Good Omens Fanfic - Blog Posts
THE INEFFABLE COSPLAYERS ON INSTA ARE FINALLY DOING FIRESPINNER CROWLEY WITH THE FIRE FANS.
ALL OF @cemeteryangel725 and my dreams are coming true!
OF FIRE AND FALCONS A GOOD OMENS RENAISSANCE FAIRE AU
(COMPLETE fic, 15/15 chapters, 54,201 words!) By GOAD's very own smut angel, @cemeteryangel725, who did me the incredible honor of allowing me to make some cover art for her story. Rated EXPLICIT on AO3, no minors, and, as always, MIND THE FUCKING TAGS.
I'll be posting full size portraits of each of Cemetery's wonderful characters in a few days!
@goodomensafterdark
Reblogging this one because I was looking at this piece today and still am super in love with it. ❤️
Here's some process shots from this one, as a treat.
The original anatomy sketch.
Started laying down color while referencing a few portraits by John Singer Sargent. I specifically paid attention to how he painted hair (Sargent usually painted hair as one large, dark mass of color with little highlight detail) and how he painted skin (very subtle and smooth, not a huge amount of contrast).
Got the environment blocked in a little, too. I put that blue and white porcelain vase in because I can never, ever resist blue and white porcelain.
More detail in the environment and the character.
Adding a pattern to the chair upholstery.
Working on the rug, here.
This is the full rug design. I sketched the whole rug out in a separate canvas and then overlaid it into the working canvas and warped it into place to use as a reference.
Took this shot when I was halfway done with the decanter and glass.
A Place to Call Home --- --- ---
This piece was commissioned by my dear friend @tawnyontumblr for HER dear friend @saretton to accompany a WONDERFUL fic that Tawny wrote for Saretton's birthday!
The fic is A Place to Call Home (Explicit, on AO3), a Human AU set in the Late Victorian/1890s and featuring Portrait Painter!Aziraphale and Stage Actor!Crowley as his artistic muse. I am in love with this concept.
Crowley's voice was almost too soft to hear. It nearly faded amidst the sweep of Aziraphale’s brush over canvas, the carriage rattling past outside—another layer of stimuli amidst the light, and the smell of linseed oil and turpentine. The way the fabric Crowley wore hissed gently over his skin as he slowly, minutely shifted position and then moved back.
He half sat half reclined on a Louis XVI armchair that Aziraphale had picked up in an estate sale. His legs were crossed, and the emerald banyan, embroidered with gold, slid from one shoulder. Aziraphale had been staring at that curve of lightly freckled skin while he'd been mixing rose madder and Chinese white, letting the brush sweep over the damp canvas as he sought to give voice to the hunger he felt.
The idea here was for me to paint the portrait of Crowley that Aziraphale is painting in the story.
Tawny asked me to paint with John Singer Sargent vibes, who is quite possibly my favorite artist of all time, and one of, if not the greatest, portrait painters of the 19th century. It's quite a tall order to try to imitate his style, so I settled for something Sargentesque! She also specified that "I want I am both painting and fucking him vibes. Intimate. That's the word." And I hope I delivered.
@goodomensafterdark Ya'll need to go read this fic its hot af.
I post all of my work, including the really filthy shit, full-sized WIPs, tutorials, comics, exclusive pieces, and more on my on my Patreon
A print of this piece will be up in my print shop on INPRNT!
A Place to Call Home --- --- ---
This piece was commissioned by my dear friend @tawnyontumblr for HER dear friend @saretton to accompany a WONDERFUL fic that Tawny wrote for Saretton's birthday!
The fic is A Place to Call Home (Explicit, on AO3), a Human AU set in the Late Victorian/1890s and featuring Portrait Painter!Aziraphale and Stage Actor!Crowley as his artistic muse. I am in love with this concept.
Crowley's voice was almost too soft to hear. It nearly faded amidst the sweep of Aziraphale’s brush over canvas, the carriage rattling past outside—another layer of stimuli amidst the light, and the smell of linseed oil and turpentine. The way the fabric Crowley wore hissed gently over his skin as he slowly, minutely shifted position and then moved back.
He half sat half reclined on a Louis XVI armchair that Aziraphale had picked up in an estate sale. His legs were crossed, and the emerald banyan, embroidered with gold, slid from one shoulder. Aziraphale had been staring at that curve of lightly freckled skin while he'd been mixing rose madder and Chinese white, letting the brush sweep over the damp canvas as he sought to give voice to the hunger he felt.
The idea here was for me to paint the portrait of Crowley that Aziraphale is painting in the story.
Tawny asked me to paint with John Singer Sargent vibes, who is quite possibly my favorite artist of all time, and one of, if not the greatest, portrait painters of the 19th century. It's quite a tall order to try to imitate his style, so I settled for something Sargentesque! She also specified that "I want I am both painting and fucking him vibes. Intimate. That's the word." And I hope I delivered.
@goodomensafterdark Ya'll need to go read this fic its hot af.
I post all of my work, including the really filthy shit, full-sized WIPs, tutorials, comics, exclusive pieces, and more on my on my Patreon
A print of this piece will be up in my print shop on INPRNT!
❤️❤️❤️
Love our Rennies so much.
Here's all the Rennie art I've done so far, for those of you that need any further convincing to go read Cem's work...
THE RENNIES DO KINKTOBER: Final Roundup
Can’t believe I made it to the end! When I first had the idea to do a few of the Kinktober prompts in my extended Of Fire and Falcons universe, I was thinking of keeping all of my entries under 1000 words and doing maybe ten of the prompts. 20 chapters and 55K words later, that’s obviously not what happened! But I’ve really enjoyed this as a writer, jumping around the timeline, writing rarepairs and new character POVs, developing my semi-OC characters, and trying out new moods and styles. If you’ve been along for the ride with me, thank you so much for reading! But if you haven’t taken a peek yet, I hope you give these stories a chance.
Here’s the final crop of stories:
22: skipped
23/Masturbation (Furfur): After an evening watching Aziraphale and Crowley in action, Furfur needs some time to himself.
24/Danger/Helplessness (Crowley/Eric): After a month on the road in very close quarters, tensions between Crowley and Eric come to a head.
25/Feeding/Food Play (Aziraphale/Crowley): When Crowley prepares a sensory dinner for Aziraphale, things take an unexpectedly emotional turn.
26: skipped
27: skipped
28: Cuckold (Aziraphale/Crowley/Ten/Fourteen): Crowley steps out for the night, and Aziraphale waits for him to return.
29: skipped
30: skipped
31: Creator’s Choice: Polyamory (Aziraphale/Crowley/Ten/Fourteen): Aziraphale and Crowley invite Chris and Matt to visit them at home for the first time. Oh yeah, this is an 8400-word sequel to Special Guest Stars, and you know what’s in it.
