I knew this day would come, and honestly I’m glad I got a little over 2 months of posting in before I hit it.
As some of you know, I work full time plus some weird hours, so I don’t always have as much time to write as I’d like (plus writing is a major aspect of my job, so sometimes I come home too tired to words anymore).
I’ve been working on “Sawdust of Words” since about three weeks after Good Omens premiered (more like two days after it premiered cuz those first stories were just running around my head causing trouble), writing every opportunity I have. I’ve finally reached the point where I have NO completed stories ready to post.
What I do have are three completed first drafts and a couple of half-writtens, plus a whole scattering of ideas.
However, I simply do not have time to get anything finished and to my beta reader by Saturday. I have some commitments this week* so I probably won’t be able to get any work done until Saturday; and the next two weeks I have weekend commitments. Or is it three weeks? Yeah, it’s gonna be busy.
That does NOT mean I stop writing; more that I just don’t have any big blocks of time in which to edit, so I’ll be tossing things together wherever I can; this makes it hard to judge when I’ll be finished, so I can’t give any timeline for this at the moment. I’m going to do a little work tonight, and maybe I’ll somehow miraculously pull something together by Saturday. More likely, I’ll have at least one short story done by next week. BEST case scenario, I take two weeks and manage to get a lot to my beta, giving me enough material to last until Christmas. WORST case, idk, Thanksgiving???
I’m a little sad because I genuinely wanted to get something up this weekend for Asexual Awareness Week BUT I’m not going to trim my editing process and try to rush out a story. Particularly since the story in question was written while super sleep deprived and has some weird structural issues as a result.
Anyway, this got long and rambly, and I honestly don’t know how many of my hundred-and-something followers are here for Sawdust of Words updates, and how many just like it when I reblog metas with historical commentary. I will, however, continue to do the latter as much as I am able; also always feel free to message me or send me asks in an attempt to encourage me to keep working (I do like encouragement) or to ask questions about swords (I love swords).
I’ll post another update this weekend with my progress. Leave me a comment if you want me to @ you when I do.
*OK I’m playing a WWI soldier in a cool history graveyard tour and I haven’t learned my lines yet.
Is there anything more iconic in Good Omens than David Tennant driving a flaming Bentley down an English road while Bohemian Rhapsody plays?
Possibly, but it’s still an awesome moment.
Especially when our lanky demon steps out, swaggering like an action movie star here to save the day, giving the one-liner he clearly spent half the journey thinking up: “You wouldn’t get that sort of performance from a modern vehicle.”
I wrote “In Love with My Car” because Crowley loves his car, period. It’s his home, in a way his flat never really is. When filming it’s final destruction, David Tennant’s only acting direction was: you are the Doctor and you just saw the Tardis destroyed. (Side note: that is the perfect kind of direction to give DT, not because he used to be the Doctor, but because he’s a huuuuuge Doctor Who fanboy and has probably written that fanfiction.)
Now, I learned more than I really ever thought I’d need to know about vintage cars while researching this story, but for those who have not, in the book Crowley has a 1928 Bentley, and on the show a 1933. This is rather a big difference.
I mean the ‘28 is cute and all. It’s like an old timey cartoon of a car. If I saw one of these on fire driving down the road, I’d be like “no, that’s fair, I expected that.”
The ‘33 is, if nothing else, much more in line with modern ideas of what a cool car should look like. Graceful, curving, solid. This was a car that was made to have good performance - above average, but you know, not German automobile levels - but also made to make you look rich and awesome in a decade where most people were not.
But book or TV show, it does NOT change the fact that Crowley loves the Bentley. Perhaps even more so in the book - like scroll back up and look at that thing. It’s like a sports-tractor. Book Crowley is very concerned with always having the latest, coolest flashiest things, yet he has a car that looks like it frequently gets outpaced by snails. Even TV Crowley, with his fondness for mementos and antiques, is constantly changing and updating his look to match the height of cool in every era, and the vintage Bentley look probably peaked in like the 1960s in the James Bond era.
What I’m saying is, if the point was to just look cool, both Crowleys would probably be driving some model of Jaguar at the very least.
But also in both - though you can obviously see it better on the show - the Bentley performs like a modern Jaguar (or, whatever). Like, Crowley shouldn’t be able to do 90 in Central London for the simple fact that a vintage Bentley can’t reach those speeds. The ‘33 could, as its max speed, under ideal circumstances which included “going downhill” and “perfectly smooth and straight road.” But Crowley drives it, screeching up the road, handling corners perfectly, at speeds that would make any driving instructor pass out.
But the Bentley is the Best Car. Crowley knows this, believes it, feels it in his soul. So when other cars start getting better, the Bentley does too, to match them. No fancy foreign Ferrari is going to outperform his awesome Bentley!
There’s been a lot written about how Crowley interacts with the spaces in his apartment. He keeps everything clean and open and minimalist, because space is such a luxury in Hell. He shouts at his plants because he’s reliving the abuse he suffers in Hell, and the rejection he received from Heaven.
The Bentley, though, represents the face he shows the world. Dark and powerful and cool and a little out of place but full of so much unmistakable style that really you have to question what every other car is doing wrong by not being a Bentley. This is exactly the kind of being Crowley wishes to be. The kind that turns every head when he comes in a room, the kind that always handles everything with effortless grace and style, the kind that everyone makes space for and just watches pass in utter awe.
Even when he talks to the car, primarily during the bits where it’s on fire, he’s encouraging it, telling it how good of a car it is, how it can do this utterly insane thing that it really, really can’t. It’s the complete opposite of how he treats his plants (degrading and berating them when for every tiny failure), because while the plants represent a part of himself he’s trying to distance himself from, the Bentley allows him to be who he wants to be.
And that is something that he would never, ever exchange for any other vehicle.
Anyway, you can read more about my thoughts on Crowley’s thoughts on his car in my fanfiction, “In Love with My Car” over on AO3!
(Note to readers: looking like a very good chance of no update this week. I will post this evening with current progress on my upcoming stories.)
So I tried really hard to get a fic done today; it’s another installment in my Sawdust of Words series, based on an idea I had like the first week I joined Tumblr, and it’s actually going well… but I’m only about 2/3 through, and the last third is the difficult part where the two walnuts need to have an actual conversation.
Unfortunately it’s now after 10pm so I’m also too tired to post something else. I was too ambitious and hoisted myself on my own petard (which by the way means I dropped a grenade at my own feet I’m serious look it up).
So! There will be fic updates in the near future, I promise. (How soon, I can’t say—I’m currently working 2 jobs up to 6 days per week so I’m frequently just too tired to words.) I’m also sharing below the first page of this fic, which takes place 48 hours after “Absence of Words” (Tuesday evening after the Apocalypse) and opens on one demon being completely heart-eyes-smitten over the local angel.
