a man of wealth and taste

Fic: The Five Stages of Going Native

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 04:24:54 GMT

Title: The Five Stages of Going Native
Author: sticktothestory
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Length: 1700 words
Summary: Aziraphale is surprised to discover he has a sexuality.
Notes: For lgbtfest 2009. Many thanks to minkhollow and S. for betaing.

*

The Five Stages of Going Native

I. Denial

At first, Aziraphale believes he is being punished for botching up the Apocalypse.

"I don't know," says Adam Young, never one to tread softly. "Seems to me, if they'd wanted
to do something, they'd have done it ages ago, when it would have been at all relevant."

"Well, don't underestimate Patience just because he's a Virtue," says Aziraphale defensively.
He hasn't stopped fidgeting since he sat down. "I wouldn't put it past the bugger."

Adam puts his head in his hands. "Mr. Fell, what exactly is it you want me to do?"

"Why, make it stop, dear boy," cries Aziraphale. "I should think that would be obvious."

"No," says Adam. "Near as I can tell, nobody's been messing with you. I'm not about to start."

"Once again, my dear, you fail to grasp the gravity of the situation. Even in the unlikely event
that Upstairs hasn't caused this, what do you think They'll do to me when They find out?"

Adam scowls. "Angels are supposed to Love everybody, aren't you?"

"Opinions vary," Aziraphale mutters. "We're certainly not supposed to love anybody."

There's a slight pause, and then Adam raises his head. "Have you told Crowley about this?"

"I don't think you understood me before," says Aziraphale coolly. "This is hardly a common
occurrence. If it were proper for my kind to feel this way, He'd have made us so that we did."

Adam chews his lip thoughtfully. "That's why you're not telling Crowley?"

Sighing, Aziraphale gets up from the sofa. "I've known Crowley for a good deal longer than
you have, my boy," he says, reaching for his overcoat. "He'd be the worst person to talk to."

"Don't be so sure," says Adam. "People can't surprise you if you won't give them the chance."

"Yes, well. Thank you for the tea," Aziraphale says pointedly, and leaves.

What Crowley doesn't know won't hurt either of them.

II. Anger

The squeaky top step is their only warning before the door swings open.

"Aziraphale, do you want to come," Crowley starts to say and then doesn't. The expression on
his face is a perfect mirror to Aziraphale's mute horror. For a long moment, the silence hangs
in the air between them like a smoke cloud, thick and suffocating.

"Too late for that, I'm afraid," the human next to him pipes up, and Aziraphale has never been
a violent person, but it's a lucky thing he hasn't got his sword on him just now.

Crowley, however, only blinks at the human. His throat is working, but no sound comes out.

Aziraphale fumbles around desperately for something, anything, to say that would excuse this.

"I'm sorry," Crowley says unexpectedly, in an odd, hoarse voice, and then he's gone.

"I shouldn't have said that," the human—Nicholas—says as soon as the downstairs door slams
shut. "I didn't realise he was your ex-lover, or I wouldn't have put my foot in my mouth."

"The two of us were never lovers," Aziraphale sighs, rubbing at his face tiredly. "Crowley and
I work together; he's a colleague. A friend. Someone who wouldn't understand."

"You're not out?" Nicholas asks, as if only considering the possibility for the first time.

"Hm?" says Aziraphale, not really listening. Young people and their slang, he thinks, feeling
the weight of his age in a way he hasn't since they stopped the Apocalypse. This shouldn't
be happening—he tried to make it go away, surely that ought to count for something?

It isn't until Nicholas puts an arm around him that he realises he's shaking.

III. Bargaining

Aziraphale presses an unsteady hand to Crowley's doorbell. He's never had to use it before.

After a few minutes, the intercom crackles to life. "Yes?"

"Hi," Aziraphale says into the contraption. Uncertainly, he adds, "It's Aziraphale."

"I know what you sound like," it tells him, with no particular inflection. "Come on up."

Normally, Aziraphale would take the lift. Today, he's climbing four flights of stairs to put off
the confrontation with Crowley. He feels sick to his stomach. Between the two of them, up
until now, he's always been the one who held the moral high ground; it's what he knows.

Crowley is stiff and formal. "I shouldn't have just walked in," he says. "It was presumptuous."

"I like how we've come to presume things about one another," Aziraphale says, quietly.

But Crowley looks away. "Well, like I said the other day, I'm sorry. Water under the bridge?"

Just like that, Aziraphale knows this is it. Crowley isn't going to get over this one. An insistent
pressure builds behinds his eyes. He wishes today were yesterday, and he could do the whole
stupid thing over again. He wishes he could climb into bed and sleep for a million years.

"All right," he says, brightly. "Glad we've got that cleared up."

IV. Depression

It's not even close to a million years when he gives up and starts scouting for the telephone.

The person on the other end picks up on the first ring, a sure sign it's meant to be.

"Hello," says Aziraphale, rubbing at his eyes. "I'd like to check myself in, please."

V. Acceptance

Aziraphale has been in the monastery for six months when Crowley comes to see him.

"You know," he says, materialising in the orchard while Aziraphale is doing the spring raking,
"when I said, 'Water under the bridge,' I didn't mean, 'Go find me some.'"

"Thank you for that observation," says Aziraphale. "Surprisingly, this is not about you."

"No?" asks Crowley. "I think we both know you didn't pick this place for its bucolic charm."
He shifts his weight to lean against a nearby tree and puts his hands in his pockets. "A
human, Aziraphale? Seriously?"

"What was I supposed to do? I wasn't about to ring up Gabriel and ask him if he'd fancy a go."

Crowley looks at him searchingly. "Is that all it was, then? An experiment?"

"Yes." Aziraphale gives the rake a last, frustrated tug before throwing it aside. "No. I'm not in
love with him, if that's the question. But I don't regret it." Meeting Crowley's eyes for the first
time, he adds, "It was perfectly lovely, and I shan't be made to feel ashamed of it any longer."

"I'm not trying to make you feel ashamed," says Crowley quietly, looking away.

"Well," says Aziraphale uncertainly, after a brief pause. "Good. I'm glad. To tell you the truth,
dear boy, I've come to value our friendship rather more than I'd anticipated—rather more than
Some might deem entirely appropriate, I daresay—and I should hate for it to end over this."

It should have been Crowley's cue, but he lets it go by, head turned towards the monastery's
main building, shadows and sunglasses conspiring to keep his expression unreadable.

"Twelve years," he says instead.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Twelve years," Crowley repeats. "That's when he's going to die. Brain tumour." He taps the
side of his head, just behind his ear. "Wars have lasted longer. His own cat will outlive him."

"Consider the disaster averted," says Aziraphale, with an irritated wave. "I had no idea you
were so concerned with the tragedies of the human life cycle."

"The real question," says Crowley, as if Aziraphale hadn't spoken, "is of course where your
boy will end up. Did you know he used to set fire to anthills for a lark? Pour salt on snails?
Did you know about the time he stole money from his parents and got the maid sacked?"

"No," Aziraphale admits. "I know he worked with Médecins Sans Frontières for six years."

"Yes, well," says Crowley bitterly. "If that isn't compensating, I don't know what is."

And that's when the penny drops like a tonne of bricks on Aziraphale's unsuspecting head.

