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Modification	By : Macx Category: G through L > Good Omens Views: 1915 -:- 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-Modification
- 1
Modification by Macx
Things had settled.
Like dust after a little spring-cleaning.
Things were normal. The bookshop was still in Soho, people came in to browse or even to buy, and the owner of the shop still looked like the likeable chap in the lately not so completely out-dated outfits. There was a strange edge to him, though. Not that anyone noticed. Humans rarely did.
Aziraphale closed the door after the last customer had left. It had been one of his regulars who had understood the 'family emergency' that had warranted closing the shop and that nothing new had come in, but who still insisted on going through all shelves just in case. Aziraphale had let him do. Right now, he couldn't find the energy to be his old self.
Old self.
He sighed.
What was his old self? And when had he ceased being it? When had he changed?
In the last millennium? The last century? Before the Apocalypse had threatened? Or afterwards?
He didn't know. He only knew that after their 'job', after fighting Jones over the strange items stolen from Heaven and Hell, he had ceased being Aziraphale as he had always seen himself.
Looking at his hand, he studied the five fingers, well-manicured as ever, the skin smooth and lightly tanned from rather frequent visits outside by now. He flexed his muscles, watched them curl, and finally balled them into a fist. His teeth clenched as memories rose.
Memories of claws.
Memories of a power not so divine. From deep within him. Feeling so much like…
He inhaled sharply and pushed the thoughts aside.
I took a life, part of him thought weakly.
He had killed.
-- Angels shouldn't kill.
Not even to save their lovers?
-- Angels don't have lovers!
Then what was he? Wasn't he an angel?
Resolutely pushing away from the door Aziraphale walked into the back room and to his stacks of boxes of freshly delivered books.
He had work to do.
And things to forget.
But the niggling voice of doubt continued its assault on his tormented mind.
* * *
Crowley didn't know why, but he felt like an over-charged battery. He was sizzling with it, was trying to work it through his body and only collected more. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he wasn't running low. He hadn't slept ever since recovering from the attack, and he didn't miss it. Two days without sleep, just roaming around, actually forgetting about time… until he had ended up in Aziraphale's bookshop.
"Hey!" he called, bouncing into the empty front room, yellow eyes sparkling with the barely contained energy and a smile threatened to be permanently plastered onto his lips.
"Hello, Crowley."
He leaned over the counter and placed a kiss onto the angel's lips. "Missed me?"
"Actually…"
"Whatcha got? New books? Anything to unpack?"
And he was ripping open boxes, going through the contents.
"Uh, yes. You want to help?"
"Sure!"
Aziraphale watched his partner for two hours, as he unpacked boxes, stacked books, sorted them, made lists, went around the shop and put them into shelves, and he was frowning at the unrelenting bounce, the sheer energy radiating off the demon. That wasn't normal.
It wasn't normal that Crowley would cheerfully sort books. No, a cheerful Crowley was a bad sign, usually. At least a so hyper cheerfully Crowley.
The demon was ready to go through the roof with his energy, hyperactive, unstoppable, and always looking for something else to take the edge off, it seemed.
"Crowley, are you feeling all right, my dear?" he asked.
"Sure! A-okay. Perfect. Wonderful!"
"I see."
Aziraphale's senses picked up the coils of energy, tightly wound around Crowley, glowing, sizzling, thrumming with life. Crowley's whole aura had changed, was no longer purely demonic, was interwoven with something that had turned him into this.
"Any more to unpack? Maybe in the attic? You got a basement to clear?"
"No, that's actually all." Aziraphale watched his lover ceaselessly roam the room. "Crowley, what is wrong with you?"
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong! I feel great!"
"Which all by itself would be nice, but you are hyper, my dear. You're glowing from energy that needs to get out. How long have you felt like this?"
Crowley shrugged. "Right after recovery. It was like, wham! All lights on!" He spread his arms. "I could conquer the world."
Aziraphale shook his head. "Oh no, we can't have that." He grabbed the bouncy demon and found himself suddenly nose-to-nose with the other.
Shades askew, yellow eyes glowing from deep within, an edge of gold to them, Crowley was radiating. Aziraphale swallowed as the energy touched him, entwined with something deep inside, coaxed it to the forefront, and before he knew it he was kissing Crowley.
Really kissing him.
Pushing him against the wall kissing him.
Making soft growling noises deep within his throat kissing him.
Crowley's hands slid over his side, then the fingers clenched into the light shirt. And he kissed back.
It was a fight for domination as the two immortal beings kissed, tongues and teeth and lips, energy flowing off them in waves. Crowley gave a low-pitched growl that ended in a howl as Aziraphale won and delivered an unangelically savage bite to his neck. Both were breathing hard and the yellow, reptilian eyes were now a bottomless golden, meeting a truly unholy blue.
Crowley exhaled sharply, hissing softly, then pulled the angel even closer. Aziraphale responded with a hard kiss, grinding himself against his lover, his demon, hands left and right of the dark head.
"Angel," Crowley whispered.
"Want you," Aziraphale whispered harshly.
"Just say the word," Crowley purred languidly, his hands suddenly underneath the angel's shirt, claws brushing over the ribs and then the back.
"Mine," Aziraphale growled, catching the wandering hands and pinning them to the wall. "Mine."
"Yours," Crowley confirmed, moaning as Aziraphale attacked him again.
Clothes vanished, bodies collided skin on skin, and Aziraphale lost himself in the pleasure, the heady mixture of hypersensitive energy brushing all over them. He claimed what was his, forgetting about the events of the last few days.
The back room of the shop saw the claiming of a demon, white wings snapping open as climax rushed through the celestial being, heard the cries of two unlikely lovers. And it was witness to the coupling several times.
Aziraphale collapsed onto the heaving body underneath, listening to the fast beating of Crowley's heart, swimming in a sea of bliss and warmth and shared auras. Crowley's embrace was weak, just barely able to hold him, and Aziraphale felt like he had just melted.
"That's one way to burn off energy," the demon whispered faintly. "Oh fuck, Zira, that was hot. I'm gonna be sore for days."
The angel chuckled weakly. He listened to the quieting heartbeat, the soft breathing as if Crowley was making an effort to radiate calm for him, and he felt the demon's fingers caress his back.
It had been good. So wonderfully, terribly, sinfully good. Sinking into the incredible heat that was Crowley, feeling him shiver and tremble, demanding more, reacting so beautifully to each caress, and then claiming him. It hadn't been the first time he had been on top, but to Aziraphale it had felt like it. He had never experienced such a rush, such… dominant thoughts.
Closing his eyes he tried to lose himself in the warmth of the body beneath him.
* * *
Crowley woke to his lover's warm body next to him, the twinge of very good sex – or the aftermath thereof – and he didn't really ask his body to heal itself. It just felt too good. Running his fingers through the dark blond strands of his angel he watched Aziraphale wake up, smiled as those blue eyes blinked open, and he kissed him as Aziraphale's lips smiled in a greeting.
