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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
- 4
- 5
Aziraphale watched in horror as his lover was stabbed by the sword, by the warlock, and the scream tore him apart. He felt an insane rage rise inside him at the sight of the blood running freely from the terrible wound.
“Crowley!” he cried.
Yellow eyes broke with agony and the demon collapsed. The warlock pulled out his sword with a sickening sound, turning to the angel with a wide smile.
Blood dripped off the sharp blade.
Demonic blood.
Crowley’s blood.
And the angel lost it.
Power rose inside him, burning through his veins, eradicating everything that was pure angel, turning it into something far more sinister and dangerous than anything anyone had ever seen. Aziraphale embraced that power, felt its familiarity, and for a moment it was as though part of Crowley touched him, seeping into his pain-filled mind, whispering softly.
He reached out and grabbed it, held on, and turned to the human.
“You’ll pay for this,” he whispered.
Laughter answered that statement. “You’re an angel. There’s nothing you can do to me.”
Aziraphale’s smile was twisted and cruel, his senses flowing around Crowley. “Don’t be too sure.”
He took in the demon’s raspy breathing, his pained whimpers, the sound of broken bone and torn muscle as he moved. There was the gurgle of blood, the little drip-drip-drip, and he almost felt the demon’s struggle to stay conscious.
Hold on, he thought. Just hold on.
Turning his attention to the warlock, he spread his wings. Gleaming white, pure, angelic, but inside he felt far from it. Inside there was a darkness like nothing he'd felt before.
He liked it.
He welcomed it.
"You made a mistake," Aziraphale growled, his whole appearance shifting with his mood. The wings glinted razor-sharp and energy crackled around his body. "You hurt my friend!"
He raised a hand and energy appeared.
The warlock chuckled. "You think an angel can scare me? You can't, you outdated relic!"
A lightning bolt sped at Aziraphale, who didn't move. The angel raised a hand, deflecting the bolt.
"You're weak," he said coolly.
"I took out your demon buddy, angel. And I'll kill you, too!"
Aziraphale looked at the so motionless figure of his lover, the dark anger doubling. "You got lucky," he whispered. "You won't be again."
And then all hell exploded.

Crowley was in agony. His body was screaming at him with every move and his mind was invaded by the searing pain of the wounds. The weapon that had stabbed him wasn't common, had angelic and demonic power, and the injuries weren't healing. He wasn't dying either, which surprised him, though that was only a tiny little part inside. A larger part was fighting against the pain, trying to find out what was going on despite the need to get away from here.
He saw glaring white light, felt angelic energy surge, and he felt something… demonic with it. Angelic and demonic? It wasn't the human's powers, because warlock power was different, even that contaminated with a demon's magic. This was…
"Aziraphale," he whispered.
Snake eyes blinked into the divine light that wasn't really all that divine. It was tainted… it was… dark… without being visibly so.
Where had Aziraphale got that power from?
And when had he become so strong?!
Because the angel was. Strong and sharp and glaring and painful on his senses, cutting into the shields of his opponent, wings slicing forward, claws flashing…
Claws?
Aziraphale had no claws.
Crowley gasped as he pushed himself up, one hand pressed to his stomach where the gaping wound was. He should be dead and wasn't; Aziraphale had no claws but flashed them openly.
What was going on here?
The demon whimpered as the pain returned with a vengeance, doubling over while above him the fight continued. Aziraphale had taken to the air and the warlock had done the same, supported by his magic. His stolen magic.
On the ground, the critically injured demon lay, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other digging into the ground. His eyes were on the two fighters, each lance of strangely distorted celestial energy stabbing into him like tiny needles. His shields were down and his demonic side was unprotected, but where he should already be gasping his last breaths, something seemed to still protect him.
Crowley didn't know what, was currently not really interested in it anyway, just praying that Aziraphale could survive this.

Aziraphale's mind was a blank, just reacting to the blasts directed at him. He didn't care about the wounds he had suffered already, the blood staining his clothes. They were already healing, but new ones were constantly inflicted. Still, he didn't stop.
Power crackled in his hands, was launched at the enemy, and he knew he was winning.
The warlock was losing.
White wings spread, the feathers like fingers stabbing into the sky behind him, and blue eyes glowed with an unholy fire. Aziraphale was peripherally aware that what he was using wasn't true angelic power, but again he didn't care.
All he saw was an enemy. The enemy. The man who had dared to attack his demon, who had nearly killed Crowley.
A hiss left his lips.
If he had been able to see himself, even Aziraphale would have been shocked. But as it was, only one person saw him aside from the warlock. Crowley's eyes were riveted to his lover's changed form, breathing hard, fighting to stay conscious, and unconsciously supplying him with the drive needed to finish what he had started.

Crowley witnessed the demise of the human with a strange mixture of triumph and emotionless acceptance that it was over. Everything seemed to stop as the human form vanished, blown apart by the weird combination of power his lover yielded. The human had been ripped to shreds by demonic claws that had nothing to do with an angel, and then obliterated completely.
The demon collapsed back, breathing hard, eyes tearing, and his hand convulsed over the wound. Every single molecule was attacked by the celestial radiation, but he felt better than he should in this situation. He should be melting like a demon doused in holy water.