"Crowley," he says, in the tone of voice one might use to address a cornered animal with a
collection of sharp, glittering teeth—on a trophy necklace. "You're not…jealous?"

The corners of Crowley's mouth turn upwards; it isn't quite a smile. "Took you long enough."
At Aziraphale's baffled look, he adds, "Did you think you were the only one to go native up
here? Happens to the best of us. Don't you remember the Nephilim?"

"I do," says Aziraphale. "You made some choice comments about them at the time."

"Well, He sent a flood to rid the Earth of them, so I can't have been all wrong," says Crowley,
sheepish. His face softens slightly, and the sunlight filtering through the pink apple blossoms
makes him look a little as if he were wearing a crown—or a halo.

"I can't imagine why you'd be jealous," says Aziraphale quickly, before the endorphins can
give way to embarrassment. "Surely you know there's no one dearer to my heart."

"Yeah?" says Crowley. "So why didn't you just ring me up and ask if I'd fancy a go?"

"I…didn't know that was an option," says Aziraphale, and swallows. "Is it, still?"

"That depends." Crowley looks over his shoulder at the monastery. "Do they have phones?"

"One phone line, but it's only to be used for emergencies. Don't even think about tying it up."

"I'm sure I've not seen everything you and your human have been doing, Aziraphale," says
Crowley, deadpan, "but you don't generally bring that sort of thing up before the first kiss."

"Oh," says Aziraphale, licking his lips. "In that case, I suppose we'd better get it over with."

*

"That wasn't so bad," says Crowley, two minutes later, panting a little.

"Mm, it wasn't so good, either. No offence, my dear, but your technique could stand refining."

"It's not like I've done this before," Crowley mutters, and proceeds to get some practice in.

*

By the time he's progressed to Aziraphale's satisfaction, the sun is setting and the dinner bells
are ringing out. "You're not planning to stay here any longer, are you?" he asks.

"Good Heavens, no," says Aziraphale. "They make us pray for an hour after meals."

Crowley grimaces sympathetically, and leans in again. "I can't imagine Upstairs is going to be
too pleased about this," he says in between kisses, voice overly casual.

Aziraphale's mouth crooks down at one corner. "No, I expect they won't."

"We could ask Adam to help us hide it," says Crowley. "He's hidden bigger things than this."

For a long minute, Aziraphale looks at him, considering. Then he says, "Let's not."

They're living on borrowed time as it is, and he can think of better ways to spend it.

Fic: Five Things That Never Happened to Crowley in the Nineteenth Century

Thu, 05 Mar 2009 04:02:20 GMT

Title: Five Things That Never Happened to Crowley in the Nineteenth Century
Author: sticktothestory
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Ligur
Warnings: historical inaccuracy, crack, NWS
Length: 1,000 words

*

Five Things That Never Happened to Crowley in the Nineteenth Century

"You are not speaking these words to me. These words are not coming out of your mouth."

"I would have thought you'd be pleased," says Aziraphale, looking entirely too calm for a
being who's obviously lost its wits. "You're always telling me to keep up with the times."

"Vegetarianism is more outmoded than your breeches," Crowley shouts from the other side
of the room, trying to calm down enough to cook up a theory of who or what murdered the
angel and took his place. "It's never stopped you from having pheasant with your cream sauce."

"Well, they've only come up with a name for it now," says Aziraphale, unperturbed. "My dear,
if you could please stop pacing quite so intensely; you're wearing the carpet thin."

"Oh," says Crowley, stomping down viciously. "So now it's carpet rights, is it? Tell you what,
why don't I just stop breathing altogether, spare those poor oxygen molecules?"

"You are hogging them rather selfishly at the moment," Aziraphale points out, yawning as
though to make up for it on the spot. "In fact, if you feel you'll be finished throwing that
fit soon, I was hoping to squeeze in some light religious reading before bed."

Crowley turns a dubious gaze towards Aziraphale's bedside table. "Surely, you're not referring
to that poorly disguised copy of the complete Kama Sutra?"

"A Book of Acts in its own right, really," says Aziraphale, not the tiniest bit guilty.

~*~

Aziraphale barely has time to light the match before Crowley tackles him to the floor.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Crowley demands, eyes wild, pinning Aziraphale
down with perhaps a bit more force than is warranted by the circumstances, surely.

"I was trying to burn those books," says Aziraphale, pushing him off and straightening his wig
indignantly. "Glad as I am to find you so protective of His Word, dear boy, I must ask you to
stand aside. There are forty-two more Bibles in the back room; feel free to have at them."

"Have you completely lost your mind? I don't want to read the sodding things."

"Then you won't mind seeing them destroyed." Aziraphale tosses him the book of matches,
already taking more books down from the shelves. "Hurry up, the chance won't come again."

"Why is it coming at all?" asks Crowley. One after another, his matches fail to catch flame.

A blush creeps up Aziraphale's cheeks. "It turns out you may have had the right idea about the
carpet," he admits. "I've got a nasty infestation of beetle larvae. They seem to have a penchant
for the Bibles, too; it must be something in the cover material."

"Say no more," says Crowley, discarding the useless matchbook and sliding his tinted glasses
down his nose instead. "I'm a man with a mission."

~*~

The bookshop looks as though a tornado swivelled through.

Gingerly stepping over two splintered bookcases and the shredded remains of a Standing
Fishes Bible, the demon Crowley makes his way to the back room, where he will hopefully
find survivors—or better yet, a hot cup of Darjeeling.

Whatever he expected to see, it was most definitely not an equally dishevelled Aziraphale in
the slow and arduous process of what to all extents and purposes appears to be the mother
of all blowjobs, except for the crucial detail of Ligur's optional anatomy on the receiving end.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses and blinks.

Twice.

It won't go away.

He splutters. "Jesus Chr—What the ho—fu—Is that even vegetarian?"

With an obscene slippery sound, Crowley's associate takes his mouth off Crowley's boss.

"Really, my dear," sighs Aziraphale, bringing up an elegantly manicured finger to wipe some
precome from his swollen lips. "When will you give up this ridiculous notion that we veggies
never get to indulge in anything yummy?"

~*~

"So, I've been restocking the bookshop," says Aziraphale. "You know, after the incident."

Crowley's left eye twitches. He huddles in on himself even more, pressing into the sofa.

"I was shipped some textbooks on science—by accident, of course; you know there are
Those who would disapprove—and it seems the humans have come up with something new.
Psychology, I believe is the term. They're using it to make sense of their own behaviour."

"Hm?"

"Yes, I expect you'll be getting a commendation for your work on Vanity," Aziraphale says
encouragingly. "Anyway, I was up late last night reading…"

Crowley snorts. "It's practically a picture book."

"…and I think I understand why you were so upset the other day."

"Do you?" asks Crowley, scowling as Aziraphale slides closer and puts a hand on his knee.

"Yes," says Aziraphale, beaming. "At first I thought you were concerned about the professional
implications, having caught your supervisor fraternising—"

"Oh, G— Shut up," begs Crowley, and promptly covers his ears.

"But it's not as if you haven't been known to mix business and pleasure yourself, on occasion.
So I thought to myself, dear old Crowley has been behaving oddly as of late. He's nervous
around me. He shows an interest in my books. Most of all," and here Aziraphale closes what
little distance remained between them on the sofa, "he's been making physical contact."

