Ashes of Eden

by Flywolf33

Summary:

One-shots and drabbles... Will add tags and fandoms as I write them; I currently have no specific plans. I'm going to keep this marked as completed.

Will add tags/ratings/etc if/when I add chapters.

Chapter 1: Ashes of Eden - Good Omens
Chapter 2: Eternity - Good Omens
Chapter 3: Bullies - Supernatural
Chapter 4: Damnit Jim, I'm a Doctor not a Mortician - Star Trek
Chapter 5: Together - Good Omens
Chapter 6: Mercy or Murder - Good Omens
Chapter 7: The Human Way - Good Omens

Notes:

Crowley is thinking too much and Aziraphale decides to do something about it.

I was perfectly happy without a relationship, thank you very much. But now that I've had one... I miss it. Basically I was being a sad pringle and thinking about fluff and then I heard this song on the way to my writer's league meeting and here we are.

Song is "Ashes of Eden" by Breaking Benjamin.

Chapter 1

Aziraphale watched Crowley, who was slouched across the sofa and staring moodily at his wine as he swirled it in its glass. The demon had been out of sorts ever since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t; he had barely even touched his drink. The angel was worried, but he’d already asked; Crowley had refused to admit something was bothering him. He suspected he was, in some way, part of the cause for his friend’s brooding. Aziraphale knew he needed to do something to help Crowley relax and cheer him up, but the angel himself had his own concerns regarding the shift in their relationship and what ‘their side’ could mean.

Their music changed to something soft, as if the player was trying to urge Aziraphale into action. Nerves fluttered in his stomach, but the angel steeled himself.  Enough was enough.

He set his glass aside and stood, slowly approaching the demon and wrapping his hand around Crowley’s on his glass.  He looked up, startled, as the angel gently removed the glass from his fingers and set it aside. “What-” he started to protest, but there must have been something on Aziraphale’s face that stopped him.

Without letting go of his hand, Aziraphale pulled Crowley to his feet and led him into the middle of the room. He wasn’t quite sure how the moves went, but he decided to just listen to the music and do what felt right. He placed Crowley’s right hand on his hip and rested his left hand on the demon’s shoulder, keeping their other hands clasped together.

The demon’s eyes widened slightly as Aziraphale began to gently sway with the music, gazes still locked. They rotated in the room, each barely moving their feet as they did. Aziraphale couldn’t look away from his companion.

And I am not worthy,

I am not worthy of this.

Crowley’s expression was mixed between confusion and bliss.  “What are you doing?” he finally asked, voice barely above a whisper. His hands were trembling.

“Dancing,” Aziraphale said just as quietly, guiding their gentle movements.

Stay with me, don’t let me go;

Because there’s nothing left at all.

The light dimmed as the lightbulbs slowly burned out one after another.  Aziraphale blinked and there were suddenly flickering candles lining the room, illuminating them with warm, flickering light.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, cheeks pink.

“No matter,” Aziraphale hummed.  “The lights are replaceable.”

“Will the candles hurt your books?”

“No.”

I can hear the voices haunting,

There is nothing left to fear;

And I am still calling,

I am still calling to you.

Crowley’s hand twitched, pulling the angel until their chests bumped. They still did not break eye contact, though gold had completely consumed the white of the demon’s eyes. “Beautiful,” Aziraphale breathed, and through their contact he could feel Crowley’s heart skip a beat.

Stay with me, don’t let me go;

Until the ashes of Eden fall.

There was a faint frush sound and Aziraphale’s wings were curled around them.  The tips of his feathers brush Crowley’s arms and soon the demon’s black wings had wrapped around them as well, holding him even closer against him.  Aziraphale could feel the very ends of his partner’s primaries trailing along his spine.

Why can’t I hear you?

Stay with me, don’t let me go.

 “I love you,” Crowley murmured.  His eyes glinted with a touch of fear and his grip on Aziraphale tightened.

Stay with me, don’t let me go.

Aziraphale smiled. “I love you too.”

Until the ashes of Eden fall.

Crowley’s lip twitched and he looked as if he couldn’t decide between smiling and crying.

Heaven above me, take my hand.

