaxed she became.
“Alright, Y/N. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this little mishap and then we can all go on about our days,” Aziraphale smiled so cheerfully, as if this situation wasn’t terrifying at all.
Crowley sat on the arm of Y/N’s couch and he crossed his long legs, “Why did you even summon a demon if you’re so scared?”
Someone wasn’t happy to be summoned. Y/N almost felt sorry for ever touching that Ouija board. “I didn’t mean to! I just…well, I didn’t think it would work, okay?” She defended herself honestly. “Also, how am I supposed to believe you’re a demon...an angel, whatever. This is crazy!”
“Oh, you want proof?” Crowley smirked, as if she dared him to do something. He suddenly stood up straight again, getting ready to give her a little fright.
On second thoughts, she didn’t want proof. She was terrified enough and even the sheer possibility that they were speaking the truth was absurd. It would confirm to her, a human, that demons and angels existed. That kind of information would surely mess with her head. “No!” Y/N took it back.
“Oh, such a bummer!” Crowley muttered. He was already getting excited over the thought of scaring her by showing her his true form. It’s not like it mattered anymore. She had seen him appear out of thin air so what’s another supernatural experience more on top of that?
Aziraphale felt his stress levels rise as he stood between the two of them. He couldn’t believe they ended up in that situation. But somehow, he was convinced they were supposed to find Y/N. There was a very high energy radiating from her which almost told the angel that she could be useful. As risky as it was, he wanted to be friends with the mortal. Perhaps she could have something to do with the doomsday?
“Can you please just end this and then finish whatever you have to with Aziraphale? I’m tired of this,” Crowley began to get impatient.
“How do I ‘end this’?” Y/N wondered. She truly had no idea.
Crowley hung his head low as he tried to stay calm. Was she for real? “Did you read any instructions whatsoever before you decided to ruin my day?”
Aziraphale almost giggled at the situation. Although it was serious, it was a little bit amusing. But he managed to bite his lips together to stay quiet.
“I read something online,” She admitted. Y/N was oddly calm now. So far, they hadn’t made any indications that they would harm her. Besides, when she passed out, one of them had moved her to her bed. If they wanted to hurt her, surely, they would’ve done that already. So, she concluded that she didn’t have to be as terrified as she was.
“Okay then do whatever you read. I hate being trapped in here,” Crowley admitted. Wow. He couldn’t have been any harsher, now could he?
“Okay, I end this session. Whatever. Is that it?” Y/N mumbled a little awkwardly. Both Crowley and Aziraphale looked at her quietly. Nothing seemed to happen, at least nothing visible to her eyes. Did it work? Y/N didn’t even know what was supposed to happen!
That’s when Crowley cracked a smile, “See? That wasn’t so hard!” It was as if some magical bonds had let go of him and made him ten times less moody. Good for him, Y/N thought.
“Now, how about we discuss how you got him here in the first place?” Aziraphale suggested excitedly. He was naturally curious, so this was all fun and games for the angel. As long as he stayed, Aziraphale stayed. They had a conversation to finish and it didn’t matter if they did that at the bookshop or this Y/N’s apartment.
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Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed this. Your feedback would be highly appreciated 💚
Requested: Yes; @tennerz and @massivelycreepypineapple
Description: You enter into a poly relationship with Aziraphale and Crowley. When things become complicated, you feel left out in the cold. Can your relationship be fixed? Or will everything go terribly wrong and leave things left unsaid?
********************
You hadn’t lived across the street from A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop long before you were drawn to visit. During your first few visits, you were greeted rather coldly by the bookshop’s caretaker and owner, Aziraphale. Though, once he realized that you were just there to browse and didn’t intend to purchase any of his precious books, he was the kindest and most gracious host.
Somehow, he always seemed to know when you were coming for a visit. Nearly every time you showed up, he was waiting and ready with a perfectly warm cup of cocoa and your favorite armchair had a blanket thrown over its arm.
Some days he would have a new book or two ready for your perusal. Others the book you were thumbing through on your last visit was already on the coffee table opened to the page you had left off on.
When he wasn’t busy chasing serious customers away, Aziraphale would join you in the chair adjacent to yours. The conversations you shared with him were always delightful and enlightening.
It really didn’t take you long to piece together that he wasn’t entirely human.
Aziraphale’s outdated slang and wardrobe weren’t even the biggest hints. His inconsistent tense usage while recounting historical events was what initially caught your attention. The slang and wardrobe were just the final pieces that tied it all together for you.
But you never brought it up.
You suspected that he would tell you in his own time. However, you had been itching to know how he first came to be friends with the surly redhead that would occasionally strut into the shop.
Despite many attempts to make conversation with the man, you rarely got anything more than a one-word response from him. That is until you discovered his love for all things space-related.
Crowley, whose name you had finally managed to pull out of him, could never resist rambling on about the stars. He could go on and on for hours. The triple star system Alpha Centauri was a favorite of his.
Through those conversations, you’d deduced that Anthony J. Crowley wasn't entirely human either, but you didn’t care.
After about a year, you realized that you had fallen in love with Aziraphale.
It was a startling revelation for you to make, and for some reason it didn’t scare you that he wasn’t entirely human, which he still hadn’t admitted to.
At first, you weren’t sure how to proceed but you decided to put on your big girl pants and ask Aziraphale out on a date. Much to your surprise, and after much stammering and stuttering on his behalf, he accepted.
Turns out that he had become as enamored with the book loving young woman who frequented his shop as you had become with him.
Your first date was a picnic in the park, and it was followed by several more lovely dates.
The first shock in your relationship came when Aziraphale and Crowley approached you to confess that the two of them had been an item for quite some time.
At first, you were dumbstruck, but after a bit of reflection, it was hard for you to see how you’d missed it. The way they had interacted had always screamed that they were in love but apparently, you were too busy to notice.
“My dear, I have really enjoyed the last few weeks with you,” Aziraphale had said gently, “but before we go any further we all need to be sure that this… relationship I have with Crowley is something that we are all comfortable with.”
“I-I understand,” you had said, “Can I just take the night to think about it?”
Crowley and Aziraphale shared a long look before Aziraphale offered a smile, “Of course, you can.”
“But there’s one more thing we need to get out of the way,” Crowley said, “He and I, we’re not human.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished, “I thought we were going to wait until-,”
“No, it’s fine, Zira,” you laughed, “I’ve known that for a while.”
“You what?!” Both exclaimed at the same time.
“I’m not an idiot,” you shook your head, “Neither one of you exactly do a good job hiding it. I’ve just never been able to figure out exactly what you are.”
“Well, then,” Aziraphale blinked, “I’m an angel and he’s-,”
“A demon,” Crowley cut in as he peeled off his sunglasses to reveal his snake-like eyes, “Are you alright with that? Being in a relationship with a monster?”
“You’re many things Anthony J. Crowley,” you said gently, “but a monster isn’t one of them. I don’t really care what either of you are. I’ve spent enough time with both of you to know that you’re good at heart. I just need time to figure out if I’m comfortable being in a poly relationship.”
“Take all the time you need,” Aziraphale urged while Crowley tried to pick his jaw up off the floor after your admission that you didn’t care about him being a demon.
He’d been so sure you would run for the hills once you’d seen his eyes, but you didn’t so much as flinch when he'd pulled of his sunglasses.
True to your word, you spent that night contemplating whether or not you could be a part of a polyamorous relationship. It didn't take you long to conclude it was something you were okay with. At the same time it struck you that you'd developed feelings for Crowley. You were just slower to see them than you were with the ones you had for Aziraphale.
After making your decision and a brief adjustment period, your trio fell into a comfortable rhythm. People always seemed intrigued by the modern young woman walking hand in hand with the washed-up rockstar and the old-fashioned gentleman. At first the staring bothered you but your partners were quick to squash that insecurity.
For a while, everything seemed perfect but then they had to leave for “an extended business trip” as they had described it.
It frustrated you to no end that you were to be left behind in London while they were away. Sure, they promised to visit as often as they could and keep in touch via text and phone calls as much as they could, but it wasn’t the same.
You wanted to go with them. You fought to go with them.
“Come on, Crowley,” you begged as you watched him put the finishing touches on the nanny make-up he had insisted upon doing by hand even though he could have just snapped his fingers, “Let me come with you! I could pretend to be their chef or something. Anything so I can be with you and Zira.”