"Good morning, angel."
Aziraphale held him tight, humming softly, radiating after-sex warmth. He loved that about him.
"How are your wings?" the demon murmured, nibbling at one ear.
"Fine."
"Want me to groom them?"
The blue eyes deepened in colour. Grooming was a very intimate experience. Demons never had them because they didn't trust other demons enough to turn their backs to them. Crowley had only ever groomed himself. Angels, on the other hand, groomed each other. With Aziraphale alone ever since leaving Heaven, he hadn't had anything like that for millennia. When they had come together as a couple, Crowley had been allowed to groom his lover, and it had been the ultimate evidence of Aziraphale's trust.
An angel had turned his back to a demon, had given him access to his most vulnerable part – the roots of his wings. Crowley had treasured that ever since.
"Would you?" Aziraphale murmured.
He leaned forward and kissed him. "Of course. Sit up."
Aziraphale did and materialized his wings, the great white appendages stretching magnificently behind him. Their state wasn't very magnificent, though. The feathers were in disarray, the white was more like a light grey, and there were dead feathers caught within the healthy ones.
Crowley tsked a little and set to work, starting with correcting what looked wrong. By the time he was done, Aziraphale was humming softly in pleasure, looking very relaxed. The real work started after that and he carefully, lovingly and very gently groomed the angel's wings, listening to the sighs of pleasure and watched for every twitch. When he arrived at the roots, Aziraphale moaned.
The demon chuckled. "Like that?"
"Oh, I love it, dear."
He massaged the hard bones that made up the very base of the fragile wings, felt the heavenly downs, let his fingers glide over the satiny skin.
The wings might look a bit on the wild side, but they still feel wonderful, soft and very much celestial.
Everything about Aziraphale was heavenly. From the incredibly blue eyes to the narrow lips, the dark blond hair, the sexy body hidden underneath too many clothes, to the snow white wings. Whatever his lover said about not liking his body, wanting to look younger, fitter, whatever – Crowley had to disagree. Aziraphale was just right. Perfect. His angel.
Maybe he had imagined it all. Maybe it had been his agony-wreaked mind, making up the silvery glow, the claws, the ferocity. Of course, the angel could be feral in his fights; he had faced a very dangerous Aziraphale before their Arrangement and had come away with a few bruises. Righteous anger and all. Angels could be dangerous: they were His warriors after all.
Placing a kiss at the nape of his lover's neck, Crowley delighted in the goose bumps rising all over the lightly tanned skin.
"Done," he murmured.
Aziraphale turned his head and captured his lips. "Want me to do yours?"
Golden eyes smiled at the other immortal and Crowley whispered a, "Yes."
Their relationship was all about trust, a trust that had been there for a long time now. No one else had ever touched his wings aside from the angel. No one ever would.
He let his wings out, feeling them stretch, and he gave them a little shake. One or two old feathers glided onto the ground.
Nothing happened.
"Zira?"
Silence.
"Zira, is something wrong?" he asked and turned.
"Uhm, yes and no. You might want to take a look…," the angel said slowly.
Crowley frowned and bent a wing forward – and froze.
What he saw couldn't be real. It had to be an illusion, a hallucination, something… something had to be wrong!
There, along the very edge of each wing, was a white stripe. White feathers. White… feathers.
White?!
"Bloody… fucking… What is this?" he cried.
"You are turning white, my dear."
Crowley stared at the white feathers that graced the edge of his otherwise midnight black wings. They went from the carpal joint to the tip of his wing, just a few centimeters wide, but still… white. Stark white, celestial white, screaming at him in mockery of his demonic state.
Demons didn't have white feathers!
Not even old demons! Demons didn't age! They didn't turn white! White meant… it meant…
Crowley was close to a panic attack.
White meant celestial and he wasn't celestial. Had been, yes. But he wasn't any more and he didn't want to be. He was fine as a demon. He loved black. He adored jet black and midnight blue and everything the range of black had to offer.
"Make them go away!" he screeched.
He grabbed a brush and forcefully scrubbed the offending feathers, but instead of the colour flaking off, the feathers just looked like something had chewed them up.
"No! I can't have white feathers! Demons don't have white feathers!"
"But they are white," Aziraphale said slowly, almost reverently. "It's… beautiful." He reached out and touched the carpal joint where the first of the horrifying things was growing.
"It's not! It's… horrible! I'm a monster!"
"Crowley…"
He grabbed one of the primary feathers and ripped it out, drawing a horrified yelp from Aziraphale. The demon hardly felt the sting. A drop of blood clung to the shaft. He grabbed another and pulled, this time catching one still growing and there was a spurt of blood.
"Crowley!" the angel exclaimed and caught the hand before he could do it again. "Don't mutilate yourself!"
"No self-respecting demon has white wings!" he whispered hoarsely, staring at the feather like it was the most disgusting object he had ever seen. In a way it was.
"They're not completely white, dear. Don't pull them out."
"But they very well could be! I'll be the laughing stock of all Hell!"
Aziraphale tilted his head. "You're no longer part of Hell, my dear. And you can always try to dye them if you're desperate."
And Crowley was desperate.
A very desperate demon who spent the next days trying out all kinds of colouring and dye he could get his hands on. Aside from turning the white feathers either violet, yellow or green, after a brief moment of wonderful midnight blackness, nothing much else happened. And whenever he thought he had a solution to the problem, his treacherous wings turned back into that impossible white-edgedness again. No new white feathers were added, but the old ones grew back to be what they had been before: white.
They were there to stay.
He was a demon, for He… whatever's sake! He couldn't have anything but pitch-black, absolutely uni-colour wings.
"Zira, do something!" he begged, as close to tears as a demon could be, which was rather a lot at the moment.
Crowley had come to the bookshop, locking the door after himself despite opening hours, and had dragged his lover into the back room.
"Please!"
Demons didn't beg or plead. Crowley didn't feel very demonic at the moment.
Aziraphale shrugged. "There's nothing I can do, Crowley. It's a part of you like your eyes. I can't do anything about them either. Not that I ever would. I like your eyes."
Crowley hissed softly, drawn between flattery for the compliment and total desperation. "We're not talking about my eyes! These are my wings. I want them back!"
"I can't change their colour. It is you. Maybe it's like grey temples for humans. It does look rather distinguished, my dear."
"Distinguished my ass! It looks horrible! I'm only half a demon now!"
"You're imagining things, Crowley. You're still the same you were. You haven't changed."
"Aside from my wings!"
"Well, yes."
Crowley slumped into a chair, dejected, misery radiating off him. He gazed at one hand and suddenly extended his claws. They were all still there, sharp and black and strong. A brief check confirmed that the fangs were present, too. Thank G… well, whatever. At least that was the same.
Just his wings.
His beautiful wings.
