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mekachu04Living without, Living without, Living without you (4168 words) by Mekachu04
Fandom: Good Omens (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)
Additional Tags: Post-Apocalypse, Anxiety, Snuggling, sleeping, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Drinking, Nope'geddeon, 'married' fights
The first time they sleep together is the night the world didn’t end in Tadfield, England; their first night together tucked away safely at Crowley's place.
Well, one of them sleeps.
Aziraphale might have been the one to die that day, but Crowley is exhausted, and the steady movement of the bus out of Tadfield - along with a belly full of wine - has him struggling to remain awake, mostly using Aziraphale's solid form next to him to stay upright. Additionally, Aziraphale is solid, and warm, and he only tightens his fingers around Crowley's hand when the demon’s body slumps against his.
He's actually upset when the bus stops outside of his flat; Crowley really doesn't want to move, but Aziraphale is pulling him to his feet and shuffling them off the confused driver's bus. Aziraphale blesses the man's night, giving Crowley a chance to take the lead, a casual stroll hand in hand with his best friend, through the quiet Mayfield night and walk them to his home.
He's never actually brought the angel to this particular residence before; he'd moved here during the holy water fight, and once they were back on regular speaking terms, it seemed too late for a housewarming party.
He doesn't have much in the way of food, but there is more drinking they could do. Crowley belatedly realises as he enters him home, extremely mindful of a very dangerous puddle still in his entryway; that his home is not really set up for entertaining company. It is honestly how Crowley prefers his space - Aziraphale was always a much better host - but he doesn't even own a couch that would be up to Azirphale’s standards.
No, the most comfortable furniture he owns, while still being large enough for two, is his bed. It's a testament to just how tired Crowley is that the bed is where he leads them, once he's grabbed a bottle of wine for Aziraphale and scotch for himself. The ruined jacket dissolves away with a half thought miracle, and he's boneless the way he flops onto his bed; just happy to not be standing any longer, before awkwardly trying to keep drinking without having to actually move.
Aziraphale, drinking once again straight from the bottle, has a fond laugh at his expense, but does join him on the bed. He's taken his shoes and his coat off, but otherwise seems content to sit on top the coverlet, back upright against the headboard, moving the pillows over to help prop Crowley up for his own drinking.
One minute Crowley is taking a swig from his bottle; the next the room is dark, and while his head thrums a bit, he's otherwise warm and comfortable.
Sometime in his sleep, Crowley's pulled the comforter up over his head and burrowed down into the blanket, but there's an overwhelming sense of safe in his home that's not been there before. And it seems to be exuding from the very warm presence against his back.
Aziraphale is no longer atop the covers; Crowley doesn't know if they'd both been under them at one point, but by now he has stolen them all for himself. As a sometimes snake, he will insist that the way he’s wrapped his usually rebellious limbs around the poor blankets, cuddling them like his life depends on it, is just his inner constrictor showing, nothing more; desperately trying to ignore both how exposed it leaves him, and the mortification that he enjoys a good snuggle. Yet, instead of waking to a state of vulnerability or judgement, he instead can feel the fabric of Aziraphale's slacks brushing the small of his back where he's nestled at Aziraphale’s side, his shirt having ridden up while he slept.
The smell of fire and smoke still fills his nose, but as he pulls his head out from under the blanket, he doesn't feel grimy or singed; the afterburn of a heavenly miracle lingering around him where Aziraphale cleaned him after he passed out. He did not, however, go as far as to miracle Crowley sober, the bastard. Now, in the light of day, it’s all too bright, and there's too much to face, so he grapples for his glasses, trying to figure where in the mess of his bed he must have lost them.
Once he's moving, he’s aware Azirpahale's gentle touch on his shoulder; if feels almost like the angel didn't realise he was doing it, a gentle drum of fingers against him, "Good Morning, darling."
"Morning angel." Giving up on the glasses for a moment, Crowley rolls back in a way spines don't actually move, his head coming to rest in the angel’s lap so he can look up at his friend. It doesn't look like the angel has moved once during the night, but here he is, safe and sound in Crowley's bed, smiling down at him in the morning sun.
"I think I have an idea," he says, eyes hidden away by Crowley's glasses.
thank you to Hikaru9 for not only encouraging me to finish this up, but for looking it over and making sure it actually makes a lick of sense.
title is also a shout out to Queen. i dare you not to keep singing the rest.
