This ficlet is based on the Good Omens meta I’ve seen floating around that suggests Aziraphale nearly says “I love you” and at the last minute cuts himself off and says “I forgive you.” Personally, I thought that would have been an even more devastating exchange, so naturally I had to write it.
A shock of heat, a bloom of want which arced down Aziraphale’s spine and fought to pull him closer to the long line of Crowley’s body. The pressure of Crowley’s lips; insistent and angry, hard as stone.
Come work with me, Aziraphale had begged. I need you.
Crowley had chosen earth over safety, over light, over–over Aziraphale. Over the only us that had a chance at eternity. And then, he had twisted his hands in Aziraphale’s lapels and twisted the knife deeper, his mouth on Aziraphale’s mouth, a mockery of what Aziraphale had wanted on that first day of freedom and each day afterwards. A mockery of what Crowley had never before offered.
Once, while blessing a monastery in Russia, Aziraphale had gone swimming in a frozen lake. He had long since learned that such asceticism did not suit him. But now with Crowely’s mouth on his, he remembered the utter shock of the cold, remembered how he had fought the deadly instinct to gasp when he entered the water.
Crowley’s lips shifted against his, gentled ever so slightly, enough that Aziraphale could have parted them with his tongue and licked into the heat of Crowely’s mouth. Instead, he pressed his own lips tighter together; he did not want to drown.
But when Crowley pulled away, the truth still ripped itself out of Aziraphale’s mouth in a strangled stutter.
Crowley’s lips were numb. He felt light somehow, unpleasantly so, like an empty vessel.
Aziraphale looked as though he had been struck. He pressed a hand to his mouth, but it was too late. The words were already there between them.
Perhaps Aziraphale was lying to get Crowley to agree with him. He had lied to God after all, but Crowely had known him for six thousand years and was harder to fool. Crowely’s cheeks were wet with the tears that had hung on Aziraphale’s lashes. Crowely did not think he was lying.
It didn’t matter. Aziraphale might love him; but it still wouldn’t be enough because he didn’t know him. If Aziraphale had known Crowley, he would have known that Heaven was the one place Crowely would never–could never–follow him. He would have known not to ask at all.
Crowley ought to be angry, but all the anger had burned out. Just charcoal left, the skeleton of a tree in the desert after God had finished telling Moses and no one else the plan.
“Don’t bother,” Crowely said, and walked out the door.