Good Omens

Warnings: none

My first actual posted fanfic? I think? Based on this lovely post. Anyways there’s some angst but it resolves well and lovingly, I promise!

It didn’t happen all at once.

Crowley would be hard-pressed to say when the issue had actually started, mostly because - being an absolute moron - he had misinterpreted it at first. Because what didn’t he misinterpret, when it came to Aziraphale? He always thought he knew what the angel was about, and then something like this happened. After 6000 years, Crowley was always blindsided by his own stupidity.

The expected End of Days had in fact turned out to instead be the beginning of rather a lot of things. One of said things was a...well, a...well, something between himself and Aziraphale. He’d be damned (well, likely not, but he’d always been fond of the turn of phrase) if he tried to define this whatever-it-was and scared his angel off. Having been some degree of mortal enemies for several centuries, he felt qualified to decide that anything at all was better than no Aziraphale.

Nevertheless, what they’d had was something. Had been something. Or…something.

He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. He was flopped dramatically over his sofa, one leg on the floor, one over the back. He groaned loudly again into the empty room, just for effect. It was, he noted peevishly, much less enjoyable to sulk in his own flat, with no angel to bother into fussing over him.

He shifted restlessly and considered the facts again.

When things had...well, ‘begun’ seemed the wrong word, since for him they had ‘begun’ over six thousand years ago; perhaps ‘sped up’ was better, loathe as he was to use that terminology - anyway, when things had started to move in this direction, Crowley had begun to notice something. He wasn’t sure what was happening at first, but eventually he realized that Aziraphale’s bookshop (a stretch of the term, since Crowley had only heard rumors of his angel ever actually selling a book) was changing.

This was entirely unprecedented, and at first Crowley had been thrilled - a reaction he was now deeply ashamed of. To think he’d thought it was for him!

It had been a couple of weeks or so after the kingdom didn’t come, and he’d been slouched on Aziraphale’s sofa, glass of wine in hand. He’d tried to put the glass down, only to have his angel snatch it while scolding about how he was about to ‘ruin the cover on that book’ and ‘coasters are a phenomenal invention, Crowley, so stop glaring at me’.

Crowley had groaned and made a face.

“Honestly, angel, do you like not having any flat surfaces free? Or floor space?”

He hadn’t thought anything of the comment. He’d said similar before, affectionately of course, and Aziraphale well knew how different their apartments were, which Crowley did notice but did not mind in the slightest.

So he had therefore been touched - more than touched, honestly every time he thought he was as deep as he could go into love with this bloody angel it just got worse - when the next time he’d come over to find an end table entirely free of books, and with one plain brown square coaster on it.

He hadn’t commented, showing his gratitude by using said coaster and trying to keep his feet away from the books more than usual.

And then that second had, worryingly, become much less of a problem when those books, too, began to disappear. It wasn’t all at once, but after a couple of weeks Crowley sauntered in and found he suddenly had room to saunter. Because half of the books were gone.

Oh, it still looked like a bookstore, with the shelves all still full and in place, but the odd tables covered in first editions? The strange lamps? The knick knacks falling over each other? Gone. Or, if not gone, then organized and straightened and much more orderly than Crowley had ever seen them. And it was all very slightly wrong. At least, it had been very slightly wrong at first. Now, it was bordering on the beginning-of-a-horror-movie, nothing-was-as-it-should-be wrong. And the worst part was, Crowley didn’t know how to bloody mention it to his bloody angel! He’d thought it was sweet - had thought it was adorable, how his angel was making space for him.

He gritted his teeth in his flat and growled in frustration. His plants all shuddered.

This was what he got, thinking Aziraphale was making space for him. Honestly. Aziraphale had never needed to do that, and he certainly wasn’t starting now. This was something else, then. But what? Crowley was, underneath the frustration and self-loathing, utterly mystified.

And worst of all, Aziraphale wasn’t talking about it! When Crowley had gone very still one day, surveying the suspiciously spacious shop, he caught a glimpse of the most peculiar expression crossing his angel’s face. Something like desperation mixed with forced indifference. Clearly he was hoping Crowley wouldn’t notice it, or at least would have the decency not to mention it.