To catch up on the rest of the stories in this series, head on over to AO3!
Thank you so much to Cowie, Ring, Ghosty, Garo, Joy, and TV for sticking with me through this journey. Your support means the world to me.
And thank you to @quona for the amazing art, as always!
And now I definitely need a nap.
Of Snowbirds and Hearthstones
--- --- ---
This is the full-sized piece from which I pulled the cover for @cemeteryangel725's fic, Of Snowbirds and Heartstones (Explicit on AO3, mind the tags!) I was thrilled that Cem asked me to draw the cover for the sequel to Of Fire and Falcons, because I love these fucking Rennies so much. --- --- ---
If you want to see more of my art, I post stuff like this (and full-sized WIPs, tutorials, Patron-exclusive smut, you get the idea) on Patreon.
PATREON | prints | ko-fi | commission
Detail shots from the high res!
@goodomensafterdark
Of Snowbirds and Hearthstones Sequel to Of Fire and Falcons, A Good Omens Renaissance Faire AU
(COMPLETE fic, 13/13 chapters, 60,194 words!)
Some of you might recall that I painted the cover for Of Fire and Falcons, @cemeteryangel725's fantastic Ren Faire AU fic. Well, we're back with another.
Of Snowbirds and Hearthstones is Cem's sequel to OFAF and it is WONDERFUL. Rated EXPLICIT on AO3, no minors, and, as always, mind the tags!
I'll be posting the full size portrait of the Rennies in just a moment, so stay tuned!
@goodomensafterdark
fires beyond the lychgate --- --- ---
prints | ko-fi | commission
May I interest you in some Beltane-themed witchy pollen magic? Revelers dancing around May Day bonfires in the woods? How about we add some lust-addled Crowley and sweaty Priest!Aziraphale to that, too? Yes? I thought so! I painted this for the Spring is Here! High Pollen Count Event in collaboration with the absolutely fantastic @tawnyontumblr. I know you know Tawny's fics. I don't need to tell you how good they are. You can and should go read the fic that inspired this painting on AO3: 🔥 All Fired Up by TawnyOwl95 🔥 (Rated Explicit, mind the tags!)
The trunk of the birch tree was smooth against Aziraphale's back. He held on to one of the branches above his head, getting bark dust in his nails as Crowley sucked on his jaw. The last of Aziraphale’s buttons came open, his shirt now only held in place by his clerical collar. Crowley's hands moved down, and Aziraphale's belt hissed as it was drawn from its loops. If Aziraphale turned his head he could still see the fire flickering through the trees, the shadows flitting back and forth. If someone came this way - Aziraphale didn't care. His mind was full of Crowley. The drums still beat in time with the blood pounding, rising up as Crowley's mouth coaxed it to the surface of Aziraphale's skin, fed on him like a starving man.
The full piece:
...and some detail shots from the high res:
@goodomensafterdark, love you goblins, hope you like my art.
for loving one --- --- ---
BOY HOWDY AM I EXCITED TO SHARE THIS ONE WITH YOU ALL. This piece is cover art for @thescholarlystrumpet's wonderful 1940s priest AU fic: For Loving One (Rated E on AO3, mind yer tags) ...which you can and should read, asap. Chapter 10 (of 16!) just went up today, and yes, Strumpet does have the whole fic already written and ready to post, so you won't get abandoned on a cliffhanger. For my part, I wanted to call upon some 1940s aesthetics with a little bit of film noir and some Leyendecker-esque vibes. I hope you like my interpretation! Alsoooooo take some time to check out all the things I painted into that stained glass. I had a hell of a time designing it. --- --- --- If you like my art and want to keep seeing more of it, support me! ko-fi | prints | commission --- --- --- Detail shots from the high-res:
With special thanks to the WINGZ Mag/Maggie's Record Shop Ad 1 chat for supporting me through this stained glass adventure (aka listening to my bitching). @goodomensafterdark
Me following Tawny around gathering art ideas while she writes unreasonably good witchy smut.
CAN CONFIRM, BELTANE SEX POLLEN COLLAB WIP
Hi! Popping here because I want to know what do you do with your hands ;)
So, my word for the wip sentence game is 'hands'!
Oh, good word. Thank you for asking. From the latest wip doc I opened which is currently called 'Beltane Sex Pollen Fic' and a collab with the very talented @quona
"Let me." Crowley's hands were gentle as they pulled Aziraphale's shirt from the waistband of his trousers.
Guess the fic 🤭🤭
It's Misfire on AO3, AKA one of my fav GO fics. It's also a Supernatural crossover fic, which gives us the absolute joy of several chapters worth of GO!Crowley traumatizing the Supernatural's protagonists, including Crowley detonating a demon bomb while trapped in the trunk of the Impala and surviving. Crowley says "WHO CARRIES BOMBS IN FHE BACK OF THEIR CAR?!" But I thought he deserved to say the Fuck word there so I added it to the drawing.
Link and timelapse of drawing below the cut 🥰🥰
https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246183/chapters/45767005#main
Writers claim how they like reading comments on their stories. But you know what feels even better? When reader receives a reply on the comment from the writer after several years. This, I call a reward. It made my day. And I read the fic again, the cutiest thing ever.
(no intent to force writers to reply on every comment, and in an instant. I'm just very happy for this little gift, even after such long time)
Two great lawyers, former schoolmates, meet after a long separation to argue the case for and against a Tennessee science teacher accused of the crime of teaching Darwin's theory of evolution. But can political enemies still be friends after such a time?
Inherit the wind/Good Omens crossover coming soon in AO3! Collab with amazing @indigovigilance for the @do-it-with-style-events Silver Screen Bang!
a scene out of chapter 9 from @moonyinpisces 'how do we turn on the light'
Crowley picks up Aziraphale from the hospital
THAT was a delight.
Thank you for breathing a new life into that old picture ♥️
Soft angel and even softier demon. My fellow followers, I beg you, go an read it. It will make your day lighter, as did mine.
NEW FIC UP ON AO3!!!
This is actually inspired by a beautiful piece of fanart by @siskey
Two years ago I sumbitted a few sketches for Good Omens Reverse Bang and had no idea what could come from it. That I could participate on a whole multichaptered story I am imensly proud of? (I'm talkign about Sunshine, don't mind hidden ad) Draw a picture every month? And lastly, most importantly, meet amazing people and make friends? Well, here I am, two years later, joining the Reverse Bang again and being paired with my dear friend and brilliant writer @elfontheshelves again! I would't be happier working with anyone other than you. Thank you for everything ♡ Our latest collab: Questionable home decor or how Crowley's life was turned completely upside down by the appearance of a certain angel back into his life. An angel that had been on his mind for the past, oh so many years.