"You're not thinking straight," says Crowley, feverishly looking for an escape route.

"On the contrary, old friend." Aziraphale offers him a warm smile. "I'm finally seeing what's
been plain in front of me for all these years." Lips pursed, he begins to lean in.

"No!" says Crowley, pressing back into the linen. "Don't—"

~*~

Crowley sits bolt upright in his bed, panting. He can't remember ever sweating before.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees the curtains have mostly rotted away: it's dark
outside, and the windowpane is covered in snow. He urgently needs to use the toilet.

I had a nightmare, he thinks, and the memory is enough to send him back under the sheets.

An arm coils itself heavily around his middle. "Go back to sleep, dear," Aziraphale mumbles
in his ear. "I need my rest, too; it's been a rough hundred years."

Fic: The Whole Point of Being Human

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 15:25:59 GMT

Title: The Whole Point of Being Human
Author: sticktothestory
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Length: 5,000 words
Summary: Tough choices and conflicting interests in the Garden of Eden.
Notes: Written for ineffabili_tea in the 2008 go_exchange. Many thanks to waxbean for betaing! Concrit very much appreciated.

The Whole Point of Being Human

Fic: All Things Bright and Beautiful

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 13:15:27 GMT

Title: All Things Bright and Beautiful
Author: sticktothestory
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are waiting for the Apocalypse. Again.
Length: 2,500 words
A/N: Many thanks to hsavinien, vulgarweed and enaranie for betaing.
Any remaining mistakes are my own. Concrit is very much appreciated. Credit for
the Beethoven kick I've been on goes to htebazytook's Eroica.

*

All Things Bright and Beautiful

“Florence.”

“Manchester.”

“Milton.”

“What, as in Keynes? Seriously?”

Aziraphale slapped his arm. “As in John, you incorrigible villain.”

“Oh. Well, yes, I suppose we could use some justification for the ways of God just now.”

Aziraphale tipped his head back to look at the foreboding yellow skies—the only colour left
in the landscape as far as the eye could see—and decided he did not particularly care to
have that conversation if he could avoid it. “My collection.”

“My car,” said Crowley witheringly. “If we’re going to be obvious about it.”

“Fine, have it your way. Christmas decorations.”

“Crème brûlée at the Ritz.”

“The Sinner’s Bible.”

Crowley snorted. “Figures that’d be your favourite. Armani.”

“Ooh, Victorian fashion.”

“Victorian hypocrisy.”

“Victorian piety,” corrected Aziraphale.

“Megalomania.”

“Strength of faith!”

“What does it matter?” asked Crowley, dropping the ball. “I have had it up to my neck with
this whole farce of a situation. Why are we even still here? There’s nowhere to go, nobody for
us to tempt or save. How long are They planning to keep us waiting?”

His voice grew steadily louder and higher in pitch as he spoke, and it was the unnatural echo
which followed that shut him up.

“Hang on,” said Aziraphale after a while, too brightly. “I’ve got it. This is a good one.”

“I’m listening,” said Crowley, as if there were anything else to do.

“Sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches? The thing you miss the most in all the world is sandwiches?”

“Of course not,” snapped Aziraphale. And, as if forcing out the word, he added, “Music.”

Neither of them spoke for some time after that.

*

“Fountain pens.”

“Roman bathhouses.”

“Intercourse.”

Crowley made a sound like choking on his own spit.

“There’s no need to be crude, dear. If you didn’t care for it, simply say as much.”

“No,” said Crowley, “it’s not that. I just never would have pictured… I’ve never done it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“In all that time, not once?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, openly smirking now—and wasn’t it just typical that even in this, he’d
found some way to make Aziraphale feel as though he were the one who should be blushing?

“You’ve never fallen for one of them?”

“I didn’t say that. Once upon a time.”

“Well, come on, don’t be a scrooge; what was her name?”

“His name,” said Crowley mildly, “was Ludwig.”

There followed a pregnant pause during which you could hear neurons firing in Aziraphale’s
overactive imagination. A distinct smell of gunpowder permeated the air.

“No,” breathed Aziraphale, eyes wide. “Surely not—‘Immortal Beloved’?”

“Right, because there haven’t been a million men named Ludwig in the history of the world.”

“But—”

“St. James’s Park.”

“I could have sworn you lived in Vienna at some point in that millennium.”

“And of course men called Ludwig are so thin on the ground there.”

“In fact, wasn’t it the early nineteenth?”

“I wasn’t awake for the early nineteenth, Aziraphale. You’re imagining things.”

“But I thought you had that project, the one involving his tenth symph—”

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley pleasantly. “Give over.”

Disappointed, Aziraphale broke off. He looked at Crowley with a measuring eye and pursed
his lips. “I suppose I may have let myself get a little carried away,” he admitted at length.
“Do forgive me, dear boy; it seems I’m missing my books even more than I thought.”

“You’ve said that already. Pick something else.”

“Still, if this person was dear to you…”

“Was being the operative word.”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, disconcerted. “I do hope he didn’t…in the…”

“Relax; he died a long time ago,” said Crowley. Looking out at the vast expanse of blackened
earth surrounding them, he added, in an oddly wistful voice, “A good thing, too.”

Aziraphale reached for his shoulder. “I don’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t,” said Crowley. “It’s just… Sometimes I can’t believe I ever wanted it.”

“Wanted what, dear boy?”

Crowley waved his hand impatiently. “You know. To be one of them. Human.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, perplexed. “I’ve—I’ve heard stranger things.”

“Have you?” asked Crowley, pointedly drumming his legs against the crumbled remains of a
wall they were sitting on. It had taken them days to find it. “Name one.”

“Well,” offered Aziraphale after an uneasy moment, “I’ve always wanted children.”

Three, two, one…

“Fat chance of that,” said Crowley, right on cue, “even if you had been human.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Keep your knickers on, angel. Don’t think I don’t know how you spent the 1880s.”

“I’ve no idea to what you’re referring,” mumbled Aziraphale, turning pink. “The gavotte.”

*

“Nail varnish.”

“Road rage.”

“Crossword puzzles.”

“Chain letters.”

“I knew those were yours.”

“Actually, so are crossword puzzles.”

Aziraphale flinched.

“Were, I mean,” said Crowley quickly. “Sorry.”

“Buggre alle this for a larke,” muttered Aziraphale. “From the way we’re going on, one would
think we’d known nothing but unicorns and rainbows on this all-forsaken rock. Let’s change
the rules a bit, shall we? Isn’t there anything you were glad to see the back of?”

“Sure,” said Crowley. “Early Modern English.”

“Customers.”

“The fourteenth century.”

“Or the twenty-second, for that matter.”

“Best of Queen albums.”

“Burger Lord.”

“You were right,” said Crowley. “This is much more cathartic. ‘Googling yourself.’”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Internets.”

“Pedestrians.”

“Answer phones.”

“Monty Python.”

“The Spanish Inquisition.”

Crowley hesitated.

“Caught you off-guard with that one?”

“Only the first time around,” said Crowley finally. “Thumbscrews.”

“Censorship,” said Aziraphale, thinking that humour was obviously wasted on the poor chap.

“Waterboarding.”

“James Joyce.”

“Foot roasting.”

“Mosquitoes.”

