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daegaer, because she was sick and said that Good Omens fic would cheer her up. I meant to write you something fluffy that included Aziraphale making chicken noodle soup, but this came to me instead. I hope you still like it.
Aziraphale rests his head between Crowley's shoulderblades and closes his eyes against the early morning light. This is the place where Crowley's wings will unfold and spread out against the sky, taking him to edge of heaven. Aziraphale imagines ripping them out, blood gushing across the demon's back, smearing Aziraphale's hands. It scares him that he can have these thoughts and he rises from the bed and heads out of Crowley's flat.
He sticks his hands in trousers, human-style, and walks along the grimy street. Children in wild clothes and metal piercings pass by and he wonders when the people on Crowley's street changed from carefully coiffed men and women enacting icy rituals to these small fey creatures. They do not see him, though one brushes by him and is surprised by a sudden feeling of warmth, reminding him of his grandmum before she died. It is early in December, and the wind buffets the buildings, like a fly trapped in a little boy's jar.
Aziraphale knows that this will be a long winter.
*
On Christmas Eve, Aziraphale makes Crowley paper the old way, like they did in China and in Egypt, and even in Atlantis, before it sank. He watches as Crowley runs his fingers delightfully down the scrolls, remembering old homes and old friends in the time before Christ was born. Aziraphale sucks at his own fingers, licking flecks of paste and paper off them and proceeds to get Crowley very drunk.
Soon they are both pissed, and Crowley is hissing about the time in Barcelona where he attempted to seduce a virgin, but ended up sleeping with her brother instead, who was definitely not a virgin. "She must have had your protection, angel" Crowley says gravely. "But he was more worth the effort!" His breath when he laughs fogs up the wineglass. Aziraphale is hypnotized by the condensation rising and fading and rising once again. He himself forgets to breathe until Crowley's lips meet his, and fill his mouth with air.
*
Aziraphale has never got the hang of sleeping like Crowley has. Crowley sleeps for hours, days, weeks - the first fortnight in January and scattered days and nights in February. His face droops the longer he sleeps, becoming bit more human-like. (Aziraphale knows this because he watches Crowley's face as he sleeps, which seems safer than looking at his shoulderblades.) He doesn't look innocent, because he never was, but he does seem a bit less cynical. Aziraphale likes watching Crowley sleep, but thinks he does too much of it. He's missing things: a storm and a tree in America, a beast loose in the Underground, sightings of turtle-shaped cloud behind the dark of the moon.
Aziraphale is filing these things in his mind, putting them into categories, like a librarian with a set of particularly difficult to shelve books. He's trying to see the pattern, and would like to speak to Crowley about it. But when Crowley wakes, Aziraphale finds his mouth dry, his voice gone. His words are swept away by a mix of desire and love so intense that makes him want to weep.
*
Aziraphale spirals up and up into the sky. He hasn't flown this high in centuries, but his wings are steady and sure. Crowley follows after him, catching up quickly. His face mirrors Aziraphale's, revealing a joy that a wingless human could never hope to feel. Far below them, the seas are in tumult and the earth is in revolt. There is only white above them, for this is as far as Crowley can go, but Aziraphale fancies he can almost hear the music of the spheres.
Clouds roll in underneath them, obscuring their view of earth. Crowley's eyes, when Aziraphale swoops down to face him, are an odd mix of anticipation and regret. For a moment, they watch each other silently. They do not breathe, nor do their hearts beat. Only their wings, moving against the air, make a sound. Then Crowley whispers "Be not afraid..."
"For I am with you." Aziraphale finishes quietly.
There is white above them and white below them and white around them. Crowley cups Aziraphale's face with his hands. He is gentle and his hands are scaly but soft. Aziraphale's eyes open wide, and he feels shudders tear up and down his wings.
The world ends.
daegaer, because she was sick and said that Good Omens fic would cheer her up. I meant to write you something fluffy that included Aziraphale making chicken noodle soup, but this came to me instead. I hope you still like it.Aziraphale rests his head between Crowley's shoulderblades and closes his eyes against the early morning light. This is the place where Crowley's wings will unfold and spread out against the sky, taking him to edge of heaven. Aziraphale imagines ripping them out, blood gushing across the demon's back, smearing Aziraphale's hands. It scares him that he can have these thoughts and he rises from the bed and heads out of Crowley's flat.
He sticks his hands in trousers, human-style, and walks along the grimy street. Children in wild clothes and metal piercings pass by and he wonders when the people on Crowley's street changed from carefully coiffed men and women enacting icy rituals to these small fey creatures. They do not see him, though one brushes by him and is surprised by a sudden feeling of warmth, reminding him of his grandmum before she died. It is early in December, and the wind buffets the buildings, like a fly trapped in a little boy's jar.
Aziraphale knows that this will be a long winter.
*
On Christmas Eve, Aziraphale makes Crowley paper the old way, like they did in China and in Egypt, and even in Atlantis, before it sank. He watches as Crowley runs his fingers delightfully down the scrolls, remembering old homes and old friends in the time before Christ was born. Aziraphale sucks at his own fingers, licking flecks of paste and paper off them and proceeds to get Crowley very drunk.
Soon they are both pissed, and Crowley is hissing about the time in Barcelona where he attempted to seduce a virgin, but ended up sleeping with her brother instead, who was definitely not a virgin. "She must have had your protection, angel" Crowley says gravely. "But he was more worth the effort!" His breath when he laughs fogs up the wineglass. Aziraphale is hypnotized by the condensation rising and fading and rising once again. He himself forgets to breathe until Crowley's lips meet his, and fill his mouth with air.
*
Aziraphale has never got the hang of sleeping like Crowley has. Crowley sleeps for hours, days, weeks - the first fortnight in January and scattered days and nights in February. His face droops the longer he sleeps, becoming bit more human-like. (Aziraphale knows this because he watches Crowley's face as he sleeps, which seems safer than looking at his shoulderblades.) He doesn't look innocent, because he never was, but he does seem a bit less cynical. Aziraphale likes watching Crowley sleep, but thinks he does too much of it. He's missing things: a storm and a tree in America, a beast loose in the Underground, sightings of turtle-shaped cloud behind the dark of the moon.
Aziraphale is filing these things in his mind, putting them into categories, like a librarian with a set of particularly difficult to shelve books. He's trying to see the pattern, and would like to speak to Crowley about it. But when Crowley wakes, Aziraphale finds his mouth dry, his voice gone. His words are swept away by a mix of desire and love so intense that makes him want to weep.
*
Aziraphale spirals up and up into the sky. He hasn't flown this high in centuries, but his wings are steady and sure. Crowley follows after him, catching up quickly. His face mirrors Aziraphale's, revealing a joy that a wingless human could never hope to feel. Far below them, the seas are in tumult and the earth is in revolt. There is only white above them, for this is as far as Crowley can go, but Aziraphale fancies he can almost hear the music of the spheres.
Clouds roll in underneath them, obscuring their view of earth. Crowley's eyes, when Aziraphale swoops down to face him, are an odd mix of anticipation and regret. For a moment, they watch each other silently. They do not breathe, nor do their hearts beat. Only their wings, moving against the air, make a sound. Then Crowley whispers "Be not afraid..."
"For I am with you." Aziraphale finishes quietly.
There is white above them and white below them and white around them. Crowley cups Aziraphale's face with his hands. He is gentle and his hands are scaly but soft. Aziraphale's eyes open wide, and he feels shudders tear up and down his wings.
The world ends.
