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Mimicry	By : Macx Category: G through L > Good Omens Views: 2227 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Mimicry
- 2-part 2
- 3-part 3
- 4-part 4
- 5-part 5
- 1
- 2
Mimicry
by Macx

The landscape was a surreal vision of black, red and everything in between the two colours. The sky was painted an orange nightmare with purple and yellow and streaks of blood red mingling with yellow. No clouds were visible. What could be seen of the ground was burned black, flaky, with ash rising wherever one stepped. The fine dust rose, clinging to the clothes, clogging the airways, and noxious gases permeated the air. Here and there a small geyser sputtered or burped up more gas, the soft ground surrounding it the colour of blood and something else even less savoury.
In the middle of this nightmare was a table. It was made of black stone, ornate, old, the surface polished to a gleaming mirror. The feet looked like claws, digging into the rocky surface for purchase, and the surface seemed to slide and slip and move, like a lake. The chairs were no different, the backs made up of stylized bones and screaming beast heads topping them.
At least the chairs had cushions, even if they were a rather tacky colour and had little tassels on all four sides.
Walking through the volcanic, hellish landscape, a man in a summer suit approached the table. He was dressed to fit into a Fifties beach club, not this place, and his face gave away his disdain at his location.
"Oh please," he addressed the suddenly appearing second man. "This is a bit over the top, even for you, don't you think?"
He gracefully took a chair and arched an eyebrow at his companion.
"The old style is coming back. Retro, they call it," was the smooth answer.
A soft chuckle. "This is a bit more than retro. This is very… clichéd."
"Oh well." With a wave of the other's hand the landscape changed and turned from hellish to rather normal.
"A coffee shop?" the man in the summer suit asked.
"This is Hell," his host reminded him. "We do it with style."
Two plastic cups, extra tall, appeared, frothy, with flavour, chocolate sauce on top, and a piece of hellishly creamy pie on the side.
The guest nodded, taking a plastic spoon. "I noticed."
"So, what's the news?" the host asked, trying the pie and smiling dreamily at the sinfulness of the taste.
"You know how it is. Office matters, paperwork, paper pushers, small hassles and people who think they reinvented the wheel while actually throwing the whole car off track."
The other chuckled. "Oh yes, that. It'll never change."
"Our two friends have been rather busy lately."
"At it like rabbits."
Eyes the colour of all colours narrowed a little. "I wasn't talking about their sex life."
"Which is quite active, I have to mention."
"Yes, I'm well aware of that."
The dark-haired host smirked.
"They still do their respective jobs."
"It's in the blood," the host waved it off with a gesture of his fork. "Though they do tend to drift over to the respective other sides sometimes. Have you noticed how their existence changed?"
"I did." The guest took a little sip from his Mocha. "Intriguing."
"Could be the sex, huh?"
"I was talking about this beverage. It's… intriguing."
"You consider it a sin."
A smile. "A delightful one, though."
Chuckles were exchanged.
"Now about that other matter," the host went on and it drew a raised eyebrow. "Since when do you let them fall so easily again?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your troops, pal. Your troops. I haven't had a newcomer in ages. Actually quite a while. And suddenly there's him, powerful and strong and recently fallen."
The cup was carefully placed onto the coffee table. "What are you talking about?"
Eyes the colour of charcoal rolled. "Oh please! Don't play dumb. One of your angels fell. He was dumped right in front of my door."
"I'm not aware of any such incident."
Brows drew down. "Excuse me?"
"I said, I'm not aware of any Fallen."
Silence reigned for a moment and two eternal beings gauged each other's reaction, trying to see who was lying and then find out why. But no lies were seen and confusion rose.
"What's his name?" the light dressed man asked carefully.
"Demerel."
"There is no such angel."
"Well, he's Fallen, so that might account for it," was the nasty reply.
"There has never been such an angel either."
The host conjured up a picture and held it out to the other. "Trigger any memories?"
Ancient eyes gazed at the picture. "No. He's unfamiliar to me." He looked at the other. "I'm telling you, none of mine have Fallen in millennia. None. It's a rather outdated practice."
Silence again and both looked at the picture.
"I'll have my people check into this," the visitor finally said and rose gracefully.
His host nodded. "Good. I'll do the same. He's still here, so I doubt it'll take long." He smirked. "Call?"
"I always do."
The smirk widened. "Yeah, you do."
And with that they disappeared, leaving behind the coffee shop that slowly seemed to melt into the landscape, until it was gone, too.
* * *
In a hotel room several thousand miles away from home, Aziraphale gradually returned to the feeling of not being alone. Blinking a few times he remembered having had the still a little unfamiliar sensation of falling asleep – and after stretching a little, his body reminded him as of why. Twinges in parts of his body that normally didn’t twinge – well, lately they did every now and then, he had to admit – were a clear aide memoire of what had happened the other night. And of what he had done.