“Aziraphale already told you why we can’t take you with us, love,” Crowley said sadly, “It’s not safe. If either of our sides found out about you…”
“I know,” you groaned, “It wouldn’t be good, but I just don’t understand why I have to stay here. I could move closer to wherever you’re going so we could still be together.”
“The answer is no,” Crowley said firmly as he snapped his compact mirror shut, “We need you to stay here in London and keep an eye on things. You’ll be safer here. We will stay in touch and visit as often as we can. It will be like we never left.”
“It won’t be the same,” you pouted.
“It will be over before you know it,” Crowley promised before he pressed a kiss to your lips and slipped out the door.
It wasn’t over before you knew it. It was years that they spent away from you and it bothered you to no end that they wouldn’t tell you why.
While they were away, there were many times you considered ending the relationship. It was unbelievably frustrating that they shared this secret together and refused to let you in on it and left you behind to care for the bookshop and Crowley’s plants.
You never did end it, you kept telling yourself that when they finally came home for good everything would get better.
But when they finally came home, the secrets didn’t end. They kept sneaking around for days after their return.
Several times you caught them whispering about “finding the right boy” and “we have to stop this for her.”
Finally you had enough and cornered Aziraphale alone in the bookshop.
“Please, Zira, why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?” you begged, “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“You’re not going crazy, my dear,” he tried to reassure you, “and there is nothing going on. Everything is just fine.”
“No, it’s not!” you yelled, “You and Crowley have been sneaking around behind my back ever since you got home and I’m sick of it! The three of us are supposed to be in this together.”
“We are in this together, darling,” Aziraphale sighed.
“It sure as hell doesn’t feel like it,” you snapped, “The two of you have been together for over 6000 years, Aziraphale! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel sometimes? I feel like the third wheel.”
“You are not the third wheel,” Aziraphale said firmly as he took your hands in his, “We both love you just as much as we love each other. You have to know that by now.”
“Then why did you leave me alone for all those years while you two were off galivanting together,” you demanded, tears now streaking down your face, “and why do I still feel so alone now that you’re back?”
“We told you that it was for your own-,”
“I swear to someone that if you say it was for my own good,” you cut him off as you yanked your hands out of his grasp, “I will walk out that door right now and never come back.”
“You don’t mean that,” Aziraphale looked stricken, “Please if you just give us a couple of more days to sort things out, I promise that things will go back to the way they were before.”
“I don’t believe you,” you choked out.
Aziraphale tried to reach out to you again but his heart sank when you shrank away from his touch.
"I can't take this anymore," you wrapped your arms around yourself, "I'm done."
“Wait! Please don't go, my dear,” Aziraphale begged as you fled towards the door.
He started to follow after you but he decided that it was better if he didn’t. You were so worked up that he knew it wouldn’t do him any good to chase after you now. It would just lead to more yelling and that never ends well. He resolved to find you after things calmed down and he and Crowley had a chance to sort out Armageddon.
********************
After storming out of Aziraphale’s bookshop you tore down the street, trying to get as far away as you could. You wandered around for several hours and eventually calmed down enough to realize that you hadn’t been entirely fair to Aziraphale. So, you decided to go back and apologize.
A gasp fell from your lips when you turned the corner onto the bookshop’s street and were greeted by the horrific sight of it engulfed in flames.
You felt as if you were going to be sick but your feet carried you towards the bookshop faster than they ever had before. You quickly realized that your angel was nowhere to be seen outside and it felt like ice had been dumped into your veins.
You knew that as an angel, Aziraphale was more immune to physical harm than the average human, but that didn’t stop the fear from building inside you. What if this much fire was too much for him to handle? What if something else had happened and the fire was just a coverup?
Without thinking you ran into the burning building.
“Aziraphale, where are you?!” you screamed over the roar of the flames as you burst through the doors, “Aziraphale!”
You tried to push further into the inferno. You only made it a few rows into the maze of shelves before a coughing fit brought you to your knees.
Your vision started to blur as you choked and gagged on the acrid smoke burning your lungs. Meanwhile the heat of the growing flames seared your skin.
Panic gripped your chest as it set in that you might die here.
Panic that you were going to die before you had the chance to tell Aziraphale that you were sorry.
You were going to die before you had the chance to tell him how much you love him and Crowley just one more time.
But then you heard the most blessed sound. A single voice rang out over the roar of the blaze.
“Aziraphale! Where the heaven are you?!” you heard Crowley bellow, “I can’t find you!”
“C-Crowley,” you tried to call out but your voice was weak.
You kept trying but Crowley couldn’t hear you over the sound of his own voice yelling through the roar of the fire. You heard a rushing sound, almost like water maybe, interrupt Crowley’s yelling but a moment later he resumed.
“Somebody’s killed my best friend!” you heard him scream and your heart broke. If Crowley thinks Aziraphale’s dead then he must be. Mustn’t he? “Bastards! All of you!”
Hearing the pain and anguish shake your demon’s voice renewed your will. You couldn’t let Crowley lose both of the people he loved most on the same day in the same bookshop.
Gathering up every ounce of energy you had left, you raised your voice and choked out Crowley's name one last time. The last thing you did before collapsing to the floor gasping for air.
Crowley’s head snapped towards the sound of your voice. His panic skyrocketed as he muttered, “No… no, no, no, no…”
Crowley hauled himself up off the ground and staggered into the rows of shelves in search of you. Praying to whoever was listening that he was wrong. That he hadn’t just heard your voice calling out to him from somewhere in this bookshop.
Aziraphale had called to tell him about the fight the two of you had had and Aziraphale’s words rang in Crowley’s head.
“She was so upset, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him, “I’ve never seen her that upset. I-I’m scared that we’re losing her. She ran out of here so quickly. I couldn’t stop her.”
He hoped and prayed that you hadn’t come back. That you hadn’t come back and become trapped in this inferno.
Crowley’s prayers went unanswered when he spotted you several feet ahead of him sprawled on the floor hacking and gasping for air.
“Hang on, love!” Crowley called out as he continued towards you, “I’m coming.”
You never saw it coming but Crowley did. He heard the groaning of the ceiling above you. He tried to stop it but it all happened so fast. Too fast. He didn't get a chance to react before it gave way and debris rained down on you.
There was a flash of light as the flames burned brighter and smoke that pushed Crowley back several steps.
When the flare dimmed down and he was able to see again, the sight was devastating. Your head and chest were just barely peeking out from under the pile of debris.
He screamed your name as he closed the distance. Crowley knew he was running out of time. The flames licking toward your body told him as much.
When he finally reached you, he fell to his knees af your side, “Please... Please… don’t be dead. I can’t lose you, too.”
He felt desperately for a pulse.
“Thank someone,” he sighed with relief when he felt your pulse thrumming under his fingers, “Let’s get you out of here, my star.”
Crowley snapped his fingers and the debris vanished.
He carefully rolled you to your back and gently gathered you up.
Once you were secure in his arms, he rushed out of the burning bookshop and made a beeline for the Bentley.
He ignored the firemen yelling at him to stop.
“Sir!” one of them yelled, “You need to let us take her to the hospital.”
He knew that they wanted to help you, but no-one was more qualified to help you than him. He was going to save you. He had to because if he didn’t he would be all alone.
Aziraphale was who knows where and you were dying.
********************
Crowley tore through the streets of London as fast as he could without jostling you too much. He frequently cast worried glances in the rearview mirror at your limp body slumped across the backseat. He arrived at the flat the three of you shared in record time and wasted none of it getting you inside.
He gingerly lowered you onto the bed. The demon took a steadying breath before he reached out to place his hand on your forehead, pausing briefly to brush a few strands of your singed hair away from your face.
It broke him to see you like this.
Ash was smeared across your body and your skin was mottled with burns and cuts from the fire and collapsed ceiling.
He closed his eyes and started to get a sense of how much damage had been done to you in the bookshop. With every injury he counted his rage built. Each broken bone and burn was another injury he swore he would repay to the ones responsible for this.
He cringed as his mind brushed yours and the emotional pain you'd experienced washed over him. That sensation was worse than all of the physical pain he'd cataloged while mapping your injuries.