“Crucifixion.”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, starting to regret his minor change of rules. “Jaywalkers.”

“Scaphism.”

“Woollen socks?”

“Concentration camps,” said Crowley. “Nuclear weaponry.”

“Yes, well,” tried Aziraphale, “how about genocide in general?”

“Biological warfare.”

“Olives,” said Aziraphale weakly.

Crowley stared at him.

“Oh, all right—back to the good memories. Garden gnomes.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Fireplaces. Long walks through the snow.”

“Aziraphale.”

“I’ve not lost my hearing over the past two minutes, if that’s your concern.”

“How long do you suppose it will be before radiation subsides?”

“I’ve no idea. I think we can safely consider ourselves unaffected at this point.”

“Whoopee,” said Crowley. “Lucky us.”

“Well, I’m sorry; I don’t see how it matters. Absolutely everything has gone.”

“It might grow back.”

“Out of thin air? Not very likely.”

“Think about it—why else are They keeping us waiting? Why not just pour away the ocean
and pack up the moon? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Has it occurred to you,” said Aziraphale slowly, “that they may not have kept us waiting?”

Crowley blinked. All the colour drained from his face.

“Exactly. Now, if it’s all the same to you, dear, I’d like to get back to our old way of playing.”

“Yes. Right.”

*

“Mobile phones.”

“Tartan.”

“Plants.”

“Eden.”

Crowley let out a strangled laugh. “Is it just me, or have we been playing this game on
and off ever since?”

“If it’s any consolation, it looks as though we’re nearly done,” sighed Aziraphale.

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“Which brings us to a good Cabernet Sauvignon.”

Crowley clapped him on the back with an unsteady hand. “Look at it this way, Aziraphale,”
he said. “Here at last is one occasion you won’t be ridiculously overdressed for.”

“I should think not. It’s the End of the World and I’m wearing cotton.”

“As I recall, last time the world was ending, you were wearing a massage therapist.”

“Cold comfort,” said Aziraphale bitterly. “Thank Heaven for Adam Young.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to claim him for your side. You don’t know where he is now.”

“Pish,” said Aziraphale. “That boy had a spark of goodness strong enough to power Wembley
Stadium, and you know it. I’m never wrong about these things,” he added meaningfully.

Crowley chose not to dignify that with a reply.

“Although,” continued Aziraphale, more subdued, “if you’d asked me about the goodness of
humankind in those days, I’d have told you the same, I’m sure.”

“The goodness of mankind,” said Crowley, “which I as little want to deserve as I deserve it.”

“That’s very profound, dear,” said Aziraphale, “but I know I’ve heard it before. Wilde?”

Crowley smiled. “Something like that.”

“It’s not be-bop, is it?” asked Aziraphale suspiciously.

“Well,” said Crowley, “it’s not Mozart.”

“I should have known. Frankly, my dear, popular music was vulgar even for your side.”

“That’s odd. Didn’t I hear you call it very profound only a moment ago?”

“Rock-n-roll,” said Aziraphale loudly, “is nothing more than a simplistic, shallow, mindlessly
repetitive perversion of an art form which was arguably humanity’s one redeeming feature.”

“A bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“Of course you’d think so. The whole mess was your fault.”

“What’s that?”

“Please. Your influence couldn’t have been more blatant if you’d stamped on the firm logo.”

“I can’t believe you’re still carrying on about that,” said Crowley, stung. “They couldn’t very
well have called it Highway to Hull, I don’t think. And anyway, I wasn’t even talking about
that—what I meant is, seems a bit harsh, giving them only one redeeming feature.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Well, that’s easily solved. Name another.”

“Faith,” tried Crowley. “Compassion. Stuff like that.”

“On an individual level, perhaps. I was thinking more along general lines.”

Crowley scoffed. “What, human apologetics?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Aziraphale earnestly. “After all the trouble He went through to
make them and love them and give this world unto them, what do they do?”—here he snapped
his fingers in Crowley’s face—“They turn round and destroy the whole thing.”

“So you throw away the basket over a few rotten apples,” said Crowley. “Your side to a tee.”

“This is hardly the work of a few,” said Aziraphale sharply. “And given the context, dear boy,
you might want to think twice about using apple metaphors to make yourself look clever.”

Crowley opened his mouth only to shut it again.

For a while, they sat in silence, not looking at each other.

Then Crowley said, “Cathedrals.”

“I…never knew that about you,” said Aziraphale carefully, trying to make eye contact.

“As a redeeming feature.”

“Oh. Of course. Er. I’ve always thought they were more glorifying of the architect, really.”

“Mathematics, then?” asked Crowley, turning to meet his gaze. “Science?”

Aziraphale smiled. In the sickly yellow sunlight, he looked almost vulnerable and much older
than he usually did—which was saying something. “My dear, look where it has led them.”

Crowley bumped Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own. “Cabernet Sauvignon?”

Smile blossoming into a smirk, Aziraphale shook his head.

“Poetry,” said Crowley after a moment’s thought. “Surely you’ve no objection to poetry?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Aziraphale. “I worsh—loved poetry very much. But one feels that music
is the superior choice, if you want to use art as an argument.”

“Does one, now?”

“Absolutely,” exclaimed Aziraphale. “Proper music was undiluted divine inspiration. Poetry
could only ever express it to the extent that human language and understanding would allow.”

“But if it came directly from Above,” said Crowley, “it hardly counts as human achievement.”

“Imagine that,” said Aziraphale, a perfect picture of innocence.

“Enjoy the smugness while it lasts,” said Crowley, leaning in and lowering his sunglasses for
dramatic effect. Aziraphale had just enough time to register the strange intimacy of Crowley’s
hot breath on his face without the smell of alcohol before he moved in for the kill. “Children.”

“I should have known you’d resort to cheating,” said Aziraphale crossly.

“You really should have,” confirmed Crowley, sliding his sunglasses back into place.

*

“Ready? One, two—”

“Wait, on three or after three?”

“After. One, two, three…”

“Oh, come on.”

“My dear, I had no idea you’d be so dreadful at it.”

“I’m not,” said Crowley in a voice that would brook no argument. “You must be cheating.”

“Angels don’t cheat,” huffed Aziraphale. “You’re just going about it the wrong way.”

“Were you planning to enlighten me, or should I wait for Gabriel to slip me a vision?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” said Aziraphale. “Everybody expects you to choose rock.”

“It’s a game of chance.”

“Everybody. Expects you. To choose rock.”

“But why?”

“Why drink milk designed to make an animal with four stomachs gain three pounds a day?”
asked Aziraphale. “As if they ever needed a reason to do anything.”

“Huh,” said Crowley. “What if both parties expect the other to choose rock?”

“That, my dear,” confided Aziraphale, “is what happened between Cain and Abel.”

Crowley was not best pleased with this information.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said eventually, toying with his cufflinks. “You don’t suppose we’re meant
to fight out the Last Battle, do you? You and me?”

“No,” said Aziraphale firmly, as though he hadn’t considered the notion. “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s a perfectly reas—”

“Stop it,” hissed Aziraphale. “It’s a preposterous idea and I won’t hear another word about it.”

Crowley let the matter drop. “So,” he said at length, “how do you think it will happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale after a deep breath. “‘No more water but fire this time’?”