He was only half a demon now. Like he had been clipped or shackled or worse…
He curled one wing forward and mournfully gazed at the white feathers. The colour reminded him of Aziraphale's beautiful white. He loved the whiteness on his angel, but not on himself.
"It's terrible," Crowley sighed. "I can't have white wings."
"You don't have white wings. It's just a few feathers," Aziraphale pointed out, quite unhelpfully.
"There are too many as it is! They could as well be completely white!" The sheer image made him shudder and he buried his head in his hands, now without his claws again.
The angel shook his head and placed a cup of tea in front of him. Crowley found that tea was usually a good answer, as was coffee, but right now he didn't feel like any of the two. He felt like tearing out his feathers.
Not like he hadn't done so already.
They had just come back the next time he had materialized his wings.
Aziraphale reached out and stroked over the wings, along the white feathers to the carpal joint, and down to the roots. His touch was reassuring, gentle, yet strong.
Crowley felt himself relax immediately, almost purring. It still felt wonderful and it still was quite a sensitive area.
"Your wings feel like they always do to me, my dear," Aziraphale murmured. "Very much alive and like you. The colour doesn't matter."
"But I'm a demon," Crowley argued weakly.
"You are."
"Can't be anything but black."
"Something changed, you changed. You're no longer affiliated with Hell."
He groaned softly and buried his head in his arms on the table. Aziraphale continued to pet him
"This is a nightmare," Crowley moaned.
The angel just upheld the gentle massage, and Crowley found himself sliding deeper and deeper into relaxation. There was nothing he could change and he wouldn't run back to Hell to get himself 'fixed'. Lucifer himself had kicked him out. He was his own person… demon… and maybe that meant he had to live with white-edged wings.
Sighing a little, he turned to hug his lover, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's middle and burying his head against the firm stomach.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale cooed in his unmistakably angelic mode. Fingers carded into the jet black strands and caressed them.
Crowley was silent, simply held on, let himself be soothed.
* * *
Life continued. For Aziraphale it meant his bookshop, for Crowley it was taking his very much neglected Bentley out for country-side rides, which usually involved him driving at break-neck speed. Some things never changed.
A week after their return and the subsequent discovery of the horrible change to his wings – which he tried not to think about -- the demon began to notice the state his angel was in even more than before. It wasn't that he had been blind to the changes in Aziraphale. He had noticed how much the other had withdrawn, how rarely he smiled, how his aura seemed to dim and fluctuate, how he spent so much time in the bookshop, he might just as well paste 'Open 24 hours' outside.
Aziraphale was selling books and making more than he had in the last two weeks within these five days he was open now.
Crowley had hung around, had tried to cheer his lover up, but Aziraphale retreated even more, so he let him be. They dealt with the experience differently. While Crowley had accepted the facts and gone on with life, Aziraphale was holding on to the revelations and was thinking too hard.
That had always been his problem. Thinking. Too much thinking.
But he let him be.
Maybe too long, he mused as he walked into the closed and dark bookshop after hearing nothing of Aziraphale for over three days. Sure, they had gone without contact for decades before, but that had been… before. Before becoming so close, so intimate, so… together. There was this need in Crowley, this new and unexplainable need to help his angel. He had never felt particularly helpful in any way before, but Aziraphale was different. And he was special.
Walking around the empty bookshop, looking into each room upstairs in his lover's flat, he got that 'unlived in' feeling.
Aziraphale hadn't been to his flat for a while.
"What's wrong with you, angel?" he murmured.
Maybe… maybe he hadn't been imagining things. Maybe there had been…
Crowley stopped that thought.
No. No way. He hadn't seen claws on his lover, nor had there been this strange aura, this feral air to him that only demons had.
No, he was wrong.
This was just Aziraphale having trouble accepting that Heaven and Hell both kept part of an item that had been the key to Creation itself. He was an angel after all. Crowley expected everything to happen where Hell was concerned, as well as Heaven. Aziraphale had this hopeless innocence when it came to either Side. He was completely aware of the fact that there wasn't either good or evil, black or white, but he liked to pretend there was. He wanted to ignore the grey in-between.
This time it had smacked him right in the face.
Maybe it just needed a bit more time than the Near-Apocalypse. That had brought them together. This time… there was nothing to top the first time between an angel and a demon.
The demon leaned against an old shelf, sunglasses up in his hair, the yellow eyes almost glowing in the dark gloom of the unlit display room.
"What do I do with you, angel?" he whispered. "Where did you go?"
A place came to mind. A very likely place, but Crowley shuddered to think that he had to go there. Still, if his lover was there, if he could help him…
Putting the shades back on he pushed away from the shelf and left the book shop, the door automatically locking behind him.
* * *
It had to be a church.
He sighed.
A thrice-blessed, fucking church. Where else would an angel go who was in severe doubt?
Aziraphale had done it before, had tried to talk to Him, but as expected, there had been no answers. He was usually very busy and couldn't take all calls coming in. If you were lucky, you got the answering machine. Not that Crowley had ever tried, but Heaven was the same bureaucratic nightmare as Hell. Same difference, really.
So the demon decided to settle in for a wait.
Crowley was convinced that Aziraphale was there. He had sensed his angel close by, in this building, and like before he hadn't really asked where it came from, this sense, this conviction that here he was, praying or whatnot.
To assure himself that his senses weren't going completely out of whack, Crowley had asked one of the church goers, and the young woman had confirmed it. Aziraphale was inside, a lonely soul inside a fucking huge House of God.
And he waited.
For a day.
Mostly invisible because a young man in sunglasses and a leather jacket usually drew too much attention while lingering around outside. He didn't really want to make too much of a fuss with wiping minds and such.
Crowley could be patient if he wanted to.
Very patient.
Right now he was worried on top and that didn't bode well for the patience.
Around ten p.m. the next day Crowley had had it. Sleeping in a tree wasn't really the best rest he had ever had, and by now the patience had been seriously screwed over by worry and fear. Aziraphale couldn't still be trying to reach Him, right?
But Crowley could hardly walk into a church either. Churches and demons didn't really fit. He'd be lucky to get through the front door without melting.
Something shivered through him, memories teasing the edge of his mind, and he swallowed.
He could feel the tingle of Light, the fine, spidery web of almost invisible tendrils, touching him deep inside.
He growled.
Shit.
Maybe he could do a quick reconnaissance. Maybe he could just peer into the church and check on his lover, reassure himself that Aziraphale was fine, then head home.
Maybe…
Just maybe…
Hopping down from the tree, Crowley landed on church ground and steeled himself. There was a slight thrum of holy power coming through the thick soles of his booted feet, but it was okay. The thrum was deep and resonating, touching something inside him, that spidery web, and it pulsed back.
He gritted his teeth, pushing the sunglasses firmly up his nose.
He could do this.
Just to check.
And he marched toward the church.
It was like walking through heavy rain. Not bad, but not good either. Crowley persevered, one step after another, looking like he had cramps in his legs as he shuffled closer and closer.