Aziraphale had not been exaggerating how distraught you had been.
“I am so sorry,” Crowley whispered as he opened his eyes, “I’m going to fix this, sweetheart. When you wake up everything is going to be alright. I promise.”
Crowley placed his hand on your forehead once again and began healing all of your injuries.
Once you were whole again, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, “Sleep well, my love.”
There was one thing Crowley couldn’t miracle away and that was exhaustion, and after the day you’d had you were exhausted beyond belief. He knew that you were going to be asleep for quite some time. He just hoped that he would be able to figure out how to stop Armageddon and that there would still be a world for you to wake up to.
********************
When you opened your eyes, you were surprised to find you'd somehow ended up in your own bed and weren’t sure how long you had been there.
You shifted a bit in the bed triggering a flood of memories that came crashing in.
You shot up in the bed and gasped as you remembered the burning bookshop and the searing pain you’d felt when something collapsed onto you.
Your sudden movement and sound of terror, scared awake the bedmates you hadn’t realized were on either side of you.
“What’s wrong?!” Aziraphale exclaimed at the same time Crowley gasped your name.
“The b-bookshop and you were d-dead and I-I couldn't breathe, and I-I-” you broke down sobbing and collapsed into Aziraphale’s arms as dozens of emotions overwhelmed you.
“Oh, my dear, everything is alright,” Aziraphale cooed gently as he stroked your hair, “You’re safe now. Everything is going to be alright now. We promise.”
“H-how did I get here?” you hiccupped into Aziraphale’s chest.
“That was me,” Crowley interjected as he scooted closer to you on your other side and began rubbing calming circles into your back.
He explained everything that took place while you were out and when he finished a heavy silence fell which he broke after a few moments, “I know it’s a lot to take in after you just woke up from something like that but we can answer any questions you might have.”
“Yes, Crowley’s right, my dear,” Aziraphale hummed, “Now that we’ve stopped Armageddon, there are not going to be any more secrets between the three of us. Ask us anything you like about the last several years and we will answer your questions completely honestly.”
“Really?” you sniffled as you pulled away from Aziraphale’s chest.
“Really,” Crowley promised as he snaked his arms around your waist and pulled you close.
“No more secrets?” you asked.
“No more secrets,” both of them said in unison.
“I’m really really relieved to hear that,” you said as you leaned into Crowley’s chest.
“But?” Crowley sensed there was more that you wanted to say.
“I’m still really tired,” you muttered, “Can we get a couple more hours of sleep before we dig into all of this… stuff?”
“Of course,” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to your temple, “Anything you want, my dear.”
“Good,” you yawned and allowed yourself to be pulled back into the bed by Crowley, his arms still wrapped around you, “I missed both of you so much. I was so scared that I was losing you.”
“We know,” Aziraphale said as he snuggled in next to you, “We're both very sorry we made you feel like you didn’t belong.”
“That was never our intention,” Crowley whispered into your hair, “You’re our girl. Our shining star all these years. We love you so much it hurts sometimes. We were just trying to protect you.”
“He’s right,” Aziraphale smiled as he watched your eyes droop shut, “We love you. So. So much.”
After the stress of the last week, it didn’t take you long to fall back asleep but thanks to being wrapped in both of your lovers’ arms, you fell into a deep and restful sleep.
There was work yet to be done when you woke up. It wasn’t going to be easy to rebuild what the three of you had. The demands of Heaven and Hell had pulled them away from you, but there was no doubt that you would all come through it and your relationship would be stronger than ever.
********************
A/N: I hope that you all enjoyed! Thanks to both of the lovely people who sent in the requests that inspired this work. I hope that it’s alright I combined the two requests and that I still hit the major points of what you both wanted! ~M
Summary: He saves you. And you chase him through several lifetimes trying to thank him. Platonic, no romance, written because Crowley loves kids
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Author’s Note: This is my first time writing (and publishing!) reader-insert fanfiction, and I got inspiration from a chapter of Little Pet Shop of Horrors, a Good Omen’s AU regarding Crowley sneaking kids onto the Ark (if the author would message me so I can credit, I would appreciate it!) and other reincarnation stories. These are all based on meetings he has with Aziraphale throughout history, and taking into context the problems that went on during this. This is not a condemnation of certain cultures, religions or peoples, but rather an observation of how it could have affected kids.
If anyone thinks the level of effort Crowley goes to in protecting kids is not accurate with the book or show, that that’s up to you. This is a personal view of what I think Crowley would do in situations where innocent kids will get hurt or killed. I also used the closest thing I could think of to the original names of Jesus and others, though I’m certain I may have inaccuracies. If there are any experts who can point them out for me, I’d appreciate knowing my mixups, though I don’t think I’ll be editing. (ie, no beta read, we die like men)
Also please note that I’m not doing romantic shipping because I personally view Crowley and Aziraphale as agender, asexual beings in reference to what Neil Gaiman has come out to say about them, being a demon and an angel and all. If you like romantic shipping, please write your own or support other readers!
I don’t own Good Omens, because if I did there would be real dinosaurs and I would be living in a castle by the sea, so don’t sue please.
The first time, it was raining very hard.
Your father remarked that such a mighty rain in the desert was surely a promise from above that there would be more fertile lands. More water for barely, wheat, to bake bread and brew beer. You wish you knew what your mother would have thought of it all. But she had been dead seven years, and your father had already married a third time. And your stepmother did not bother to tell you anything. More often than not, she pretended you were not there.
“It’s raining too much.” Your friends remarked, the third day in. “We should ask if we can get on that big boat out beyond the village.”
The local madman, your father called him.
A ship of great proportions, but with no sail or rudder. It seemed less a boat and more of a glorified tub to float in the ocean….except the sea was miles and miles away and would not hasten to him, surely. But there had been remarkable things. A week ago, he let out a great shout for all of the beasts and creatures of the world to come unto him. And they had. Two by two, pair by pair. You saw animals you had no name for. Great big cats with stripes that barely licked their chops in your direction, even as you ducked behind your father, but rather padded along patiently towards the ship. Animals bigger than a house, with a tail at both ends! Even mice were scampering to join the ferry.
The rain drowns the crops, and starts billowing over into your house. Your stepmother, irritated, pregnant, and tired of the soggy state of things, chases you out while your father snores in their bed.
“Hurry! Look!” The children shout at you to join them on top of a big rock. The water is flowing more heavily now, and covers your feet and make your sandals heavy. “It’s the ocean!”
Sure enough, it is the ocean. The adults scoff that it was just the nearby river, but strange fish splash out from it. It looks too big to be a river. And too muddy.
The stranger comes.
“Come.” He hushes you all, a group of twelve children, who are curious at his red hair and yellow eyes. You give a last glance at your house. Your stepmother will not mind if you are gone long. And father will not notice. And this stranger is not like the other adults who are impatient and sometimes lash out when a child is too noisy. He hangs back from view, and watches things as they happen. “Hurry up. There’s not much time left.”
The water around the ark is up to your waist, though it only comes to the stranger’s knees as you wade to the base of the boat. Shem has pulled up the gangplank. He shouts angrily at the people of the village, for shunning their God. For sin. For the corruption of their existence.
The stranger casts one frustrated look of desperation to the skies, grabs a plank and pops it open. You’re all in awe and surprise. The planks are made of tough oak, and the stranger didn’t even use a hammer.
“Get in, you lot. Quick, quick, before we’re noticed.”
But you are all very afraid now. The rain comes down harder, the wind whipping it as you all hold your clothes together tightly, cowering in the coming storm. You jump at the sound of crackling thunder, and look up as lightning bursts in the sky.
You know that much more than the ocean has come to greet you.
So you lead the way, and climb aboard.
The other children, hesitantly at first, follow. And finally the stranger climbs in, putting the plank back where it was and banging the nails back in the other way with his own fist.
All thirteen of you huddle together in the dark hull, and begin to hear things. First it was just heavy rushes of water, splashing the ship. Then it gives a great lurch, and you can feel it floating. There is noise and commotion outside, hearing men slosh around and yelling instructions to slow the flow. Then you hear them urging the others to climb the rooftops of their homes. Then the screaming.
