D1SS0NANCE
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The Last Temptation of Crowley by irisbleufic
Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
19 Oct 2004
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Summary
The best method for clearing one's head, as far as Crowley knew, was feeding the ducks in St. James's Park. And if that failed, at least it was a jumping-off point for other pursuits. What Crowley failed to take into account was that Aziraphale wasn't going with him, and the former usually depended upon the presence of the latter.
"Hallo," Aziraphale said from a distance, already standing in their favorite spot.
Crowley took a crumpled paper bag from his jacket, where it had spent the past fifteen minutes as an unattractive lump. "We have to stop this," he said decisively, opening the bag. "People will talk."
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That’s Not How Temptation Works by irisbleufic
Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
13 Mar 2023
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Summary
"I suppose," ventured the angel, tentatively, "that it'd warrant no more notice than when we do standard swaps, would it?"
"Nope," said Crowley, relaxing a little. "You'd only be pointing them out to me. And giving pointers, of course."
Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek, seriously considering it.
"Heaven knows I've got the time. Given Gabriel's cancellation, I consider myself on leave. Your lot are being hard on everybody, it sounds like."
"I'm everybody," Crowley sighed, not even faking how pathetic he felt.
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Aziraphale is lifting off before he's thought about it. His wings are wet, approaching sodden, and he's not at all confident he'll keep aloft long enough to reach the drifting winged body, never mind hauling a half-drowned angel back to the Ark. But... well, you have to try, don't you?
Closer up, when he can see the figure as more than just a shadow against the water, he realizes he's wrong again— the spreading wings are black-feathered. No bird, and also no angel.
Black-feathered wings, and a black robe on a long, lean frame, and long red hair drifting loose in the current.
Oh. Oh, no.
In which an angel (perhaps unwisely) rescues a demon, (probably unwisely) reaches a temporary truce with him, and (definitely unwisely) contemplates his own feelings.
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Aziraphale and Crowley decide to make an event of the Doctor Who 60th anniversary specials: wine, careful preparation, and a properly fixed television in the bookshop.
Crowley is unprepared for Aziraphale’s very enthusiastic appreciation of the Fourteenth Doctor, significantly less prepared for cosmic horror at the edge of the universe, and absolutely unprepared for how much it all mirrors six thousand years of running, choosing, stopping, and staying.
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Crowley snapped his fingers again, and the tinsel vanished with a pop. He glanced around the room, scowling. There was still tinsel all around the ceiling, and the blessed mistletoe was looking unaccountably green and perky for having been hung in his doorway nearly two weeks ago.
“You ought to be dead by now,” Crowley told it. “Out of your misery. If you had an ounce of sense, you’d have begun to dry out days ago.”
The mistletoe hung there, glossy in the sunlight, and dropped a berry on Crowley’s head. It looked satisfied; the houseplants were smug.
“As soon as New Year’s is over, there’s going to be a major weeding,” Crowley announced, glaring at his green menagerie. “And I mean major.”