Below is an original sketch that inspired the story. This is the most detailed sketch I've ever done for the event and completelly redraw it anyway, but I like both. I left the space for third person blank and I let elf to decide who could stand there. Apparently, there were no other option but Aziraphale :D The sketch is based on a photo taken at my friend's wedding I attended with my friend and roomate (we all are very good friends and classmates from high school) this september. Now it's displayed on the fridge in our apartment and I hope it'll stick there for very long time, as long as at Furfur's place.
“How many angels can dance on the head of a needle?” Somehow, I forgot to post my last entre for Reverse! Reverse! GO AU Zine. Thank you again for having me ♡ I was lucky to collab with super talented @ashfae, who wrote a lovely story A Duel in Versailles, for which I drew the art ^^ Thank you for your patience, I know it took me much more time to finish it then I promised. You can enjoy the whole drawing in AO3 (but be warned, there’s partly nudity, sorry not sorry).
Time's up! If someone ask me what would I do after a year since I assigned to Reverse Bang, I would probably never guess what come from it. Not a single sketch, but a whole bunch of works, and the most glorious things - a beautiful heartwarming story and a dear friend, @elfontheshelves
I’m so so fucking glad and happy you choose my sketch. I will never believe it would be a begining of a long night talks, so much laughing and ploting, talking about nothing and everything. Thank you, for you being you, for challening me, for patience, for lovely words and praise, for our boys, for everything 💗
For the record, Reverse Bang was an event organized by DIWS, where artists submitted their sketches and writers picked one of them and wrote story inspired by that artwork. My draft was that scene from first chapter ^^ After that we decided to continue working together and here we are, after a year the very last chapter.
I hope you all had Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! ^^ I totally forget to post art for another chapter of It never hurts to keep looking for sunshine, so sorry! As readers probably know, our bois couldn't keep their hands off each other for 5 minutes at a time, but nobody wasn’t surprised (me neither). What dorks they are and thanks God the kids don’t resemble their fathers/uncles and are much more smarter then them.
hopeless
It goes like this.
A snake meets an angel in a garden of peace and figures that knowledge was more important than that peace. The angel believes they were not destined to be. He gives a sword to the first two humans, and does not fall.
The snake is decidedly not jealous.
He will never be jealous of not falling, because it was what he was always meant to do anyways, wasn’t he?
He was always meant to go down in a blaze of searing flesh and bone and fire, fire, flames that burnt him and swirled around him as he screamed and screamed but it wouldn’t stop, it would never ever stop because all his tears were evaporating and it’s like they never existed and it’s been so long now, is this his new forever? Is this what he is meant to be? Merely an angel for an instant, a plaything to be thrown away for simply asking the wrong questions at the wrong time?
Is this his fault?
(If all the tears he cried wouldn’t have gone up in smoke, maybe they would have been the water to fill the ocean).
It’s fine.
It’s what he was made for, to be tested. The angel wasn’t.
He was fine.
Anyways, he may have gone and fallen in love with said angel.
He was just so wonderful and sweet and genuine, and he was everything the demonic snake would never be. In fact, the demon hadn’t even known that he could love anything until now.
He wasn’t supposed to love anything at all, but here he was, stupidly pining for someone who could never love him.
Hopeless.
—
It goes like this.
Holy water is passed from an angel to a demon, no longer in the form of a snake, and it doesn’t burn the demon. It doesn’t even touch his skin. Not for a second did he even think it would.
They have changed a whole lot since they met, but they have sown trust, and they have sown a bond. A new bond.
Never before has there been a pair of genuine friends that consisted of a demon and an angel, never before has there been a pair that has come close to even fraternization. Not even after the six thousand years they had known each other.
And yet...
He is still going too fast for the angel.
And he doesn’t know how.
“Too fast?!” He throws a plate to the floor, and it shatters. The shards scatter all around the room, and it almost desperately trying to get away from him, hiding under the sofa and under the space between the counters and the floor. His plants are shaking like they never have before, terrified of his unheavenly wrath.
“It’s been so long,” and he sharply pulls on his hair and now he’s crying and tear tracks are running down his face. He doesn’t care. “I’ve waited so long. I’ve tried my best. I’ve-“
He chokes on nothing but his own despair.
He’s kneeling in the shards and they’re digging into his knees. He couldn’t care less.
“What do I need to do?” He was asking someone, anyone, whoever could give him any semblance of an answer, but nobody did. He didn’t know if anyone could.
“How do I be enough? How long do I have to wait until I’m worth more to somebody?” The unknowing of what comes next cut his heart out with a butcher knife made of his own desperation. The only sound to answer his pleas, his prayers, was his own shaky breathing and his plants shuddering.
“Can he even love me?”
And that was the question, wasn’t it? He clenched his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears, alone but surrounded by so much noise, a ringing in his ears that wouldn’t go away. He could hear his decorative heart beating, pounding away, like a symbol crashing with crescendo of a whole orchestra his ears.
He was making up noises at this point, wasn’t he? Trying to deafen the silence with his own imagination. As if it could take away everything that there wasn’t. His plants had stopped cowering. They knew the only thing he wanted to yell at right now was himself.
How had God made him this way? Why did he have to exist like this, confused and incapable of accepting the simple fact that he was unlovable? How had he been cursed with a heart that cared about everything?
How had he been cursed to love when he couldn’t be loved himself?
And as he was breaking down for the thousandth time exactly in his lifetime, the angel was fixing himself a cup of tea and humming a simple melody, settling down to read one of his more recently acquired books, completely and utterly unaware of any of it. And he was still alone.
Utterly hopeless.
—
It goes like this.
The Armageddon’t was averted, and the angel and demon have saved the world. Neither of them were expected to, and neither of them were supposed to, but they did. They exist just the same as they did before.
They still drink too much together and dine at the Ritz and talk about dolphins and whales and ducks and live quite normally.
(Well, as normal as you can expect it to get.)
The demon still has yellow snake eyes and listens to Queen almost obsessively and drives too fast, and the angel still loves fancy restaurants and reads old books and barely sells any of them to his customers.
And the demon still loves.
And he still hates that he does.
“I hate caring,” he says one evening, half-way into his third bottle of fine wine. There’s no way he’s sober at this point. He had been drinking since he had arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop, despite Aziraphale himself declining to partake in it. “I just hate it so much.”
“I know, dear,” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and turns a page of the book he’s reading. Crowley’s pretty sure it’s one of Jane Austen’s earlier novels. “You’ve told me many times.”
“I know, I know, I know,” Crowley waves him off, but just a bit too enthusiastically, and leans forward on his knees. “But I just hate it. Too much.”
“Too much what?” He asks. He turns the page, but is almost certainly not reading it. He seems more focused on the conversation now.
“There’s too much. I feel too much. Not s’posed to.” Crowley pulls a disgusted look. “Demons ‘r not s’posed to love ‘n stuff.”