There was no one else around, everything was silent and dark, but there was light from within.
One step. Another. And a third.
He was at the heavy door. Wood. Carved with ornaments that swam in front of his eyes.
By now the thrum had increased, starting a headache right behind his eyes, but he wasn't melting.
Not melting was good. Very good.
Crowley reached for the door and closed pale fingers around the cast iron handle, tensing as his skin touched the cool object.
Again, he didn't melt.
Great.
But the thrum was by now in perfect resonance with the tendrils that seemed to swing like cords on a harp. It wasn't harmonic, it wasn't nice, and it only fired up more of the headache.
Crowley pulled the door open, waiting to be blasted by Holiness, but there was only the warmth from inside, the smell of old bricks and wood and candles, and more.
Here goes, he thought faintly.
And he entered the church.
The moment the door closed after him and he stood in the huge building, the headache turned up the volume. He cringed, eyes briefly screwed shut, and his shoulders knotted with the tension. His breath was coming in short pants and when he reached for one temple, he felt his hand shake.
Shit, shit, shit, fucking bloody shit!
Still, he wasn't melting. Good. Really, really good.
Crowley blinked into the gloom ahead. There was no one in the church. No one at all. Everything was quiet. His severely impaired and fraying senses tried to find Aziraphale and with a stabbing pain between the eyes he finally located him.
Staggering off to the right he homed in on the aura that was his angel, no doubt about it, like drunk on a bottle of priceless scotch. Each step brought another wave of pain and Crowley heard himself whisper a prayer.
Well, more like a plea.
Please, just let me check on him. I'm not trying to stir up trouble. Please, just for a moment. I want to check on him. Please…
He never addressed the plea to anyone, nor did he say the words out loud, but he hoped that he was given at least a little time before the oppressive force of Light struck him down completely.
Even now he felt like someone was trying to choke him.
Please…
Aziraphale sat away from the main room, in one of the little alcoves that had a huge oil painting of one saint or another, with wooden crosses and depictions of Christ, the Holy Trinity, and whatnot. Crowley clenched his teeth against a groan as the combined force of that sanctity hit him.
Please, just one chance. Please… I'm not saying you owe me for helping you find that thrice-blessed object, but maybe a little…? A favour? I'm not asking too much. I love him.
Crowley swallowed hard against the new pain, the tremors racing through him like electric shocks.
I'm a masochist, he thought faintly. Walking into a church. How stupid can I be?
But then he was right beside his angel and for a moment the misery and pain the hunched form radiated was enough to wipe away all his own suffering.
"Zira?" he rasped.
The dark blond head came up, the blue eyes wide and open and vulnerable, and the narrow face so incredibly pale.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale stammered.
He sank to his knees beside his angel, unable to stand any longer.
"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale asked, confused.
"I was worried about you. You haven't been at the shop for three days, let alone contacted me."
"Three…? I… I think I lost track of time."
"Praying?"
A nod.
"No answer."
A shake of the head.
"Not even the answering service?"
"no," was the faint reply. "He doesn't listen to me. He doesn't give me a sign either. What have I done? What happened to me? Why did I Fall?"
Fall? Crowley's surprise buffered the migraine for a moment.
"Fall?" he echoed. "Zira, angel, you haven't Fallen!"
"I have," was the whisper of an answer.
"Why do you think so?"
Aziraphale looked at his hand, then raised it slowly. "Angel's don't have claws," he said softly.
"Zira…"
"And angels don't kill."
Crowley's trembling hand took the pale one of his lover, entwining their fingers. "Aziraphale…"
"I killed a human being, Crowley. I took a life."
"Jones was an insane idiot! A thief, too."
"It's no reason. I killed him in cold blood, in rage."
"You saved a life. My life. And you saved two realms, Angel."
Blue eyes flared. "It's no excuse!"
"And you having claws… I don't think you Fell, Aziraphale. He didn't ask for our help to let you Fall." Crowley forced back a groan of pain as the headache enveloped him again. His head sank forward and rested on their joined hands. "You're still you, Zira," he breathed. "Still very much you. You didn't Fall."
"But I have claws and you have white feathers… and…" A hand touched his head and he heard a sharp intake of air. "Crowley… Oh Lord! You're… this is… you're in…"
He whimpered as the next wave sliced through him, this time right down his spine. It seemed his window of opportunity was running out of time.
"You walked into a church!" Aziraphale whispered in fear. "How…?"
He laughed weakly, not looking up. "Maybe with the same freakish ability you had while fighting Jones." A moan of pain cut him off and Crowley curled up closer to his lover.
"Fool," Aziraphale whispered and Crowley felt a bit of angelic power surround them like a shield.
It hurt, but it kept the agony of Holiness away.
"Can we go home now?" he begged with a faint whisper.
Aziraphale rose slowly, pulling him up with him, and Crowley felt the touch of soft feathers to his skin as large wings wrapped around him.
"Yes," Aziraphale murmured. "We can go home."
He clung to his angel, each step harder than the one before, and by the time they were at the door, he was relying on his lover to keep him upright and get him outside.
The night air had never felt so fresh, the street with its dirty pavement and grass growing out of the cracks so perfect. Crowley panted, pale as chalk, each muscle in his mostly human body aching abominably, and as if from far away he felt Aziraphale's touch. He sank into the embrace and comfort, felt the healing energy course through him as the angel counteracted the destructive force of his own Side.
A soft kiss was placed on Crowley's forehead.
* * *
"Why did you do such a dreadful thing, Crowley?"
Gentle fingers combed through the jet black strands, nervous, worried, afraid, so many things.
"Because I was worried about you, you moron!" the demon muttered, snuggling more into the caress, much to his hidden disgust.
He should be the one comforting the angel, not the other way around! Bloody Holiness!
"I was only praying for an answer."
"For four days? Zira, even the most retarded angel would finally see the point of that!"
Aziraphale winced and Crowley sighed softly, sitting up to look at him.
"I only wanted an answer," Aziraphale repeated softly. "I needed His guidance."
"I think He pretty much made it clear that a) you haven't Fallen for loving me and b) He still thinks you trustworthy enough to ask for your assistance in Heavenly matters."
"But…"
Crowley framed the pale face with his hands. "You haven't Fallen, Zira. I think I could feel it if you had. You're still very angelic and all, right down to the white wings. Dead giveaway, remember?"
"But… the claws. And your wings… you changed, too!"
Crowley took one of the perfectly manicured hands into his and ran a finger over Aziraphale's. "I don't know. Maybe it was just.. heat of the moment and all for you. Maybe it was that thing influencing you. Maybe something else."
The angel started to tremble. "Angels don't have claws, Crowley. I can't have claws!" The pale face grew even paler. "And angels don't kill! I killed a human being! I took a life!"
And then he was in his arms, clinging to him like a drowning man in a stormy sea, and Crowley just held him, buried his face in the blond strands, feeling the slender form tremble with so many unreleased, pent-up emotions that now broke free.