He wasn't.
Somewhere deep inside, the place that always trembled with warmth and that still so strange emotion love, was something that protected him. It was small but powerful, it permeated his whole demonic being, like tiny tendrils of pure Light.
He had been an angel once; he knew the Light. This felt like a distant echo, but not of himself. It wasn't his Light; it was different but familiar.
"Angel," he rasped, stunned.
Aziraphale touched down just a few feet away, the white wings stained with blood, the formerly soft feathers looking as if they were made of metal. The gentle, handsome face seemed cut from of stone, the eyes a bright silver. Nothing of the blue had remained. Aziraphale was holding a sword in one hand; his sword. In the other he handled a second blade.
The stolen one.
Crowley gasped as the angel came closer, his aura so sharp and with a tang of metal, of darkness, of a cutting edge he had never felt with the angel before. Each step was measured, the silver eyes on him, and the demon whimpered in fright.
This wasn't Aziraphale. Not any more. Not his angel.
"Zira, no," he managed. "Stop… it's me…."
Not the enemy. Not Jones.
I'm not the enemy, Crowley thought desperately. You don't have to smite me or anything. Zira…
He cringed back, scrabbling against the ground. The sheer aura was hurting by now.
"Zira… angel…" he begged. "No, please…"
Azriaphale stopped and gazed at him. For Crowley it was like looking at someone completely different. A demon, maybe. A demon whose soul was that of an angel, who was consumed by hatred, but who didn't Fall. An angel with the power of… He swallowed.
Oh fuck… he thought faintly.
And then those strange eyes blinked once. The blue was back.
"Crowley."
Wings folded, the aura receded, and the swords clattered from his hands. The metallic glitter vanished and the wings began to tremble. Wounds that leaked blood had scabbed over by now and were healing slowly.
"You're hurt," Aziraphale whispered and knelt down next to him.
Crowley started to shake with the divine energy. "Angel, please… stop…"
Aziraphale looked puzzled, then his face took on a shocked expression. "Oh dear. Crowley, I'm sorry… I didn't know…"
And then the aura dimmed. The demon sighed in relief and sank back, feeling a cool hand on his own that was clenched over the stomach wound.
Healing energy flowed and he groaned, but it didn't hurt. It didn't collide with his own demonic force, wasn't repelled, and it was nice, really, really nice. His eyes closed and his body seemed to melt, his muscles relaxing completely.
"Angel," he whispered.
A kiss was placed on his lips.
Blackness threatened and his vision danced wildly. The darkness grew and enveloped him completely, but the blue of Aziraphale's eyes was what stayed longest.
Then even that was gone.
* * *
It was quiet in the flat. There was no music playing, no TV on, no voices talking. It was peaceful and quiet, and the only sound was what filtered through from outside.
Aziraphale sat on the couch, his feet on the couch table, slightly reclined, and reading. Blue eyes tracked the words and sentences, followed a riveting adventure story.
On his lap was a dark head, snake eyes hidden behind closed lids, and Crowley stretched out on the rest of the couch. His arms were wrapped around his chest and he was sleeping, the demon completely and utterly trusting in his partner's protective presence.
A blanket covered the far too thin form. Now and then Crowley would feel the echoes of the attack with the strange weapon and shiver, and Aziraphale would do his best to warm him.
Mumbling a little in his sleep, Crowley turned onto one side, burying against the back of the couch, curling up more as just that wave of cold touched him again. Aziraphale stroked over the tense back and whispered softly to him, sending healing warmth into the stricken form. After a minute Crowley relaxed with a sigh.
"Hate this," he whispered faintly.
Aziraphale leaned down and kissed his temple. "I know. But you'll be whole soon. It's getting better already."
The stream of healing warmth continued and the demon relaxed completely, almost purring.
He had been a mess when Aziraphale had finally gotten to heal him. With all that strange power still coursing through the angel, he had been hard pressed not to shrink away from the good intentions, but he had. Whimpering and scrabbling at the ground, he had wanted nothing more than to evade the creature that wasn't Aziraphale.
He had no real recollection of how he had come to be here, back in their home, in England, when they had just been halfway across the Atlantic and then some, in the United States, hunting some freak human with magic powers. He hadn't asked either.
Aziraphale hadn't explained anything, not about his own messed up emotions, the power fluctuations, the way they had suddenly been back in a flash of light that no one but angels could see. And demons. He didn't question the method of transport, nor the intent. He had just cradled the unconscious demon, felt the warm blood dry, felt the healing energy take root. Lost in his worry and fear for Crowley, it had taken the angel hours to really acknowledge that they were home.
Crowley gave a happy little sigh and the angel smiled, continuing to caress and stroke him in a gentle pattern.
They were back.
They would soon both be whole.
He gazed at the hand resting on the shirt-clad shoulder and swallowed, memories of the fight returning. Such immense power, power that had changed him, that had made him into…
Aziraphale stopped, screwed his eyes shut, and forced himself to forget. He didn't want to think what had happened in that moment. He had protected the one being he loved with all his spirit and soul, whom he wouldn't lose to some street punk who stole powers from demons. A common thief; he'd been no more than that. James Jones had been a criminal. And he had paid.
