Summary: The Them have a lot of questions for Aziraphale and Crowley about spirits! They answer them truthfully and perhaps say some rather telling things that they haven’t exactly admitted to each other. Written for the 2021 Good Omens Celebration prompt Spirit. :)
Hello friends!! Today was the last prompt of the celebration! I’m going to miss it. THANK YOU SO MUCH to anyone who has read my writing this past month. I hope you know you light up my world a tiny bit, like a far off star <3 I hope you enjoy this last work!!
Aziraphale is well aware that he’s playing for time; he’d said that he needed to dash five minutes ago, and here he is very much notdashing.
It’s just… there’s a pleasant smell leftover from the rain, making the earth fresh and clean, as if it’s already been made anew. He can’t help but dawdle. After all, what good is a Garden if no-one is around to enjoy it?
Crawly is walking along the wall, keeping his balance with his arms outstretched. Aziraphale has to catch himself from saying, “Take care you don’t fall,”—he supposes that it’s rather redundant advice at this juncture.
In any case, Crawly does not seem at all bothered about the height; his eyes are closed, chin tilting up towards the sky.
And…
There’s a flicker, of sorts, invisible but certainly present. Aziraphale unfurls ethereal senses cautiously, and suddenly has to stop himself from stumbling. It can’t be… but, it is.
For Upper Management had told him in no uncertain terms that demons no longer have spirits—only ugly, mangled remnants of what once was, no real emotion in them at all. (Privately, Aziraphale has never sensed much feeling in any fellow angel’s spirit.) But, Crawly’s… Crawly’s is brimming with life. There’s a myriad of emotions, everything at once, and more besides: anger yes, and plenty of hurt, but there is wonder, too, despite it all. Wonder and excitement for the humans, the plants, the animals… secret, unadulterated joy for all these new creations.
How do you do it? Aziraphale thinks, watching Crawly in awe. You should be impossible.
Crawly’s eyes open. He stops and raises one eyebrow, looking a mixture of amused and… puzzled? “Not to discourage Sloth or anything, but shouldn’t you be…?”
“Oh, this is all part of the job,” Aziraphale says quickly.
Crawly smiles. “Really.”
“Yes, absolutely. Observing, you know.”
“Hmm.” Fleetingly, Crawly mimes drawing a sword. “Think you’ve gone above and beyond observing, angel. And, well… you’re still talking to me.” The last part is said a little hesitantly, almost as if he expects Aziraphale to balk at the reminder.
“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale says, aiming for his most pragmatic tone, “what did They all expect to happen, stationing us both here? It would hardly do to ignore you, that’s not very angelic.”
Crawly snorts. “Best not to speculate,” he replies, in such an accurate imitation that Aziraphale can only laugh.
Yet, there’s only so much playing for time one can do. As Aziraphale readies himself to truly depart, Crawly sobers slightly, looking thoughtful.
“See you, angel. It’s been…” He smirks. “Ineffable.”
“Ah… yes, quite.” Aziraphale nods. “Mind how you go.” Oh. He had not planned to say that, has never said anything like it before, but can’t deny that it sounds… right.
The last sight he has is of Crawly standing by the wall, hand raised in a half-wave.
Upstairs, Aziraphale is soon accosted, laden with a series of forms: ‘Reflections on the Eden Failure.’ However, he finds that he cannot focus on his work at all, can only hope against hope that he will be assigned to Earth again.
Tadaaa, the last one! Doing the Good Omens Celebration this month was a great experience - thank you to the mods for the gorgeous prompts and running the event, and thank you to everyone who gave feedback and liked and reblogged and commented! You’ve made me so happy with it. ❤️❤️❤️ To the world!
FinalIneffable Valentines reblog! Thank you @goodomenscelebration for the prompts - it has been wonderful looking back at the fun I have had in this fandom - I only wish I had been able to finish more new things for this event!
And thank you to everyone for the likes and reblogs, I’ve found so many great folks to follow too! I promise I have new art coming soon, so please stick around
PS If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me! My Ko-Fi now has a shop! What would you like to see as prints or stickers? Let me know!