No, angels didn't have claws.
Aziraphale had them.
Angels didn't kill either. At least not humans. Demons, sure. Demons ranked in the killable category. Humans were a no-no.
But Aziraphale had killed and he hadn't Fallen.
Just like Crowley loved and hadn't been returned to Hell to undergo whatever torture was ready Down There for demons who had gone soft. Especially those who had always slipped under the radar out of habit and who had fallen in love with an angel; who had sex with an angel; who made love to one…
He kissed his lover, gently, reassuringly, then wiped away the tears. Those tender emotions rose once more, protective and fierce in one.
*
Their love-making was slow, gentle, with Crowley letting Aziraphale lead. His angel was rather aggressive where the kisses were concerned, almost devouring him, leaving little room for talking. His hands aroused the willing demon, touched those hotspots he knew, stroked and caressed him until Crowley could only feel, not think any more.
He surrendered completely to the softness that was Aziraphale and his climax hit him hard, pulling the angel with him.
Crowley woke to the absence of his lover and the unmistakable coolness of sheets that hadn't been slept on for a while. He turned onto his left side and gazed at the rumpled sheets that should have Aziraphale on them, dozing peacefully. Instead there was nothing. He stretched his senses and found, to his relief, that the angel was still in the vicinity, even if that vicinity was above him, most likely the roof.
The demon sighed and sat up, feeling slightly sore, but his body was healing already. He liked the soreness and usually kept the feeling as long as possible. It reminded him of what they shared, and it was more than sex.
Crowley grimaced.
Bother! He was really too soft.
He sighed deeply and slid out of bed, waving his clothes into place. Finally he set out toward the attic and the roof. The gentle pitter-patter of rain accompanied him as the night sky opened and it started to pour.
Crowley stepped out onto the roof with sure steps only a supernatural being could have on a slick roof that slanted steeply downward. And only an angel could cower on the very top, looking miserable and let himself get drenched. Not a single drop of rain dared to land on Crowley as the demon climbed up to where Aziraphale sat.
"Hey," he said as a greeting.
Blue eyes that seemed to reflect the weight of the world on Aziraphale's shoulders met his.
"You know, thinking about it all, analyzing it to death, won't get you any closer a solution, Zira. He didn't answer His phone, He's not picking up messages, and I doubt you can send Him emails."
Aziraphale sighed and curled up more. His hair was plastered to his head and his clothes were drenched through and through.
He would catch his death, if he wasn't immortal. Well, maybe a cold, Crowley thought and continued to repel rain.
"It's my fault," Aziraphale whispered.
"Huh?"
"Because I allowed you to tempt me."
Crowley blinked, mouth opening in shock.
"I was tempted by you and I started to Fall. I might still have white wings, but I'm more of a demon than an angel. I've claws, I killed a human being, and… and… I'm losing control," he whispered harshly.
"How?" Crowley simply asked.
"When we were together, I felt them. The claws. I felt them come out and… and I didn't want that."
"It's emotions," the demon answered evenly. "Love, hatred, rage, whatever. You'll learn to deal with it, Zira."
"You have them."
"Yep."
"I'm not you! I'm not a demon! You made me into one! I didn't have them before we slept together!"
Crowley met the enraged blue gaze and shook his head. "You didn't get them through contact with me. It's not contagious, Aziraphale. You either Fall and become a demon for real, or you don't. You didn't Fall!"
Wings exploded out of Aziraphale's back and he stood up abruptly. "Then explain this!" He flashed claws that had suddenly grown out of his fingers. "This isn't normal!"
Crowley got to his feet and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Aziraphale, listen to me! You're not a demon! I can feel demons and you're not one. You're an angel!"
The other began to tremble again. "I can't be an angel."
"You are, blessed idiot! How stupid can you be? You're no longer part of His army, Zira! You haven't been ever since that moron of a messenger told you so. He Himself asked us for a favour, not ordered us! He no longer has jurisdiction, so He can't let you Fall!"
Aziraphale swallowed hard.
"Think, angel! Use that bright mind!"
"But… what about this…?"
He hesitantly raised the clawed fingers.
Crowley encased them with his own hands, felt the sharp tips bump against his skin. "We're different from everyone, Zira. Even that human freak said so. We're no longer who we were. I… I should have been much worse off in that church. I wasn't. I should have died through that injury and all the divine energy you were flinging around against Jones. I didn't. I'm different, too."
"But not like this," was the miserable whisper.
He pulled his lover into his arms. "This is you. It's us," the demon murmured. "Aziraphale…"
The wings disappeared again and the claws slowly receded. "I'm scared," the angel whispered. "I wish He could give me some of His guidance. I feel so lost."
"He kicked you out. I think He wants you to think and feel for yourself, angel."
Aziraphale shook his head. "Your fault," he whimpered. "It's your fault. My fault… was tempted… by you… your fault," he stammered, repeating himself over and over. "You did this. I… I fell for you."
"You said you love me," Crowley reminded him letting the accusations glide off him.
"I do. I love you. I love you so much. And it's your fault."
"That you love me?" the demon asked, slightly amused.
"Yes."
"What did I do that you love me, angel? I'm a demon. You're my enemy."
"In the beginning. It changed."
Aziraphale held on more tightly. "I changed," he whispered. "I changed. I'm no longer a true angel."
"You're the perfect angel for me. You're my angel, Zira. You're what other angels should be like."
"Having claws?"
He smirked a little. "Maybe. It's a kink, huh? Aziraphale, trust me… trust Him… He gave you your freedom. He didn't let you Fall for loving me. You said love is no sin. You can love, you changed me to accept that I can love in turn. I love you, Aziraphale, and I can say it out loud." Crowley wrapped his arms around him and kissed the wet hair. The whole angel was sopping wet. "I love you, Zira, my angel. Don't doubt that, okay? Don't doubt that you're an angel. We're still us. And even if you call Him twice every hour, He won't pick up. He set you free. You now develop your abilities and yourself without Him."
"I'm scared," Aziraphale whispered.
"So am I."
"You miss Hell?"
Crowley gave a bark of laughter. "No, not really. It was never my gig." He silently studied the bowed head. "You miss Heaven?"
There was a long silence, then Aziraphale shrugged. "Haven't been there in six thousand years."
Crowley forced his lover to look at him, two fingers keeping the dripping wet chin up.
"Aziraphale… accept what you are. I do. You're not evil, you're not a demon, you're all angel, angel. And I can help you with the claws, okay? We can learn from each other." He brushed his lips over the cool, wet lips. "You taught me so much already."
Aziraphale swallowed, then hesitantly kissed him back. It was a chaste touch of lips against lips.
Crowley knew this would need time. He had accepted his demonic traits quite quickly, but to be completely true to himself, he had freaked as well. Claws, fangs, the eyes… well, the whole package, had been so different from his angelic being. But Crowley had Fallen. Aziraphale was still an angel.