Aziraphale tilted his head up and tenderly pressed his lips to Crowley’s. The demon sighed, all but melting into him as their hands finally parted and they wrapped their arms around each other as they kissed. Serenity filled the angel; he felt more at home here in his demon’s arms than he could ever remember feeling in Heaven – or anywhere else.

Shine until there’s nothing left but you.

Chapter 2: Eternity

Summary:

Angst warning

Notes:

Yeah... sorry not sorry.

Content warning for this one.

He was gone. He was gone and there was nothing Aziraphale could do about it.  There would be no daring rescue from Hell, no search for someone to possess, no offer of sharing his corporation until they could find Adam and see if he could separate them again.

Crowley was gone, and Aziraphale was alone.

The worst part is he didn’t even know how it happened.  He’d been in the bookshop, reading Hamlet again, when he felt the urge to call Crowley.  Right now.  He startled himself with how quickly he was out of the chair and dialing.

There was no answer.

Something was horribly wrong. 

It had taken Aziraphale most of the day searching SoHo to find his demon.

He saw the Bentley first, parked inconspicuously at the entrance to an alley.  Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief and rushed over; he knew Crowley wouldn’t be far.

He wasn’t.

Further into the alley was a puddle. What looked like a puddle, anyway.  There was a terrible burnt smell in the air.

Aziraphale saw the cross next, painted onto the wall above the puddle with a small prayer.  The faint remains of something holy, a blessing, tingled against his skin.

The dots connected and Aziraphale’s knees gave out, sending him stumbling into the wall and sliding down beside the mass of goo and ruined clothing.  Now that he was next to it, he could see the cuff of Crowley’s skinny jeans peeking out of the edge.

The world spun and closed in around Aziraphale.  He couldn’t see, could hear only a deafening rushing; his whole body felt heavy and light, numb but filled with pain.  He gasped, struggling to draw in air around the agonizing scream forcing its way up his throat.  It came out as a keening wail, the sobs following quickly behind to keep the angel from breathing.

Was the world ending? This was how it had to feel.  How could the earth keep turning when Crowley was gone?

He didn’t know how long he was there; didn’t know if the residents of this cursed place could perceive him or not.  He didn’t care.  He didn’t know anything beside his grief for a long time.

When Aziraphale finally returned to himself – at least enough to be aware of his surroundings again – it was dark.  Whether it had been hours or days was a mystery to him.  It didn’t matter.  There was nothing left in the passage of time for him.

He gently brushed the now-dry ground with the tips of his fingers.  A dark stain marked Crowley’s final resting place.  A dark stain, and Aziraphale’s heart.

His lungs felt frozen.  The wracking sobs had stopped, but Aziraphale still couldn’t seem to breathe.  He was numb.

What was there to do? The only things he could think of would merely destroy his corporation and send him back to Heaven.  There was nothing for him there; only an eternity of misery.

Which was the same he’d have here.

The idea came to him in a creeping memory.  Aziraphale stayed still for a long while, rolling the thought around in his mind as he stared at the stain on the ground.  The small part of him that still had a sense of self-preservation screamed that Crowley wouldn’t want this, but eternity alone screamed louder.

He rose on surprisingly steady legs and began walking, though it felt more like drifting. The crowds of pedestrians – when had the sun risen? How many times had it risen as he mourned? – parted seamlessly around him.

The office building stood tall and cold in the middle of the city.  He hadn’t been here in years.

He hesitated only a moment, thinking about his book shop and the first-edition copy of Hamlet that waited on his side table.  But then Crowley’s face popped into his head, rolling his eyes as he agreed to help Hamlet along as a favor, just because Aziraphale liked it.

He entered the building and took the escalator down.

Chapter 3: Bullies - Supernatural

Summary:

Prompt from Tumblr Anon: Ok hi, I love your stuff! I was wondering if you could write a fic where teen Dean is being protective of little Sam (no incest!). Like, Sam came back to the hotel that they were staying at after school and he was all sad and stuff, and Dean managed get him to tell him why, and Sam told him it was stupid, but Sam admits that some kids were messing with him. John thinks that it's a normal part of life and laughs. But Dean got mad and protective. I would also love if you'd put some fluff in there!