(If I get the chance I’ll reblog this with the typed up text of the page, but at the moment… )
Well, I have the 2/3 written up and now just need to figure out the Serious Conversation. Things got uhhhhh sort of increasingly traumatic with every draft, so that was fun.
Anyway, find below the extended version of this scene, as it will more likely appear in the final version on AO3. Warning: almost insufferable softness to follow.
Tuesday evening, after the Apocalypse
They had been talking for almost 48 hours straight.
Talking. Laughing. Listening to music. Drinking wine. Occasionally kissing.
Crowley had never felt so… “happy” didn’t even begin to describe it. He felt as though some terrible weight he’d carried for thousands of years was just… gone. A knot inside him undone, turned to smoke and dissipating on the wind.
He was free. Not from Heaven or Hell or some Great Plan.
The part of him that always held him back was gone. Crowley was free from himself.
He lounged across the sofa tucked in the east corner, watching his angel move about the shop. It was growing dark, but the last few beams of light caught his platinum curls, dying them ever so slightly golden. Picked out a flush of pink in his cheeks that had been all but absent for the last decade.
He was so goddamn beautiful.
A couple had come in to browse. Crowley had suggested just putting up the CLOSED sign, but Aziraphale insisted that “wouldn’t be very sporting.” So now he followed the couple around, helpful, polite, but firmly preventing them from so much as touching a single book.
When his eyes fell on Crowley, watching from the corner, Aziraphale’s face broke into a warm smile, like sun after a rainstorm, like fire on a cold day. Like coming home.
So fucking beautiful.
My perfect Angel, Crowley thought, watching as Aziraphale turned again to herd the customers as far as possible from anything of interest. Behind his glasses, the demon’s eyes never blinked, never moved from the object of his affection.
One of the customers pointed at something, and Aziraphale turned towards it, shoulders giving that little wiggle of excitement they did whenever he saw one of his favorite things. Crowley couldn’t get enough of it. The smile, the wiggle, the gleam in his eye. What he wouldn’t give to see Aziraphale so happy every day.
And he could. That was the whole damn point of being free, wasn’t it? No one to tell him off, no reports to write, no havoc to plan, no high-ranking demons to send him on secret missions… nothing stopping him from giving every moment of his attention to the being that mattered most to him, from giving that angel everything he wanted.
He longed to say that out loud. Not only that, a thousand things, millennia of emotions and confessions locked inside, the words straining against his chest, yearning to escape.
But that was forbidden to the demon. Couldn’t say it. Couldn’t write it. Couldn’t express his feelings in any way, not if he meant it.
And Aziraphale… accepted that. Understood. And loved him all the same. It was enough to make his heart ache as it rattled in his chest.
Finally, Aziraphale escorted the couple outside, having been thoroughly rude to them while still providing exceptional customer service. Crowley heard the door click shut, the sound of footsteps across the shop floor, and then Aziraphale rounded the corner into the little office, blessing Crowley with another smile.
Beautiful.
“So. Finally got rid of the nosy bastards?” Crowley asked, swinging his feet back to the floor to clear the space beside him. “Never seen a more unsavory pair of characters.”
“Oh, nonsense, my dear. They were perfectly charming, apart from their interest in my Jane Austen sets.” He hesitated for only a heartbeat before sitting on the sofa, hands folded in his lap, eyes downcast. Crowley tugged his glasses down so he could better watch the flush spreading across the angel’s cheeks.
“See? I knew it. Might have been planning to rob the place, or worse, buy something.”
“They hardly seemed the type, really, though you can’t be too careful. Though I confess to getting a bit impatient towards the end, as I wished to get back to… more important tasks.” As he said the last part, his eyes flicked briefly towards Crowley, bashful and demure, and his shoulders gave a little wiggle.
“Oh.Oh.Well,” fighting back an even bigger grin. “Hope you didn’t have to do anything too nasty to dissuade them.”
So I tried really hard to get a fic done today; it’s another installment in my Sawdust of Words series, based on an idea I had like the first week I joined Tumblr, and it’s actually going well… but I’m only about 2/3 through, and the last third is the difficult part where the two walnuts need to have an actual conversation.
Unfortunately it’s now after 10pm so I’m also too tired to post something else. I was too ambitious and hoisted myself on my own petard (which by the way means I dropped a grenade at my own feet I’m serious look it up).
So! There will be fic updates in the near future, I promise. (How soon, I can’t say—I’m currently working 2 jobs up to 6 days per week so I’m frequently just too tired to words.) I’m also sharing below the first page of this fic, which takes place 48 hours after “Absence of Words” (Tuesday evening after the Apocalypse) and opens on one demon being completely heart-eyes-smitten over the local angel.
(If I get the chance I’ll reblog this with the typed up text of the page, but at the moment… )
The most important rule when raising an Antichrist is: never get attached.
At least, it was for a demon sent to prepare the child to destroy the world and rule the ashes. The angel, as always, had a simpler job.
Brother Francis could present Warlock with his first kitten, watch the little face fill with wonder and joy. Nanny Ashtoreth had to teach the boy to let it go. He could comfort the child after a fall; she had to teach him to stand up and try again.
Brother Francis only had to love Warlock, and teach him to love in return.
Nanny was there to hone the boy, teach him to be strong, to command, to put his desires above all else. But she had another job, too.
The most important rule when preparing an Antichrist for his apocalyptic duty is: never get attached.
Particularly when one is preparing him to fail.
At any moment, the carefully laid plans of angel and demon could erupt into disaster. Someone had to be ready to act. To remember that the whole world was more important than a single child.
Nanny Ashtoreth stood always at Warlock’s side, watching like a serpent. Cold-blooded. Ready to strike.
“Warlock,” her voice snapped across the room. “You cannot bring every toy you own to America.”
“But I wuv dem!” The boy, not quite seven, clutched a teddy bear half his size.
Nanny folded her arms, stern as ever. Eyes concealed behind black lenses that reflected the world, showing nothing of herself. “What did I tell you about inanimate objects?”
He sighed. “Dey’re not f’me to wuv, dey’re tools t’be essploided in my quetht f’domination.”
“Correct. And save the baby-talk for the gardener, it doesn’t work on me.”
“Sorry, Nanny.”
“Better.” She studied the suitcase on Warlock’s bed, overflowing with stuffed animals, dinosaurs, gadgets, everything that held his interest these days. “This suitcase has to hold everything you need for your trip—”
“Ido need them!” He wrapped his arms more firmly around the bear.
Nanny raised her eyebrows, unmoved. “You need fourteen pairs of underwear. Is there room for those?”
One of Warlock’s hands worked itself loose to poke at the mess. “Mmmmmmaybe?”
“No. Nor is there room for your clothing, your spare shoes, or your toothbrush.” She gestured to the pile she’d prepared the night before. “The things you need. How do we solve this?”