Aziraphale frowns and it looks almost like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle in his head. “You can love?”
Crowley chokes like he did so long ago, and there’s something trapped in the back of his throat, a lump that’s suffocating him, and he almost hopes that he could really die instead of just discorporate.
“I-“ he swallows deep, “I wish I couldn’t. God- Satan- Somebody,” he doesn’t know who somebody even is.
“I wish I couldn’t, so bad. So bad.” He wishes he weren’t so drunk, too, but he doesn’t want to sober up, and the love thing precedes the drunkenness by a large portion.
“Why would you not want to be able to love?” Aziraphale questions, a concerned look in his eyes. “Why would you ever want that? That would be horrible!”
“No it wouldn’t.” Crowley is completely serious, and it’s clear that Aziraphale doesn’t understand at all.
“How could not loving ever be a good thing?!”
“How could it ever be a good thing?”
Aziraphale pinches his nose and sighs. “I’m really arguing with a drunk Crowley right now,” he mutters under his breath. “Sober up.”
“But-“ Crowley whines, and Aziraphale shushes him with a finger. He huffs. “‘Kay...”
He sobers up in less than a minute, and opens his eyes to see Aziraphale with his arms crossed in front of him.
“Explain your argument.” He asks politely, and Crowley is so ready to destroy him with his debate skills.
“I love a lot, unfortunately, and people can’t love me.” He lays it plainly out in front of them, and can’t understand for the life of him why Aziraphale looks so pained.
“... Are you okay?” asks Crowley, and is completely surprised and overtaken by Aziraphale squeezing the living daylights out of him. He makes a noise that is not a squeak (it totally is, but he will never admit it) as his rib cage is practically ground to dust.
“What-“ he lets out a breath as Aziraphale hugs him closer. “What’s this for and also I can’t breathe please let me go what are you doing-“
“I’m hugging you,” says Aziraphale simply, and only lets Crowley have a bit of breathing room.
“But why?” Crowley asks with a furrowed brow.
“Because you need one, clearly,” and that’s the explanation he gives.
Crowley is still not following. “Why would I need a hug?”
“You can be loved,” and Crowley’s lungs are screaming for another reason as all his air is stolen, along with his words.
“You can be loved so much, Crowley, you can be loved, you can be loved, I love you and you don’t even know how much, I promise you I’ll never hide it ever again, I promise, you go so fast but I think I’ve caught up, Crowley, oh dear...” There’s tears dripping and soaking his shirt, but he doesn’t care, because he’s ruining Aziraphale’s coat too.
“I-“ How does one say that they have loved another for thousands of years? Since the garden of Eden? Since they knew each other?
“I love you so much I can’t think anymore,” is what he goes with. “I just never thought that anyone could love a demon.”
The angel, his angel, was still holding him in his arms. “I’m not sure if being a demon suits you, darling. I think you may be the only exception.”
And so they live as exceptions.
Mutual exceptions, a demon who didn’t quite suit being a demon or an angel, and an angel who didn’t quite suit being an angel or a demon.
In the end, they were quite human.
And they were quite happy with that.
Maybe they weren’t quite hopeless.
Again, Anthony J. Crowley x Male Reader
Another life.
A/N: This is an angst post, so no happy ending. Sorry not sorry (⌒‐⌒)
Enjoy!
______________________
It was never meant to turn out this way. Hell thought it was a grand idea. He'd tricked a human into falling in love with him. It was brilliant and got another soul downstairs! Only, he hadn't tricked you into anything. He'd actually fallen in love with you too. With you as a demon, despite how much he thought you deserved better, meant you could always be together. And then Heaven intervened. An angel had caught wind of this whole ordeal and got angry. That was a low blow, even for a demon. So even in eternal damnation, Crowley was punished once more.
The angle cast the 'gift' of infinite reincarnation upon you. It would be great, if only you kept your memories. But you didn't. Each new life you were born into was just that. New. But that wasn't the worst part. Not for poor Crowley. His punishment that tied into this was that in each new life of yours, you'd meet again. And each and every time, you'd fall in love with him. And each and every time, he got to watch your death. It was horrible. In his opinion, this was worse than you ever getting sent to hell. Like this, you never got to rest or reflect. It was just life, over and over again. A never ending cycle that you didn't deserve.
He blamed himself. He tried countless times to make a miracle of his own to save you from this punishment. But nothing ever worked. Once, he tried to go to Aziraphale for help. To no avail of course. He expected as such though. At some point, he attempted to make you hate him. Or pretend to hate you. So that you'd just leave him alone for the rest of whatever lifespan you had. That worked a few times. The guilt he felt afterwards never went away. His heart lurched at every reincarnation of yours he met. Your age and gender varried from time to time. How old you were when you met him. Sometimes you were just a kid who bumped into him by accident. Sometimes you were an elder who needed his help crossing the street soundly.
Man or woman, it was always you. Unmistakably, you. Your name never changed. Or that look in your eyes you got each time you fell in love with him. He'd lost count of how many times you were reborn by now. For while, he did keep track. But that only added to the pain, so he stopped. Somewhere along the lines he tried to go to his head office about all of this. As a desperate final attempt to put this to a stop. His plea was that with you stuck in eternal life, you could never come join Hell. Sure, it convinced them. Mostly. Not a whole lot of the Dark Council cared all that much. He made a fair point, but whatever they tried didn't work either.
You were the reason he hated the 14th century. Because that was when you met him for the first time. The first time you fell in love with each other. He hated thinking about it. About you. How if he had just left you alone, then you would have never been subjected to this cycle. And neither would he. It started again today. You met him. It was the usual age, the same as the very first time you met. You were male, too. Just like the first time. This time though, was when of the few that he saw you first. That should have given him the opportunity to run away, or miracle you to a different location. Something, anything. But he didn't. He froze in his place. It had been over twenty years since he last saw you.
You were just as handsome as you'd always been. And you staring at his Bentley. On the sidewalk with a look of awe upon your face. Like you'd never seen a vintage car before. Or you were happy to see another. For a split second, everything around you turned white. You stayed same, and you looked just as you did back in the fourteenth century. With a blink, the world returned to normal. Suddenly he felt sick to his stomach. As if he may throw up or like he'd been dammed again. He'd long forgotten what he was going to his car for in the first place. His plans or general train of thought completely vanished. He couldn't do this. Not another life. Not for the umpteenth time.
Somehow though, his feet miraculously began to move. In his usual sassy saunter, he approached the car. "Can I help you?" He spoke rather dryly, holding a dull expression behind his sunglasses. He startled you a bit, and you quickly snap your head to the side to look at him. A big, but awkward smile pulled on your lips. "Oh, uhm! Sorry, is this your car?" He lazily quirked an eyebrow as you pointed at the Bentley, as if it weren't obvious enough which car you were talking about. "'Tis. Why?" He questions as he tilts his head back slightly. As stoic and irritated as he may seem, on the inside he was truly hurting. Screaming, crying, getting so worked up that lightening struck him.