Notes:

Tags for this chapter: Bullying, fistfight, John in a shitty dad, Dean is a great big brother

It had been a long day.  Sometimes Dean regretted dropping out of school; it wasn’t that he didn’t like learning, but dealing with all the normal people and watching them live out their lives completely oblivious to what was out there took it’s toll. It got worse after his stint in the boy’s home, when John abandoned him there.  Leaving was hard, but he couldn’t let Sammy grow up with their dad alone.

Now that he wasn’t in school anymore though, John would either drag him around hunting or leave him to babysit Sam. The latter usually meant he was at the library, staring at books until the words floated off the page – and then a little bit more.

At least at school he got breaks in his reading.

By the time Dean got back to the motel John had chosen for the boys he was bone tired and wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower, drink some stolen beer, and pass out.  Before he could do any of those things, however, the motel room door opened and Sam slipped in. His backpack thunked to the floor and he shuffled into the kitchen to rifle through the fridge.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean greeted, immediately putting on a smile for his younger brother.

“Hey,” Sam grunted.

“How was school? Did you pass your test?”

Sam dragged a soda and leftover mac ‘n cheese from the fridge and shrugged. “We won’t get them back until Friday.”

Dean’s alarm bells started going off.  Sam was refusing to make eye contact, instead staring at the floor while he heated up his dinner and kicked off his shoes. Rather than tuck them under the table he left them sitting in the middle of the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, dropping onto the couch next to Sam.

“Nothing,” Sam said.

The older Winchester nudged him. “C’mon, Sammy.  I know something’s up. Did you miss an assignment or something?”

Sam shook his head.

Dean waited another moment before poking him. “C’mon,” he urged.

Sam wavered for another moment before slumping back.  “Some kids at school were giving me a hard time.  It’s not really a big deal though.  I can handle it.”

“What, were they hitting on you? You know how to fight.”

“No,” Sam said, still not looking up.

“What was it?”

Sam stayed quiet, poking at his food and twitching one shoulder. “They were just saying some stuff.  It’s stupid. I’ll be okay.”

“You know you can tell me,” Dean hedged, but Sam finally looked up only to glare at him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.  I can deal with it.”

Dean held his hands up in surrender.  “Okay, okay. But if you want to, you can talk to me.”

“I know,” Sam said.  He turned the TV on and sat back to eat his dinner in sullen silence while Scooby Doo played in the background.

His own day now far from his mind, Dean made an excuse and slipped outside to find a payphone.

“Hello?” John’s gruff voice answered after the second ring.

“Hey Dad,” Dean said, relieved their father had answered for once.

His voice instantly tightened. “What’s wrong? Do you need me to come back?”

“No, we’re okay, it’s just-”

“You know not to call unless it’s an emergency, Dean,” John scolded, and Dean flinched even though his father wasn’t there. “I’m trying to work.”

“I know, Dad, but Sam-”

“Is he okay?”

Irritation prickled up Dean’s spine.  He wanted to snap that if John would let him finish his damn sentence he would find out so much sooner, but years of drilling obedience and respect shut that thought down.  “He’s having some trouble with kids at school.”

“He knows how to fight.  He can take care of himself.”

“They didn’t beat him up; they’re picking on him. He won’t tell me what they said but he’s pretty upset.”

John snorted.  “You called me for a couple of middle school bullies? Dean, bullies are part of growing up. Sam’s fine.”

“But-”

“Enough, Dean,” John said, voice returning to drill-sergeant mode. “Don’t call me again unless somebody’s dying.”

The line went dead and Dean grumpily slammed the phone back on the hook.  “Not like you’d pick up if we were,” he muttered.

Sam was at the tiny desk scribbling in a workbook when Dean got back.

“I got ice cream,” Dean held up a grocery bag. “Your favorite!”

Sam glanced up and offered him a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Dean peeled the lid off and snagged a pair of spoons before leaning against the wall by the desk and offering his brother the carton and a spoon. Sam accepted, and the pair shared the ice cream in silence for a while.

“I was thinking maybe I can walk you to school tomorrow,” Dean said, going for nonchalant.  “I could use the break from research, and-”

“I don’t need you to look after me, Dean,” Sam said irritably without looking up from his homework.

“’Course you don’t,” Dean said, “but I’m still going to.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” Dean lightly thumped the side of his brother’s head with his spoon. “Don’t give me that attitude.  I’m your brother.  It’s my job.”