The stranger lets the children cling to him as the storm rages outside. You are right under his arm, hugging his waist and trembling. You all were the children who were awake. But there were many other children in the village. And some had not even been born.
You think you hear your father crying out to the heavens before it is swallowed up by a wave of water and let out a gasp. Without hesitation, the stranger moves one of his hands to your head, soothing you. Your father rarely touched you save to express his frustration or to move you aside.
You wonder if this was a man sent by God.
Peeking up, the stranger’s gaze is intently on a shadow in the hull of the ship, what would lead to the animal pens above. It is tense, fearful, waiting. Hoping. Wishing that you all are not caught.
A long time ago, a black snake slipped into your house and scared your first stepmother to bits, and was chased out by your father. It occurs to you that his eyes are precisely that same kind.
The storm rages, and you are all lulled to sleep.
“Here. Look outside.”
All of you have been wafting in and out of sleep, anxious waiting in the dark, and eating whatever the stranger procures when he briefly departs into the darkness to find some food. It is very little, a couple of raw vegetables or a loaf of bread to share, washed down with fresh water. And you have no idea how long you all have been afloat. Sometimes the rocking of the ship makes you sick. Sometimes it just makes you tired.
When the stranger beckons you all to the plank you had crawled in from, you realize the ship is very, very still.
He pops it open, and there is an amazing sight outside.
A bridge in the sky, with every beautiful color you have ever known and some you have only heard about. A bright white bird with a laurel in its toes soars across the sky, and the sun is shining. There is a lot of water still. And a lot of mud. But it is receding.
“That’s a promise.” The stranger says. “That this won’t happen again.”
But clearly he does not trust this sign from God.
The stranger is careful. He waits until the animals disperse and waits even longer for Shem and his family to set forth with their wives, children and livestock, to claim what is left. When there is nothing but fresh new silence, he leads you all along. “The sun won’t set on you here.” He says as he takes you to the edge of a new sea. His long arm points to a mountain far, far away. “Keep walking. When you reach that mountain, you’ll find a new home. Don’t tell them where you came from. Don’t let them know how you got here.” He looks down and you gaze up at him. “And for hell’s sake don’t let this be the end of you.”
You want to ask him to come along, but the other children have begun to walk, and….after a long wait, you hurry to catch up.
The twelve of you never forget his face. But you had no name to recall him by. So the others begin to forget him for real.
Canaan is fertile, fine land. Shem and his family must have roamed elsewhere. But there are good people here, surprised to find so many lost children wandering around. The high priest of Canaan divines that this was the work of God that you came here, and one by one, you are interred into new homes. You do not form real familial relations with your foster family at first. But a shy cousin is taken with you, and in time, you make your own.
You used to remember the stranger with the other lost children. But soon they stop talking about it. And when you ask, they frown, and tell you they were born here.
Your last breath is drawn upon the birth of your second child. When you see the black cloak your heart leaps with joy…the stranger has come back.
But you feel very cold to realize this is another stranger.
“Yes.” He agrees. “Very much a stranger.”
Your mother in law is wailing alongside the baby, but your body is cold and lifeless. There is grief in the air, but the question has been hanging on for some time now. “Who is he?” You ask. “What is his name?”
“You are dead. You will never see him again.”
“I could.” You said in a small voice. “I might. The sun is reborn every day. The moon waxes and wanes. I could come back too.”
“Would you? Would you relive this life? To know his name?”
“…I didn’t even say thank you. I wouldn’t have lived this long if he hadn’t.”
There is a long silence, and you see the world shrouded in darkness…pinpricked with dying lights that flash brightly before fading away. “Exactly this way. Every time.” Death agrees. “You will be born in time to see him. You will marry and have two children. And you will live only thirty two years before you start all over again.” The promise sounds like a dark omen, as if you should be afraid of such an arrangement. “Until you can express your gratitude, that will be your cycle.”
“That is enough for me.” You whisper, and feel your face and name become less familiar. “Until I can say thank you.”
You do not close your eyes. You don’t have the form to do so anymore.
_______
The next time, it is in Palestine. Galilee.
Your father and stepmother are worrying again, over the state of Roman affairs. It should have mattered less to them, being Jews, but their king in Rome had a lot to say about Jews being Jewish. Even as she soothes your future sibling, resting in her tummy, your stepmother says a lot of prayers, urging God to avert the Roman gaze away from you when you go out to play.
Most Roman legionaries don’t care about the multitude of children that run amok in the streets, and you and your friends play with hoops, ball games, and sometimes draw in the dirt or with charcoal on the walls. Sometimes they chuckle and remark on their own children in Rome, being minded by their mothers, sisters, and wives. You wonder why they don’t stay in Rome with their families like they should, but when you think on it, staring at them, they bark in Latin and make you run.
Your friend is a neighbor, who sings brightly. She is singing a hymn about Abraham in the yard, weaving alone, when you hear her stop and her mother screams. Your father tries to keep you from looking, but you climb to your bed in the loft and peer out.
A legionnaire is wiping the blood off his gladius, and your friend is dead, stabbed in the throat and bleeding heavily into the street. Her mother is wailing and screaming in horror, bent over her body and her tears flowing into the street. The legionnaire scolds her for letting her daughter be so crass in public and gives her a hard kick.
Your father grabs a cudgel from the wall. Your stepmother sees and grows pale, shutting the door behind him and fastening it shut.
Many other fathers do the same, and the riot that breaks out is so loud that you have to cover your ears and hide in the pantry with the door locked. You scream when the walls crumble in the kitchen, and your stepmother praying for mercy when a someone cuts her off. The door is forced open and you’re dragged out.
You choke at the sight of a street, wrecked from the fighting, with more Jews lying in pieces and Romans gathering up the inhabitants and shoving them along. They’re taking you to the coliseum.
Some Jews who worship openly, or even privately, get dragged in there and never come out. Your father used to say it was because the Romans wanted to look strong, and thus they put charges on people who had no power and punished them for their innocence. It occurs to you that among the beat up rioters, weeping mothers, and confused elderly, you are the only child in the group. You’re all forced into a dark, dry holding cell, packed together like jars of dried fish. An old woman sees you and hurries to sit you on her lap to prevent you from being crushed by the crowd.
And you’re all forced to wait.
You’re asleep when you’re forced awake by the sound of snarling. Something big. Something hungry.
The cell is half empty when you awaken. The old woman is shivering with fright. You are too. Then, a whisper passes through, and the woman urges you to move to a shadowed corner of the cell. “Come, come quickly.” The urge you, and as you are pushed forth, you see a small opening where a few bricks are removed. It’s too big for the rest, but you squeeze through with a few helpful pushes from the others, and land in the hot sand outside.
A man shaded under black linen with vibrant red hair and yellow eyes is waiting on the other side.
“Go. Run.” He urges, grabbing you by the wrist. Pulled along, the two of you race out of sight, even as cheers erupt from the coliseum. He pushes you up a ladder and over rooftops, and finally through a small door in the walls of the city. He squints into the distance, and sees a group moving forward. “C’mon, it’s not too late.” He points. “That there is a group following a man named Yeshua. That man will keep you safe from harm.” He squares you by the shoulders, bending over to look at you deep in the eye. “Do not let this place be your end. Now run.”
Something inside you tells you that you ought to wait, to say something else. But he gives you a good shove and you start running. By the time you catch up enough to look back, there is no more sight of your rescuer. He has vanished into a dot on the horizon, with the walls of Galilee behind him.
You push forward to find this man the others reverently call the son of God.
At first you hide behind the crowds when he stops by an oasis to drink. He speaks very gently to everyone, yet loud enough for the others in the back to hear as he speaks. You find yourself listening very intently, until he sees you hiding in the crowd and smiles softly.
He looks after you until a husband and wife come forward, admitting they had lost their baby and wished to take you in as their own. They have heard Yeshua’s message. They live by it. You cannot remember a family that loved you more, except perhaps the parents you have lost. You are married in another city to a friend of theirs. He is solemn and quiet, but he has soft hands and a sweet smile he keeps just for you.
After you are married, you grieve to find Yeshua has been murdered.
But when you and your husband make the pilgrimage to his tomb to pay your respects, your eyes are awash in tears to see him standing before you at the inn, smiling softly, with puncture wounds on his wrists. “My child.” He says gently, and you embrace. He has not forgotten you after all this time.
