Disclaimer: Good Omens is the property of the brilliant Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Hopefully they don't mind me borrowing their characters.
Author’s Notes: My first Good Omens fic! Many thanks to Vulgarweed for her fabulous beta-ing skills.
Two months had passed from the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and, as usual, two figures stood at the edge of the pond in St. James' Park. Ducks swarmed before them, occasionally brushed aside by the larger girth of a swan or two as they all fought for the torn bits of bread being tossed into the water.
Crowley was on edge. Two months gone by with no word, and his duck-feeding companion confirmed that both had seemingly been left to their own devices. Still, he was beginning to wonder if no word was worse than the words he expected from Below. Two months, and he still couldn't turn on the radio without expecting those booming, slithering voices. Even worse, his angel associate apparently felt none of the anxiety that would have kept Crowley up at night had he decided to sleep.
He eyed the angel with a scowl. Aziraphale looked utterly cheerful, a small smile on his lips as he ripped another piece of bread from the loaf in his hand. How could he be so unconcerned? Didn't he expect Them to get in touch with him eventually?
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his long leather coat, the demon glowered at the ducks. For a moment he contemplated sinking one, but thought the better of it when he remembered how much Aziraphale hated it. The thought deepened his frown. Why should he care if the angel hated it? They were supposed to be adversaries, after all. Tempt, thwart, tempt, thwart, on and on throughout the centuries. He was bored and slightly terrified, and this did not make for a good combination.
"You're terribly silent this afternoon." The angel's smooth voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. Crowley grunted in reply, causing Aziraphale to turn to him questioningly. "Crowley? Are you alright?"
He didn't want to go into it. He really didn't. And yet, even as he fixed his eyes on the ground, he could feel Aziraphale's grey gaze piercing the protection of his sunglasses and urging him to share himself. Why did the damn angel always do that? It made Crowley feel vulnerable, and he hated feeling vulnerable.
The touch on his arm was entirely unexpected. He instinctively drew back and missed the brief look of hurt that crossed his companion's face as he tried to make sense of the unexplainable burning sensation that light touch had left. A few moments later he looked up, only to find that Aziraphale was tearing pieces of bread again, though his expression was decidedly less amiable than before.
"I've got to go," he said at last. Forcing an air of nonchalance, he adjusted his sunglasses and the collar of his coat. "I've got, er, an appointment."
Aziraphale tossed the remainder of the bread into the water and brushed his hands together brusquely. "Of course. I must be headed back to the shop, as well." He looked at Crowley steadily, causing the demon to turn away again. ""Well then," he said. "Good afternoon."
"Yeah. Ciao."
Aziraphale walked slowly into to the safe haven of his book store but kept the sign turned to "Closed." Crowley's behavior had unnerved him a bit, and he felt the need to lose himself in a pot of tea and the latest first edition he had purchased. With the smooth efficiency of both a tea lover and a person who had been loving tea for a very long time, Aziraphale made a pot and poured himself a cup.
Tea in one hand and book in the other, he moved from the kitchenette to his appropriately stuffy and dim back room. His teacup left a ring in the dust on his end table and when he sat on the sofa, a cloud of dust rose thick enough to choke someone who needed to breathe. Aziraphale seemed not to notice. Indeed his mind was elsewhere; he was contemplating how the demon's mood had darkened considerably in a time that should have been joyous and full of relief. The end of the world had been avoided*, the Antichrist was safe from himself, and the world had been put back to rights. Why, then, was Crowley so out of spirits?
And why did Aziraphale care so much? The niggling thought was back. So many centuries together had created a definite camaraderie between the two. Even in the Garden they had shared a bond that no other angel and demon would have dared. Now, with so many years, so many experiences, and the Arrangement between them, a, well, closer perhaps, relationship was to be expected. Naturally Aziraphale would care about Crowley. After all, Crowley was the only other Being who had been on earth so long. He knew humans, and he knew Aziraphale.
Still, that didn't quite seem to explain it all. The book lay unopened on his lap while Aziraphale held his teacup in his hands and stared blankly at the wall ahead of him and tried to figure it all out. The sharp ring of his telephone disturbed his train of thought.
"Hello?
"Four bottles of my finest red, angel. I'll be by in five minutes to pick you up. Ciao."
* At least for the present.
The monotony of alcohol and television usually instilled a kind of peace in Crowley. Generally the angel's presence would have soothed him further, but tonight the wine wouldn't stick, the television made idle, screeching noise in the background - enough so that he elicited a squawk of protest from his associate when he turned it off ten minutes into a black and white movie he hadn't bothered to learn the name of - and the angel was getting significantly more tipsy than he was. He scowled at the beautiful, terrified plants in the corner as he drained another glass of wine.
"Ineffable," Aziraphale slurred.
"What are you on about?" snapped Crowley.
"Ineffable," the angel repeated. He leaned close, his grey eyes seeking out Crowley's gaze under the dark sunglasses. "No word from Above or Below? 'S ineffable. Part o' the plan."
Crowley looked at him intently. "Why?"