“Yeah yeah,” Sam leaned back in his chair with a sigh and met Dean’s gaze.  “I’m just being stupid.  I can deal with it.”

The brothers stared at each other for a few more moments before Dean shrugged and dropped his spoon on the table.  “If you say so.” He pushed off the wall, ruffled Sam’s hair around the younger boy’s attempts to ward him off, and headed for the bathroom. “I’m going to shower and go to bed.  Wake me up before you leave.”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Sammy.”

 ----------

Dean waited just long enough for Sam to get around the corner before throwing on the first set of clothes he could find and following him.  He was careful not to let his little brother catch wind of him, but close enough to hear Sam saying good morning to a little old lady sitting at a bus stop.

“Hey!”

Dean flung himself against a brick building, hiding behind a trash can, but the voice wasn’t talking to him.

“I said hey! Samantha!”

Dean ground his teeth and forced himself to wait.  He peeked around the garbage and saw Sam at the far corner of the building, shoulders hunched and head down as he picked up his pace. Three kids surrounded him, coming from the side of the building Dean couldn’t see.

“Where’s your mommy, Samantha?” One of the boys taunted, jabbing him in the ribs.

Sam said nothing.

“Don’t you know?” another boy, the one who’d called out first, sneered.

Sam still didn’t reply.

“Bet his daddy’s downtown getting’ drunk while she’s off screwing an entire-” the kid didn’t get to finish his sentence, since Sam’s fist got in the way.

There was suddenly a lot of shouting and scrambling and Sam’s backpack ended up in the middle of the street while the first boy pinned Sam against the sidewalk and the other two started kicking him.

“Hey!” Dean shouted, sprinting down the sidewalk.

The kids scrambled back before he even got there, their leader kicking Sam once more in the head as a parting blow.

Dean managed to catch him and twisted his arm behind his back so he couldn’t escape while he helped Sam up.  “You okay Sammy?”

“Sammy?” one of the other boys, who were both standing a safe distance down the sidewalk, snickered.  

Dean pulled his captive’s arm a little tighter and the boy cried out.

“I’m fine,” Sam sniffed, wiping blood off his face and avoiding his older brother’s gaze.

“What are you kids doing ganging up on my brother?” Dean asked his captive, twisting his arm.

“Ow ow ow!” he shrieked, standing on tip-toe and leaning forward to try and escape.

“I said,” Dean pressed harder and the kid screamed, “why are you picking on my brother?”

“He started it!” the boy wailed.

“Try again.”

“Let him go!” one of the other boys shouted, taking a brave few steps back towards them.

Dean only had to shoot him a glare to quell the moment of bravado and the kid shrank back.

“Mighty brave of you, taking on a small kid three vs one,” Dean said.  “Don’t think you can beat him on your own?”

The kid squirmed.  “I can take him with my eyes shut!”

Dean surveyed the group.  All three bullies were sporting bloody faces and it looked like the first one Sam punched had a broken nose. He smirked.

“Let him go, Dean,” Sam pleaded. “We’re going to be late for school.”

“No,” Dean said.  “I have a better idea.”

He spun his captive around and shoved him towards Sam.  “You can take him with your eyes shut, huh? Go ahead and do it, then.  Just you two.”

The boy rubbed his arm, glaring at Dean and his brother. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Prove it then.”

“Dean…” Sam said.

Dean took his brother’s backpack.  “They’ve gotta learn not to mess with you,” he said.

Sam grimaced but lifted his hands into a half-hearted fighting stance.

The bully snickered and lunged forward.  Sam danced to the side and caught the other boy in the shin.  He yelped but spun around and swung a fist at Sam’s head. Sam easily blocked it and landed a firm blow to the kid’s ribs.  Dean heard a distinct crack.

The boy’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he doubled over, wheezing and cursing.

“Bryan!” One of the other boys shouted. “Kick his ass!”

Sam looked up at Dean, who shrugged. This was up to the kid now.

“Get over here and help me!” the bully Bryan snarled.

The other two boys charged, and Dean folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Sam smoothly ducked around their attack, tripping one and sending the other careening into his downed friend. They bounced up and came again. Sam’s face set in determination, and within a few swift jabs and no small amount of crying, the bullies were backing off, trying to catch their breath and one holding the side of his face.