When you return home to give birth to your firstborn, they tell you he has returned to Heaven. He was here long enough to at least say goodbye. When you become pregnant a second time, you feel as though you are watching your life trickle away like grains of sand in an hourglass.
Yellow eyes. Red hair.
You don’t know his name but you want to find him.
You ask all over the town, hobbling even as the weight of your child bears down on you. But the last that was ever seen, even in Galilee, was of that man watching when they put Yeshua to the cross. Still you search, until your husband bodily carries you to an inn in the next town over. You heave and choke on your breath in a spare room at the hostel.
Regret tinges your last moments.
_____
Again you are born. This time as a slave in Rome.
Your mother cooks for Domitus Britannicus Hesperodus. A wealthy Senator with the ear of the Emperor, married twice. Your mother could not say no to him when he forced her to lay with him, and in time you were born. He didn’t seem to care that you were his flesh and blood, and neither did his children who ordered you around, mimicking their patriarch.
You think it extraordinary how slaves can get in trouble so often. As a child you often hung close to your mother, helping her bake bread and grill fish by the hot stove. But you hear stories of slaves who break furniture and pottery, dawdle on their errands, or speak impertinently to the master. You hear this from the children, who warn you that if you act out of line they will run right to your master and tell him to whip you soundly. Maybe you would even lose a hand. There is already one servant missing a hand when he deigned to steal your master’s bread, who clumsily hauls wood for the fireplaces and stokes the hearth.
When you are asked to serve the table, you realize it is the masters who decide if a slave is impertinent, clumsy, spiteful or lazy.
You don’t remember doing anything wrong. You serve the dishes, pour the wine, and remember what your mother says about keeping your eyes to the ground and staying quiet. The master has several friends over, senators dining lazily and debating philosophy. When your gaze is drawn up to a dove cooing in the window, you miss the first call for wine. The second call is a shattering cup that nearly hits you.
“Lazy!” Your master rears up like a lion about to pounce. You’re terrified as he grabs you by the arm. “Are you deaf? Now the cup is broken!” He piles on the blame and pulls back his hand. And in your panic you bite down on his arm.
You hear him yowl as you run away, dropping the wine jar and spilling it all over the floor as you make haste for the garden. You near trample his youngest son, who bawls when he drops his toy into the pond. You squash the flowers in the yard before leaping up to grab the edge of the wall, scrambling to get over and feeling the breeze of a whip at your heel as you climb up and over…making a run into the night. Late night revelers whoop as you run, and a few prostitutes cheer and make inappropriate gestures as you dart through them, running as your pursuers pour from the house and start to make chase.
Domitus has gotten astride his chariot, yelling at the street-goers to get out of his way as he rumbles down the street, catching up.
“Oi! You!”
You scream as you are grabbed and pulled into a narrow alley, vanishing from sight. A hand claps over your mouth and shushes you. “Hush, shshshsh,” The stranger quiets you like a hissing snake, putting a finger to his mouth. “Keep your mouth shut and you might get away.”
His hair is short, curled, and as bright red as burnished copper. You cannot see his eyes for the dark spectacles on his face, but he has dark, dyed toga, and a golden laurel around his head. He looks around and gestures you to follow. “This way, be quick about it.” The idea of your master in his chariot with a cracking whip demolishes any idea of mistrust and you cling to his toga as you follow him along.
You hasten to a different district, where there are more Germans, Greeks, and Britons mulling about than Romans. He speaks in an unfamiliar language to a group of men in wool cloaks, who eye you very curiously. You hide behind the stranger, but he eventually pulls you aside.
“Right. Stay calm now.” He says quietly. “My friends over here are going to a different place called Gaul. You ever been there?” You shake your head. “Speak any Gaulish at all?” Again, you shake your head, and he tuts. “Pity. But you’ll get the hang of it. Ol’ Tiberius here speaks Latin, he’ll teach you.” He jerks his head at a very big fellow with a strange pewter knot that looks like a snake on his cloak. “Now, I want you to go with them and get as far away from here as you can. Your old master’s gotten himself all worked up, and it’s not worth your life if he catches you, believe me.”
You must have looked afraid because he strokes your head and pulls something from his pocket. A gold coin so old it has since lost all of its features. “Here. If you’re worried about them, you can hop off anytime you like and buy yourself a trade. Keep that close and don’t lose it.” He drops it in your hand and closes it shut.
“But you’ve got a lot more life to live than anyone else here, so keep going.”
It’s enough encouragement to nod your head and to climb into a wagon with the Gauls. But as it begins to rattle off, you realize something and stand up, shouting over the edge.
“Wait!” You yell. “What’s your name?!”
But the stranger only waves and turns back into the crowd, swallowed up by a sea of strangers.
You find your new husband in Gaul by the time you arrive. He’s big and burly and laughs out loud, but cradles you like a little bird and awes over your smaller feet and hands. You learn Gaulish, and learn to enjoy the quiet of the moors and the flowers of the new land. You like the village you come to make your home, and cry when your firstborn child enters this world.
Your second child dies, and you sob to see its corpse exit you as you leave this world.
_______
You had an idyllic childhood the next time. Right until you turned thirteen.
With every pound on the door, you wince, unable to eat the meal your nurse has put before you. The household knights look impressive with their armor, tunics and swords, but they shiver as the Red Knight demands your submission outside the castle.
The Red Knight had learned of you after the death of his fifth bride…another fine young lady of another castle. He rode up to your home, demanded your father show himself, and when he did he challenged him to a duel for your hand and killed him before he could accept or object. With his many squires, fellow renegades and cutthroats making camp around the castle, bullying the locals, you had sensibly shut the gates and barred all entry. There was enough food to last a short siege, what you hoped would be a short one anyway as you wrote a letter to the Kingdom of Essex and the Knights of the Table Round. The letter was put on a hawk to be delivered, and shot down before it could reach the castle.
With no more hawks, and food growing short, the Red Knight laughed that he would starve you out sooner or later.
You pick at your pottage and fish and feel very cold at the idea of marrying him. He had eyes for every young maiden in the area, and no sooner did he wed them did he condemn them to sad, lonely deaths in their bedrooms….chained to the wall some said.
“No one can stand against the Red Knight and live.” One of your knights shuddered at the thought. “He will have us, one way or another.” And with no way of requesting a champion it seemed that would be the end of you.
The Black Knight strolled into the village by surprise, and outdid several of the Red Knight’s squires when they tried to beat him out of his armor. You feared he was just another thug until he made a request at the gate, the Red Knight begrudgingly with him.
“Hello!” He shouts, until you appear at the parapet. “Are you the lady of Willshire Castle?”
“I am.” You call back.
“Right.” He gives a short bow. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex, come to represent you in a duel of arms against the Red Knight of Barborough.”
“This time my lady-“ The Red Knight interrupts. “-you will give your solemn vow. To whomever achieves victory over the other, you will dedicate your hand in marriage. Do you swear before God to do this?”
The Black Knight’s expression is impossible to see, but he looks at the Red Knight with what you can guess is a look of exasperation as he throws up his hands in annoyance at the suggestion. “Er. Yeah. Marriage.” He agrees half-heartedly.
You have nothing to lose. Your household knights and servants will be slaughtered wholesale if you do not accept. And no one else has stood up the Red Knight before. “I vow before God and this community.” You swear. “That to the victor of this duel I will dedicate my hand in holy matrimony.”
The Black Knight wriggles in place uncomfortably. And you’re confused. Wasn’t that what he was here for?
The Red Knight draws his sword and bows dramatically. “I shall dedicate his death to you my love!” He swears viciously, making your blood run cold. “And when I win we will be wed at once! You! Squire!” He barks at one of his cronies. “Go and fetch a priest if we’ve still got one, this won’t take long!”
And to the shock and awe of all…it really doesn’t.
The mystery knight struggles to remove his sword from the Red Knight’s back, his opponent’s face still frozen in shock at the rapid end to the duel. By some form of magic, or curse, it was as if the Red Knight’s sword had turned to butter, slipping from his hands, and leaving the Black Knight free to give him a quick thrust to the chest. Finally the Black Knight wrenches the sword from the armor, groaning at the mess. “Urgh.” He fishes out a black handkerchief and wipes it off, sheathing it.