He furrowed his brow while Nanny waited patiently. His parents were outside, watching the staff prepare the luggage for their trip to America. Likely wondering where their child was, but Nanny never rushed important lessons.
Finally, Warlock brightened, bouncing with excitement. “I know! Twosuitcases!”
Ok I’m going to be inactive online for a couple more days because this last week has been busy, BUT-
I now have Wi-Fi again and so I can show you the results of my book binding efforts from last week-end!
Behold!
It’s far from perfect, the cover in particular is very crooked (I think I cut it wrong? Maybe I should get better scissors, I alternated between the ones I use for sewing and the surgical ones I use for practicing stitching up human beings. Neither of those are good for paper, apparently).
Still, only second time sewing a book and first time actually binding it, I’m happy with it! I mean, it’s definitely book shaped at least.
The text inside is the Good Omens fanfiction “Pray for Us, Icarus” by @brightwanderer (Atalan), which was one of the very first Good Omens fanfics I ever read all the way back in August 2019. I only added page numbers, to avoid messing the signatures up, but everything else is untouched.
Why is it all in blue? Because that’s the stuff I had at home :D
(Regular posting should resume on Monday or Tuesday, I think. I deeply apologize to the people who began following this blog last week and were welcomed by a void of inactivity. Have a lovely weekend!)
So, I made a mistake with this one
For the cover, I had used a wallpapery plastic -y thinghie I had at home. I thought it would hold, and it was shiiiiiny.
But nope, bad idea, in the span of a few days it began breaking and peeling off, despite the fact that no one was touching the book.
Therefore, I rebound it, this time with some fabric I had at home - a leftover from when I was like, 10, and grandma made us all homemade bed covers.
Cutting off the ruined cover without damaging the rest of it was… a thing…
Honestly, it’s still not perfect, but I feel like I’m learning something new each time. So I’m happy with it, even removing the old cover was good practice.
This is really cool. Like, wow. As someone who loves books and reads primarily fanfiction, binding your favourite stories or maybe your own fics into books yourself is such a great idea. (I made some very shameful attempts years ago which involved an old plastic binding machine for office stuff and lots of glue that don’t really bear talking about…) This looks like a dream, though. So professional! You can put that right into your bookshelf along with books brought from a store. I am equally amazed and jealous of your skills and your new book here.
When Aziraphale Fell, reporter for The Daily Messenger, is tasked with a simple story on smuggling, he isn’t expecting to find out that Lightbringer, Inc. has been experimenting on something that could be an animal, an oil slick, or something else entirely.
He especially isn’t expecting that being to come home with him and change his entire life.
Summary: Aziraphale is trapped inside the apartment and we finally get to know the person who captured Crowley. But who is this young lad who imitates the demon’s style? And what is his goal?
Sneak peek: Aziraphale doesn’t even know why he’s so surprised and horrified at once. He had expected that Crowley’s capturer could only be a demon, yes, and yet it makes so much more sense. The disguise, the stolen holy oil… of course! No demon could waltz that easily into churches, a human could. Suddenly, Aziraphale has a very dull feeling in his stomach.
“Evil never sleeps, huh? Judging by the dark shadows under your eyes, you should rest a bit, kiddo,” Crowley suggests, his voice layered with honey, stickily sweet like a fly-trap and equally perilous. “Or is it just eye-shadow? I don’t get your emo-style completely.”
Aziraphale winces inwardly by Crowley’s bold words, but he also realises that the demon is trying to buy him time. It’s a diversionary manoeuvre, extraordinarily foolish and reckless, a hundred percent Crowley style, to distract the human and give Aziraphale the chance to sneak outside the apartment. Oh yes, he should leave now, right? Thirteen energetic steps, and he’ll reach the door in a jiffy. Very well. He was leaving. Any second now.
He hesitates, though.
Crowley is captured by a human. A thin, breakable human . It would be easy for the Principality to overpower the young man, wouldn’t it? Force him with all his angelic powers to free the demon and end this ridiculous business immediately. It might be a little unpleasant for all of them, yet the only reasonable solution. Simply one problem thwarts the plan.
A very big THANKSfor proofreading again goes to @ineffableomenshusbands who has the best beta reading style and puts two and two together perfectly, haha ;D
Summary: Aziraphale has convinced the gullible Remiel to enter the apartment alone to get the chance to talk with Crowley privately. What he gets to see there is not at all what he expected, and brings him and everyone else in great danger.
Sneak peek: At the time he enters the room with the big flat screen and opulent desk, Aziraphale is almost giving up on finding anyone, and then he sees it… or him, a person, actually, but alarmingly lifeless. For seconds Aziraphale forgets everything he’s supposed to do, he forgets the mission, his orders and the waiting Remiel, and he forgets the fact that he has just willingly gone to an apartment full of evil demonic energy. At this very moment he does not think, he does not feel, his fingers are numb and long for a miracle.
“Crowley!”
His own panicked shout echoes from the cold walls. Without any recollection of how he got there so fast, Aziraphale finds himself in front of the chair. For seconds, he just freezes in motion, because the first glance at the man horrors him, and he couldn’t even tell why. Ginger hair frames the pointy face, a mane just as curly and long as the first time they met, somehow familiar and yet so seemingly strange to Aziraphale.
“Crowley?” he asks again, more cautiously, hardly daring to believe it is really the demon in front of him. Strands of hair stick to his sweaty forehead, which Aziraphale removes carefully to get a better view. His face is pale, there are dark smudges under his eyes and his lower lip is blood-encrusted.
Aziraphale could see the pupils twitching uneasily behind the other man’s lids. He has got small rosy marks on his forehead and chest as if his skin was burned there. Though he cannot see any other signs of external injury, the man in front of him doesn’t look very healthy either. More specifically, apart from the twitching of his eyelids, he looks pretty dead.
Author’s note: Thanks dear reader for still following the story! This is one of my favourite chapters so far, because yes I admit I’m one of these fangirls who is living for the hurt/comfort moments. I hope you will enjoy it too. And also a huge thank you to @ineffableomenshusbands for beta-reading this a long time ago!
Summary: Gabriel informs Aziraphale that Crowley is back after 10 years, stealing holy oil in churches and spraying his initials all over the walls. The archangel is concerned that the demon wants to become an angel again or something even more to be worried about. He instructs Aziraphale to locate Crowley and find out his plans, because he owes this at least to Heaven after all what happened. However, Gabriel does not trust Aziraphale and therefore provides him with a supervisor. Who is this new angel? And can he help Aziraphale to find Crowley?