Aziraphale had taken a human life,
Again he pushed the memories aside and swallowed hard.
Crowley moved again and suddenly he sat next to him, slightly sleep-dazed yellow eyes meeting those distressed blue ones.
"Angel?" he whispered.
Aziraphale just smiled bravely and wrapped his arms around him, holding on tight.
Crowley said nothing, only held him back, humming softly. His wings unfolded with a gentle whisper, black as night, soaking up all light and casting a shadow over the two immortal beings, Aziraphale choked out a sob of emotional pain and clung to him. The demon wrapped his wings around them, burying his head against the warm neck, saying nothing.
There was nothing to be said.
Nothing at all.
* * *
The chosen place for the habitual tea was a quaint little cottage with old wooden furniture, soft light coming through the windows, pastel colors on dark wood, and a bouquet of fresh wild flowers on the round table sitting in the sun of the day.
Two men were sitting at the table, both sipping hot chocolate from handmade mugs, marshmallows dancing on top of the creamy cocoa liquid. Tea time didn't always mean there was tea to drink.
"You spiked your chocolate," the man in the light blue shirt remarked casually.
"Just a whiff," was the reply from his companion.
"It looks like a job well-done."
"Well, you only caught it at the second refill."
"I was talking about the retrieval of the items."
A chuckle. "That, too. Wouldn't have believed it possible for those two to get it back."
"Ineffable plan."
There was an ungentlemanly snort. "You just got lucky."
The man in the light blue shirt smiled and sipped at his hot chocolate where a bit of whipped creamy still clung to the rim of the mug.
"I'm just surprised how quickly he used those powers."
"Love."
"Love my ass. He was scared shitless."
"And he saw the man he loved in danger, about to be killed. Love makes us do mysterious things."
The second man muttered something rude and gulped down his drink.
"You still want to just watch them?"
"Yes. I'd like to see how they develop. Things are moving. Quite fast, too."
Eyes the colour of molten lava narrowed a little. "I hope you didn't help them along."
"I'd never do that."
"Well, I still remember you and your evolution experiment."
The other cringed a little. "Ah that, yes. Quite interesting, though."
"Freaking big lizards ruling the Earth? I beg to differ. It was boring. Humanity is much more fun."
A smile creased His lips. "Yes, they are, aren't they?" And pride swung in His voice.
Lava eyes turned black. "So, where is it?" he changed the topic.
He held out a hand and suddenly there was a melon-sized object, wrapped up in a silky, blood red scarf with golden writing.
"Keep it somewhere safe this time."
The dark-haired man snorted. "I did! Until I decided to put it into the safe because I was renovating at home."
A soft chuckle and it got Him a glare.
"About time you changed the décor."
"What was wrong with it?"
"Inflatable furniture, bean bags, moulded plastic and nylon items in bright, vivid colors? Oh please. So sixties."
There was a mutter of, "I liked the sixties."
"But you remodelled. Very modern of you."
"Very retro, too." He hefted the melon-shaped object in one hand. "I think I can use it as a paper-weight again. It does have a certain charm. I'm rather nostalgic in that matter."
There was a chuckle. "It was your first house-warming gift."
Jet black eyebrows danced over suddenly equally black eyes. "You kicked me out and gave me half of that useless thing as my first piece of furniture, yes, I remember. I bloody well wanted to kick it back where it had come from. I just didn't know where you had found it."
"I didn't. It was just there. One afternoon I was strolling around the firmament, the next there it was. Very useful, too. Creation was much quicker with it."
"Uh-huh. Seven days and the fun was over." He gazed at the wrapped thing. "Well, no one will get it this time. I hope you've got your security tightened now, too."
He smiled. "Oh yes, indeed. Nothing like a little scare to make your people pay more attention."
"Tell me about it." He sighed. "Beelzebub is growing grey hair over the incident. So, where do you keep it?"
He dug into a pocket and pulled out a key. There was a key ring with a small, fluffy item attached to it. It looked like someone had taken a bear, squashed it down to half its original size, fluffed it up, sat on it, then had it go three rounds in a dryer.
Black eyebrows rose. "A key chain?"
"Yes."
"And a rather ugly one at that."
"I think it looks nice."
"It's yucky, even by my standards."
He shrugged and stuffed the thing away.
"You can make it take on every shape you want and you have it look like that. Figures."
"You are going to use yours as a paper weight. Not very original either. At least I now have it on my person," He said calmly.
"No one dares to enter my private quarters."
"No one would even think of going through my pockets."
The other grinned.
They finished their hot chocolate among companionable conversation, changing the topic from the object to daily matters. The sun's position didn't change, neither did the temperature or the chatter of birds and insects.
After a while the dark-haired man rose. "Well, I'll be off then. Till next time. Hopefully not over such a dreadful matter again."
He smiled. "Hopefully not."
With that they parted, disappearing, and with them, the quaint little cottage with its garden and table and mugs of hot chocolate ceased to exist.

To be continued in 'Modification'
- 4
- 5
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Mimicry