You suppose a promise is a promise, and order the gates to be opened.
Escorted by the household knights, who eye him with suspicion, you are suddenly very self conscious. Your father had plans for you to marry at a better age. Thirteen he said, was far too young to wed. You were still too delicate for marriage, to immature. Was this knight no better than the last?
The squire rushes back with a priest, who yells in shock at the sight of the infamous knight now dead, the prize delivering itself to his enemy. “Y-you! You’re some kind of demon!”
“You’ve got that right.” The Black Knight declared, hopping astride his horse and bringing it around. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex. Lord of the Darklands that will never be claimed!” His horse swung its mane, and he moved to dodge it. “And to meet with me is to meet…your Death!”
You’re scared as he offers you his hand. A promise is a promise. Your word before God and all others.
But you feel safe as you are pulled onto the horse, the knight nearly missing the priest as he speeds away from the castle, racing down the road. You hold on as the horse jounces the both of you until it slows, and you stop for the night.
“Here.” He helps you down, and starts a fire, sitting on a log to take a drink from a wineskin. “Take a rest, we’ll camp for the night before we ride to Wessex.” He passes you the wine, and moreover, shares a hunk of ham, cheese and bread from his saddlebag. You expect him to take what he has won as the Red Knight would, but instead he grumbles over the tent and the fire and struggles out of his armor to rest.
His hair is the devil’s own red, and his eyes are like a viper, yellow and serpentine. But he does not do anything to you without asking, and even then it is only to offer you something to eat, something to drink, and a warm blanket to rest in.
“Don’t you want to marry me?” You asked on the ride to Wessex. It’s very foggy, and the sun is barely making headway through the clouds.
“What am I going to do married?” He asks, a little irritable. He does not seem to like riding by horse, especially in plate armor. “Besides, you’re just a little girl. Don’t have time to babysit little girls, I’ve got fear to ferment and trouble to start elsewhere.”
When you ask why he bothered to help, he claimed there was a fly buzzing in his armor and he couldn’t hear you. He gives you no reason as to why he would bother until a castle comes into view farther away and he helps you off. “See that castle?” He points. “That’s the eastern hold of King Arthur. Rules these parts.” He lifts up his visor to squint. “There’s a knight of the Table Round that lives there, friend of mine. Ask for Sir Aziraphale and he’ll give you a hand.”
“Why?”
“He’s a knight of King Arthur, that’s what he does.” He says, as if it were obvious.
“Who should I say sent me?” You ask.
It looks like he doesn’t want to answer. “You already know. The Black Knight.”
“But what is your name?”
He turns his horse around, and you think you are going to be parting with an answer.
“Crowley.”
And that is how you learn his name, muttered under his breath and with a visor muffling his words before he takes off into the fog, disappearing quickly.
You end up having to wait for Sir Aziraphale, and accept the hospitality of another knight. That knight watches over you from the time you are thirteen to the time you are thirty two….only later he does so as your husband. He leaves to fight the war against King Arthur’s bastard son and never returns.
Your firstborn sobs at your bedside as your second child, both now fatherless, is brought into this world. You want to comfort him but can’t find the strength or the words. And when your breath fails you, you grieve to have left your children orphans in this world.
___
Time marches on. When the plague claims your home, you are forced to leave it after the doctors set it ablaze to prevent the spread of disease. You were supposed to be a part of the conflagration, but you are slippery and snuck out the back window when they thought they had locked you in.
London is an enormous cesspool of rich and poor, with more rats than citizens, and enough hidey-holes and spaces to make do in if you were crafty enough. You’re one of an army of pickpockets, and often you flatter passersby asking for directions sweetly while your hands craftily nick them of their belongings. You privately dream of an apprenticeship somewhere, with a sound roof and a master who was even tempered and would overlook an urchin such as yourself. But you don’t have that kind of wealth. None of the working class really do.
So you fill your pockets with coppers and stolen bread and the occasional raisin pie if you employ the aid of a few friends to badger the baker.
You attempted to pick the wrong pocket one afternoon and got caught.
“Let go!” You cried, wrist snatched by a tall gentlemen with dark hose, a velvet doublet and long red curls. He gives a frown down his long nose and dark spectacles and pulls you along. “Well don’t go pretending you didn’t earn it. You’re a pickpocket, own up to it.” He chides, leading you along. You protest noisily, but his grip does not threaten to snap your arm, but is rather firm and insistent, like when your father caught you sneaking apples from the orchard and urged you to come with him to apologize to the neighbor.
He takes you to a huge theater which stops your shouting if only to look up in amazement. It’s the Globe Theater, of all places. A place you would never be allowed and which you only dreamed of entering to see the plays and maybe even catch the good Queen Bess when she came to pay respects to the great playwright-
“Oi William!”
The gentlemen looses his grip and moves it quickly to your shoulder. The theater is empty, but there is a clear rehearsal on stage, people in flowy robes bickering over the lines while a painted backdrop of a misty forest is being lowered into place. “Sir Crowley-“ He looks a bit harried, and shockingly normal for a man people claimed had God’s inspiration for his great work. “-come to see the rehearsal? We’re still not near ready yet-“
“Oh I understand that.” Sir Crowley responds. “But I just remembered you were looking for a proper person to play the role of Pan, and I think I found them.”
Your jaw drops.
Shakespeare looks you over with insightful gaze and checks your look. “Hmm…whimsically impish even. Do you speak very well?”
“That’s just practice is all.” Sir Crowley insists. “Besides you really don’t have much time before the play is due do you?”
“No I suppose not. Giles!” He shouts, summoning a tired looking assistant. “Get this child washed up and into costume. We’ll go over the lines at once!”
“B-b-but I’ve never b-been on stage before!” You stammer, and Sir Crowley laughs. “Don’t fret. Just say the lines and play your bit. The more you act the more the audience likes it. This is one of the funny ones.”
It occurs to you that you should say thank you. But instead you are whisked off, and Sir Crowley is only ever mentioned in conversation thereafter.
You love the stage. When you dance on as the goat footed Pan and gleefully cause mischief, the audience laughs out loud and cheers when you give your final bow. You love the stage later when you’re old enough to play the dramas. And you love the actor you shared the stage with many, many times, before he carries you off to his family home to make you his wife.
The two of you still watch the plays that come, even after William’s star fades. Your child enjoys it. But when you find out you’re pregnant again, you have a terrible dream.
“I didn’t say thank you.” You sob into your beloved’s arms, feeling full of regret and sorrows. “I should have thanked him.”
In nine months, it will be his turn to cry into your arms. But you will not be alive to hold him.
_________
You were engaged for four months before your betrothed met the guillotine.
You were young, but you were an aristocrat. Engagements at eleven were very normal, and it had been the case for your mother. They assumed that a choice marriage to a duke would fix the issue of safety as their lives were threatened, angry letters from the townsfolk threatening their lives if they did not surrender their wealth and grain to the Republic of France.
Your husband-to-be was thirty and swaggered out to fight them. He instead was betrayed by his men, arrested and executed.
Your parents avoided the spectacle of the guillotine. The duke had been an embodiment of the hated aristocracy and was a symbol to be crushed, over and over with many other dukes and even the king.
But sitting in the Bastille, dressed in white and trying to pray in silence, your prayers were constantly interrupted by the swing of the blade. You would not die today, nor tomorrow. But soon. Your guard promised you that whenever he brought food and water.
In the fortress you heard the sobs and cries of others, older, and younger than you. They said the Dauphin of France was caged here with his siblings, his own mother separated from him. Perhaps a baby boy was too little to execute via guillotine, but you were tall enough and had a pretty, snowy neck, as the executioner told you.
A new guard arrived without food. And strange glasses.
“Put this on. Quick.” He tossed you a parcel. Pulling it apart, it was a peasant dress and bonnet, and he turned from you to permit you some privacy and to peer out through the bars of the door. From under his hat, you see a flash of red hair. “Hurry it up, we haven’t got long.”
You’re nervous, but you change clothes, and fumble with the bonnet. When he notices, he fixes it, tying it securely under your chin and tucking the sparse hairs in. “Alright. This way.”