For a prompt of ‘Spirit’ from the Good Omens Celebration. Please feel free to send me any prompts. More of my fics here. Last one! I’ve done all the prompts this month, go me. =)
Aziraphale likes to read on their sofa at night, leaning against the side of it, with his book on his lap and a cup of whatever drink he’s having (usually made by Crowley) on the table beside him. Their T.V might be going, or it might not, and on cold nights there is always a fire in the fireplace, and it is cosy.
Crowley never spends two nights in a row in the same place. Sometimes he sits at Aziraphale’s feet, the perfect place for Aziraphale to absently play with his curls - and braid them, on nights Aziraphale is feeling playful. Other times he curls by the fire, a pile of coils and basks in the heat. Often he leans against Aziraphale, or crawls into his lap to be a pillow for his book, or is in some way touching the light of his existence.
And sometimes, on rare occasions, he crawls into Aziraphale’s lap and lets his true self, the spirit that makes him, go.
Not a lot. Just a bit of him, enough to brush against Aziraphale and see if Aziraphale reaches back.
He always does.
It’s at this point Aziraphale will put his book aside and pull Crowley more securely into his lap, will stare down at the demon in his lap and wrap one arm around Crowley while his free hand plays with Crowley’s hair. Aziraphale will look down and smile, soft and sweet.
And then they will merge.
It starts as a straight swap, where Crowley will go from being held to holding, will get the feeling of his dear angel in his arms and be able to stare down into Aziraphale’s bright, yellow eyes. He gets, for a moment, to be the soft one, the one who comforts instead of the one who is comforted, and it is… well it is nice, for lack of a better word.
But then they will swap again but not fully. Bits of Crowley will return but also stay until they are held and holding, comforted and comforting, equal parts loving, opposites of the same side.
And they will stay like that, for as long as they can bear. Longer sometimes, unwilling to give up the connection of being them.
But slowly, naturally, they become Crowley and Aziraphale, sitting on a sofa as dawn’s light breaks, ready to face another day as their own side.
Summary: Crowley has a lot of feelings about What Tomorrow Holds. Because if their body-swap plan doesn’t work out… it could hold nothing. Or at least nothing good. And Crowley doesn’t know how to handle that terrifying reality. Written for the 2021 Good Omens Celebration prompt Body.
There’s no light peeking through the curtains yet, no rising sounds of traffic on the street; all inside seems calm, and it doesn’t seem as though he has to use the facilities.
There’s another man currently wound about him like an octopus, but he’s well used to that.
Aziraphale stretches a bit within Crowley’s grasp. One slender arm is precisely where it best likes to be, wrapped around his middle with familiar ease. Its hand cups loosely against his far side. Occasionally the fingers twitch.
It’s not a small distance, that reach across his middle, but his husband has long arms and is verydetermined.
So I climbed on my soapbox for 800 words of INNWverse Aziraphale POV. Every size of body is equally good and I am not accepting counter-arguments at this time.
At first, Crowley thinks his mind is playing tricks on him; surely Aziraphale, pure and pristine and good, cannot possibly be standing before him, in this putrid hovel. But then, the assumed illusion starts speaking, as if it’s perfectly natural that an angel should be here, of all places, and Crowley knows that he could never have dreamed up something quite like this.
“Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you’d got to.”
So calm, so matter-of-fact! As if Crowley had simply wandered off that afternoon; as if the years can’t fly by without warning, sheer chasms between them.
Crowley shakes his head, tries to grin, but knows it doesn’t sit right on his face. “What’re you doing here, angel? Haven’t you heard?” He laughs through a dry mouth. “It’s the end of the world.”
It isn’t, of course; there’s not been a peep from Above or Below. But it feels like it—or, at least, some humans believe it to be so, and Crowley thinks that still counts as being the real thing. He’s been doing an awful lot of unanswered pr—shouting these days: what exactly does She think She’s playing at, giving humanity a load of false starts? She might as well make this the Big One, why does She keep pushing them all to the brink for—for what? Sorry, not quite yet?