If he hadn’t known Aziraphale for so long, he’d have let it go. And that really was the problem. He did know Aziraphale. Had known him for 6000 years, as confusing as those years had been. And he knew, he knew how his angel felt about his books. He often wished Aziraphale felt about him the way he felt about books. The look Crowley’d gotten when he’d saved those prophecy tomes for his angel during the Second World War...well, that was a look he wouldn’t forget. Ever.

And now his infuriatingly confusing angel was just getting rid of books left and right? It made no sense. Well. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it. Aziraphale wanted him to ignore it, and his angel always got what he wanted.

Aziraphale had wanted Crowley to notice. He was trying to nest, for goodness’ sake! What was the point of it all if Crowley didn’t even notice? He’d been trying so hard! He’d spent nearly two and a half centuries on this nest! Admittedly most of that time was spent trying to convince himself that he was not nesting, and even if he was it certainly wasn’t for the charming demon he wasn’t even supposed to like, but all the same!

He was wandering around his shop, waving his hands in a flustered sort of way. He’d been faced with a rather overwhelming realization during the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, finally accepting that he’d been nesting for his demon ever since he purchased a nice little bookstore during the French Revolution. This realization had felt right, like something finally settled into place in his life. He could finally relax, finally let Crowley into this nest that was absolutely for him. Why had he even tried to lie to himself?

And then everything had gone wrong. They’d switched places, and Aziraphale had been dragged down into Hell to face Crowley’s trial. And Hell had been awful.

That seemed naive, and an understatement to boot, but it was true all the same. He’d never realized...he’d thought it was bad, of course it was bad, it was Hell, but it was...he was shuddering even at the memory. The trial was, comparatively, not even that terrible compared to being dragged through the crowd of demons, filthy and horrifically angry darkness crushing in on every side. It was everything Heaven wasn’t, dark and crowded and angry and loud and filthy, everything coming at one from all sides.

When he’d gotten out, he’d been relieved to roll his shoulders and stretch out his arms in the park, in the open sunlight, with space all around.

Even then, the other shoe hadn’t yet dropped. Everything was fine - he and Crowley had their own side at last. Aziraphale was almost giddy off the euphoric rush he got every time he was able to dismiss the reflexive obligation to distance himself from the demon. He didn’t have to do that any more!

And then Crowley had made a comment about the clutter in his shop.

It was a comment he made lightly, and a comment he’d made many times before. Which was actually quite a bit worse, because oh, no. And Aziraphale was abruptly thrust into memories of Hell, of the crushing and the claustrophobia and the feeling of having absolutely no escape from the dark.

Aziraphale was an angel. He knew that everything within his physical form was exactly where it was supposed to be, because he’d know if it wasn’t. But at that moment, Aziraphale perfectly understood the human phrase of having your heart ‘sink’.

What had he done? He’d tried to make something nice for Crowley, and look what had happened! His nest reminded Crowley of Hell, of course! Of course he hated it! Aziraphale had always assumed that Crowley’s barren flat was some sort of side effect of the demon’s apparently lack of materialism as well as the fact that the demon didn’t really spend much time on himself or his things (besides the Bentley, of course). But of course. He was trying, in his own way, to distance himself from that awful, awful place he had to report to. And Aziraphale was just dragging him back to it every time he came into the shop!

Aziraphale had immediately tried to clear off a surface or two around the sofa Crowley liked to throw himself over. And the demon had reacted. Okay, he hadn’t said anything, but Crowley never really did say anything in situations like this. And the little smile flickering over the corners of his mouth, like he was trying to repress it but couldn’t quite manage, made Aziraphale’s heart stutter in a wonderfully pleasant way.

So, the books had to go somewhere. The lamps, the tables, the odds and ends...he loved his bookstore dearly, but between books and his dear Crowley, he knew easily which he cared about more - and now that he was allowed to care in the way he did, nothing would stop him from giving Crowley anything he wanted. Goodness knew Crowley had been doing that sort of thing for him for ages.

And Crowley seemed to respond. Aziraphale had guessed correctly. Crowley was spending more time than ever at his bookstore.

Crowley was at the bookstore almost all the time now, increasingly worried about his angel. What was happening? This should have been excellent! Aziraphale was able to let him stay, and Crowley felt keenly that now, he was able to find a place in Aziraphale’s life without getting him into trouble.