There was a soft sigh at his side and when Aziraphale turned his head toward the sound he was rewarded with the sight of a demon.
A sleeping demon, to be precise.
Aziraphale smiled and watched his lover closely, making use of the rare moment.
Crowley was lying on his side, halfway snuggled into the blanket, his face relaxed in his sleep. One loose strand of jet black hair fell into his face as he moved a little in his sleep, and Aziraphale brushed it away carefully, feeling an exceptional wave of tenderness rush through him when watching his lover sleeping so peacefully. Innocent.
Oh, Crowley was far from innocent, but yet… the sudden upsurge of tenderness and love seemed to somehow form a band around his chest, making him blink against an odd blurriness in his vision.
Serpentine eyes cracked open hesitantly as if Crowley had somehow sensed his state and he sighed sleepily before slowly seemed to focus.
“Angel?”
Aziraphale wasn’t even sure he made a sound for there was a lump forming in his throat… for goodness sake, he was an angel, a heavenly creature created by the Lord himself. But he must have made a sound, because Crowley actually blinked at him.
“Zira?”
He simply lurched himself into the warmth that was Anthony Crowley, the man he loved more than he possibly should. Strong arms closed around him, pulling him even closer to his lover’s chest and he let his head rest against one shoulder.
“Zira … what’s wrong, angel?”
Aziraphale exhaled, feeling the calming sensation of his lover’s heartbeat soothing him, and he wrapped his own arms even closer around Crowley's powerful form.
“In fact… nothing, love.”
Crowley made a noncommittal sound, but tightened his hold wordlessly.

He held his angel, listening to the harsh breaths evening out and becoming softer, more like he was used to. Crowley had woken to the sudden spike of energy next to him. Not in an alarming way or anything, just… mystified. It had been pure energy, warm and gentle and bright, and very much angelic. It had been the same type of energy he felt throughout their sexual activities, when Aziraphale climaxed.
This energy had been very much like it, but with a different tang to it. Quite different.
It had been… intense… in a soulful way.
Now, looking at the dark blond head on his chest, listening to the soft breaths, stroking over the silky hair, Crowley wondered.
"Zira?" he whispered a question.
"I'm okay," Aziraphale replied.
He could sense that. His angel was perfectly fine, but echoes of those strange feelings, of that spike of energy that was like sex but more than it, were still radiating off him.
"I know you are."
A sigh of warm air gusted over his shoulder and the hug tightened briefly. Crowley waited.
"I love you," Aziraphale suddenly said, his voice whisper-soft.
"I know, Zira." And he felt the same.
"No, you don't," the angel murmured, barely loud enough for him to hear.
"Huh?"
Aziraphale tensed a little and Crowley wished he could see his lover's eyes.
"Body, mind, spirit. It's everywhere," the angel whispered. "Everywhere. When I look at you, I can see it, feel it, and it touches me… and it scares me. Crowley, I'm afraid of something He gave me."
The demon blinked several times, breath catching in his throat. He hadn't been aware of breathing in the first place. Sometimes it just happened.
"Uh, angel, I…"
"You cannot understand, Crowley. I'm an angel. I love. I love everything. I love you. But when I love you, it's so overwhelming and much more than anything I ever felt… It's scaring me."
Crowley knew scary. He had been terrified to discover love within him. A love solely directed at this one being he had spent six millennia with already. His enemy. An angel. Recent events had made them more, had cut them away from their peers and respective superiors, and now they were adrift in a grey nothingness, neither good nor evil, still trying to comprehend the events.
Aziraphale had told him the three little words often enough. He had spoken them with conviction, the truth, and Crowley had never doubted them. Angels loved. This angel loved a demon, which was more than his love for everything else.
Now… hearing those words, the demon felt his own musings from not long ago rise.
Gently, he rolled them around to look into the deep blue eyes. They were filled with so many conflicting emotions, but the love was there, burning brightly. Aziraphale swallowed hard.
"Crowley?"
"I'm scared, too, Zira," he told him. "More than you can ever believe possible. Body, mind, spirit… I know it… I can feel it, and I know we're different. I know we're not who we were created to be. I know I'm not the one who Fell. I just don't know who we are now, aside from… lovers," he whispered the last word.
Aziraphale's eyes were wide open, vulnerable, searching and trying to find a place to anchor himself. Crowley leaned forward and let their foreheads touch.
"I want to keep feeling this for you, angel. Forever. Even if it continues scaring me. I'll fight to keep feeling it."