“For all we know, it could be that forty-days-and-forty-nights business yet again.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. At least that way, we know the end is in sight.”

“Hey,” said Crowley suddenly. “Are you—”

“Of course not,” sniffed Aziraphale. “I’ve got something in my eye, that's all.”

“Right. Do you, er, want my handkerchief?”

“Please.”

Crowley handed it to him, politely looking the other way.

Aziraphale blew his nose and bunched the handkerchief in his hand. “Incredible, isn’t it,” he
said, choking up again, “how these things managed to stick around for all that time?”

“Everything comes to an end,” said Crowley, not unkindly. “You knew that going in.”

“I did,” said Aziraphale at last, dabbing at his cheeks. “And I’d do it again.”

“I’ve always known you were a glutton for punishment,” said Crowley. “But it wouldn’t have
been half as much fun without you. Can you imagine if the job had gone to Gabriel instead?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “We’ve had a good run, haven’t we, old boy?”

“I don’t regret it,” said Crowley, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes from behind his sunglasses.

“We’ve certainly had longer than anybody else.”

“Put up with a lot more, too.”

“It was worth it,” said Aziraphale, putting the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, “it was.”

*

“Plasma television.”

“Illustrated manuscripts.”

“Bonsai trees.”

“Frankincense.”

“Action films,” said Crowley absently, holding up a hand. “Is it raining?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible anymore.”

They both turned their faces up to the sky, Aziraphale blinking against the rain.

“If there is anything this great sodding world has never ceased to do,” said Crowley as clouds
came crashing together and the heavens began to pour down on them, “it’s amaze us.”

Aziraphale looked at him, watched as the water soaked those fancy clothes and flattened that
ridiculous hair, and he felt the weight of nearly seven thousand years wash away like so much
grief. “I’m glad I’m with you, Crowley,” he murmured, “here at the end of all things.”

Crowley lowered his head and smirked, a rain drop hanging from the tip of his nose. “A Lord
of the Rings reference, Aziraphale? Something you want to tell me?”

“No, dear,” said Aziraphale, placing his hand over Crowley’s. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

Fic: Twelve Random Facts About the Angel Aziraphale

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 13:59:39 GMT

Companion piece to Twelve Random Facts About the Demon Crowley

*

Twelve Random Facts About the Angel Aziraphale

1. Yes, as a matter of fact, he likes women just fine.

2. Aziraphale is an unrepentant omnivore: of his past half dozen incorporations—not counting
the one that was misplaced during Armageddon or the one cremated in Alexandria—one was
attacked by a bear, one was thrown to the lions, one was eaten by a pack of hungry wolves,
two were eaten by Crowley, and one drowned after being pushed off the Ark by a cow.

3. He never bothers with the begats, either.

4. Not laughing at “Anthony James” has earned him three separate commendations.

5. The first time he falls in love, five thousand and eight hundred years away from home, he
is sitting in a crowded opera house in Vienna with his eyes closed, trying to understand how
something so beautiful could be wrong. When he looks up, he sees a silk handkerchief and a
face more familiar than it should be, and he thinks perhaps this is not the first time after all.

6. Louis XIII would pale at the amount of snuff it took him to get through Heart of Darkness.

7. Office Supplies is mystified at the constant stream of Robert Redford photographs.

8. Secretly, he thinks that sex with Crowley is a lot like being poked in the nose repeatedly:
invasive, slippery, and all too likely to bring tears to one’s eyes.

9. While he certainly would not kill for chocolate torte, with proper persuasion he might be
convinced to show some lenience where the fourth and eighth commandments are concerned,
and of course the fifth hardly applies to him at all, when you think about it.

10. Contrary to popular belief, it is he who deserves the blame for that infinitesimal non-hole
in the ozone layer—although, in his defence, he’d had rather more than his fair share of wine
that time, and Crowley really ought to have stopped him trying to succeed where Icarus failed.

11. On Thursdays, he likes to watch How Clean Is Your House and gloat.

12. Sometimes when he looks at Crowley, he thinks he might understand what Eve must have
seen in those eyes on their last day in the Garden—but that’s neither here nor there.

Fic: Twelve Random Facts About the Demon Crowley

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 13:32:12 GMT

Companion piece to Twelve Random Facts About the Angel Aziraphale.

*

Twelve Random Facts About the Demon Crowley

1. Just because he never meant to Fall doesn't mean he never meant to do what he did to get there.

2. The first thing to cross his mind upon meeting the angel Aziraphale is a cocktail of terror and
awe at the way apparently any idiot with wings can get their hands on a fiery sword these days.
The second is that Aziraphale could probably teach the sword a lesson or two in flaming.

3. Look, she didn't have to eat that apple, all right?

4. Immediately following the marked lack of Apocalypse, he returns to his flat and spends three
hours on his knees outside the study, scrubbing at the stain Ligur left on the carpet. He tries not to
think about which is more disturbing—the fact that Adam apparently felt Crowley deserved to remember
what he did, or the fact that he apparently didn’t feel Ligur deserved to remember anything at all.

5. His favourite pudding is tiramisu, but he always ends up ordering the chocolate torte.

6. If he could do it all over again somehow, he’d sleep through the twentieth century instead.

7. When Aziraphale decides to find out what falling in love is like, Crowley does not turn him down.
They have shared so many first times between them already, and frankly, Crowley is grateful not
to have to be the one that does the tempting for a change.

8. Obviously, the only reason he ever puts the Meat Loaf on is to scare the piggyback plants.

9. He saw Dirty Harry for the twenty-sixth time last Tuesday.

10. Hastur still makes him sign “Dominic Applebottom” to all official communication.

11. Aziraphale says he doesn’t mind if Crowley wants to sleep with other people every so often, but
Crowley buys him that ridiculous Regency snuff box for Christmas anyway—the one with the castle
scene and the mother-of-pearl base, because Aziraphale is hardly one to be strict with Leviticus.

12. The fictional character he most identifies with is Job.

Thai Inspired Coconut Curry

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 11:41:18 GMT

Serves two with leftovers, or at least it did in my household (such as it is).

Ingredients

1 red onion

1 clove of garlic

2 red chili peppers

1 thumb-sized piece of ginger

2 stalks of lemongrass

1 TBS coriander

1 TBS cumin

1 TBS basil

300 ml coconut milk

Preparation

- Peel and chop as needed. Put ingredients into a blender.

- Heat oil in a pan and fry some veggies. I used sweet potatoes, kidney beans, carrots, sweet peas, red and orange capsicum and oyster mushrooms.

- Add blended curry sauce. Stir well.

- Serve on brown or jasmine rice cooked in turmeric.

*

Crossposted to vegancooking.

Fic: Brass Onion

Sun, 11 May 2008 10:18:16 GMT

Title: Brass Onion
Author: sticktothestory
Fandom: Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: rooftop, vandalism, the Beatles
Rating: PG

*

Brass Onion

“I! Am! THE WALRUS!”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Aziraphale made another half-hearted grab for Crowley’s trouser leg,
but its owner was already dancing away. “Now would you please get down from there
before you break something less entertaining than just your voice?”

“Rubbish,” croaked Crowley. “Got wings, haven’t I?”

“As if you could even tell your buttocks from your back, the state you’re in.”

“I’m sure you’d be happy to lend a hand if it came to th—are you all right?”