“Now, you don’t mean that,” Aziraphale says softly. Crowley starts, unsure as to just how much he’s said, and watches Aziraphale tiptoe his way through discarded bottles. “That’s just the drink talking.”
“Mm, nope,” Crowley says, “think I’ve drunk so much that I’m sober.”
A flicker of a smile crosses Aziraphale’s face—not happy, not really, more like fondness shining through his concern. “I don’t believe that quite follows.”
“Did you hear the earthquake? Everyone thinks s’one of mine.” Crowley shrugs. “Who amI to correct ’em, eh?”
“I did hear some—”
“An’ the famine! Plague, too, s’pose I’m all pals with the head honchos, news to me—”
“My dear—”
“—but gives us some time off the Arrangement, if you were, y’know, wonderin’—”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale meets his gaze head-on. “Do you really think I’m here for the Arrangement’s sake?”
Crowley falls silent. Abruptly, he has to look away, lying back on the bed. His nose stings sharply. It would be mortifying to cry right now. He turns back at the sound of glass tinkling together and finds Aziraphale quietly tidying the place up. He is suddenly very conscious of what a pathetic sight he must look, of just how sour his breath is. Now, his face burns with shame. He attempts to sit up in the bed. “You don’t have to.”
Aziraphale’s hand stills. “I know. But… I’d like to if I may.”
There’s not a trace of judgement in his expression. Crowley has to look away again. He nods. “Still. You don’t have to pretend, angel.”
A crease appears in between Aziraphale’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
Crowley gives a grimace of a smile. “Know I look a fright, that’s all.”
Aziraphale’s face softens. “No,” he says gently. “Not in the slightest.”
Aziraphale cleans in a jumbled mixture of human methods and miracles. Gradually, the place feels more liveable, and Crowley finds he can breathe easier; the bed is now clean and feels much softer than before. He hadn’t realised it until he was no longer feeling it, but the past few days (…weeks?) have passed in an unnerving blur, as if something had broken in his corporation, leaving him not quite grounded within it. But now, he can feel the reassuring yet leaden weight of his legs sinking into the bed, the sheets warming his arms.
And while he still feels exhausted, little by little, his head becomes clearer. The alcohol is leaving his body, but it’s a slow, careful process—not the one fell swoop that he usually resigns himself to, something that often leaves him feeling more ill than if he had done nothing.
“Is that your miracle?” is what he means to ask but, mouth half-against the pillow, the words sound indistinguishable: “S’th-y’r-mm…?”
However, Aziraphale must understand well enough for he favours Crowley with a tender little smile before giving the room one last sweep. Crowley tries to follow the angel’s movements, but his eyes keep closing of their own accord.
“I thought it would be rather unpleasant, doing it all at once.” A pause. “At least, I’ve always found so.”
Crowley tries to parse that. He has a vague recollection of attempting speech, but it’s slurred with tiredness beyond comprehension.
And then, a hushed voice, as if drifting by on the beginnings of a dream: “You can sleep, darling.”
When Crowley next opens his eyes, the room is darker—his limbs still heavy, but comfortably so. As he stretches, he feels the warmth of another body next to his. Aziraphale watching over him.
“You’re… you’re still here,” Crowley says, which does not even scratch the surface of all he wants to say.
Underneath the sheets, Aziraphale’s hand finds his. “Yes,” Aziraphale says simply, as if it’s obvious; as if it’s the one certainty in the world.
It’s hard, sometimes, to remember that their bodies aren’t them.
Or just them. You know, that they’re more than this flesh and bone, bigger and lesser, real and unreal, demonic and angelic…
Aziraphale struggles with it sometimes, Crowley knows. They’ll be talking and he’ll catch sight of himself in something reflective, or they’ll be in the bathroom and he drops the towel early and sees… himself. And there will be a look in Aziraphale’s eyes, the sort of look Crowley’s seen a thousand times and Crowley just knows.