He slinks through the halls of the fortress like a snake, holding you back when the soldiers march past. Finally, he arrives at a dead end. You fear this is all a trap when he pulls a lever hidden in the candelabra on the wall and reveals a secret door. The passage is full of children in peasant clothes, but with soft hands that suggest they were just like you.
“Hurry. In you go.”
There are thirteen of you when he closes the wall. A small boy whimpers and you pull him to you to comfort him, removing his hat to pet his golden curls. His blue eyes remind you of a portrait in Versailles….the Dauphin?
You all gasp when the guard arrives with another, but the voice that comes from his companion is as British as his own. Unlike the first, this one is decidedly more nervous and softer, adjusting his hat constantly to cover his silvery hair. “The dummies will fool them I’m sure of it.” The second one says quickly, shushing and ushering you all down the dark stairs. “As realistic as I could make them.”
“Sure you won’t get in trouble?” Your hero replies wryly, and there must be a private joke.
“Shush. Not in front of the children.”
The secret stairway exits to the canal, and you wobble as you exit onto a boat. The foppish guard smiles at his charges and sails off in one. But your guard is very solemn as he instructs you all to sit down and be quiet. The sound of the execution above is distant, but you can tell when it happens because a roar erupts every time the blade falls down.
“Don’t listen to it.” He tells you, catching your gaze. “Understand? Don’t try to remember it.” He paddles the oars, keeping an eye out for guards. “You will be shocked how easy it is not to remember.”
You know his name. But it escapes you nonetheless, as if it were someone else’s memory. It occurs to you that you should say something when a loud shout comes from above and the sound of gunfire rains down.
It either a miracle that none of you are shot, or the fact that the boat was forcefully overturned to catch the bullets and dump you all into the Seine. By the time you flop to shore with the others, shivering and wet, the guards are befuddled and without weapons, and your two rescuers are gone.
You have to lie to the husband you meet when you flee to the Pyrenees, even though he begs to know your heritage…and you teach him how to bake cake and watch as he grows more jolly and plump every year. But you have bad dreams more often than not. The joyous welcome of your first child and your own bakery does not stop them. Your husband wakes you with a gentle hand and cradles you to calm you down.
But when you die on the birthing bed, you know deep inside you have failed again.
______
When your life starts again, you are sure you are going to die at only seven years old.
Influenza was hell for the poor. Your father worked for fourteen hours a day at the linen factory, and your mother washed laundry and kept mind of you and the skinny apartment you all shared in the smoggy district of London. Most times you ate sausages that never really tasted like pork or beef, and the sooty boys that sweep chimneys say that sometimes they have to mix in rats or cats when there isn’t enough to fill a sausage. You aren’t sure if that’s what makes you sick.
But you cough weakly as your mother carries you on her back, going from doctor to doctor, asking for help. With not enough to even cover the medicine, all of them close the door in her face. She is brought to tears as she hurries, carrying you along. You wish your father was here. But he was chained to that factory, stuck doing terrible labors all day and likely did not know you were sick yet.
It is very dark when your mother gives up at last, sobbing and holding onto you as she sits on a stoop in front of an empty house. The three of you barely had enough pence to pay rent and buy food. The paltry few coins your mother had for a doctor would not cover the costs. It wouldn’t even cover a funeral.
“Up. Come on.”
You think the person in front of you is death itself, all dark, mysterious and impatiently beckoning you. When you realize he is talking to your mother, and that she is answering, you have a hazy wondering if it wasn’t your time yet. She’s speaking too fast for you to understand, with your head all awhirl with the fever, and he answer simply enough and opens a door to a carriage.
Its very dark inside and you fall asleep.
You feel better by the time you wake up, in a softer bed, with a warm stove lit and the smell of brewed tea leaves. A gentle looking nurse is reading at the foot of your bed and brightens to see you wake up. “There you are dearie. Come now, let’s take your medicine and have a bite to eat, there’s a pet.”
You go through the motions, swallowing down the bitter syrup, but eating a soup far better than your mother can afford, with fresh, soft bread and washing it down with warm milk. Your memory catches up and your hurry to ask what happened.
“Master Crowley instructed us to keep an eye on you.” The nurse simpers. “He’s been talking with some friends and fixed up a nice living arrangement for you, isn’t that lovely?”
When you feel better, you are allowed to ask for him. But when they ask for Crowley to come, he delivers some excuse and apologizes through a letter instead.
“But…” You whimper to the nurse who delivers the message. “I have to. I have to say thank you.”
“Oh there, there-“ She hushes, gathering you in her arms. She is so soft and pillowy, you sink right into the embrace. “-don’t fret. You’ll see him again one day, you just wait and see.”
You do just that. You wait. You ask as often as you can. You study at the hospital and become a nurse and you wait. When the nurse tries for the last time to find him, she learns he has disappeared quite entirely, and you break down into tears.
The years are softened with a change in the environment. You fall in love. And better yet, your husband can love you back. You save him when he is stricken with a putrefied leg wound, and he saves you when your regrets haunt you in your sleep. There is a full bottle of valerian in your dresser to smother your dreams, but they are so intense that it only muffles them like a pillow trying to drown them out.
This was the briefest yet. Your dreams cry out, and your little boy toddles from his room to comfort you when you cry. Why? Why can’t you just tell him?
The depression hits later in life, though your husband bravely tries to keep your spirits up. “I hope you live happy.” You tell him on the birthing bed for your second son. “No regrets.”
“No regrets.” He promises. Of course he doesn’t know.
You do.
_______
When your turn comes again, you think yourself as far less child and more of an adult. At fifteen you were a lot more educated than your younger siblings, though your stepmother protested that you were too young to get involved in the war effort. But you are determinedly single-minded, and in time you are recruited as a spy for the British Government. You supposed that with the state of the war, they were willing to take all sorts of risks.
You looked innocent enough. A young lady, going to classes and attending school was a pretense to go to libraries and smuggle out valuable books. You worked in tandem with the fellow spies, decoding what you can of German wanted lists. Many of them were listed to be destroyed, per the Fuhrer’s intent to eradicate all literature that spat in the face of his dictatorship, but many more were to be stolen for their value. Your proudest moment was when you swapped the Book of Saint Columba from the British Archive…switching it for a well-made fake.
That moment nearly killed you.
The bible was mingled in your book bag, and you made a beeline for your designated safehouse. A group of spies pretending to be your family were waiting, and the book would be hidden until the war ended for its own safety.
When you saw a pair of men stalking you from a corner, you sought to lose then in the broken rubble of the streets. You did not see the second pair, who cornered you with a gun. “Hands up.” One said sharply, his German accent thick and cold. You swallow hard and obey. “Walk.”
You are marched through dark streets, sometimes encouraged along when you realize you are returning to the safehouse. You try to disguise your terror as everyone there is lined up against the wall of the backyard, hands on their heads. “These people, they are familiar to you?”
You shake your head a little too quickly, and a bullet is put through your fake brother. He crumples to the ground, and the gun is moved onto the next. “No? Are you sure?” They shoot your fake mother, and she gasps, clinging to life and bleeding against the wall. But another round of shots and she too falls dead. “Come, come my dear, all you have to do is tell us where the books are.”
One by one you shake your head. Soon there are no more spies against the wall and the gun is up against your chin. You can feel it’s still hot, burning a mark right above your throat. “Last chance kilenes madchen-“ The gunman asks patiently. “-I don’t have to shoot you. I can do far worse things.”
Close your eyes and think of England. It was a joke that had been passed along by your friends when you were little and had to do things you didn’t want to. Taking cod liver oil to prevent the measles, eating your carrots even though you hated carrots, or enduring the dull lectures of history from your dreary teacher. Your mother used to say it when you complained of some unappealing task.
Close your eyes and think of England.
You do just that, and await a gunshot to the brain or being dragged off and defiled as all the nightmare stories from Germany say they do. You close your eyes and think of your real family, your real home.
You are very patient until you realize nothing has happened.
When you open your eyes, a dapper man in black sunglasses is standing around a bunch of unconscious Nazis, wiping off his hands. “You really, really, really ought to be less conspicuous next time.” He scolded. “If word got out that silly bible got into Nazi hands, I can think of someone who might smite you for losing it.”
You panic briefly, scrambling for your bag. But you sigh in relief. The Book of Columba is still there.