You gaze returned to the car, your smile turning softer and more genuine. "That's so cool. I love vintage cars. I didn't think anyone in London actually drove them anymore" A tiny scoff of what could have been amusement escaped him. You never failed to make him fall just a little deeper in love with every interaction you had. Even if you never remember it. He did, that's what mattered. "Oh sorry, how impolite of me," your gaze returns to him "I completely forgot to introduce myself. I'm Y/N. It's nice to meet you, Mr...?" You trail off, waiting for him to finish the sentence for you.
"Crowley."
Diary Entries on AO3 - Chapter 3 online
Uploaded the next part of the diary entries on AO3 :
Aziraphales Diaries and the Secret (not so Secret) Diary of Crowley - Chapter 3
Basically, it's those parts where my former boss ambushes me and I have to explain to them about pacts. Because they seem to have forgotten all about pacts in these few months out of Hell. Anyway, I can't think of any demon going for that USB plan thingie.
Thanks to @taraiha for constantly reminding me that ducks have ears and for making sure, my phone did not block the bookshop's number. And thanks to Nina und Maggie and @muriel-not-the-dim-one for not giving up on evil old me, although I am... well, maybe not evil all the time, but nasty, snarky, grouchy, grumpy and most of all stubborn.
And thanks to londondavi_2008, ineffablymiles, AMagnificentObsession, RainbowCloud31, IAmtheproblem, oboextra, CrissyCoo, Lilyfev, telekinesiskyle7, and Clorofila for leaving kudos and comments on my whiny ramblings (and Aziraphale's beautiful and poetic words).
I'll go back to missing my angel now.
*curls up in a little snake ball of pain*.
Things To Do Today
Drive.
Just drive
Nothing else.
Waking up this morning, I knew instantly that today is a driving day. I've sobered up to get rid of the hangover, but my headache's still there and it's persistent. Should've sobered up yesterday night, but I kinda like the fuzzy head. Keeps me from thinking.
If there's enough pain in my head, I suppose, I won't worry too much about the pain in my heart.
I don't want to go anywhere near the bookshop. I don't, but I need to return the CD to Muriel before it looses its song. Still, I drive around all day to work up the courage.
The song starts five or six times while I'm driving back to Soho. I try to listen, but in the end I always turn it off. My car turns it back on. I turn it back off.
At the horizon, far beyond the end of the road, the sun's going down in a blaze of red and orange. Like the whole world was about to end in fire.
The street lanterns at Whickber Street flicker on as I pass through. The stores are closed at this hour, but there's still light in most of the restaurants and, of course, the pub.
I could go there, have a whiskey. Or I could have a bottle of wine at Marguerite's or a bottle of Tsingtao at Mr & Mrs Chen's place.
No, I can't. It would never be just one glass or one bottle. Wasting yourself on your own is fine, but not in front of people you used know. Not front of people he used to know.
If I was human, I'd probably be dead in a ditch somewhere three times over. Being who I am, I know how far I can take this. This may be the worst time, but it is certainly not the first.
It's not even the first time I got my heart ripped out, but last time happened to be a bit more literal.
Do mine eyes deceive me? There's light in the bookshop. No, not in the shop itself, but up in the flat, in the very guest room that Gabriel used to live in when he was Jim.
For a brief moment I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if Aziraphale was still in there. He'd notice I was on my way and open the door for me. And then we'd sit inside and talk about something or other, have a drink or two, and maybe talk some more. He would have a snack and I would watch him eat. He would get excited about something and bounce around and I would listen to the ridiclous sounds coming out of his mouth.
And watch his smile. That beautiful beautiful smile. And everything would just be fine for a few hours.
A familiar silhouette at the window. Muriel is sitting there, probably on the inside sill, their head bent over a book they're holding. They're a fast reader, turning the pages at a quick and steady pace.
I wonder why Muriel didn't take Aziraphale's room. It's bigger than the guest room and it's not like he'll be back anytime soon.
Angels and their faith...
I drop the CD in the letterbox inside the door, trying to avoid any noises. Back on the road, I look up to the window again.
Muriel still seems busy with their book. I hope, they read all the brilliant ones first, then the good ones before moving on to the trash that they inevitably will find.
But then, these humans never can tell the difference. Goethe's Faust was a good book. Marie Corelli's Sorrows of Satan was a brilliant one.
I cross the road and signal for my car to come pick me up. Nina is still inside her closed-for-the-night-coffee shop sitting at a table across Maggie. They're talking to each other and they both look worried.
Time to get out of here. Just as the Bentley speeds around the corner, Maggie spots me and starts waving frantically. Nina looks up, too, her expression a mix and match between a sigh of relief and a death glare.
No. No talk. I don't want to talk to any of you. I did what I came for and now I'm leaving.
Just leave me alone, all of you!
~ * ~
More Diary Parts:
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21
Where we left off: Our hero was nursing his wounded heart, that had been so callously broken, with a bottle of whiskey and a lamentation to the stars. (Mind the commas in the last sentence or it will mean something entirely different... I think. My spelling's "tickety boo" for a demon, but don't hold me accountable for commas, or as Aziraphale used to call them: commata.)
Anyhow, as our hero was lamenting and minding his own business, he was suddenly ambushed by an old enemy. With even more whiskey.
I know, I'm gonna regret this. I'm gonna regret this big time.
"So", I ask, turning to Beelzebub. "What exactly happened?"
"At first, nothing bad. We went to the pub as usual. And then we went to lots of different places. More pubs, shops, the sea, some restaurants, a waterfall, Paris, the moon...."
Why did we never do things like that? We could've had ages to go to places. Literally ages!
Nice one, us!
"And then? Then what?"
Well, we did go to the Ritz. And Paris, too. And some graveyard in Edinburgh. Still, to most of these places we haven't been on purpose. They just happened.
We've wasted our time. We’ve wasted so much time.
"At first, everything was like...like..." Beelzebub is at a loss for words.
"Maple syrup?", I cut in, "Raspberry vinegar? Baklava drowned in honey?"
Being stuck in their office, Beelzebub used to be quite unfamiliar with earth, but they do have a taste for sweet and sticky stuff. Even more so if it's drowned in even more sweet and sticky stuff.
They pause for a moment, trying to hide the goofy grin spreading on their face. It's a very unbeelzebublike grin. "Even better. It didn't really matter where we went and what we did, as long as we could spend time together."
"So, what changed?", I ask. No reason to dwell on memories of things you can no longer have.
"I don't know. It got boring. No, not boring. And not all of the things."
"More like annoying?"
I'm taking a wild guess here, but the expression on their face tells me I struck gold. "Yes. Exactly."