Aziraphale put a hand on the smooth black material covering Crowley's forearm. The demon jumped - so unused to touch, even after all these years - but forced himself not to withdraw. "Think 'bout it. 'S our time now. No job, no word, just ... us." The emphasis placed on that last word made Crowley's heart pick up pace. Aziraphale opened his mouth to continue, and promptly fell over backwards in a heap, dead to the world.
"Angel?" No response. "... Aziraphale?"
Silence. For a moment Crowley panicked. Had he died? No, that couldn't be right. Had They called him back without warning? Would They do that? Somehow Crowley had always expected something much ... flashier.
Wincing, he removed the alcohol from his system. Then, forcing himself to calm down, he moved Aziraphale so that he was lying on his back. Carefully he first removed the horn-rimmed glasses from Aziraphale's face, then the sunglasses from his own.
"Aziraphale?" he called again. Suddenly the angel let out a snuffling sound between a snore and a groan. Crowley exhaled a noisy breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding.
This was an opportunity that Crowley did not pass up. Vaguely he thought that he would tease the angel about it later. He pulled Aziraphale up and half-carried, half-dragged him into the sterile, unoccupied-looking bedroom. Crowley dropped him on the bed and, after wishing away the terrible brown loafers, laid the angel on top of the downy comforter.
He was infinitely disturbed to find that the angel looked as if he belonged there. His pale skin and hair contrasted sharply against Crowley's black linens, and the moonlight coming in through the blinds created stripes of pale light that made the angel look ethereal. Crowley frowned; the angel in a mortal's body was hardly beautiful in his bookish, 'great Southern pansy' kind of way, but here, face in repose and lit by the moonlight, Crowley was reminded of the angel's true form. He was terribly beautiful, and something in Crowley's gut clenched.
"Ineffable," he muttered under his breath. "Right." His mind whispering words he would rather not listen to, he wandered back into the living room where the television waited.
When had he ended up back in his bedroom? The leather couch had squeaked under his shifting weight and after half an hour he had given up on television, instead resigning himself to staring pensively at the moonlit buildings outside. He had contemplated drinking again, but gave up on the thought after remembering how little it had done for him previously. Staring outside still did not do, and though his mind had not registered the action, his feet had carried him into his bedroom. To a spot right next to Aziraphale, as a matter of fact.
There was nothing for it. He didn't need sleep, but the restlessness that plagued him would not abate, no matter how much he wanted it to. He looked down at the peaceful angel, then tentatively sat down on the edge of the bed. Careful not to wake Aziraphale, he slowly moved until he was lying fully on the bed next to the angel.
"It's just to make sure he's alright until morning," the demon assured himself silently. "That's all it is."
Aziraphale woke up in a state of confusion. Firstly, he was not entirely sure where he was. He assumed he was in Crowley's bedroom, due both to the fact that it looked pristine in a way that suggested it was rarely used* and the fact that Crowley was lying in bed with him. This was the second point that vexed him. Why, exactly, was he in Crowley's bed? And, perhaps more importantly, why was Crowley also in it?
The sun was shining in through the cracks in the blinds, and Aziraphale was nearly sure he could hear a bird warbling outside. It would have been the perfect morning if his heart hadn't been pounding so hard.
If, however, his heart had been pounding before, it quickened to double-time when Crowley's eyes opened. The demon said nothing, only looked at him unwaveringly with those slitted eyes. Aziraphale forced himself to hold the gaze, despite the strange fluttering going on in his stomach.
Finally Crowley spoke. "Morning."
"Ah, yes. Good morning. Er."
"You seem a little out of sorts."
"Yes, well," Aziraphale murmured. "Er. Why am I in your bed, exactly?"
A grin reminiscent of Crawly crept over the demon's face. "What's the matter, angel? Afraid you've been tempted by ... the sins of the flesh?"
The angel paled and noticed that his throat seemed to have gone terribly dry.
Crowley smirked at him a few moments longer before rolling over onto his back. "Don't worry about it. I didn't tempt you, although it wouldn't have taken much. You were in no position to thwart anything last night. Honestly, Aziraphale, in all these years I don't think I've ever seen you drink to unconsciousness."
Pregnant moments of silence passed as a slow blush crept up the angel's cheeks. "I might have ... forgotten ... to sober up at intervals like I usually do."
Crowley laughed softly as he stared up at the ceiling. Despite being awake most of the night memorizing the details of Aziraphale's face, this morning he felt unexplainably refreshed, as if a great weight had been lifted. "Well, don't worry," he finally said. "If I'd tempted you, you'd remember it the next morning."
Ariraphale gulped.
* Which it was.
Aziraphale had retreated to the quiet safety of his bookshop as soon as politeness would allow. Crowley had been in an unusual mood, his expressions alternating from mischievous grins when he thought the angel wasn't looking to silent, pensive stares. It was quite puzzling.