He’s seen the look a thousand times in his own eyes, after all.
It’s strange, to realise, they’re the first angel and demon with body issues. But then, they’ve always been accused of going native and isn’t this one of the commonalities of humanity?
At least now, together, they have ways to help.
Crowley pulls Aziraphale into hugs when he sees the look, kisses his angel on every inch of skin he can. He lies all over Aziraphale when they’re close; tells him how much he loves every curve of Aziraphale’s shape, every tiny bit of his softness. He composes (bad) poetry to Aziraphale’s belly and worships his sweet smiles.
Sometimes it doesn’t help and Crowley just has to hold Aziraphale until it does. But those times happen less and less.
And Aziraphale…
Aziraphale composes his own (much better) poetry to Crowley’s eyes. He kisses every scale that appears, twice - and three times on Sundays - and spends hours massaging Crowley’s spine. He even sets up a reptile’s daydream of heat lamps and warm rocks in their library, the better for a comfy snake to relax during long winter’s nights.
It’s small things.
It’severything.
And slowly, carefully, they remember that while this might not be them, it’s the themthey choose to be, and they are loved for it.
It’s a typical London evening for traffic—which is to say that it’s utterly abysmal. Whilst sitting on a bus going at a pace surely slower than any self-respecting snail, Crowley hankers for the Bentley, but he needs to stay put: the Arrangement is in action once more. Last week, Aziraphale had been left run ragged with Heaven suddenly demanding that he fulfil a constant stream of minor miracles. To Crowley, it all stank of Upper Management running out of ideas, the equivalent of a distracted, “Just keep yourself busy and stay out of my way—but I’ll notice if you’re not doing anything.”
Still, Crowley considers, distracted is miles better than the alternative.
He had thought it best to tempt Aziraphale into doing a little shift swap—never mind that Hell haven’t bothered to give out even the lightest of paperwork for a good while, that’s not for Aziraphale to know.
So, here Crowley is, assuming an air of boredom on the bus, but really keeping an ear out for any notable details about the passengers: the student scraping to afford their textbooks; the struggling parent behind on rent; the young boy who feels an ache of loneliness well beyond his years. Of course, nothing can be solved through miracles alone—wouldn’t that be a lovely world—but Crowley silently does his best; he can pretend it brings him out in hives later.
The bus finally starts to move. Crowley must glance out of the window at precisely the right moment, spotting a building, green foliage… At first, it doesn’t click, more of a subconscious recognition, but then the shape of the architecture is suddenly all too familiar; it’s almost as if he can hear the air raid siren wailing in the distance.
They’ve turned the church into a garden.
And, as Crowley makes his way to the front of the bus, he sees that there’s someone in this new garden: Aziraphale is standing in front of one of the arches, where a stained glass window would have been. The sun is setting through it, giving Crowley a little picture of what it could have looked like if the glass had remained: the angel bathed in hues of red, pink, gold…
Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathing in deeply, a hand on his chest. With a pang, Crowley wonders if he can hear the siren, too.
There’s a bus stop right at the Church Tower. Crowley knows he could alight from there easily.
But…
Crowley waits. Listens…
No.
For Aziraphale is alone amongst the plants and the church ruins. It’s not a coincidence; Crowley can hear a wish on the wind, keeping unwitting humans at bay: One moment… just a moment, please…
And Crowley will not deny him that.
The bus driver catches Crowley’s eye. “This your stop, mate?”
Crowley shakes his head with a smile—teetering somewhere in between happy and sad. “Not today,” he says. He takes one last look, then goes back to his seat.
It suddenly occured to me that this drawing I just finished actually fits the prompt - what is more “light” than the child of the morningstar himself ?
Mybook!Them is fairly directly inspired by friends and family from my own preteen years, rather than the show. I have loved this book so long, it’s grown up with me.
They knew moving in together was going to be a learning curve, finding a balance between their styles. Crowley’s preference for sleek and black was always going to be in conflict with Aziraphale’s style of beige and clutter. They went into this move, this home, fully aware they are going to have to find some common ground, some style that suits them both.