Beelzebub sets down the bottle to be able to move their hands more freely as they talk. "Wherever we go, he always wants to go shopping. This watch and these bags and those shoes. And then he parades around in them and wants me to tell which ones make him look better. And if I pick the wrong ones, he gets all sulky and curls his lip in this really weird way."
Their words get a bit fuzzy, as they try to demonstrate it with their own mouth, but that may be the alcohol's fault.
"And the tailors - oh, these endless hours at the tailors! I can't stand it. This suit and that coat, and - bloody heaven - how am I supposed to know if a tie is supposed to match the shirt or the jacket?"
"It used to be the jacket, now it's the shirt." I marvel in silence at the amount of words tumbling out of their mouth. Beelzebub can be quite a chatterfly, but this is unusual even for them.
"Oh and if it wasn't bad enough, then that whole napkin thing started. We ate at this nice little restaurant in Florence - and he managed to get a stain of tomato sauce on one of his oh-so-precious suits."
I snigger. Imagine that, Mr. ‘I-don't-sullen-my-celestial-body’ eating Pasta in Florence and getting tomato sauce on his clothes. Oh, Angel, how I wish, I could tell you this! We could sit in the bookshop, have a laugh together and imagine Michael or Uriel sending Gabriel a strongly worded note...
"I thought, how can one little stain be such a big deal? We can just miracle it away, but he was devastated. And then he started stuffing a napkin into his collar whenever we had something to eat, so it wouldn't happen again."
Florence. Aziraphale and I met in Florence once or twice during the Renaissance. We were watching the horse races with a young Spanish seminarian - César, I believe - me trying to tempt him away from priesthood and Aziraphale trying to cancel me out. I had already struck a deal with the boy's father in Rome to make him Pope, but I suppose that's a story for another time. Anyway, napkins. Right. Napkins.
Is Beelzebub about to tell me how they broke up with Gabriel over napkins?
"You know, some humans actually do wear napkins in their collars. Or put them on their lap while they eat. It's considered an acceptable behaviour in most restaurants."
"It's a ridiculous behaviour." Beelzebub doesn't seem to be happy about me trying to share my earthly wisdom. "Human children wear them. Adults look absolutely ludicrous in them. Anyway, I told Gabriel, I will not stand for it. If he puts one more napkin in his collar, I will turn on my heel and leave. And yet he did, and then I left and now I am here. End of story."
They grab the bottle again and gulp down the rest of it.
Okay, how do I put this. "Look, Beelzebub, 'breakup' may be a bit of a strong word here."
"Whaddoyoumean, strong?"
"I'm saying, you two got in a fight, but it's not that bad. Aziraphale and I used to have them all the time. You see, he has far more annoying habits than wearing napkins in his collar and parading around in new clothes."
"More annoying than napkins?" Their eyes narrow in disbelief.
"Tartan. That bloody tartan! Yes, I know, Angels wear tartan, but he wears it in places where you wouldn't believe it even existed and I'm not telling you because it really is none of your bisss... business. And he practisesss weird phrasesss about auntsss and their gardenersss because he insistsss on French, the hard way."
"French the hard way?"
"No, not that kind of French!"
"What French?"
"Oh, just forget about the French! He turned my car yellow. He uses weird words like 'commata' and 'tickety-boo' and half of the time, I don't understand what he's talking about anyway. He insists on doing human style magic shows without any miracles and doesn't care that he's bad at it. All of his drawing pencils have to be put in their little boxes in the right order and they all need to be the same size. And when he gets all excited, he pronounces capital letters."
I mean, really pronounces them. And he waves his hands around and bobs on his feet and singsongs along to his music records and I can't... I don't... grrrm... and where the heaven did I put my blinds? Where the f*** are they?
"Here." Beelzebub grabs them off the street and hands them back to me without looking at my face. Their eyes are set firmly on the flow of the river.
Humans may offer each other hugs and hot cocoa. Demons usually mock other demons for weakness. Pretending not to notice it, is a rare thing, and I appreciate the sentiment.
"I have a plan." Luckily, my instincts are back in place, for Beelzebub is about to tell me the real reason why they came to me in the first place. "Look, Crowley, why don't we just start our own thing?"
"What thing?"
"I mean, Hell was started originally because angels rebelled against Heaven, right? And now we - sort of - rebelled against Hell."
They can't be serious. "You mean, we create Hell Point Two? Oh, I bet, good old Lucifer is going to love this."
"He can't thwart us if we're strong enough. Not if we get enough demons to join our side."
They start to pace to dwell on their train of thought. "We could offer better rations or even some nice extras. Like stronger firecoffee or bugs in the office."
I take a step back. "Look, I don't know if 'Hell Point Two' is going to cut it..."
"You're right, we need a better name. One that's more appealing. How about: "The United States of Beelzebub?'"
"Bit long for demons, don't you think? They couldn't spell it. 'Hell' is such a nice short word."
"Don't be such a spoilsport!", they snap. "We could shorten it."
Right. I can clearly picture legions and legions of demons pumping their fists, fins, hoofs and claws up into the air while shouting: USB! USB! USB!
Scary thought. "Oh, come on! Think of all the paperwork. It'll be far worse than a few napkins."
"So, whaddoyousay, Crowley?" Beelzebub extends their hand. "I'll run it, you can be my second-in-command?"
Now, where have I heard THESE words before?
"Well, yes, USB. I can definitely see a career option here. Bees are great. Wahoo for Plan B. Just don't forget, before Plan B is set into motion, there's Plan A as in: Talk to Gabriel!"
Their hand sinks as they stare at me incredulously. "Talk to Gabriel... what about?"
"Pacts. Pacts are a thing. I know, they teach us in hell that we can only strike proper pacts with humans, but they actually function with angels, too. Quite well, to be honest. Aziraphale and I have had lots of pacts over the centuries."
Oodles of pacts. Once he had understood that it actually worked, it was pact-city-Aziraphale.
"For example: You could try something like: 'First, I go shopping with you for two hours, but then you go to my favourite pub with me.' Or: "First, you tell me which pair of shoes feels better on your feet, then I tell you which one looks better.'"
I see the frown on their face, but this time, I definitely sparked their interest. "There are many ways this could work, all you have to do, is bargain for good terms. Negotiate. Find things to bribe him with. You won't believe me now, but this can be quite fun."
"Fun?"
"Fun. Trust me on this. And don't let fights discourage you, they are just a thing. After our first fights, we didn't speak for centuries, then it became decades, then years. Nowadays we are down to mere days or even hours."
"Fine." Beelzebub still looks grumpy as usual, but also relieved somehow. "I'll do that, then."
"You know how to find him again?" I'm curious.
"Yes. I can sense where he is... sort of. I know it sounds weird, I can't really explain, how it works. It's just a feeling."