He still shuddered at how flippant he’d been with Aziraphale’s life before. Well, not flippant, he’d never be that careless with the most precious thing in his life, but...They hadn’t even given Aziraphale a trial. That still made his every muscle seize with fury, still gave him screaming nightmares -

But that wasn’t the problem right now, he reminded himself. He had years unto infinity to kill Gabriel, slowly, for what that piece of muck had tried to do to his angel.

The problem right now was that Aziraphale was not acting like himself, and Crowley had six thousand years of experience to back that analysis up.

Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting in one of the shop’s back rooms, drinking. It was late, and Aziraphale was enjoying the feeling he got when he instinctively opened his mouth to suggest Crowley leave and then remembered he didn’t have to do that any more.

In fact, he decided to go and fetch another bottle, feeling rebellious and warm and excited. Probably that was partially the alcohol.

When he got back…

Crowley was holding a book, open, and frowning at it. He looked up when Aziraphale reentered the room, and, to Aziraphale’s mortification, held up a soft, downy white feather.

“Are you bookmarking your novels with your feathers?” Crowley demanded in amused bafflement.

Aziraphale blushed.

They were his feathers. They kept coming out, ready for him to line his nest with - some sort of physical-emotional response to the process, he supposed - so he’d been tucking them into his books as a sort of compromise. And now Crowley was holding one up.

For a moment, Aziraphale panicked - this meant Crowley would know, would guess, that this was for him, he’d just be leading the demon on, they wouldn’t ever be able to -

And then he remembered that they were able to, and the flush of joy gave him the confidence to admit the truth.

“I’ve been...or, rather, I am, nesting.”

“...nesting?” Crowley repeated faintly.

Aziraphale winced. Had he truly been so very bad at it that Crowley had noticed nothing at all?

“Yes, dear. I’m nesting. I’m...I’m really so very sorry,” he added suddenly, deciding to blame the alcohol for swaying him towards honesty, “that it took me so long. I’m sorry it was so awful at first. I didn’t mean to remind you of Hell, really I didn’t, I meant it to be nice and I was so awful, and I’m so sorry, my dear, really -“

Something in Crowley’s face stopped him. Or rather, a lack of something in Crowley’s face. Crowley had frozen, hand still holding the feather aloft.

Crowley himself was desperately trying to land a mental foothold in this information, but could find none. He was utterly confused and now slightly panicking.

Aziraphale was nesting? For him? And what on Earth did he mean, ‘remind you of Hell’?! And Aziraphale was calling himself awful!

That, more than anything else, popped Crowley’s mouth open again, but he only barely managed to croak, “Hell?” through his reeling thoughts.

Aziraphale flushed, sitting down on the sofa but not looking at Crowley. “I...I didn’t realize,” he began haltingly, “that it was like that. So...crowded, everything so dirty and dark and pushing in on you all the time, and...no wonder you didn’t like it here.”

Crowley thought he had found a handle on the conversation, but his handle made no sense. Was Aziraphale comparing his bookshop...to Hell? No. No, he couldn’t be. But then something else clunked into place.

“Is that why you’ve been getting rid of your books?”

Aziraphale hesitated, and then, in a very small voice, he admitted, “They’re not gone. They’re in boxes, in a closet in the back, I couldn’t bear to - but of course, of course I could,” he immediately back-tracked, “of course, if that’s what you wanted, they’re just things, and you’re…” he paused for a long moment before huffing frustratedly at the lack of an appropriate word.

“An idiot?” Crowley supplied without thinking, still trying to catch up in the conversation.

Aziraphale turned to him in shock. “No! Crowley, you’re...you’re…” his earnest expression spoke volumes, even before he finally picked a word: “everything.”

Crowley’s struggling thoughts screeched to a halt in astonishment.

Aziraphale continued undeterred. “You’re everything, Crowley! Everything! You’re here, and we’re us, and that’s everything!”

Crowley started to cry.

Not his best moment, not his smoothest, and certainly not his most charming. But he couldn’t help it, and before he knew it tears were streaming down his cheeks as he stared at his angel in awe.

Aziraphale, for his part, looked mildly panicked, but understanding. “I’m so sorry...for so long…”

“You...you chose...me? Over...over your books?”

Aziraphale smiled, a bit confused. “Yes, of course I did, dear. And it’s okay, I know better now-“

“It’s not okay!”

Aziraphale stopped talking, mouth snapping shut, red flooding his cheeks.