"Let's get inside. You're soaked through."
He led his lover back into the house and had to dry him off himself since Aziraphale was almost apathetic. With a wave of his hand he wished the wet clothes away, then continued to towel him off by hand. Finally he pulled the angel into bed and let him curl up against him. Shivers racked the slender form and Crowley soothed him, exuded warmth to heat the other up.
It took a while for Aziraphale to fall asleep, but he finally did. Crowley didn't. He stayed awake all night.
* * *
Aziraphale's behaviour didn't change a lot in the next few days. He was a bit more cheerful on the outside, but the moment they were amongst themselves, he seemed to draw away. Crowley gave him room, but he also didn't leave him alone all too often. Rides with the Bentley were down to a minimum and the bookshop saw him more and more. Customers grew accustomed to the dark-clad young man, and one woman even tried to strike up a conversation. After being nearly cross-examined by her, Crowley fled into the back room and spent the rest of the day glaring the boxes into order.
What changed was their sleeping arrangement, since Aziraphale didn't go any further in their bed activities than a kiss or some caresses. There was also the fact that whenever Crowley brought up the claws and training Aziraphale's emotional control over them, the angel changed the topic or just left. The whole thing was a very sore point and for the first time Crowley wished He would answer His calls. Aziraphale was still destroying himself over the changes.
Crowley could live with white-edged wings. Really. He just had to get used to a new colour. No big deal. Of course not.
Not compared to an angel with demonic claws.
Still, it was turning into an exhausting game and after a while Crowley had had enough.
"Zira?" Crowley asked one evening as they sat together on the floor in front of the couch in Crowley's apartment, Aziraphale between his legs.
"Hm?"
The demon stroked over one thigh, soothing, calming, not arousing. The TV was running some inane program and they were waiting for one of the old classics to start. They even had TV snacks ready.
"Why do you hold back?"
Aziraphale stiffened a little. "I don't understand."
"You do."
The tension grew. "If this is about sex…"
"No, it's about making love. You push me away, Zira, and I want to know why. You withdraw again."
There was a silence, but finally the other turned and those deep blue eyes met Crowley's. "I might lose control again, Crowley. I might… I could hurt you if I do…"
"You haven't so far. I recall a very wild get-together right after we returned home… taking the edge off and then some. No claws, angel. Just you." He leered. "A very hot and wild you."
The little blush gave Crowley hope.
"That was different."
"Different how? I can't think of anything more sexy than you taking what you want, letting me know how much you want it… You were very, very hot, Zira." He kissed him. "Very. I'd like to repeat that."
Aziraphale shivered a little and Crowley felt the angel react to his words. Good.
"You're beautiful," the demon continued to purr, letting his hands follow the nicely shaped body, explore the covered flesh, then slide underneath the sweatshirt. "You're beautiful and handsome and wonderful and warm."
The angel shivered with the reaction to the words. Crowley was a snake, no doubt about it, and he was flexible. Flexible enough to have his angel suddenly on the back, on the ground, with him settled on top.
Two pairs of rather inhuman eyes met.
A kiss captured Aziraphale's mouth just as he was about to say something.
The kiss was everything and more. It tasted sweet and warm and was very much Aziraphale. Their tongues touched, tasted, retreated, touched again. Crowley threaded his fingers into the dark blond hair, held him as he devoured that wonderful mouth and he felt Aziraphale's hands brush over his sides. They glided up the curve of the ribcage, then down his back and came to rest on his bottom – pulling him closer.
Tilting the angel's head he got access to the pale neck, continuing his ministrations there. Aziraphale's breathing hitched a little.
"Bed," the angel whispered hoarsely, voice laden with lust.
Crowley smiled evilly. Lust was good. Lust was always very good. Coupled with the intense love that was deep inside the blue eyes, it made his whole body respond with a thrill, a shiver racing down his spine, and his blood pounding in his ears.
"Bed," he agreed.
They made it to the bedroom, but it was a rather haphazard adventure. Kisses and shed clothes got in the way, but finally they were naked, skin on skin, two very hot bodies gliding against each other.
Crowley had his angel on the back, underneath him and he had a goal in mind. A very specific goal.
He began his path.
Hands caressing the soft skin, he kissed and licked a way down to one nipple, taking it into hit mouth and suckling gently. When he felt it harden, Aziraphale's breathing speeding up, he bit it gently, drawing a yelp. One hand was busy thumbing the neglected nipple until they were both hard and straining, little peaks displaying his angel's arousal. For good measure he gave the other a lick, too, then grazed it ever-so carefully with his extended fangs.
Aziraphale cried out, straining upward.
Sensitive, he mused. Good.
Claws emerged and tickled along the soft sides, making Aziraphale tense for a moment. The danger was still quite likely, but Crowley had control over his demonic traits. He would never hurt his lover.
Kissing him again, guiding Aziraphale's tongue around the sharp fangs, he slipped a hand deeper, brushed a palm over the hard evidence of Aziraphale's arousal, and heard him whimper. His mouth was where his hand had been not much later, licking and nibbling and kissing and laving the straining member, finally sucking it into his mouth.
Aziraphale's mouth opened, but only a hoarse cry came out.
Crowley smiled and licked over the sensitive tip, drawing another, very encouraging sound. Running a claw over the hardness, Aziraphale's breathing got erratic, but there was no fear.
Kinky, huh? he thought, a malicious smile blossoming. Oh, I like that.
He did it again and Aziraphale's eyes screwed shut. The angel was panting hard.
"Kinky," he rumbled.
The eyes snapped open and through the glaze of arousal the angel managed to glare. It was weak, filled with wanton lust on top of it, and Crowley chuckled.
"You are very kinky, angel. I like it." He kissed the wet tip and his lover moaned, legs twitching.
"A lot," he breathed and continued his ministrations.
Aziraphale had no words for him, just moans and garbled sounds of encouragement. Crowley soaked them in, loved what he could do to his usually so prim and proper angel with just his mouth and a few caresses, and he loved the sensitivity of the other being. No human would ever be able to experience something like this. It was purely angelic.
Climax hit Aziraphale like a head-on train. His hips surged up and he cried out, and then there was the unmistakable sound of sharp claws puncturing a mattress through layers of sheets. Crowley didn't pay it any attention at first, too intent on finishing what he had started. When he rose from his prize, licking his lips like a cat after a bowl of milk – and looking rather satisfied with himself – he saw what had happened.
It was about the same moment Aziraphale himself realized what had occurred and the angel gave a croak of denial. Hands that now held sharp claws rose, popping out of the mattress, and the whole angel was about to bolt, but Crowley was faster. He grabbed the wrists and pushed the hands down, his whole weight on the angel as he caught the terrified blue gaze.
Hard, golden-yellow eyes held them.
"Zira," he said sharply.
Aziraphale trembled. His eyes were wide as saucers and he was pale.
