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mekachu04Fandom: 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
They toast to the World, their World, and celebrate the rest of their lives.
Afterwards, giddy, they go to Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley already saw it that morning, had already reverently run his hands along restored shelves and tomes, but that had been using Aziraphale's hands and senses. His own fill with smoke again. They'd done the same when he thought about his Bentley, right up to him sitting back into her lovely seats. He’d threw up a thanks to nobody that he had his glasses on so Aziraphale couldn't see him tear up. He knew the books were fine, but the smell lingered in his nostrils, on his tongue. Aziraphale - who knew in the abstract that his home had burned to the ground, but not witnessed it - had looked around curiously, but other than Adam's parting gifts didn't see anything outside of what was expected. Instead, his angel had cautiously taken his hand - he'd done the same in the Bentley, when Crowley was very much not crying - and Crowley took a steadying breath, expelling the phantom heat and smoke from him. He forced himself to taste the air, to smell the musty old books with no lingering miasma. To feel the slightly cool dampness meant to make customers uncomfortable instead of the heat and sweat. The calming sense of his nerdy angel and not the fear and the terror of the day before.
There are more drinks; they giggle into each other on one of the couches like teenagers - regardless that neither have ever been a teenager. They laugh about pulling the wool over their former bosses, marveling over the fact that it worked, and that they're free. They know it's unlikely to last, and they're both are realistic enough to acknowledge that, but for the first time, there is no yoke. No boss. No one to give orders of missions or tasks. It's terrifying, and they both know that it will sink in soon enough, and want to enjoy the freedom first. They spend the afternoon shouting out outrageous destinations to visit or increasingly frivolous things to miracle.
They touch.
Nothing ostentatious, but Aziraphale is sprawled against Crowley’s back and peering over his shoulder as his demon uses his phone to order food deliveries from anywhere Aziraphale can think of. Crowley juggles a variety of different apps - and then throws in demonic miracle or two when Aziraphale isn’t looking if the angel’s choice doesn't do online delivery - and the evening is filled with a near never-ending supply of all the best eats of London, right to Aziraphale's fingertips. It still won't be enough to get the angel to upgrade to an uncorded phone, but if he did, how would Crowley show off his mad tech skills? (He tried to get Aziraphale on the digital book thing a few years ago, and while the angel was highly complimentative of human ingenuity, he really preferred his paper books, his need to touch and smell and own. It was amusing though, to watch the book lover half war with the hoarder half. Maybe in another 50 years, Crowley would try again, get him started on fair use stories, and show him the collections of out of print public domain files. Maybe introduce him to some of the online groups dedicated to typing up digital files to hard to find books.)
Most of their shared time is still at the book shop, but now there's no hinting that it's time to wrap things up, and Crowley discovers that he loves being in the shop when Aziraphale is open. His customers are a riot, and Aziraphale has pretty much given him free reign when it pertains to ones who come in trying to buy something. Now, Aziraphale does have a few regulars that seem to finally understand the song and dance and come in to read, or chat, or knit, but know better than to ever attempt to buy anything. These humans are off limits to Crowley's pranks. The others? Well, Crowley has taken upon himself to be better at wile-ing guests out of the shop than Aziraphale himself.
He sometimes ‘forgets’ to put his glasses back on around the customers. Humans have gotten so weird these days that the colour and shape of his eyes don't bother them so much anymore. But the fact he. Does. Not. Blink. is so off putting that several would-be customers talked themselves out of buying something without really knowing why. Aziraphale only comments that hypnosis is cheating.
Aziraphale takes his hand when they go out now. They pointedly don’t look at each other the first few times it happens; both embarrassed by the sudden clinginess they are both displaying. But Crowley will squeeze back in reassurance, even as he looks away.
They hold hands because they want to. Because now they are allowed to. But also because, while the abductions that befell them in the park had been expected, it had all happened so very quickly. The fear and panic that had taken hold of Aziraphale when the angels had hauled Crowley away had been deeply real. While Crowley had left himself open on purpose, he’d still been surprised by the efficiency in which he'd been bound. So they cling to each other, maybe more than they needed. They go together to Crowley's flat to water his plants, or when Crowley needs a nap. He sleeps curled up in his soft sheets, with Aziraphale often reading next to him, even if Crowley’s naps sometimes stretch from a couple of hours into a couple days.
They miracle themselves passage to America to visit Anametha and Newt, who are on vacation with her family; and to peek in on Warlock, whose family moved back immediately following Tel Megiddo. Aziraphale agonizes a little, waiting for someone to call him out on the frivolity of it, and while Crowley assures him that there is nothing to worry about, he's worried himself.
But no one says anything.
-
Crowley starts to relax as winter sets in, starts to move into his mayhem-at-christmas rituals, and tries desperately to get Aziraphale to follow suit. Tries not to get short with the angel who has slowly become an even more anxious mess as the weeks stretch on.