And it starts small.
Upon moving in there are spaces that are definitely one or the other’s. The library is Azirpahale’s, the bedroom is Crowley’s. The greenhouse and outdoors might not be closed to Aziraphale, but they’re certainly not where he thinks to spend his time and Crowley wouldn’t dream of considering the kitchen as his space, however welcome he is in it.
But then Ellie down the road gives them a little housewarming gift, a set of bright red dishes when she notices they only have Aziraphale’s fine antique china and Crowley’s frankly useless set of sleek dinner plates. The set sits on the bench as they examine it.
‘A spot of colour would be nice in the kitchen,’ Aziraphale finally says, touching the top bowl carefully. ‘I just… didn’t think of it.’
Crowley looks over the cluttered space, the sleek white already fading to Aziraphale’s preferred shade of beige. ‘Surprised you didn’t make the place tartan honestly.’
‘Tartan?! In our kitchen?! That would be-’ Aziraphale cuts himself off as he looks at the toaster, sleek and grey. ‘Tartan,’ he says again, in a soft voice.
‘Don’t have to follow a colour palette anymore,’ Crowley adds gently. Aziraphale just hums and changes the subject to discuss their new neighbours.
But the next time Crowley slips into the kitchen the toaster is now tartan - but not Aziraphale’s tartan. Instead it’s the red and black one Crowley used once or twice when on missions in Scotland; the same colour Aziraphale had made his collar when he went to Hell.
Crowley tries - and fails - not to feel touched.
From there, the pace picks up. Crowley breaks his water mister and replaces it with a bright blue one. Aziraphale gets tea towels for their kitchen that are green. A throw pillow pops up on Crowley’s bed, a little bright yellow thing.
Two more turn up on their couch, in the only really shared space in the house.
Then one morning Aziraphale, after a lot of hemming and ahhing, asks for help.
‘Is… is there a plant that would survive in my library? I… I think I want to add some colour to the place.’
Crowley’s heart stops beating, the traitorous thing. ‘Yes angel, of course.’
By the end of the next hour, Crowley has picked three worthy choices from his garden and put the fear of him into them. Aziraphale stares and bites his lip and asks if he can have all three.
‘Of course you can, angel.’
Two days later, Aziraphale asks Crowley to come into the room to help with the plants since they can’t follow orders andstay alive. By the end of the week, the library is just somewhere Crowley finds himself lounging around sometimes, Aziraphale’s silent company.
By the end of the next week, Aziraphale starts reading in the garden when Crowley’s working. Two weeks later he asks if Crowley wants company at night, in bed.
Their bedspread is tartan by the end of the month, but it’s a new tartan. A colourful one, more a combination of what they used to have than anything either of them have used before. And Crowley…
Crowleyloves it.
Looking through their home, now a colourful mix of their styles - and something new that might be their style - he has to admit.
![faalthien:Soul[Mind] [Body]Tadaaa, the last one! Doing the Good Omens Celebration this month was a g](https://64.media.tumblr.com/34b5caf14f38bba3dd5530f41509f0d4/3353d5dbfbfc7626-72/s1280x1920/3f0a270dbe286c0242a6c00cdb034d685ba9eb0d.jpg "faalthien:Soul[Mind] [Body]Tadaaa, the last one! Doing the Good Omens Celebration this month was a g")
![faalthien:Body[Mind] [Soul]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1a2c9383abf41278870f9fda017975db/e51cd25845b0b5a5-7d/s1280x1920/e228a9150ab4769f442cb3f07de1c86bb889cd55.jpg "faalthien:Body[Mind] [Soul]")
![faalthien:Into the colors[Dark] [Light]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/403677c688f8bb8bdc87d7107b3e8736/34af5061648d4b27-eb/s1280x1920/c54042b8ebf4d7e1e6afbd0bc82a94d5d0ddf0f1.jpg "faalthien:Into the colors[Dark] [Light]")