“Alright. Bomb’s gonna drop in about five minutes, it’ll take care of this mess.” He gestures you to follow. “Come along, I’ve got another place you can drop that off.”
The shelter he takes her to is full of English children, much younger than you. You’re a little offended when he calls you “little girl” and laughs when you defend you were fifteen, as if that changed anything. But when the bombs started falling, making the ground shake, he gives a reassuring half-hug to a few of the kids before leading you all outside after it subsides.
The safehouse is a bookstore. Hide a tree in a forest indeed.
“Oh! Oh you’ve saved it!” The book clerk is clearly thrilled when you uncover the sacred bible, running his hands over the protective cover. “Bless you dear, you’ve done a real miracle tonight.”
“She’s done? I suppose taking out half a dozen Nazi spies is just a doddle!” The dapper stranger snaps.
“Crowley I didn’t mean that kind of miracle-“ The bookkeeper hushes him. “-come inside quick. I’ll alert the authorities.”
You all sit inside the shop while he accesses a machine hidden behind a shelf, tapping out a message in Morse code. Crowley sits in a chair, lounging and drinking heavily from a bottle of wine and scowls when you look at him too long. It’s time to say it.
But when you try to, he stands up and hushes you. “None of that. It’s been a long night.” He polishes off the bottle and saunters out. “Take care of this one for me, will you angel?”
The door closes and you start crying. There is no time for the clerk to ask what’s wrong before you run out to try and catch him. Circling the block, shouting his name. Knowing you still might have a chance.
There is no answer.
The war eventually ends, and your service to British Intelligence turns into a simple desk job. Sometimes you pass by that old bookshop, remembering that night, remembering how close you were to saying thank you. You have a medal of commendation, congratulating you, and they even let you keep the identical copy of Columba’s book. You meet a man much like you, except his regrets were made on the battlefield, with friends he’d failed to bring back home with him, and people he thought hadn’t needed to die at all. And in a grief that can be explained, it helps you along with the grief that has no name, buried deep within you.
When you are pregnant a second time, you take the copy of the bible to the bookshop. You scribble a note on the cover, but leave no name. The person it is left for after all, may have another name the next time. But urgency tells you that next time might be the last. You’re seven months pregnant, and the clock is ticking down.
You don’t let the bookkeeper see you as you leave it in the mailbox, wrapped in brown paper. Tell him to wait next time. You leave within the book. Tell him I haven’t said thank you yet.
When you feel your water break, you say goodbye to your confused husband and son. You don’t fight it as your second child forces his way into this world. You accept the void and close your eyes…impatient for what you already know is to come.
One more time.
____
At the eve of New Years for 1970, you try to get in trouble.
You’re only thirteen. Your mother dismisses it as rebelliousness and grounds you to your room. But when you find yourself wandering around town after dark, she gets concerned when you can’t give a reason why you’re looking for trouble. You describe it as a deep urge, a built in response. You know something will happen if you’re in danger. You just don’t know what it is.
She puts you through therapy, and the psychiatrist is very understanding.
“More supernatural than cognitive.” She says, writing it down after you’ve talked of your recent lapse. You had run away from home and were doing runs around Soho, scarcely avoiding traffic. “Something that can’t be explained.” She puts her hand on yours and smiles. “But we need to try and slow it down. Make it safe. Your mother loves you and doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
She doesn’t mention your father since you’re not sure he has an opinion about you at all. He’s been gone since before you were born, but you can’t help but view him as a mere facilitation of your existence. He has no real importance. He’s only there to make sure you go through the motions by existing.
Your psychiatrist offers some sleep aids to try and urge an early bedtime rather than running off into the night. Most times it works. But when you turn sixteen, you spit it into the toilet instead and sneak out.
And you can feel something different in the air. It’s almost electric. The lights in Soho are somehow brighter, the cars are faster, and the streets are more empty than usual. Something is trying to happen.
So you encourage it, and try stepping out into the busy street.
Every part of you sings with relief when someone pulls you back.
“Idiot.”
The arm is secure on your shoulders, making sure you’re secure as the car that almost hit you honks angrily and speeds off. But the rest of the world seems to be waiting on its heels for what is to happen next. You have to make sure it’s still what you’re waiting for.
Red hair. Dark glasses.
“Thank you.”
___________
Crowley didn’t freeze time. But it stopped anyway.
At his feet, the girl. She wasn’t run over, but as soon as she said those two words, it was as if she had her strings cut from an invisible puppeteer, and now laid as cold and dead as she would have been if he had not reached out.
“Our arrangement has been concluded.”
It is far more frightening than the Archangels or Satan. It is Death, in his black, withered cloak, a wizened skull staring back at the demon while the world ceased to move.
“What arrangement?” Crowley is barely able to say through a dry mouth. This is worse than the worse omen, and moreover it was completely unexpected. Aziraphale had shown him that peculiar book today…he had seen the message. He didn’t understand.
“Not you. The child.” Death’s back shudders and eight shadows stand behind them. Crowley has to squint to see them, but they all look very familiar. A teen spy. A pickpocket from London, a Jew from Galilee. All of them.
Leading up to the scared, wide eyed child from the Flood.
“They said they would return to this life until they could express their gratitude. Their cycle would not end until they had done so.” Death’s voice sounds very pleased, as if having seen a good crop come to fruition. “They would have thirty-two years to live, and a chance to say it when you inevitably stepped in to aid them. If they failed, they would die upon the birth of their second child and start over.”
“Why? Why would you agree to this?” Crowley sweats heavily. For over 5000 years, a single soul was put through the wringer of existence, forced to relive the same dangers. “Since when do you play games with little girl’s souls like this?”
“I am patient.” Death replies. “I come for all souls eventually. And she knew she would see you again. Deep down.”
One of the shadows looks up and seems to recognize him. A tiny wave from a small hand, before Death stretches his wings and the shades evaporate.
“This is wrong.” Crowley states. “She’s a child. She shouldn’t die this way.”
“This is her choice. And now it is over.”
Your shade stands before Death and whispers something.
“Make it quick.” Death replies. “I am patient. But not for long.”
You are little more than vapor, with no real form. Sometimes it shifts into what you once were, but it’s hazy and only retains the shapes most familiar to you. Crowley before you looks grief-stricken. You can sympathize why. He has just met Death, but found himself beset with regret that it was not himself that was being taken away.
“No tears.” You whisper. “I knew I would meet you again someday.”
“Not like this.” Crowley croaks back. “Not when you’re just a girl.”
“I’m old too you know.” You remind him. “I lived a lot.”
“Those don’t count. You don’t even remember.”
“I remember you helped me.” You tell him. “And if I only got to thank you once for all the times you helped me, then I can let go of this world for the next one.”
“Where will you go?”
There’s a pause, and Death’s wings shift with impatience.
“Where we can meet again.”
______
The accident almost gets Crowley in trouble, time restarting with a dead girl at his feet. He escapes, barely, and Aziraphale holds a private memorial in his bookshop with the fake bible and candles. Crowley doesn’t want to drink or do much of anything. So he relies on the angel for the silent assurance. This was the last time.
Her mother would mourn and grieve terribly. But she would not have to put another mother through that kind of grief again.
“It does say something about humanity.” Aziraphale notes, rereading the passage you had written in another life. “They have longer memories than we give them credit for. Even Death can’t stop that.”
It’s not much of a comfort.
Crowley takes the Bentley and drives. And drives. He stops when the road does, at the end of the country where it meets the sea. “It could’ve ended right then and there.” He remembers when the sea came for the children, when Noah closed the Ark. Tearing open the hull just to save a handful of innocent kids. “But I got involved.”
Tiny hands holding onto him like a lifeline, and nothing he could do but pat their head.
He looks up at the stars he has made. Some had passed on, faded away. Their light would shine on Earth for thousands of years, but they had long since gone.
A different light glimmered, a bright yellow. Still so small, but defiantly glimmering in the sky.
Crowley holds his hand up.
“Alpha Centauri.” He removes his glasses. His eyes peer beyond the ozone, beyond the vacuum of space where a star has forgone Heaven and Hell and begun turning serenely. Unbelievable. She even got the color of his eyes right. “Fine.” He smiles, a half chuckle. “One of these days. See you there.”