Crowley touches his neck, unconsciously, feeling some smooth scales beneath his bristly line of hair. He’s still not used to his shorter hairdo. It was more or less a hasty decision after he witnessed the crucifixion at Golgotha, the exhibit A of how cruel mankind can be and how little Heaven cares about… anything. Seriously, the young man screamed for hours, and no one showed mercy, not a single human, not the Almighty herself, and certainly no angel showed his feathered arse to support the poor man. Heaven is broken and evil, that’s it. Almost comparable to Hell, but with more sickening hypocrisy and less fancy drinks.
Crowley knew in this exact moment at the top of Golgotha, that he desperately needed to get rid of this shit. So he cut off his hair.
Somehow, it had been an acrimonious feeling to hold the coppery strands of hair in his fingers, the last reminder of his angelic past. Odd and liberating. Sometimes he can sense the tips of his hair, touching his shoulders lightly like a ghost pain, still haunting him.
Aziraphale breathes a gentle kiss on the bare skin of his neck, as if he wants to emphasize on how much he’s intrigued by the sight he’s given. Well, in his defence, the demon’s look is rather new to him.
The angel wraps almost protectively his arms around him, warm and strong, pressing his silky-soft chest against Crowley’s back. He can feel his curly hair tickle his skin. The demon is suddenly cocooned by a naked angel. And the operative word here is naked. Aye, naked as in ‘I slip right out of my tunic and seducing you’-naked.
The oysters were to blame, seriously.
A silly smile tugs on the corner of Crowley’s lips, and he can’t do much about it. Frankly speaking, it’s not the first time, no, not really. And after their first time, he had been so surprised he had already mentally put it on his list of ‘Sod it, Crowley, that’s too good to be true’ and considered it as over and done with. Just an accident. A terrible mistake.
So much for that then.
“Don’t get me wrong, dear. I adored your long locks and braids, I truly did, but your short haircut, well…” The angel’s fingertips wander over Crowley’s spine, slowly, tenderly above every small elevation. “It’s tempting.”
A small shiver runs through Crowley’s body. He feels strangely lightheaded and his chest is tight. It’s almost as if they can slip into another role once they’re naked. And that’s just as frightening as it is exciting.
“It’s the style these days,” he says, trying to sound suavely, and not as if it scares the shit out of him that the angel’s implying he looks hot.
They don’t talk about what they tend to do after eating oysters or after a relaxing afternoon at the caldarium. It’s not angelic, and probably not appropriate for a demon as well. So, no one ever talks about wet kisses, naked skin or sweet moans. What happens in Rome, stays at Rome. That’s really fine with Crowley because whenever he does think about it, he freaks out.
“Do you miss it?” Aziraphale asks quietly. “Your long hair?”
Aziraphale slides a little closer to him, closing the last possible gaps. It’s warm and strangely comforting. Crowley really wants to touch him right now, just something small and childlike, like holding the angel’s hand. But he doesn’t even dare to turn around. Actually, the demon is filled with dread and excitement, which is a fucking combination. Some day Aziraphale will fall, no doubt about that, and it will be Crowley’s bloody fault. He’s wondering if he should regret this entire thing and cancel it before it has got a name. Angels and demons don’t fraternize for a reason.
“Pfff, hell no! It was bloody unmanageable hair,” mumbles Crowley, hating that hollow feeling whenever he thinks about the past. He likes to move forward. Or run. Fastly, without turning back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You and your perfectly fluffy white curls which hardly ever split.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and he knows without seeing Aziraphale’s face that he is softly smiling, not minding the demon’s well-camouflaged compliment. Instead, he starts painting small circles with his fingers over Crowley’s shoulder blades, soothingly.
Oh,sod it!
The demon reaches for his hand, finally, intertwines their fingers. His thumb caressing the oversoft back of Aziraphale’s hand, while the angel places small wet kisses on every inch of his neck. The scales on his skin are almost gone, faded to a soft yellowish colour, glittering golden in the sunset.
“Thanks.”
He isn’t sure what, exactly, he is thanking him for. The best sex of his life? The distraction? For not asking why he was sitting alone and sulky in this Roman pub? Or perhaps just for the feeling in his chest, warm and pure, that has removed all his gloominess… Everything is as good and as warm and pleasant as it can be. Mostly because of Aziraphale.
Crowley doesn’t need the bloody long hair anymore. He only needs his angel.
Author’s note: I love to write flashbacks of their past so much! I created this little Rome scene after I drew both pictures. The idea with Crowley’s hair inspired me to use parts of it for my fanfiction ‘Creating Grey’ as well. So this is kind of a (not proofread) sneak peek for chapter 4 :) Hope you enjoyed it!
A crackling laughter is stuck in his throat, hard and sharp like shards of glass. Sometimes breathing hurts him so much that it feels like he’s choking on it, which is ridiculous, considering that he mustn’t breathe in the first place. It sits in his chest like a lump of ice, spreading from his chest, cold and hot and painful, and he couldn’t do much about it.
Aziraphale sobs, just once, because he has already shed so many tears that he has the feeling he ran dry already. His finger clenches the steering wheel. The night, this whole nightmare feels so unbearably long, and the Bentley seems too small for him alone. He sits in the driver seat until his whole corporation is numb and his muscles ache, and he hears Queen until his ears bleed.
Summary: After Crowley has kissed Aziraphale and vanished without an explanation, the angel doesn’t know how to deal with his sudden loss. He starts to indulge in sweet reminiscences (but in a completely unangelic way) when he receives unexpected visitors.
A sentiment unfolding inside his stomach like hundreds of little insects ready to fly, makes Aziraphale walk around the bookshop like a nervous wreck. And oh, it’s not a very pleasant feeling. The situation is itchier than the last time. And the last time Armageddon was around the corner. But the true cause of his loudly pounding heart and his straying thoughts is … just Crowley.
Just Crowley. Somehow, that sounds completely and utterly wrong.
The demon never had the decency to be just Crowley. He came into Aziraphale’s life, bold, noisy, demanding and with an ominous facial expression, looking unspeakably glad to meet him in devastated eras for some reason (though Aziraphale never ascertained why) in a very terribly tempting manner. Over thousands of years that behaviour never changed. Because this is Crowley, not just , but endlessly persistent, hopelessly dramatic, cheeky, sweet and kind Crowley.
Oh. Oh Lord!
Since their delightful dinner at the Ritz, Aziraphale finds himself smiling without valid reason but with increased regularity these days. Every time he studiously shoved the thoughts out of his mind, they came back, more intrusive than before. More disturbingly, he is humming Queen songs all of a sudden, any time his mind slips away. He has that unpleasant feeling that he’s going slightly mad. It’s finally happened. Oh, dear!
It’s been nearly seven weeks since Aziraphale is pretending that it’s a quite innocuous feeling, evolving from their victory and vanishing pretty soon. But it’s not. Actually, there’s something bubbling in his chest, causing ripples like churning waters. There’s no escape, and he knows if he’s resisting he will be swept away by the flood of his feelings and finally drown. But if he lets the riptide just run over without any guardedness, it will wash away everything, leaving a mess behind which is formerly known as his life. A life that will be changed completely.