Aziraphale is yet again fretting a path into the hardwood floors of his shop, worry twisting him all up, and it's only six thousand years of friendship with the angel that kept Crowley calm and collected in the face of Heaven’s Stubbornness personified. Today Aziraphale had recoiled when Crowley had moved to take his hand after their lunch at the British museum cafe. And while Crowley was not offended by it, Aziraphale was. He was upset that he'd flinched away to start with, and he was upset that Crowley wasn't upset at all. He’d been on edge and flighty all afternoon, jumping at shadows, still waiting for another confrontation with Heaven, and each time he realised what he was doing, he grew more and more upset at himself for it.
"You've flown under the radar for decades before, just think of it like that."
Aziraphale had never outright refused Crowley's touch before now. But there were very few reasons for contact before, from anyone. Until then, Crowley had been content to simply hover in Aziraphale's space, and angels in general didn't entertain much propinquity with each other. The result being, while Aziraphale loved humans; he often found them rather overwhelming and loud, and tended to sequester himself away for decades at a time, preferring one on one interactions. Crowley had actually been so immensely proud of the angel when he first went to a human barber. He did not need it of course, but there was something soft and sincere about Aziraphale allowing a human to touch him. He did enjoy being pampered, he just had strong limits on when and how.
Limits that the two of them were having to learn on the fly. Because it was growing increasingly clear Aziraphale wanted contact with Crowley; angelic instinct was a hard thing to re-write however, and if he didn't know Crowley was going to reach out to him, he often reflexively balked. Again, not something Crowley was bothered by, other than how upset it made Aziraphale.
"It's not like Gabriel to let things go."
Crowley remembers the irritation that had been on the Archangel’s face, up until Crowley had burned it away with his little show. Wishes again he'd spit that fire for real instead of just pure intimidation. Granted, Heaven might not have been so willing to just look away if 'Aziraphale' had erased an Archangel, but at least he’d have something more weighted in trying to reassure Aziraphale that he didn’t need to worry anymore.
"He was still upset about the fall,” Aziraphale continued, and Crowley made point to sprawl himself across the angel’s back, letting himself drape bonelessly. It didn’t cut the tirade off, but Aziraphale's voice dropped, whispering into Crowley's elbow, "He wanted the war to start again because he felt your lot hadn't been properly punished."
"It took more than six thousand years for that one. So in another six thousand years, we’ll start to worry about it."
"Crowley!"
"Angel!" he mocks, matching Aziraphale's indignant tone, and shifting his weight to prod Aziraphale into sitting on the couch lest Crowley topple him over completely. He maneuvers Aziraphale so he is laying flat, even if his feet remained on the floor, and stretched out over the angel, trapping him.
"You’re squishing me," Aziraphale muttered, without heat or struggle.
"Think I need a nap." he laughed, making no move to get up.
"Crowley!" the angel giggled, pushing against him, "Let me up!"
“Let me sleep," he countered, "it’s cold, you’re warm. Nap time."
It helps distract Aziraphale for a little while.
-
They fight shortly after Easter. Neither seems to remember what about, but they both part ways that night rather cross. It’s going to be the first night they've been apart in months, and at first they both seem to be relieved by the space. But Crowley can't sleep, just restlessly paces his flat, and in SoHo, Aziraphale stares blankly at a book, unable to see the words on the page beyond his own racing thoughts. They're both thinking about the other. Crowley can't help wonder if Aziraphale is okay. Aziraphale can’t help wonder if Crowley is safe.
Aziraphale makes it till ten o’clock in the evening, before he closes his book with a huff, and storms out his own front doors to catch a bus. Ten minutes later has him pacing the street in front of Crowley's flat, a reflection to the agitated stride happening floors above him, trying to convince himself to leave it be and go back home.
Crowley attunes into the anxious angel energy gathering outside, and storms out in his pyjamas. Neither says a word, Crowley just grabbing Aziraphale's coat, and marches them back to his penthouse.
Aziraphale spends the night sulking in Crowley's office. Crowley doesn't sleep.
But there’s no more fear.
They get tetchy with each other more during the following week, pendulating between barbs starting to be thrown with intent, and the desperation of treading on thinning ice around each other. Impetuosity, Crowley plays his last hand.
"Spend the night with me."
Aziraphale is derailed mid-thought, and can only look at him confused, "Of course, Dear." After all, they have yet to spend a night apart since Tadfield.
"Sleep with me tonight."
Another time, the reaction would have been delightful; Aziraphale's face burning a bright red as he sputters out a “Crowley!" in the most scandalized voice known to mankind. The sometimes-a-snake demon rolls on the floor with a laugh he couldn't hold back in time, "no no no - sleep. Just sleep. No funny business."
"Indeed!" he sputtered, " ‘Funny business.’ Good Lord, Crowley!"
He’s still chucking as he peels himself off the floor. "My place... Sleep with me this time."
"You know I don't sleep."
"For me. Please."
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.