“Put them back!”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face was all that stopped him from his panicked and confusing shouts, as he realized that without some major rephrasing he was seconds from making his angel flinch into the sofa to get away from him.

“Angel.” This was softer in volume, but no less emphatic in tone. “I’m never...I wouldn’t…this is nothing like Hell!” He finally exclaimed, leaping from the sofa in an abrupt, adrenaline-fueled motion to wave one long arm wildly around at the shop.

Then his words caught up to him, and he winced. “I mean...for Satan’s - God’s - someone’s sake! Angel.” He sank back down onto the sofa, needing to explain, needing to make that pained and ashamed look on his beautiful angel’s face go away forever and never come back.

“Angel, this is nothing like Hell. This has never been anything like Hell.”

Suddenly, in a fit of helpfulness, his mind processed a lot of things all at once, and graciously provided him a reminder of what Heaven was like. A reminder of how Aziraphale must have felt, all up there and alone, treated as lesser in that frigid, empty place. No touch, no interaction. Nothing but cold white light and and colder orders.

Oh, hell. No wonder Aziraphale surrounded himself with small odds and ends, with light and words and fiction. There had been none of that in Heaven.

Crowley suddenly breathed out quickly, feeling like he’d been punched.

Aziraphale was watching him in complete, agonized confusion. “But...you said...crowded.”

Crowley paled. “Angel, angel, no! I never meant...no!” In a sudden fit of recklessness, he grabbed one of Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale didn’t pull away and oh I’m holding his hand oh no what do I - FOCUS!

“Aziraphale. I didn’t mean it. I mean, sure, I wanted to put my glass down, but I didn’t…” He trailed off. He could reassure Aziraphale of his real reasoning, but...that was definitely too fast. Much, much too fast for his angel.

Aziraphale was looking at him desperately. “Crowley, please. Please explain it to me. I don't understand!” That look - like he would just melt if only Crowley would say yes.

Crowley had never been able to say no to his angel. ‘Wait’ at times. ‘Not right now’ at times. But never ‘no’. And...Aziraphale had chosen him over his books. That one was still working its way through his head, but he’d heard the angel say it.

Crowley sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Angel, this has never reminded me of Hell. Not even a little.”

He felt Aziraphale shift and continued, afraid he would lose courage to do so if he waited.

“Hell is...tight. You’re right. Crowded - everything pressing in on you, all the time. It’s loud and hot and dirty and angry, and it’s determined to force all of that through your skin and right down to your bones.”

He shook his head, eyes still closed. “Your bookshop isn’t like that.” He inhaled quickly. “Your bookshop is crowded. I do feel surrounded. But-“ he added quickly, opening his eyes despite himself to stare at his angel, “I feel surrounded with you.”

Aziraphale didn’t appear to understand, though he didn’t interrupt.

“You’re in every corner of this store, angel. In every book, every floorboard, every shelf, every ray of sun and mite of dust. I feel surrounded by you when I’m here. That’s why I love it. Why I’ve always loved it. It might not be my style, no, but it’s yours and that’s the best part about it.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, before he reached out and crushed Crowley into his waistcoat.

The angel chuckled. It sounded a little thick.

“I’ve been rather an idiot, it appears.”

Crowley huffed a quick chuckle, relieved but disbelieving that Aziraphale hadn’t pushed him away at his declaration, had instead pulled him closer. “Possibly, angel.”

“So...I can put the books back?”

At this, Crowley really did laugh, as he sat back up. “Yes, angel! You can put the books back.”

Aziraphale looked delighted, clapping his hands. “Lovely!” Then he got a strange look on his face, a sort of hesitant smile. He reached out for Crowley. “Come back?”

Crowley very nearly tackled him, but resisted and instead leaned down reasonably into his angel’s shoulder once more, pressing his grin into Aziraphale’s collar.

They stayed that way for a long moment.

Then Crowley sat bolt upright.

“Hold on! If this is your nest, this bookshop…”

Aziraphale suddenly started to look edgy. Crowley’s eyes widened.

“Hold on! You said I was going too fast! How long have you been nesting for me?!”

The angel went bright red from the tips of his ears all the way down to his collarbone, and Crowley grinned. Oh, Aziraphale was never going to live this down.

Sadly, there is no space in Supernatural...

Good Omens

Sketch Requests for April!