Summary: After the Almost-Apocalypse Hastur is not pleased with the outcome of the trial and wants to punish Crowley for his crimes. His threats towards the ginger haired demon also include the angel, which makes Crowley more than nervous. It seems the short breathing gap is almost over, and with Heaven and Hell conspiring against them, will it ever be possible for Aziraphale and Crowley to live their happily ever after? Or will they forever be captured inbetween black and white? Crowley has to make some life-changing decisions.
Thanks to:
- the wonderful Dashicra (@ineffableomenshusbands ) who came up with the perfect title for this story and kindly proofread this chapter.
- my friend Allanei who is always encouraging me! Her cheerleading and feedback keep me motivated!
-@teslatherat who generously offered me her help and showed me Google Docs ;)
It’s typical for me to set up a story or drabbles around my drawings, but I’m not always confident enough to share them with you due to my lack of knowledge in the English grammar. This is a foreign language for me, therefore I still make a lot of mistakes and not noticing them.
For this redrawing of Crawly I wrote a little prelude for my story “Don’t Stop Me Now” on AO3. I have finished two new chapters already, but unfortunately my friend (who has corrected my stories in the past) is too busy with her work. If there’s anyone out there, who enjoys to proofread stories, please contact me!
Prelude
It was lo-… something at first sight.
The angel of the Eastern Gate stood atop Eden’s outer wall, facing the deserted land with a concerned glance. His wavy fair hair reflected the setting sun, some soft rays gently embraced his contours. Gray clouds were piling over the garden. With his white robe and the dark atmosphere forming around him, he looked bright and shining like a star in the night sky.
He was the most fascinating thing Crawly had ever seen.
And Crawly had seen a lot of things in his immortal existence. In the old days he had been an angel himself, a builder of blazing stars and astonishing constellations. But none of his creations ever radiated in such a wonderful warm glow, giving him satisfaction and ease at once. There was something magical about the other man, which is why Crawly couldn’t avert his gaze.
Strictly speaking, Crawly didn’t cross a line here. He wasn’t in close contact with the angel, staying at the apple tree most of the time, fulfilling his demonic duty. No one ever said he couldn’t sneak away occasionally and admire his new encounter from afar, though. Nothing wrong in it. At least until it became his favourite occupation of the day.
So the serpent observed the beautiful chubby angel quite a while. From a safe distance, of course. As a demon he had straight orders from Hell to cast some trouble in the Garden of Eden. It was highly inappropriate to reach out to the opposition by whatever means, he guessed, or even conveying interest in an angel in the first place. Probably it was forbidden as well. Something demons ought not to do.
He did anyway.
Crawly watched the serene beauty and listened carefully to every word that emerged these rosy lips, straining to find out more about the angelic guard, trying to get the whole picture. Every piece of the puzzle dragged him closer each day. He liked the way the blond angel yielded his flaming sword when he was practicing some quite impressive combat moves. He liked the way how politely the other man was talking to God’s newest creations (especially the animals), just like he really cared. And he absolutely adored the way the angel’s name rolled off his tongue. Aziraphale… The demon whispered it a couple of times just to listen to the melodic sound.
After seven days Crawly came to the conclusion, that the angel of the Eastern Gate wasn’t a threat or dangerous at all, only confirming his initial impression. In fact, there was something tragically lonesome about him. It was almost like looking into a mirror, finding someone as isolated as yourself. No other angel came to talk to him, even God never answered his prayers. That situation felt strangely familiar. Crawly wanted to get closer to the other man straightway, literally craved for a conversation with every fibre of his body. If there was the slightest chance, that the blond angel could truly understand how he feels, that they both are broken in some way, maybe they could feel wholesome again by being together.
They barely knew each other, but as they started talking, it felt like they had known each other for far longer than just a minute. Aziraphale treated him as equal, even though Crawly had revealed his black wings, openly showing his demonic nature. There was no loathing, no rolling eyes, no distrust in the angel’s voice. It was … odd. Something, Crawly had never experienced before.
So Crawly had stood frozen in indecision for what seemed like forever, thinking of the right way to approach, the right words to say. A feeling of nervousness overwhelmed him. The first impression counted, after all.
And the foremost thing that popped into his mind was, “That one went down like a lead balloon.”
Well. Could have been worse, right?
From up close he could study the other man’s face even better. His far too cute button nose and his ridiculously bright blue eyes, just to name but a few. It completely captured the demon. The way Aziraphale smiled, chuckled in a warm tone as Crawly mentioned their possible misstep, finally tipped him over the edge. It seized his chest with something deeper than admiration.
When raindrops started to pour at the very first time on earth, the demon gazed insultingly upon the sky. It felt cold and wet and absolutely annoying on his skin. The snake-like part inside of him immediately wanted to curl away and hide somewhere safe and warm. The other part clearly wanted to stay right next to Aziraphale, cautiously coming closer. Without a second thought or expecting any kind of counter-performance, the blond man stretched his impressive white wing to shield Crawly.
And that was when the demon had fallen for the angel completely.
Crawly knew on the spur of the moment that he had met the kindest person in his godforsaken life. Cheesy but true. He remembered clearly what Heaven was like. Not as nice as everyone thought it would be, though. On the one hand, he was bored stiff all the time. No temptations or decent drinks, for instance. But worst of all were the conceited archangels and their stupid duties and expectations they placed on every low-ranking angel.
Curiosity and self-determination were two words that simply didn’t appear in Heaven’s vocabulary. As well as ‘Thank you for your hard work’ or ‘We really appreciated that you’ve done this whole crap without questioning it in the first place’ or just a simple ‘Your last nebula was mind-blowing, you incredibly talented angel’.
It’s not that Crawly was demanding or so. Really! But for some kind words you’d wait in vain.
To be fair and square, in Hell they won’t offer you cookies either (Crawly really tried to convince his fellow demons to put more effort into the right acquisition, but incomprehensibly it never fell on understanding ears). Demons don’t trust each other, they don’t even have a single feeling for one another except suspicion. You certainly don’t make friends in Hell. It is a place full of loneliness.
Aziraphale was the first person who ever cared about Crawly at all, noticing things no one noticed, really looking at him and not at the demonic shell. A pure angel as people believe angels should be, with kind and untainted affection. And that was truly something remarkable, because after six thousand years with a troublemaker like him, a demon, his hereditary enemy, Aziraphale never stopped caring.
Posted last night as part of @whiteleyfoster’s Write This In Your Style challenge! There’s quite a number of fics there, so browse them all!