A feeling? Right. How would I have even the slightest idea how this feeling feels like? It's only been ... what? A few hundred years? A few thousand?
Why can't I pinpoint the moment when it started. I actually can't. It's always been the two of us. Always. Except for the brief times when he went up or I went down, I could always feel an earth with an Aziraphale in it.
Now it's empty. Hollow. I've never not felt him for such a long time.
I'm empty. Incomplete. Ripped to pieces at my very core.
"And, Crowley?"
"No, don't thank me.” Just go, be happy lovebirds or whatever. This has gone far enough already and I hope, I'm just too drunk to remember this entire conversation tomorrow."
~*~
More Diary Parts:
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21
Things to Do Today
1. Sober up and get rid of hangover
2. Ponder on how ridiculous this is
3. Get drunk again because I can't deal with this sober
I thought they were off to Alpha Centauri. Living that sweet life we will never have...
Well, it seems things don't always work out for other people, too.
Obviously. But let's rewind to last night and try to sort this all out.
"I was going to mysteriously appear in your car", Beelzebub said, "but somehow I can't get in anymore."
Oh.
"Also, when I tried to miracle myself in, the car suddenly turned yellow. Like some kind of defense mechanism."
OH!
"Things have changed, Beelzebub. You have to be invited in. And I'm certainly not go... gonna do that."
"Well, that's all right." They take a step closer. "We can just talk here."
"And I certainly don't want to talk."
"I brought booze."
My eyes shift between the empty bottle I'm holding and the full bottle in their hands.
Sigh.
I throw the empty bottle into the Thames (Yes, I should litter, I'm a demon after all. And maybe some hermit crab can build a home in it. Or some little fish family. Oh, lookey here, it's Nemo and the guys.)
Beelzebub passes the full bottle to me. It's obviously not miracled out of Hell, it's good old Earth stuff.
Mhm. Smells like it, too. And I just remembered that Nemo is a saltwater fish.
And so are hermit crabs.
I take a deep sip. Well, obviously not fish, but well.. you know.
"I heard about Aziraphale," Beelzebub looks at me with a sympathetic gaze and suddenly I feel the need to throw up. "I'm sorry, things didn't work out."
Bloody Heaven! I'm not going to talk to them about Aziraphale. It's bad enough with Maggie and Nina trying to get me to talk about Aziraphale, but Beelzebub? Really?
This is one of the few times I'm actually speechless, but being a fellow demon, Beelzebub should fully well be able to read my death glare.
They do. "Well, that's all right. Gabriel and I broke up, too, and I don't want to talk about it either."
They WHAT? They thwarted both Heaven and Hell for their love and now they fall out of it after barely three months?
Lucky for the both of us, Beelzebub freezes the bottle in mid air before it smashes on the ground. They grab it, take a big sip and pass it back to me.
We stand in silence, staring at the river. All is quiet, except for the city noises in the background, the sound of the water and the occasional burp from one of us as we devour the alcohol.
I know, I'm gonna regret this. I'm gonna regret this big time.
"So", I ask, turning to Beelzebub. "What exactly happened?"
~*~
Older Diary Parts minus the Reblogs:
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8
love of my life [ineffable husbands]
⚠️GOOD OMENS SEASON 2 SPOILERS⚠️
crowley x aziraphale
summary: crowley decides to go on a drive to take his mind off things when his day goes way off plan
category: angst. just pure angst.
warnings: mentions of s2e6, slight mentions of alcoholism if you squint, irresponsible driving, lmk if there's anything i missed !!
word count: 2k
a/n: i wasn't planning this fic at all i js started writing this purely to make my friend cry and they ended up liking it so why not post it here. im not rlly the best writer but i wish i was. this is also inspired by "love of my life" by queen so i'd recommend listening to it while reading! open to constructive criticism !!
![Love Of My Life [ineffable Husbands]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/69d5ad2225519c32dbe868d5571575ed/bfd9d2a38bbc51a0-55/s500x750/58cafec44c8c9b8fa0062a39dc6a6dd77847b239.gif)
It's been three years since the angel left the poor old demon here on Earth. Crowley has since gotten back up on his feet and continued existence as it was. Just him continuing and pretending to be a normal human. It was boring without Aziraphale, he must admit, but it was better than if he went with him to Heaven and lived out a lie he never truly believed in.
'Ah it's fine' He would think, 'I'm over that old bastard anyway'. But deep down he knew. He was never really over him. He never recovered from the rejection he received from the angel. His angel. I mean how could he? He had been with Aziraphale since the beginning of time. He had been pining for the angel for the past 6,000 years. He would make every excuse just to see that bright and shining smile of his. Over time, he had become his friend. And eventually, fell in love with him.
But that's impossible, right? I mean Aziraphale is an angel, a soldier of Heaven. While Crowley is a demon, a servant of the big bad. They're hereditary enemies. They're not even supposed to tolerate each other. They're on opposite sides. That's what Aziraphale had believed at least. Crowley believed they could be on their own side. Together. But he was wrong. He thought Aziraphale loved him enough to stay with him. But he had chosen Heaven over his best friend. Crowley tried not to think about the angel too much. It hurt worse than Hell.
Crowley decided to go out on a drive with his Bentley to keep his mind off the angel and he started driving. He had no idea where he was going; he just kept driving. At this point, he had been driving for just over an hour and the silence became unbearable. He decided to turn on the radio of his car, hoping a specific song wouldn't play. And yet that one song started playing. The car filled with the lucid sounds of "Good Old-Fashion Lover Boy". It was his song. No, their song. Crowley dreaded hearing the song that reminded him so much of his and Aziraphale's…friendship? Relationship? He didn't even know at this point.
He was tired of pining. tired of mourning. how could he even mourn someone who was alive? Maybe because Aziraphale was dead to Crowley. No. He couldn't be. No matter how much Crowley tried to hate Aziraphale he just couldn't bring himself to. He loved him, for Christ's sake. He didn't even know he was capable of even loving anyone so much and yet his angel couldn't even stay for him. Stay for them.
He quickly skipped the radio to the next station, which had become one of his biggest mistakes.
"That certain night. The night we met." Crowley's whole body tensed up at the sound of the music. "There were angels dining at the ritz." The same song that had played in his car the day Aziraphale left him for Heaven. "And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square" He felt the painful lump in his throat slowly build up and gripped the steering wheel with such force that his knuckles turned white. Then he remembered what he told Aziraphale the day he left.
"No nightingales." No nightingales. Sure, Crowley said that to Aziraphale. There were no nightingales in Heaven. They were on Earth. But that applied to Crowley as well. Because after that, nightingales were never the same for him. Because nightingales weren't nightingales without his angel. He quickly turned off the radio and pushed down on the pedal harder.