"Zira, it's fine. I expected something like it. It's okay. It's normal. Zira, it's okay," he hissed.
The angel swallowed. "It is?"
"Yes."
"It could be you next time."
"I'll heal. And it's quite sexy." He leered a little, never letting go of the wrists.
"Getting speared by claws?"
Crowley grinned devilishly. "By you? In any way, lovely. In any way."
"You're impossible!"
"Hm, yes, that's me."
"Crowley, dear… could you let go of my wrists?"
"Will you stay here?"
Aziraphale nodded and Crowley did release the wrists, still sitting on the other's thighs.
"Okay?"
The angel regarded his hands, the light grey claws with their fine sheen of blue. Crowley took one hand and kissed the hard additions to his lover's perfect fingers. The claws were no different from his own, aside from the colour. Angelic, even for a demonic trait, he thought with a fine smile. Purely angelic.
The pale fingers curled around Crowley's and Aziraphale pulled him on top, the kiss almost desperate. He gentled it, tamed it, let the angel know that it was truly okay, that they would be fine.
Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, burying his head in the nape of Crowley's neck.
"Make love to me," he whispered almost desperately.
Crowley's heart skipped a beat. He pulled back and pressed their lips together.
"I always do," he whispered.
And he did. He had never done anything else. And he never would.
Blue eyes filled with need and those intense emotions the demon usually had problems with expressing. He brushed a thumb over the soft skin underneath Aziraphale's eyes, smiling.
"Always," he promised.
Crowley did things to Aziraphale's body that only a long-time lover could, found those hot spots and special places. No words were lost, the soft sounds of pleasure and arousal filling the room. When he finally sheathed himself inside the willing form, neither lasted very long.
Crowley's voice was low and throaty with passion when he cried out his release, and Aziraphale's hands left deep red marks on his back, but no claws popped out. Well, not completely, but the demon didn't so much as flinch as sharp tips dug a little too deep.
Aziraphale didn't feel or see any of it, so lost was he in his climax. Crowley saw a sight that would stay with him forever. There was the surrender to his needs slowly surfacing in the glazed-over blue eyes, and the demon heard Aziraphale softly sob his name.
Afterwards, their cooling bodies lay together, entwined, exhausted, and Crowley cradled his angel to him.
Aziraphale dropped off to sleep and the demon tenderly stroked the sweaty hair. He pressed a little kiss to the smooth forehead, then settled in for some relaxing sleep as well.
*
Aziraphale woke from deep sleep, a concept he hadn't known for millennia until he had truly let himself be coaxed into the sensation by his demon. Ever since then, he usually slept very deeply after sex. Crowley had made love to him with an intensity that had left the angel breathless, unable to even cry out any more. Aziraphale had completely given himself over to his lover and Crowley hadn't abused that trust. He never had.
Now, waking up, there was something strange around him. He wasn't in their shared bed, he wasn't home, he wasn't… he wasn't home!
Sitting up he discovered Crowley next to him, sleeping, looking… Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat.
Crowley looked beautiful. Almost divine. Demons weren't divine, had been once, but their aura denied them the divinity of before. But now… in this warm light… he looked like a dark angel. The blackness of his hair, the slender form, the lithe built, it all showed his celestial origin. Yes, even the blackness. Crowley couldn't be anything but dark, and he was handsome and wonderful and gorgeous in that darkness. And in the current light as well. It gave him this serene, ageless look. In Aziraphale's eyes he was the most beautiful being in his life, in this world, and he radiated that beauty unconsciously.
The light.
Aziraphale looked around and swallowed hard. It wasn't just light. It was Light. It was all around them, giving warmth to the perfect surroundings. They were lying on grass, so soft it could be a mattress, with the warmth of a summer day enveloping their naked forms.
He was… they were… impossible!
He turned to Crowley, who was still sleeping deeply, not moving, and Aziraphale checked on his aura to reassure himself that the demon was fine. With all the Light around him, he should be cringing and writhing in pain! He wasn't. Crowley was perfectly fine.
…relax…
It wasn't a word. It was more like an emotion, a trickle of gentleness seeping into his mind, and Aziraphale whirled around, wings snapping open. Without even consciously thinking about it he cowered protectively over the sleeping demon, looking for the source. He knew the source, part of him reminded him.
The angel started to tremble.
… nothing will happen to you…
What had happened? Why was he here? Why was Crowley here?
…nothing is wrong…
…everything is as it should be…
He was on his knees beside his lover, shaking so hard, the feathers of his wings rustled like a tree in autumn.
Nothing was wrong? He had killed! He had become a demon! Surely he was here to be judged…
…no…
Eyes the colour of the azure sky widened and he squeaked a little, "What?"
…everything is as it should be…
So killing a human being was okay? Aziraphale felt anger rise inside him. He wasn't a killer! He was an angel!
…angel… the strange whisper that wasn't one agreed.
Tears sprang into his eyes as emotions flushed through his system, all of them love and need and devotion, and he saw images of Crowley, felt the love multiply. He saw the demon fight with him, bleed, almost die. He saw him come to him in the church, despite the agony that meant for him, and he saw their love-making. So warm and gentle and filled with pure emotions on both sides.
…love is no sin…
The tears flowed freely now.
Aziraphale loved him, loved Crowley, but he was an angel, and he was no longer pure because he had killed, and angels shouldn't love the enemy, shouldn't be tempted, shouldn't hurt humans, shouldn't… shouldn't…
No words whispered to him, but suddenly he seemed to be wrapped in a warm embrace. He cried out in despair, all the pain breaking free, as the doubt and horror and terror flowed out.
"I love him," he whimpered. "I can't but love him. I can't lose him. I don't want to Fall!"
The reassurance was back, wordless, purely emotional, and it told him he hadn't. He hadn't Fallen, he hadn't committed a sin in either loving Anthony J. Crowley, nor taking the life of James Jones.
Aziraphale collapsed into the grass, clinging to his demon, trembling. Like a warm blanket, the reassurance settled over him.
…everything is as it should be…
With those word he slipped away into the darkness of sleep once more. He thought he heard a smile, saw his name, felt a whisper… everything so completely different… and then there was nothing any more.
* * *
Aziraphale woke and blinked, feeling slightly confused. There was a warm presence next to him and he smiled involuntarily as he looked at the dark, mussed head of Crowley, buried in the blankets, curled up, looking rather… cute.
Without thinking he leaned over and pushed a few dark strands out of his lover's forehead, caressing the silky strands as they touched his fingers. Crowley wasn't waking, so he sat up slowly and left the bedroom, feeling as though he were in a dream.
Actually, better.
He felt good. Wonderful. Relaxed. Like all the tension had drained out of him in the last few hours of sleeping. Like he had been given an absolution for his… deeds. No longer crimes; deeds.