Across the centuries, Crowley comes to his favorite chateau, to watch his favorite angel at work and listen to his favorite poetry…
A centuries-long tale of devotion, pining, and love that is at once illicit and elevating, passionate and disciplined, human and transcendent… courtly love.
Crowley’s eyes stayed locked on the trobairitz and the crowd of men hanging on her every word. “What can I say? With entertainment like this, I barely need to lift a finger.”
A mildly annoyed tsk. “I hardly think a little flirtation even counts as wickedness.”
“Does if they’re already married.” She thought over the angel’s statement again, then snapped her head around, eyes wide, to study him. “Hang on, are you saying—”
“I’msaying that I expected you to be here because you always lurk in this corner when we come to Soifort.” The hall had changed very little in two hundred years. The tapestries were more numerous and complex, the stained-glass windows brighter, and the guests more vivacious. Aziraphale had changed even less, though his tunic hung longer and now incorporated a great deal more silk, particularly in the long flowing sleeves, and his cloak was now pinned on the right. But the most startling change was the look in his eyes. They shone merrily in the dim hall, and cast a light, a heat Crowley had only glimpsed a few times before. “Don’t expect me to do your work for you again.”
“Already done. Just taking a well-deserved break.” Crowley pushed away from the wall, circling Aziraphale, the dark train of her bliaut trailing behind her. “Or didn’t you notice this entire region has fallen to heresy?”
“Oh? And I’m to believe this was yourdoing?” He laughed, a delightful sound echoing through the room. “My dear lady, I doubt you could even tell me what Catharism is.”
The Ritual of Propagation has succeeded, and Aziraphale and Crowley prepare to welcome the newest member of Our Own Side, but the Archangels have other plans. No angel has ever been raised outside of their care, and they have no desire to see that change.
In this chapter, Aziraphale struggles to hold onto his faith in the face of their hopeless situation.
Aziraphale stared at his mug, trying to think what it might be. The temperature was fine, and he hadn’t added any milk that might be spoiled. Did it need sugar? But he didn’t like sugar in his tea.
Another sip. Bitter. Slightly metallic. Probably steeped too long. A mistake he hadn’t made in ages, but today certainly had him doing… and feeling… and thinking… strange things.
He managed to force himself to take one more sip before setting the mug down.
“That’s the most I’ve seen you drink all day,” a warm voice said as arms slid carefully around to embrace him under his wings. “Feeling better?” Crowley pressed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, a slow trickle of love winding around them.
“I… perhaps.” He pushed the mug away and rested his hands on Crowley’s, tracing the shape of his long fingers. “You… could be right.”
“Usually am.” Aziraphale could hear the grin in his voice. “Don’t have to sound so upset about it.”
Harvest season in Uruk, the greatest city in the world. When the fields are cut bare, the river runs swift, and even the gods themselves die. When a priest summons Crawley, she finds not the usual bargaining and lust for power, but something deeper, more twisted, and utterly inescapable.
With the first night’s ritual complete, a young priest named Iltani is ordered to take care of the captive demon…
They’d torn her apart again, but she’d found most of the pieces and slipped away while they were laughing. They’d noticed she was gone by now, so she had to hide, curled in on herself, coiled in the shadows, trying to stop her heart from beating before they heard it.
She didn’t know who they were, but it was important they didn’t find her.
She’d tried to go to the place she was safe, the only place, but they’d taken it from her, and now she couldn’t say the name, couldn’t even think it or they’d take the memory, too. Or had they already done so? If forgetting was the only way to protect it, how was she supposed to know if it was safe?
Something was coming. Shuffling, dragging steps. Scrabbling paws. A hand running across her hair as Lucifer whispered, “Come on, Crawley, the others want to play…”
With a strangled cry, her eyes snapped open to find someone far too close. Someone who wasn’t Aziraphale.
The ritual of Propagation has succeeded, and Crowley and Aziraphale prepare to welcome the newest member of Our Side! But the Archangels have other plans. No young angel has ever been raised outside their closely guided care, and they have no intention of changing that.
Last week, Gabriel presented them with an impossible choice; in this week’s chapter, Aziraphale struggles to come to terms with it… by diving very deep into denial. And, on a lighter note, coffee!
A gentle touch on his scalp brought Aziraphale back to reality, to the cottage. He was lying with his head in Crowley’s lap, his husband running his fingers through the angel’s curls, eyes full of worry. Crowley was talking. How long had he been talking?
“…make the wards more powerful, double them, triple them if I can get the right ingredients. Mostly herbal, anyway, I have so much of that shit in the garden. If we can hold them off a bit until I move a few markers, we can increase the radius, too, maybe all the way to the edge of the valley…”
Aziraphale shut his eyes, turning away. “Doesn’t matter.”
Crowley’s fingers froze. “What… what doesn’t…?”
“Everything. Nothing.” He managed to sit up, though that seemed to send a twinge through his side. “Whatever you think up, whatever we try. It doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale rubbed a hand across his stomach, and the muscles seemed to unknot, at least.
“S’not like you to give up,” Crowley pointed out.
“I’m not giving up. I’m facing facts.” He stared across the living room at the glass sphere that sat on the mantel, the keystone of the wards that protected them. “If twelve Archangels want to enter this cottage, do you really think we can stop them?”
Aziraphale has been flirting with the idea of opening a new bookshop in Gotham and luckily enough Crowley was able to help him decide on the venue. Who owns the perfect spot ready to be sold for the right price? That’s pretty easy: the demon’s acquaintances - Joker and his girlfriend.
“I don’t know about this,” Aziraphale crinkles his nose, contemplating the surroundings leading towards today’s meeting place: one of the fancy restaurants owned by The King of Gotham. “It’s a splendid day, why don’t we just take a walk?”
Crowley rolls his eyes behind the black sunglasses, explaining for the millionth time:
“As we talked before, he’s willing to sell the property which might I remind you, it’s ideal for your bookshop. I don’t think you have a choice.”
“Yes… but, but Mister Joker is not… you know… a good person. I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing business with such a bad apple. Pun not intended!” he immediately corrects his sentence.
The demon sights, quickly throwing in variables meant to help stir the conversation:
“This restaurant makes the best stake bites you ever tasted, best tea and crumpets are imported from England. They sell the best wine, best champagne plus the scrumptious ice cream is to die for. Aren’t you interested in trying them?”
“How dare you temp me with such frivolous nitty-zitties, dark creature of the abyss??!!” Aziraphale’s stern voice has absolutely no effect on Crowley.
“Angel, do you want the building or not?” he calmly scratches his chin.
“Please do lead the way,” a very polite Principality quickly switches mood while strutting alongside his companion.
“They closed the grounds to the public today,” the demon rambles on, swiftly knocking at the front door: six fast beats followed by two slow taps.
One of J’s henchmen opens the entrance so that the guests can squeeze in undetected.