He wanted to forget about the stupid angel that had left and forgot about him. His stupid angel. He hated himself for it. He hated how he couldn't bring himself to even produce any ounce of hate for him. He hated how he still thought about him every day and how he would cry himself to sleep some nights because of him. He hated how he still cared for him. And most especially, he hated how he still loved him with every atom of his being and would still come running back to him if given the chance. 'Fuck. I can't be thinking about him again.' He gave in and turned the radio back on. He needed something to drown out the noise of his thoughts. He heard the familiar tune of the piano and guitar in the song's intro.
"Love of my life, you've hurt me." He recognises the song and the dreadful feeling in his body comes back. "You've broken my heart and now you leave me." The lump in his throat grows and he feels his eyes start to water. "Love of my life can't you see?" He tilts his head up in an attempt to stop the tears from flowing down his face. "Bring it back, bring it back. Don't take it away from me." He looks to his left to avert his attention to something other than the song playing. And there it was. He recognised this street. The buildings, the signs, the trees, and the layout. He recognised them all. Then it hit him. "Because you don't know what it means to me." He was nearing the bookshop. The bookshop where the love of his life had lived. Where he and his angel had shared many fond memories together. Where he confessed his feelings for Aziraphale. Where he kissed him. The bookshop where the angel had left him and broke his heart.
"Love of my life don't leave me." In which the very place he was in was the same place the love of his life left him. Ironic isn't it? They vowed they would do anything for the world and yet the place he was at was the place his world chose Heaven over him. "You've taken my love, you now desert me." He was nearing the front of the bookshop and a part of him considered stopping by the bookshop. Who was he kidding? It's not like his angel would be waiting for him in the bookshop. He passed the shop and kept driving. "Love of my life, can't you see?" He felt the warm liquid build up in his yellow, sheltered eyes and flow down his cheek through his glasses. "FUCK!" He punched his steering wheel, causing a loud honk noise to come out of his vehicle. He grabbed the steering wheel and made a sharp turn back to their bookshop.
"Bring it back, bring it back. Don't take it away from me." He parked the Bentley in front of the coffee shop "Bring Me Coffee or Bring Me Death". Crowley got out of the car, slammed his car door shut, and stomped towards the bookshop. He pushes the doors open to see a familiar angel reading in a rocking chair next to a pile of books. But it wasn't his angel. "Nope! We're closed. No books to sell! Get out!" Muriel says without looking up from their book. God how he wished it was Aziraphale in that rocking chair. "Uhm excuse me, I said get ou-" They finally look up from their book to see the fiery red demon, "Oh! Mr Crowley! I was wondering when you'd stop by! It's been wha-" Crowley interrupts the angel, "Three years."
"Yes! Yes! Three years!"
"Muriel, could you uh…could you give me a minute? In here? In the bookshop? Alone?" They nod and step outside the bookshop to give the demon some space. He looks around and takes a deep breath, taking in the scent of the bookshop. It wasn't too different from the last time he was there. But there was something off. It…smelled different. It still smelled like old wood and books but something was missing. Then he realised: It no longer smelled like Aziraphale. Of course he would notice. Of course he would know what Aziraphale smelled like after being with him for the past 6 millennium.
He walked over to the desk Aziraphale used to sit and write at. He remembered all the times Aziraphale would sit at his desk while he listened to Crowley's silly complaints as he sat on the floor. He looks back up from the floor and he catches his eye on a photo frame on his desk. He picked it up to observe the photo and the tears started to flow again. It was the photo of them at Aziraphale's stupid magic show back in London 1941. But something was different about the photo. The photo the Nazis had taken that night was a polaroid. The photo in the frame was a landscape style print-out. Then crowley realised that Aziraphale had made a copy specifically for the frame on his desk. And he had the polaroid with him all along.
He holds the frame close to his chest and drops to his knees. He couldn't believe himself. He was supposed to be this strong and mighty fallen angel who became a demon. But there he was, on his knees, mourning someone who was well alive. He felt pathetic. He hopelessly looked up to the ceiling, "WHY? GOD WHY? all i did was ask questions… WAS MY FALL NOT ENOUGH YOU FUCKING BASTARD? WERE MY THOUSANDS OF YEARS OF PAIN AND TORTURE NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU? YOU TOOK AWAY THE ONE THING THAT MATTERED TO ME. THERE'S NOTHING LEFT FOR ME TO GIVE YOU. WAS I NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU? I DON'T FUCKING DESERVE THIS!" He finally let out everything he's been holding onto for thousands of years. All for no response. All for nothing.
~
Crowley had cried himself to sleep on Aziraphale's shop floor, holding the picture frame. As much as he wished he hated Aziraphale, as much as he pretended, he knew he could never truly hate him. And he just had to accept that fact. Little did Crowley know was that Aziraphale was right outside the bookshop to go check on Muriel and the bookshop. And hopefully check on Crowley if he had time.
Aziraphale walked towards the shop to see someone slumped over and reading a book. For just a moment, part of him wished it was Crowley slumped over on the shop's platform, but he knew it wasn't him. He knew Crowley had given up on looking for Aziraphale. He was ready to face the fact that he could never get his best friend…the person he loved…back. Aziraphale never said it out loud but he missed Crowley. More than anything. He regretted every decision he made since that day. He missed the mischievous pranks and remarks. The feeling of his lips on his. He missed his world.
Muriel finally looked up from their book and looked at Aziraphale gleefully, "Mr Fell! You're back! How's Heaven?"
"Oh uh yes yes fine, Muriel. How's the bookshop?"
"Oh it's doing great! I haven't sold or given away any books!" Aziraphale smiles knowing his shop and books were safe. But there was one thing he wasn't sure about. "Muriel, have you see Crowley lately? Or any time since I've gone back?"
"Oh yes! Mr Crowley visited today for the first time actually. He's still inside I think. I'm actually out here because he asked to be alone." Aziraphale's heart starts racing, "Crowley's…here?" Muriel nods. Aziraphale rushes inside to find a figure curled up on the floor. "…Crowley?" The figures shifts a bit then groggily sits up straight and faces Aziraphale. The angel's suspicions were then proven correct. Aziraphale couldn't believe it. After three, excruciating long years, he finally saw Crowley face to face. "Oh piss off. I haven't had much to drink today." Aziraphale slowly steps closer to the demon, "Crowley I-" Crowley lazily puts his hand up to stop him, "I'm not in the mood for hallucinations today, you shit." The confession broke Aziraphale's heart. That was when Aziraphale realised how much he had hurt his best friend. As Crowley started to fully wake up, his eyes widened at the sight in front of him. "So I suppose an apology dance is in order?" Crowley's heart completely shattered and healed all in one second. He frantically takes his glasses off and aggressively rubs his eyes. When the image doesn't go away he realises. Aziraphale. His angel. He was right in front of his eyes. After all these years.
"Angel…?"