Fandom: Good Omens (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)
Additional Tags: Post-Apocalypse, Anxiety, Snuggling, sleeping, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Drinking, Nope'geddeon, 'married' fights
The first time they sleep together is the night the world didn’t end in Tadfield, England; their first night together tucked away safely at Crowley's place.
Well, one of them sleeps.
Aziraphale might have been the one to die that day, but Crowley is exhausted, and the steady movement of the bus out of Tadfield - along with a belly full of wine - has him struggling to remain awake, mostly using Aziraphale's solid form next to him to stay upright. Additionally, Aziraphale is solid, and warm, and he only tightens his fingers around Crowley's hand when the demon’s body slumps against his.
He's actually upset when the bus stops outside of his flat; Crowley really doesn't want to move, but Aziraphale is pulling him to his feet and shuffling them off the confused driver's bus. Aziraphale blesses the man's night, giving Crowley a chance to take the lead, a casual stroll hand in hand with his best friend, through the quiet Mayfield night and walk them to his home.
He's never actually brought the angel to this particular residence before; he'd moved here during the holy water fight, and once they were back on regular speaking terms, it seemed too late for a housewarming party.
He doesn't have much in the way of food, but there is more drinking they could do. Crowley belatedly realises as he enters him home, extremely mindful of a very dangerous puddle still in his entryway; that his home is not really set up for entertaining company. It is honestly how Crowley prefers his space - Aziraphale was always a much better host - but he doesn't even own a couch that would be up to Azirphale’s standards.
No, the most comfortable furniture he owns, while still being large enough for two, is his bed. It's a testament to just how tired Crowley is that the bed is where he leads them, once he's grabbed a bottle of wine for Aziraphale and scotch for himself. The ruined jacket dissolves away with a half thought miracle, and he's boneless the way he flops onto his bed; just happy to not be standing any longer, before awkwardly trying to keep drinking without having to actually move.
Aziraphale, drinking once again straight from the bottle, has a fond laugh at his expense, but does join him on the bed. He's taken his shoes and his coat off, but otherwise seems content to sit on top the coverlet, back upright against the headboard, moving the pillows over to help prop Crowley up for his own drinking.
One minute Crowley is taking a swig from his bottle; the next the room is dark, and while his head thrums a bit, he's otherwise warm and comfortable.
Sometime in his sleep, Crowley's pulled the comforter up over his head and burrowed down into the blanket, but there's an overwhelming sense of safe in his home that's not been there before. And it seems to be exuding from the very warm presence against his back.
Aziraphale is no longer atop the covers; Crowley doesn't know if they'd both been under them at one point, but by now he has stolen them all for himself. As a sometimes snake, he will insist that the way he’s wrapped his usually rebellious limbs around the poor blankets, cuddling them like his life depends on it, is just his inner constrictor showing, nothing more; desperately trying to ignore both how exposed it leaves him, and the mortification that he enjoys a good snuggle. Yet, instead of waking to a state of vulnerability or judgement, he instead can feel the fabric of Aziraphale's slacks brushing the small of his back where he's nestled at Aziraphale’s side, his shirt having ridden up while he slept.
The smell of fire and smoke still fills his nose, but as he pulls his head out from under the blanket, he doesn't feel grimy or singed; the afterburn of a heavenly miracle lingering around him where Aziraphale cleaned him after he passed out. He did not, however, go as far as to miracle Crowley sober, the bastard. Now, in the light of day, it’s all too bright, and there's too much to face, so he grapples for his glasses, trying to figure where in the mess of his bed he must have lost them.
Once he's moving, he’s aware Azirpahale's gentle touch on his shoulder; if feels almost like the angel didn't realise he was doing it, a gentle drum of fingers against him, "Good Morning, darling."
"Morning angel." Giving up on the glasses for a moment, Crowley rolls back in a way spines don't actually move, his head coming to rest in the angel’s lap so he can look up at his friend. It doesn't look like the angel has moved once during the night, but here he is, safe and sound in Crowley's bed, smiling down at him in the morning sun.
"I think I have an idea," he says, eyes hidden away by Crowley's glasses.
thank you to Hikaru9 for not only encouraging me to finish this up, but for looking it over and making sure it actually makes a lick of sense.
title is also a shout out to Queen. i dare you not to keep singing the rest.