“Howdy,” Crowley puckers his lips and sniffs the air, definitely recognizing his favorite meal.
“Mister C, boss is not here yet.”
“The kitchen is opened, correct?” the sassy devil makes it obvious he has no patience for details.
“Certainly, they are already cooking the usual for you.”
“Perfect, me and my friend will take 2 portions with a side of saffron rice and three bottles of champagne.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” the angel gushes. “Champagne makes me all nickytty-pickytty,” he softly giggles at the thought as he accompanies the small party in the main room.
“Nickytty-pickitty?” Crowley huffs. “Make it four bottles!” he urges, dropping on a chair at the nearest table adorned with warm, steamy bread sticks.
“Of course sir,” the obliging goon rushes to convey the instructions designated for the kitchen stuff.
Aziraphale samples the baked goodies, examining the posh decorations around him.
“Deee-licious,” he chews on the morsels and sees that Crowley didn’t touch the appetizer. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I shall. Can you miracle some butter?” the spoiled demon yawns.
“Why don’t you order it?”
“It’ll take seconds; I want it now.”
The angel takes a deep breath, touches the table cloth and the requested item materializes by the bread sticks basket.
Crowley pouts.
“What’s wrong?” the clueless Aziraphale inquires.
“I like Irish butter.”
“Seriously now!” the Guardian of Eden scoffs at his fussy escort.
“Pleeeease?” the demon’s bored puppy gaze leaves no room for hesitation: the Principality snaps his fingers in order to fulfill the wish.
“Thank you, best friend,” Crowley dips his treat into the gooey container pretending not to notice the innocent smile flourishing on the angel’s face.
“Dear Lord!” Aziraphale’s sudden exclamation makes the devil search his surroundings.
“I wasn’t aware we’ll have extra divine company. Oh!” Crowley realizes why the celestial being is appalled: The Clown made it to the meeting and he’s barking orders to his crew in a frenzy. “That’s him, that’s The Joker.”
“The aura he has!!” Aziraphale touches his chest, uneasy at the sight of a crazed King of Gotham chaperoned by his woman.
“He sure steals the show, doesn’t he? One of our most promising prodigies,” the demon informs. “There’s gossip they want to make him commander of the 13th legion after he kicks the bucket.”
“You don’t say!” a mixture of disgust and doomsday feeling prompts the angel to continue: “What about the woman?… … Very strange, I can’t discern her aura.”
“She’s Neutral.”
“Neutrals are a myth! They don’t exist!”
Crowley doesn’t have time to reply because Y/N and The Joker approach while the two gentlemen get up from their sits in a hurry.
“You’ll see,” the devilish smirk offers more incertitude than clarification.
“Hey Crowley,” the grouchy Joker greets.
“Mister C, where have you been?” you reach over to him and you both touch your index fingers similar to Michelangelo’s creation painting.
“I’ve been busy.”
“How’s London?” a spirited Y/N asks.
“Meh… Rainy. Sunny here and there,” the demon cracks his neck and Aziraphale is more intrigued than ever: the index fingers touching Michelangelo style is Crowley’s signature pinky promise. What kind of pinky promise could a human possibly have with a demon?!
The angel doesn’t know yet, but it’s not very complicated: one year ago, Crowley was visiting and prepared to relax into the jacuzzi with you and J. You wanted to do a little experiment and planted a drop of holy water in the tub just to discover if it would have any effect of him. Yeah… the devil was fortunate he didn’t jump in: he first immersed his left toes in the foamy liquid and BAM! They instantly vanished. You felt super crappy about it thus you nurture him for about a week until his toes grew back. As a result of your unauthorized curiosity, Crowley made you promise you won’t do it again…Thus the pinky promise renaissance style each time you encounter.
“Is he the buyer?” J moves straight to the main topic.
“Yes, this is Aziraphale,” Crowley takes off his sunglasses only to reveal his eerie, serpent irises. “Don’t worry, they know,” he pinches the angel’s hand.
“And you didn’t bother to tell me?!” the Guardian mutters through his clench teeth while maintaining a courteous demeanor.
“That’s such a cool name, Mister A,” you praise the moniker and have more questions: “What type of books are you going to sell? Old, new?”
“Mostly old, rare gems. I have an ineffable plan to transform…”
“Do you have the money? The price tag is 200 thousand dollars,” The Joker cuts him off and doesn’t bother to wait for an answer because he’s rude to start with. “Crowley, does he have the money?”
“Pardon me, I do have the money,” Aziraphale intervenes whilst J is intensely glaring at the demon and won’t accept a response from someone else.
”Of course he does,” the devil smacks his lips. “He can pay double, even triple!”
“Fine, I’ll take triple!” The King of Gotham decides.
The angel is internally screaming, his eyes burning holes through Crowley.
Treacherous snake! he thinks and the demon nonchalantly guesses his friend is unhappy.
“What?… I’m helping you negotiate.”
“Can I trust him, C.?” J growls.
“Yes, you can trust him 100%. Although… he was entrusted with a flaming sword once and lost it.”
The angel is wiggling in his chair, horrified Crowley brought that up in front of the humans.
“You lost a flaming sword?!” you interrogate the poor sod as the waiters bring in the food and drinks for everybody at the table.
“Well, ‘lost’ wouldn’t be the correct term to describe it; I gave it to a person that needed it.”
“Awww, that’s so sweet!” you touch your heart, totally moved by his statement.
“Why, thank you,” Aziraphale chuckles at your genuine praise. “I presumably…”
“Me, if I’d had a flaming sword,” you interrupt, “I would slash and hack everything in my way!!!”
“…Hm?” the angel tries to keep his composure at the evident change in mood.
“I would cut, eviscerate and stab every single man or woman trying to get to my boyfriend!” you swipe the plates off the table and they fly all over the floor, smashing into pieces. “I would split Batsy in two if he tries to catch my J!!” you stand up and punch the bottles of champagne; they shatter against the wall to Crowley’s dismay.
“Oh!” the angel blurs out, taken aback by the screaming woman.
“Nobody fucks with my boyfriend!!” you continue your speech and both the angel and the demon are completely smitten by such pathos: Y/N keeps gesturing and striking objects while declaring her love for The Joker.
The only present individual not giving a damn is actually The Clown, too busy texting about another lucrative deal he has in the works.
“J,” you address him, “if you’d ask for my flaming sword, I’d give it to you!!!!” the passionate Y/N articulates.
“That’s nice, Pumpkin,” the apathic green haired menace continues to text without paying attention.
The guests watch your ardor slowly crumbling to pieces until you repose your seat, disappointed your man is ignoring you again.
Aziraphale opens his mouth to initiate dialogue when it’s clear something is wrong: you stare at your plate, the only one left on the table containing a foul atrocity.