Naturally Aziraphale had noticed his associate's gloomy mood following the almost-Apocalypse, but none of the cheering-up methods he tried had worked. There was drinking themselves silly - a fun pastime, but one that inevitably led to serious discussions that ought not be attempted while under the influence. Next were long walks through St. James' Park followed by tea and scones in a local cafe. This had helped for a few weekends, but Crowley soon grew bored and silent. Television, crosswords, and long drives in the Bentley all had the same effect: none. Then, deciding to take a demon's approach, he switched to copious amounts of alcohol, dinners at the Ritz, and a trip to the conservatory that ended in a glass house full of various species of huddled, terrified plants. Eventually* the angel had given up.
Still, he wondered just what had gotten his companion in such a state.
And what was all this business about sins of the flesh? The memory of Crowley's voice, husky and low, sent an unexpected shiver through Aziraphale. Afterwards he stood like that for long moments, frowning and silent. It was not until exactly seven minutes and 34 seconds later that he ran his hands through his blond hair, adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and brushed off his sleeves.
"Oh dear," he said. Then he went to make some tea.
* Eight days ago, actually.
It isn't every day that one realizes that one's regard for one's associate has escalated to something slightly higher than simple businesslike appreciation. Quite frankly, Crowley had not handled the realization as well as he would have liked.
Demons were supposed to be programed for this sort of thing, he thought. Well no, that perhaps wasn't right. What he was discovering with regard to Aziraphale was not the sort of temptation that was promoted in his line of work. It was higher, more important, and more heav---nice. He had resisted at first, of course. But somewhere between one and two in the morning while he was lying in bed next to the angel he had closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and let go. It was strange, the feeling. Somewhere lost in that particular angel scent and the soft heat that came from the body next to him he had stopped fighting. It would have made everything alright again were it not for the fear.
The fear still haunted him. Now the fear was different, poignant, heavy. It had transformed from a fear that he would be sent to the Seventh or so Circle and tortured for a good three or four hundred years for interfering with the big apocalyptic plants to a different fear entirely. This one nearly ate him up inside, and that was no good at all.
Alcohol hadn't worked. Television hadn't worked. Even the ridiculous things Aziraphale had come up with to occupy their time hadn't worked. It was time for a new plan. It was time for a Talk.
He waited nearly two weeks before he dared work up the courage to approach the angel. By that time he had nearly worn a hole in his pristine carpets with all the pacing he had done. He vaguely wondered if the trampled grass in St James' Park would grow back where he had also paced. Various ways of going about discussing the situation had flitted about in his head, but none of them seemed right. Finally, fed up and anxious to just get it done, he jumped into the Bentley and screeched his way into Soho.
The sign indicated that the shop was Open, Thank You. The little bell tingled when he opened the glass-paned door, and the familiar choking dust assaulted his nose as he stepped inside. Everything felt cozy and comfortable and, for lack of a better description, like home. The thought terrified the demon, but he swallowed the lump in his throat as he moved through the maze of bookshelves and piles of dusty books. The small counter was vacant, but he could feel the angel's presence. Thousands of years together had given him at least that much.
Just when Crowley had decided that maybe this wasn't such a good idea and he should really be going, Aziraphale appeared from the kitchenette bearing two china cups of steaming tea.
"Hello, Crowley. I was wondering when you would be by. Tea?" Crowley nodded wordlessly and took one of the cups. "Shall we go back?"
They entered the back room and sat side by side on the worn out tan couch. Aziraphale set his cup on the side table while Crowley clutched his in barely shaking hands as if it were a lifeline. No words were spoken for many moments until, finally, Aziraphale gently prodded the demon.
"Crowley? Is there something you would like to talk about?"
His orange eyes stared desperately into the muddy water of the tea while his jaw clenched and unclenched a few times. Finally the words came out in a rush. "What if they split us up?" When he finally met the angel's gaze, he was taken aback at how peaceful Aziraphale looked. His grey eyes emanated serenity, and Crowley could feel it feeding into his soul. Damn him and his angel tricks. "Don't do that. Just listen to me."
Aziraphale had the decency to look guilty. "I was only trying to help," he said in his defense.
"Don't try to help. What if they split us up, Aziraphale? After so long? After so much?" He paused, gathering all of his demonic courage into one sentence, and finally said it aloud. "I don't think I could take it, you know, if they decided to do it."
Whatever he had expected in response, the soft angelic lips that pressed against his own had not been it. Nor had been the exquisitely manicured hands running along the skin of his neck just below his hairline, or the soft moan that escaped from his own lips. Still, of all the scenarios he had imagined during his long bouts of pacing, this was much, much better.
It did not take long for him to respond properly. He wrapped his arms around the angel's waist, cringing inwardly at the terrible woolen waistcoat, and pulled Aziraphale closer in a clutching sideways embrace. Before long any thoughts of Aziraphale's choice in wardrobe had been banished in the face of the angel's gentle ministrations. And when soft, tentative hands began to unbutton his shirt and slipped beneath the fabric to splay against the demon's skin, Crowley lost all thoughts of anything at all.
In the front window, the sign proclaimed that A. Ziraphale’s Used Bookshop was Closed, but Please Come Again.
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