Tender hands carded into his hair and tilted his head to help Aziraphale kiss him.
"I love you, Anthony J. Crowley," the angel whispered, voice intense. "I love you more than anything else, body, mind and spirit. I wasn't told to love you. I came to love you. I fell in love with you."
"I fell, too," Crowley whispered back. "And I never believed a Fall could be so… wonderful."
Blue eyes filled with warmth made him want to dive into their depths, never let go of the man with him in this bed, in his arms.
And to He… well, there, with all the demonic rules. He could love, he did love, and so did Aziraphale. Not according to the Rules Above, but to their own.
* * *
Aziraphale stood in front of the full length mirror, his face a twisted grimace of his doubt. He looked at himself, the mirror image looking back. He was dressed in an outfit he wasn't used to and he felt… not like himself. He hadn't worn something like this in ages… well, ever. Okay, so Crowley had convinced him to put on jeans before, but it hadn't been him. He had felt unwell, uncomfortable, and like everyone was staring.
"Of course they're staring, angel," had been Crowley's soft reply, coupled with a maliciously leering
grin. "You look gorgeous. That ass is to die for."
Aziraphale had gone back to medium brown pants and tweed coats the next moment.
Now, here, in this country, with nothing but what Crowley had packed, he was looking at himself in those jeans again. Butter soft, yes, but a tight fit.
He looked… so… Aziraphale turned away from the mirror. "I can't wear this!"
Crowley, who was lounging on the bed, hands behind his head, smiled lazily. "Oh, you can. It's very much you, Zira."
"It isn't! I look..." He stopped, shaking his head and pulled at the equally tight fitting white shirt. "It's too tight," he muttered.
Crowley slid off the bed, moving lithely, almost predatory, over to him. "You look great, Zira, and it's not too tight. You've got a great bod." He ran a hand up and down one shirt-clad ribcage. "Really hot."
The angel blushed, shaking his head again. "I'm not. I'm ordinary and it's okay like that, Crowley."
Serpentine eyes flared briefly and Aziraphale swallowed a little.
"You," Crowley said softly, evenly, "are not ordinary, angel. You're handsome and wonderful and radiant. Your body's just fine and you can show it. Those tweed jackets are an affront to it. And," he stopped the next argument, "there's no difference between you and me, Zira, aside from the obvious." He smirked.
Aziraphale sighed. He didn't agree with his lover. Crowley looked like a trim and fit, slender and lithe and athletic, mid to late twenties man. His hair was jet black, the high cheekbones giving him class, and he knew how to dress to turn heads. Aziraphale himself… well, he was no longer paler than Crowley, thanks to more time outside his bookshop, but he wasn't really that slender and not the least athletic. Not in his book. The remark by Madame Tracy about his age and appearance had really hurt him.
"Give it a try? For me?"
How Crowley could look like a puppy was beyond the angel, but he did.
"Please?"
And words like this one weren't his usual repertoire either.
Aziraphale shrugged. "Okay."
"We're not at home any more, Zira. Leave the bookshop owner there as well."
Another shrug. Sure, they weren't home any more, but he still felt like the same old angel. The bookish type, not the… jeans and tight t-shirt one. Oh well…
Crowley wrapped his arms firmly around his waist and pulled him back against the demon's form. A kiss was placed onto the soft skin of the exposed neck.
"Got plans for today, handsome?"
Aziraphale almost blushed at the seductive tone of voice. Crowley could still broadside him with the raw sexual energy he hid in his very voice.
"Uhm, actually, yes," he managed.
"Good," came the whisper-soft reply. "So do I. With you."
Another kiss, this one nibbling a little, leaving minor teeth marks. Aziraphale moaned at the sensation.
"Crowley…"
"I love it when you say my name like this."
He turned in the demon's arms and took the grinning mouth into a forceful kiss, startling his lover with his fervour. Aziraphale felt a measure of pride at that ability.
When they separated, both men were flushed and breathing hard.
"You, my dear angel, are one wickedly evil kisser," Crowley whispered breathlessly.
He smiled at the demonic compliment. "Thank you, my dear."
Aziraphale reached up and pushed some rogue strands of jet black hair out of Crowley's face.
"You were saying about going out?"
The grin was back and Crowley slipped his hands into the back pockets of the angel's tight jeans. "Mmh, yes. There's that." He leaned forward and kissed Aziraphale's throat, leaving another mark that made the angel moan.

They did manage to leave – two hours later, Aziraphale radiating and glowing and just pure sex on legs, Crowley thought to himself as he walked at his lover's side. He was given more than a few passing glances by both men and women, and Crowley felt both jealous and proud to be with him.
Mine, he mused with gentle possessiveness.
His angel.
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Mimicry