“Is this…vinaigrette????!!! I asked for Ranch dressing!!! RANCH!!!! I hate vinaigrette!!!!” you raise your voce and grab The Joker gun from the holster, shooting towards the kitchen. The chef and staff dodge behind the counters as the angel is panicking.
Still, what’s with Crowley’s satisfied grin?…
“Did you change her salad dressing??!” he whispers and the demon deflating like a balloon is more than an actual confession. “Crowley, no!!!” Aziraphale scolds as he discretely snaps his fingers. “Umm… excuse me miss. I believe that’s Ranch dressing,” he candidly points at your food.
“Huh?” you turn around to analyze the contents and clearly you were mistaken before since there’s no sign of vinaigrette. “My bad!!!!” you shout. “You each get 5,000 for being great sports!”
“Thank you, Y/N!” the employees express their gratitude, wondering if the storm has really passed. With J’s girl, you never know… she’s unpredictable.
As a result, they spend a couple more minutes hiding just in case.
“Pumpkin, you’re giving me a headache!” The Joker complaints and finally is able to open the link he struggled to gain access to.
You don’t react but the unearthly clients can read between the lines: the woman’s vibrant attitude sunk to the lowest level.
“You guys you’ll savor this on TV shortly as breaking news,” J arrogantly boasts. “I’m going to blow up Gotham Bank! It’s rigged and ready to go!”
Aziraphale is petrified while Crowley can’t wait to witness the explosion; The Clown’s finger almost touches the red button on the screen but Y/N snatches the phone.
“You can’t do that, J!”
“Why not?” he sulks at your disapproval.
“Today is bring your kid to work day!”
“Pfftt, was that today?” The Joker frowns. “That’s just stupid! Why do parents have to bring their offsprings to work?”
“Magnificent,” the angel exhales, relieved catastrophe was averted. “She can actually influence him,” he mumbles in a low tone.
“Don’t be upset, ok?” you kiss J and the evil sparkle in your eyes makes Aziraphale nervous at the shift. “I have a surprise for you, babe.”
“What surprise?” the crabby boyfriend grumbles.
“Guess who’s nearby attending a summit about how to improve crime fighting in town?”
“Who?”
“Commissar Gordon!” you wink. “Guess who send our men to place a bomb in his car?”
“Kitten, you did not!” the grotesque smile on The Joker’s face makes Aziraphale cringe.
“I did! Press the screen on my phone. I have a drone flying over the spot to record his reaction when he comes out of the conference and sees the damage! The images will be sent straight to your cell, this way you can enjoy them over and over again.”
“Awesome!” the impatient lunatic takes your phone and touches the screen. A powerful blast is heard in the distance as the angel cannot stay silent:
“This is preposterous! I forbid it!”
“And why should I care?” J counterattacks. “I don’t listen to weirdos dresses in creepy outfits anyway.”
“I beg your pardon?!” The Principality can’t hold in the remark.
“There’s nothing wrong with his suit,” you immediately defend Crowley’s friend. “It’s very elegant and he looks like a real gentleman!”
“Opposed to what, huh? Me??! I don’t look like a gentleman, is that what you’re trying to say??!” J accuses you of nonsense because he’s missing a few screws and his brain can’t process shit normally.
“Ugghh,” the demon stretches on his chair, debating on his next move. “Enough!” he stops time and Aziraphale is overwhelmed by his experience so far. “First, I believe we both agree she should stay away from swords. Second, I have a proposal.”
“A proposal?”
“Yes. Here’s the thing: the next words he’s going to utter will be so hurtful; frankly the last drop for her. She’s going to leave him; she’s been thinking about it.”
“None of our concern,” the angel gets in defensive mode because he can sense what Crowley is aiming at.
“Maybe not, yet you should consider the facts: a man like him can’t possibly hope for a better partner than a Neutral. You’re aware I’m right: she does a good deed and compensates it with a bad one and vice versa. At the end of the day her ledger is always perfectly balanced. If they stay together, some of her neutrality might rub off on him. Which translates into countless lives might be saved. Miracle him say the stuff she wants to hear and today’s outcome will be different.”
“This is blackmail!!”
“It’s in my nature; that’s what I do,” Crowley lifts his shoulder up, unfazed at the allegation.
“Well…” Aziraphale argues. “She is a Neutral, I suppose they are not a myth.”
“Nope, and you should be grateful she didn’t trick you into her if you show me yours I’ll show you mine little game.”
“Good gracious, Crowley! That sounds indecent!”
“She’s super sneaky. The Joker was gone on business and we played poker; it was a boring evening so she had an interesting suggestion: if I show her my wings she’ll show me her push up bra.”
“And?” the angel gulps.
”I’ve never seen a push-up bra before, I was curious!”
“Anthony Crowley!!!” The Guardian shouts. “Do you go around flaunting your wings to everyone???!!”
“In over 6000 years you never called me by my first name; does it mean I’m in big trouble?”
“Obviously!”
“Nifty, I love getting in trouble,” the devil snickers. “So we have a deal? You’ll miracle him saying it?” and doesn’t wait for a reply. He releases his grip on time and J continues his tirade towards Y/N:
“You know what, Pumpkin??!”
“… … What…?” you brace yourself for the worst.
“I love you.”
Your bottom lip quivers, tears clouding your vision since you didn’t expect the outpoured declaration you’ve wanted to hear for the past two years.
The Joker moves his jaw sideways, intrigued he pronounced such rubbish. It’s almost as his mouth… moved by itself! Impossible aberration!
“Why are you crying?” J quizzes and you can’t stop bawling your eyes out. “C., it seems we have a situation; make sure your pal pays me!” J stands up from the table while you cling to his arm being a complete emotional mess. Y/N is unable to speak but she waves at guests before departing instead of a formal goodbye.
The Joker and his girl are gone, thus Crowley uses his powers in order to summon back the food and drinks destroyed earlier before the people working at the restaurant notice the carnage.
“That was a trip!” Aziraphale concludes after the insane meeting.
“Wasn’t it? Congratulations on the bookstore! Shall we?” the demon urges. “It’s getting cold and trust me, you don’t want to waste this heavenly lunch. Pun not intended,” he mentions for the heck of it.
“Mmmm, this is soooo good,” Aziraphale savors the exquisite flavors and lifts his glass up for Crowley to pour champagne. “Thank you,” he sips on the bubbly drink, distracted by the popping sounds.
“Are you feeling nickytty-pickitty yet?”
The angel shakes his head in denial and the devil laughs, amused:
“Well, that’s why we have 4 bottles! Cheers!”
The glasses clink, Crowley laying out more ideas for the rest of the day.
“After we’re done eating, what do you say we take a stroll to see the building? It’s about 6 blocks away.”
“I’d like that; it’s a very good plan,” Aziraphale admits while drinking more champagne.