“Quite,” coughed Aziraphale, inexplicably crimson. “Whereas you are obviously pissed as a
second-hand mattress. Don’t you think it’s time you had a nice lie-down?”

“I have no need for lying down. My dear deluded associate, fish don’t sleep.”

“Well,” muttered Aziraphale. “Lots of other things to do lying down.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I said, I believe the walrus is a mammal.”

“You,” cried Crowley, personally affronted, “don’t know what it means to be a mammal.”

And he took one last, long drink and swung the bottle off into the night.

They listened as, four seconds later, it obliterated the windscreen of a passing car.

“You bastard,” said Aziraphale, shocked. “There was at least two gulps’ worth left in there.”
He took hold of Crowley’s coat tails and dragged him down from the ledge, fully intending to
smite the ever-loving Chianti out of him.

But the Enemy, being devious, leant the whole of his drunken weight backwards and crashed
into Aziraphale with something that sounded ominously like a bone breaking.

“What just happened?” asked Crowley, instantly sober and on his feet.

“I think,” said Aziraphale sheepishly, mending the spine of a pocket Bible, “we buried Paul.”

Fic: Few There Be That Find It

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 22:15:09 GMT

*

Few There Be That Find It

“And they call it conditional salvation.”

Aziraphale gaped at him, horrified. “But that’s ridiculous,” he breathed, when he was able to
breathe again. “What merit is there to kindness if the ends are self-serving?”

“I think it’s beautiful,” said Crowley, already sharpening his quill.

“You would,” said Aziraphale nastily. He frowned. “What passages are they quoting on this?”

“James, mostly. Some Corinthians.”

Aziraphale slapped his Bible shut. “I told Barakiel that Paul chap was going to be trouble.”

Crowley snorted, left hand moving swiftly across the parchment. “What, 6:9 again?”

“I choose to see the rather unfortunate combination of chapter and verse numbers as proof that
Himself is with me on that one,” muttered Aziraphale.

“You know,” said Crowley, putting down his quill and turning to look at his associate, “I’d
have thought you’d be a lot more pleased about this. The number of good deeds is bound to
go up—you might take a vacation. Isn’t that the whole point to our Arrangement?”

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“Why not through works? They were good enough for Hercules.”

“My dear boy, things simply don’t work that way. It’s up to Him to decide, you know that.”

Crowley turned back to his reports. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “I do know that.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale ploughed on, warming to his argument, “the core principle is flawed: if
grace could be earned, it would no longer be grace. Even Pompous Paul understood that much.”

“So you could just do whatever you wanted, then, as long as you believed in Him and went to
church every Sunday morning? You call that fair?”

“Nobody ever claimed things were fair, old boy,” soothed Aziraphale, a bit taken aback at the
rancour which seemed to have crept into Crowley’s voice. “Nor am I suggesting works are
meaningless—just that the good doesn’t wash the bad away. One can’t buy forgiveness.”

A thought must have struck Crowley, because he paused in his writing and sat perfectly still
for a moment or two before diving back into his report with renewed vigour.

It occurred to Aziraphale, suddenly, that Crowley might perhaps have had an ulterior motive.

“My dear,” he tried, unsure of how to approach the question—if it would be appropriate, for
instance, to put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder—“You do know this sort of thing only applies
to humans…don’t you?”

“Hmm? What?” said Crowley, not bothering to pretend he’d been listening. He rolled up his
parchment and got up from the chair, already halfway out the door. “Sorry, Aziraphale, I’ve
just remembered—an appointment I’m running late to. See you when I see you, yeah?”

“Er, yes, I suppose that’s…”

The door slammed shut before Aziraphale could finish. He stood and stared at it for a long
minute; then he headed for the kitchen, trying to decide on something to have for supper.

A pardoner came to his door long before Crowley would again.

Drabble: The Unforgivable Sin

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 22:49:21 GMT

The Unforgivable Sin

“Don’t even think about it,” says Crowley, voice promising worlds of pain to come.

Aziraphale throws the snowball anyway.

Chalk it up to physics, to surprise at having a direct command ignored—perhaps even to some
sort of unspeakable plan—but the fact remains that there follows a rush of air, an undignified
noise from an unidentified direction, and the satisfying crunch of an irresistible force making
cold contact with an unmoved object in a black Versace overcoat.

A moment of deafening silence. Then, quietly, dangerously, a low hissing sound.

“You know,” spits Crowley, “how I feel about wet spots.”

Drabble: Symbols

Thu, 17 Jan 2008 23:33:35 GMT

Symbols

Aziraphale has never much cared for apples.

Crowley, of course, likes them well enough, and if Aziraphale has yet to see him eat one, he
knows better than to imagine a connection to anything which happened thousands of years
ago—certainly not anything involving a tomato.

“Don’t see why you always spend so much time on produce,” says Crowley mildly, handing
him an innocent piece of fruit. “We both know what it is you want.”

Aziraphale looks down at the apple, savouring the moment.

Time has not been kind to them; it’s only fair that they should take something back.

Fic: One Way or Another

Sun, 06 Jan 2008 15:05:35 GMT

Title: One Way or Another
Author: sticktothestory
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Written for andremeese as an entry for the 2007 go_exchange.

*

One Way or Another

Aziraphale has got a secret.

This is actually something Crowley has been suspecting for some time now—it’s just that the
knowledge is currently being made painfully clear by the 1844 leather-bound copy of Charles
Dickens’s A Christmas Carol lying face-down on the table between them, bathing in direct
sunlight and mere seconds away from getting stained with Château Margaux.

It’s funny, because Crowley could swear they did the Apocalypse already.

“You do know,” he more or less manages to form through the fog in his human head, thinking
vaguely of Aziraphale’s propensity for spilling the beans when drunk—But Noah found grace
in the eyes of the LORD, in his dreams—“You do know you can tell me anything, right?”

Aziraphale is giving him an odd sort of look. He is, in fact, looking at Crowley rather as
though he has just suggested Aziraphale start selling his own faeces by the ounce in order to
make an ironic statement about art and its role in modern society.

“Er,” says Aziraphale carefully, and then, “Yes, well. I’m sure that’s very kind, dear boy.”

Crowley waits politely. When no beans appear to be forthcoming, he reaches for the bottle
and leans in to pour the angel another glass.

“Actually,” says Aziraphale thoughtfully, his chubby fingers toying with the stem in a way
that makes Crowley wonder if it might perhaps be a good idea to sober up some, “there is
one thing I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” He waves his hands dismissively.

“Go on.” Crowley’s eyes are certainly not following the gesture behind his sunglasses.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just…Well, I suppose you wouldn’t happen to know why Heaven is a non-
smoking area, would you? I mean, it’s nothing short of ridiculous the way they come down on
a person when really, what harm could there possibly be?”

Crowley refills his own glass and makes sure to drain the bottle of every drop.

“And of course St. Peter’s forever banging on about it, but I say, if he spent half the time
doing his work instead, we wouldn’t all be standing outside the gates for two hours, and—”

Experience has taught Crowley that two hours is nothing when St. Peter is broached.

So much for Monday.

*

On Tuesday, Crowley spends four hours seated in the Bentley, parked across the street from a
Soho bookshop, eyes glued to a pair of binoculars he doesn’t really need, but which certainly
add to the overall coolness of his general detective activities.