Aziraphale set the kettle on the stove and heated the water, thoughtfully looking out the window. It was a bright morning, the sun was trying to pierce through the clouds and succeeding in some areas, and there was already quite a lot of traffic.
He felt no rush at all; no need to open the bookshop. Just laziness, complete serenity, that everything was as it should be. He was okay. Everything about him was okay. Everything was alright.
He opened the window and let in the fresh air, the sun slanting just right to fall through the open window and bathe him in light.
Sitting down with a cup of tea, Aziraphale enjoyed the sunlight on his bare skin. He had never felt so incredibly good, so free, so at peace.
And in love.
Crowley woke to an empty bed and for a moment he was about to groan in frustration, but then he felt it. An aura. Clear and pure and filled with peace and relaxation. Mystified he frowned and got up. He walked into the kitchen and stopped, speechless for a second. The sight of Aziraphale, reclining in a chair in the sun, a cup of tea in his hands, eyes closed, the dark blond hair glowing with golden highlights… it was breathtaking.
Truly angelic.
He approached almost reverently and reached out, brushing a tender caress over the warm strands. Aziraphale opened his eyes and smiled at him.
So different. So open. No longer so tense and full of despair.
"Good morning, dear."
"Good morning," Crowley managed, voice slightly awed. "You okay?"
"I feel wonderful, like I haven't in a long time."
Crowley smiled devilishly. "Still got it in me, hm?"
Aziraphale laughed and it sounded so free and open, it made the demon's heart skip with happiness.
"Don't be so full of yourself."
He leaned down and kissed that smiling mouth. "It's good to see you so happy again, angel."
Aziraphale pulled him around and he straddled his lover, the sun now touching Crowley's naked back, warming it in turn. He felt like purring, the heat building up. It wasn't sexual heat, just the laziness of muscles relaxing.
"I'm fine," Aziraphale told him. "Perfectly fine. For real, this time."
"Good. What brought that about?"
"I don't know, my dear. I woke up this morning and I think I dreamed, but I can't recall anything. It was just… totally relaxing."
Crowley studied the smooth features, saw no more doubt. Running a finger over the soft lines of his angel's face, he smiled more. He had an idea what the dream might have been, but he refused to get into a discussion with his lover, let alone make him want to analyze what he couldn't remember. So he just nodded, embracing the mostly naked angel, enjoying sun and body heat. Demons liked warmth a lot.
"Want to go to out today?" Aziraphale whispered.
"Where to?"
"I don't know. Just… away. Like a holiday."
Crowley smiled. "Sounds fun. When?"
"Now."
Surprise showed on his features. "And where to?"
"How about Australia?"
His angel was surprising him more and more. Australia, hm? Well, why not. He hadn't been there in a century. Things had changed and he was really looking forward to some vacation time with his angel.
* * *
Australia was everything Crowley remembered it to be – with a few additions, like huge cities and very nice restaurants, bars, coffee shops, malls and everything else Hell was proud of owning. Walking through the heat was perfect, even if Aziraphale was looking a bit uncomfortable in the heat. Crowley was soaking it up, liked to run around in the middle of the Outback, shades on, without a shirt, just them and the wild.
Yes, it was lovely.
Reclining on a large rock, he sighed with contentment. His skin prickled with the warmth. Aziraphale was with him, repelling the heat as much as he needed to be comfortable.
A shrill ring disturbed their companionable silence.
Crowley frowned.
"Is that your cell phone, dear?"
"Uh, yes."
"You brought your cell phone along?" Aziraphale sounded confused.
Crowley sat up and dug into his vest's pocket, that lay discarded beside him. He frowned more as he looked at the display. No number was on it. The phone continued to ring.
"And you have reception," the angel remarked, mystified.
"Uh-huh."
He snapped it open and growled, "Yes?"
The voice at the other end made all hair stand on end and something very deep inside of him responded both in fear and terror.
A proposal was made.
Crowley was silent for a moment, his face a mask.
"Fuck off!" he finally hissed and snapped the phone shut again. He tossed it as far as he could.
"Dear? Who was that?" Aziraphale asked, blue eyes wide behind his shades.
"It was Him."
The angel paled underneath his tan. "W-what?"
"He called. He had a proposal for us. A new job."
"Y-you… you told him…"
"To fuck off, yeah."
Crowley still felt tendrils of terror, a demon's instinctive reaction to the absolute Holiness and Power talking right to him. Another part, the angel that he still was in one form or another, had shivered in recognition and yearning at His divinity. He hadn't felt it in millennia.
"B-b-but…"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, angel! I just don't want to run around for Him… or Below… again. Look what happened the last time!"
Black wings exploded out of his back and the white strips glowed in the sun. Crowley pointed an accusing finger at the white feathers.
"But it was Him," Aziraphale said weakly.
"And we don't work for either of them any more!
Aziraphale was totally shocked that Crowley had told off Him. His whole being trembled briefly. Crowley touched him, squeezing one hand.
"Angel, it's okay. They can't do anything to us. Anything at all!"
"But… you said no.. to Him."
"And I'd say it again. We're on vacation. I don't intend to interrupt personal time with you for anything."
"It might have been something important…."
"Then He'll call again." Crowley leaned back on his warm rock once more, feeling very much like a sun-bathing snake.
The angel sighed explosively and finally settled back as well. Crowley smiled a little as the celestial aura dimmed from shock to normal for Aziraphale.
* * *
Somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, a pub was host to two very distinguished guests, though neither looked the part.
One was dressed to fit the Australian outback, right down to the dirty jeans, the unwashed t-shirt, a dusty vest, and a very sweaty hat. Unshaven, hair a bit greasy, he looked the part to a 'T'. The second one had opted on a biker outfit, with studded leather jacket, glasses, bandana and ripped jeans. Heavy, booted feet rested on a rickety looking chair in front of him.
"He hung up on you?" the biker asked, sounding amused.
The other chuckled. "Yes. He told me to fuck off." He snapped the cell phone shut and slipped it into a vest pocket.
"Crowley always had a way with words."
A grin appeared and the beer was emptied. Like a miracle the glass refilled itself, right down to the perfect foam on top.
"Rebellious little fucker," the biker added as if in an afterthought.
The other smiled.
"That part of your Plan?"
"Maybe."
"Uh-huh." The leather-clad man chugged back a shot.
The glass was refilled, too.
"But they do make a good team." The hat was pushed back a little and infinite eyes studied the other.
A snort. "If they all start hitting the sack together, we can go and pack up."
"It took six millennia for those two to get it right. If it happens every six millennia, well, we still have many left. I haven't found any of mine working together with one of yours ever since we had them teaming up in this strange way."
The beer was swished around in the mug, perfectly cool and foaming.
"Yeah, true."
Silence descended. An evil smile was playing around the biker's lips.
"Want me to call him?"
The ancient eyes reflected amusement and he dug out the phone, tossing it at his drinking partner. Dirty hands flipped it open and hit the speed dial.
To be continued in Incomplete
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