Customers are entering and leaving the shop at an alarming rate, most of them carrying
suspiciously book-shaped parcels under their arms. Zooming in reveals happy little snowmen
on the wrapping paper. Crowley almost drops the binoculars.

*

Wednesday cowers and assumes the foetal position as Crowley storms into the bookshop,
marches up to the counter, and slams his hands down on either side of Aziraphale, who does
eventually deign to look up from cataloguing the new stock, obscenely unimpressed.

“You,” hisses Crowley furiously, “are hiding something.”

“My dear boy, if you would kindly watch your tongue; these are first editions.”

Crowley, not taking his eyes away from Aziraphale, points to the nearest bookshelf and snaps
his fingers. A thin layer of dust glows bright red.

Aziraphale’s cheeks appear to be affected as well. “Now look here—”

“And then there’s the letting me finish my pudding, the being careless with your books, the
fact that you’re wearing a shirt that matches your trousers, and, of course, the customers.”

“What about the customers? What have they got to do with it?”

Crowley pushes his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “They’ve got you gift-wrapping.”

“Obviously, customer service is part of the core values of any self-respecting enterprise.”

“Core values?” Crowley repeats, causing Aziraphale to look suitably embarrassed. He leans
forward and swiftly presses his advantage: “Look, angel, I’m worried about you. I think—
right, I’ll just go ahead and say it—I think you may be developing interests.”

Aziraphale blinks.

“You know? Interests?” He points to the page Aziraphale was inspecting a minute ago, which
features a large black-and-white photograph of Oscar Wilde.

Aziraphale glances at the picture and back up at Crowley. “Well, Oscar is hardly what one
might call a new interest,” he mutters, but Crowley can’t help noticing the way Aziraphale is
squirming in his seat. It looks uncomfortable.

“So,” he ventures, fiddling with one of Aziraphale’s pens and utterly failing to sound casual
even to his own ears, “Not a crush, then?”

For a moment, Aziraphale just stares at him in that unnerving way he has—the one that makes
Crowley want to spill ink on those pages, want to kick the counter in frustration, want to bite
his lips bloody, want to do something to somebody, to make it clear once and for all that he is
not a sodding book for Aziraphale to touch and read and interpret as fancy strikes.

What he does, however, is clear his throat.

“Right,” he says, pushing away from the counter. “I’ll find out one way or another.”

*

“I’ll go to Midnight Mass with you.”

“We’re still excommunicated.”

“I’ll do your job for seven years.”

“You owe me twelve.”

“I’ll let you pick the Pope next time.”

“Not even for the U.S. President.”

“I’ll tell you how I really got those burn marks on my arse in 1973.”

“No need, dear. Michael is quite happy to share the photographs.”

*

“Daniel 2:47, angel.”

“Proverbs 11:13, dear boy.”

*

“I know all about your dirty little secret,” Crowley announces triumphantly as he enters the
bookshop, closing the door on an actual customer. “Gabriel came to me in a dream.”

Aziraphale crosses his legs at the knees and raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t expect you to fall for it, of course,” says Crowley, “So I came up with this instead.”

He snatches the book Aziraphale has just price-tagged and flees.

Later that night, in the privacy of his flat, he thinks that if he had to do it all over again, he
probably would not have picked Where’s Wally, but then hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

*

“—other. Yes, hallo?”

“Aziraphale, come quick, something horrible is happening!”

“Crowley? What’s the matter? Are you all right? Hallo? Oh, both—”

*

When Aziraphale’s laboured breathing first echoes in the staircase, Crowley knows he’s got a
good minute before the door will burst open. He puts out his cigarette, gets up from the couch,
and saunters over to the window sill, where he strikes a theatrical pose, houseplant in hand.

Twenty seconds later, his unlocked door doesn’t so much swing open as out of existence.

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley dramatically, “How I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

For a moment, it’s all Aziraphale can do to stand there, hunched over with his hands on his
knees, puffing like a steam train. Then he looks up, and Crowley thinks stupidly that the
redness in his face brings out the blue of his eyes something lovely.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale manages, “Please tell me you are about to be violently discorporated.”

“I’m afraid not,” says Crowley solemnly, remembering himself. He pushes open the window,
exposing his prayer plant to the stinging cold. “But if you don’t tell me your secret, today’s
reject is going to suffer the consequences.”

Aziraphale licks his lips. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find I am,” says Crowley smugly, “Dead serious.”

The plant quivers delicately, though with fear, cold, or contact embarrassment, it’s hard to say.

“No,” clarifies Aziraphale, “I meant you can’t be serious—this is only the first floor.”

“So what if it is,” snaps Crowley, “It’s still a long way down. For a plant.”

“Surely, you could have bothered to come up with something more bloodcurdling.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know—”

“You’ve got a perfectly good rubbish compactor, after all. The means to boil water.”

“—talking to a well-respected professional, and how would you like—”

“Even with nothing but a book of matches, or a pair of scissors, I imagine one might—”

“—came into your office and told you how to do your jo—Are you disappointed?”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, pursing his lips, “It’s not as though you’ve gone out of your way to
make an effort here. What do you usually do to plants when they don’t meet your standards?”

Crowley sighs, reaches over, and slams the window shut.

The prayer plant is too busy being afraid of Aziraphale to notice.

“Fine,” says Crowley, sounding put-upon, “Tell me or I’ll set fire to the blasted thing.”

Aziraphale wavers.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses.

Aziraphale miracles them back on.

Crowley frowns, takes them off again, and starts the plant smoking with a glare.

“All right,” shouts Aziraphale, just as the prayer plant is beginning to live up to its name. He
rushes forward and takes the flowerpot in his arms protectively. “I don’t see why this is so
important to you anyway—you’re just going to laugh.”

“What makes you think that?” asks Crowley, smirking like a lunatic.

Aziraphale sinks down onto the couch, motioning for Crowley to come sit beside him. If he’s
noticed the Wally book, he’s tactfully withholding judgment. “It’s so embarrassing, and at the
same time such a silly thing to be embarrassed about, I suppose.”

He peers into Crowley’s face, looking for something again.

“Come on,” says Crowley uncomfortably, “Out with it.”

Aziraphale fixes his eyes on the plant in his lap. “There’s this dream I keep having.”

Well. Only two ways for those to spell trouble. “Is it a good one?”

“It’s a very good one,” admits Aziraphale softly. He rubs at his face. “And I keep thinking
about it, too. It’s terribly distracting. I’m not getting any work done—yesterday I shelved
The True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole under M.”

“At least you’re not sorting them by title anymore. Anyway, I thought you didn’t sleep?”

“I thought you didn’t enjoy children’s literature, but you’re still sitting on a picture book.”

“You do realise you’ll have to be a lot nicer to me if you want me to help you.”

“Help me?” Aziraphale looks up, smiling ruefully. “I don’t see how you could, dear boy.”

Crowley carefully considers his options and decides to do what he does best—go for broke.
“Maybe not as such,” he says with a nonchalance he is quite painfully lacking in, “But I could
always teach you how to help yourself.”

The world doesn’t end as the words leave his mouth. There is, of course, the inevitable lapse
in conversation, and Aziraphale’s smile falters for the briefest of moments, and Crowley very
deliberately does not do anything to either encourage or dispel the idea that he is Only Joking.

“You’re very kind to offer,” says Aziraphale eventually, but there’s no malice in it.

He’s giving Crowley that look again.

*

Sometimes, in the quiet of his own mind, Crowley can picture one day forgiving Him.

They are lying face to face in Crowley’s bed. Aziraphale is watching him expectantly.

At first it was a little disconcerting the way undressing in front of Crowley didn’t seem to faze
him in the slightest, but then Crowley remembered that shame is a punishment God gives to
those who fail Him rather than a default state of being.

He wonders, briefly, if this is a smart thing for Aziraphale to be doing.

Then Aziraphale places a hand on his clothed arm. “Crowley,” he says simply, and his voice
washes over Crowley’s thoughts like mulled wine on long winter nights.

“Closssse your eyes.”

Aziraphale obliges.

“Lie down on your back.”

Aziraphale rolls over and Crowley carefully scoots closer, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Tell me about this dream you keep having,” he prompts.

Aziraphale laughs softly. “I—all right, I’m in the bookshop and, er, a customer comes in.”

“No doubt asking after the latest selection of well-thumbed bodice rippers.”

“He’s…rather cross with me, as it happens,” says Aziraphale slowly, not opening his eyes,
“Pushes me up against one of the bookcases. Biting me and kissing me.”

Watching Aziraphale’s lips move as he talks, Crowley can certainly see the appeal.

“I try to fight him off, as it were. He takes a hold of my wrists, wrestling me into the back
room, pinning me down onto the table…” He pauses. “I—I’m manifesting.”

“Manifesting? Oh. Right now, you mean,” says Crowley stupidly, not glancing down to where
the burgundy sheets cling to Aziraphale’s hips.

“These curious human bodies,” murmurs Aziraphale, in something akin to wonder.

“Yeah, not the time to be singing the praises of His Creation, angel,” bites out Crowley, who
is having a spot of difficulty with his own curious body at the moment, “I believe you were
getting it on with a piece of wood and a randy bibliophile?”

“Actually, he doesn’t seem to like books much, the way he sends them flying off the table
with absolutely no regard for—”

“Right, not a fan of the written word, then,” interrupts Crowley, trying desperately to focus on
the mental image of Ligur in a corset. “Makes up for it in looks, does he?”

“Well, you know me,” says Aziraphale dismissively, “Tall, dark, handsome, and a healthy
aversion to all things remotely related to Gabriel.”

“A demon? Why, Aziraphale, you kinky bastard—”

“Half the Host of Heaven fits that description, I assure you.”

“Whatever you say, angel,” says Crowley around the funny feeling in his chest. “Do go on.”

Aziraphale’s eyes drift shut again, and he takes a moment before continuing, “He undoes his
zip.” He swallows. “I can feel him pressing against my thigh. He’s, er, very erect.”

“And he is not the only one,” observes Crowley, staring at the tent in the sheets. “Maybe you
should try touching yourself now—just picture what he’s doing to you, and stroke gently.”

Self-consciously, Aziraphale raises one arm to rest above his head as the other slides down
under the covers. Crowley tries to convince himself that armpit hair is a proper demonic kink.

“My clothes have vanished. He forces me to turn and bend forward over the table.” The most
perfectly delicious sounds are coming from Aziraphale’s lips in between the words, and Crowley
sidles ever closer, mesmerised. “I think he’s going to put it in me, and I struggle harder to get
away, but the next thing I feel is his hands on my back, coaxing out my wings.”

Crowley’s mouth is dry as dust. “Try squeezing it a little. Run your thumb over the tip.”

Aziraphale moans. “He’s touching them. Stroking them,” he gasps, “Smelling them.”

There is no way Aziraphale could not have noticed Crowley’s hard-on pressing into his thigh,
but it seems to be the last thing on his mind.

Underneath the sheets, Aziraphale’s hand is working at a steady pace, and he is whispering so
softly Crowley has to put his head on the angel’s chest so as not to miss anything.

“How does it feel?” he says hoarsely.

“Not enough,” manages Aziraphale, “Needs more friction.”

And he shifts so that Crowley’s thigh is between his legs.

“Yes, that’s it,” groans Aziraphale, as though the world has not just come crashing down on
their heads, “I want him to run it along the tendons, want to feel him getting off on my
feathers—I want them sticky and messy and undeniably his.

“But instead, he puts his hands on my hips and starts making these obscene back-and-forth
movements between my thighs, barely brushing my balls, and even though I want so badly for
him to take me, he just rubs himself to orgasm, and I have to let it happen—wanting.”

Aziraphale is flushed and panting and whispering profanities as though they were prayers.

If anything could ever be worth Falling for, Crowley thinks, it has surely got to be this.

He reaches down between their legs and takes hold of Aziraphale’s cock.

“O-O-Oh-Oh. Oh,” moans Aziraphale, and then, throwing back his head, “Hastur.”

Freeze-frame.

In a second, Crowley is going to feel the full force of what has just happened.

He will move his hand away awkwardly, and he will wipe it on the sheets, and he will try to
make light of the situation by telling Aziraphale: “And that’s how you do it.”

Just a couple of moments from this one, Aziraphale is going to realise that he has said a very
wrong thing indeed, and he will cover his eyes with his hand, and Crowley will get up to go to
the lavatory and not come back out until he is absolutely certain that Aziraphale has left.

But right now, in this moment, they are still holding each other close.

*

“Hi. This is Anthony Crowley. Uh. I’m probably not in right now, or asleep, and busy, or
something, but leave a message after the tone and I’ll get right back to you. Ciao.”

BeeeEEeeeEEeeep.

“Look, Crowley, I don’t know what to say. Please pick up this contraption you call a phone.

(pause)

I didn’t actually say ‘Hastur,’ if that’s what you were thinking. I—I sneezed.

(long pause)

You missed our luncheon, and I still owe you dinner, and there’s a Mouton-Rothschild just
sitting around in my spirits cabinet, and I’ve no one to drink it with, and…I miss you.”

Click.

*

Crowley is standing by the duck pond in St. James’s Park when Aziraphale finds him.

“Did you honestly expect me to believe you sneezed?”

“To be fair, dear, you also believed I’d never played with myself before, when you know
perfectly well I’ve spent over six thousand years in this corporeal form.”

There’s an uneasy moment of silence when Crowley doesn’t rise to the bait.

At length, Aziraphale waves a hand at the duck pond. “How come you’re not feeding them?”

“Well, it’s your job to bring the bread, isn’t it?”

This time, the sulky silence stretches on for hours. Aziraphale is just beginning to wonder if
coming here was such a good idea after all, and should he perhaps have written a long letter
instead, when Crowley finally turns to look at him.

“I have fancied you,” he says carefully, “for a very long time now.”

“Yes,” admits Aziraphale, “I rather thought that was the problem.”

“In fact, I used to be insanely jealous of Oscar Wilde.”

“My dear,” says Aziraphale affectionately, “Oscar was but a poor substitute.”

“Obviously.”

“And I would certainly never have let him fondle my wings, dream or no dream.”

It doesn’t matter how many humans think they can say the same about their beloved, knows
Aziraphale, because when Crowley smiles the sun really does come out at night.

Fin.