“Freak,” Bryan called over his shoulder as they ducked around the corner and vanished.

Sam slumped. “I’m going to get in trouble,” he said as he shook out his hand.

“Let me see that,” Dean said instead, snagging his brother’s hand and examining his knuckles. One had split and was oozing blood.  “Not bad,” he smiled.  “Why didn’t you lead with moves like that?”

The younger Winchester tugged his hand out of his brother’s grip.  “They insulted Mom,” he said.

“I heard.”

“The school is going to be mad.”

“Why? We’re not on school property, are we?”

Sam shook his head.

“Then they can suck it. Dad will be back soon and we can move again. Besides, those kids had it coming.”

“Yeah.” Sam picked up his backpack and brushed it off.  “I gotta go.”

“Hey,” Dean grabbed his brother’s shoulder.  “You did good, Sammy.  I’m proud of you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Sam’s lips.  “Thanks Dean.”

Dean pulled Sam into a hug.  “Any time, Sammy. See you tonight.”

“Yeah,” Sam said again, waiting one more moment before pulling away and waving as he ran off.

“Love you kid,” Dean murmured as he watched him go, then headed off to find those kids and teach them a lesson of his own.

Notes:

If you liked this chapter, please drop a comment! Comments sustain me.

If you didn't like this chapter, please leave me some constructive criticism so I can improve!

Please come visit me on tumblr and twitter!

Chapter 4: Damnit Jim, I'm a Doctor not a Mortician

Summary:

Reference to Major Character Death

The events of a particular scene in Into Darkness from McCoy's point of view.

I was channel surfing while sewing buckskin pants and caught the last hour or so of Into Darkness and of course this kind of angst is delicious so... gotta share.

It had been a long day.

Sometimes Bones cursed himself for signing up for Starfleet, for picking that day to ship out, that particular shuttle. If he'd made one tiny delay, he would never have met Jim, and so many of his problems wouldn't exist. Then again, he wouldn't have the honor of being best friends with one of the best men in the galaxy. He wouldn't have any of his friends. He'd have other friends, sure, but they wouldn't be the leading crew of the Enterprise. They wouldn't be Jim, the man who'd gone after the Kobayashi Maru with fiery tenacity, cheated, and gotten away with it. Jim, the man who'd risked everything he'd worked for to save a stiff-necked, green-blooded, stiff-necked bastard who insisted on facing death with grace. Jim, the man who'd stubbornly insisted on pursuing a fugitive to the edge of the neutral zone to see justice done. Jim, the man who'd beat unbeatable odds time and time again.

Everything had gone so wrong so fast. They had to do a lot of quick thinking, and Bones himself was kept busy by the extraordinary number of casualties. But they never lost faith in their captain - their friend. Bones knew if anyone could succeed, it was Jim.

He did.

And now he was lying dead on Bones' medical table.

Bones had to load run cause-of-death scans on his best friend, had to load him into a body bag. Damn heroic moron. 

Captain James T. Kirk, one of the best men Starfleet would ever see, was dead.

Bones took one long, last look at the man he'd come to regard as a brother, then closed the bag over his captain's cold face. His grief finally overwhelmed him and he sank into his chair, head in his hands, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

Then the tribble moved.

Notes:

If you liked this chapter, please drop a comment! Comments give me life.

If you didn't like this chapter, please leave me some constructive criticism so I can improve!

Please come visit me on tumblr and twitter!

Chapter 5: Together

Summary:

Based on a comic strip done by 10yrsyart on tumblr, where Anathema asks the boys if they're 'together'.

Notes:

You can find the strip on DeviantArt here

Armageddon had been averted and Aziraphale and Crowley were just returning to the bookshop to settle in for a night of drinking when the phone rang.   

Crowley flopped across his favorite settee while Aziraphale answered, but sat up when he heard the angel say, “How did you get this number?” There was a moment of silence, where Crowley stared intently at Aziraphale, before the angel said, “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt... where...? Ah. Yes. Okay, we will be there soon,” and hung up.  

“What was that about?” Crowley asked cautiously.   

“We’ve been invited to dinner in  Taddfield ,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stiffened.   

“The Anti-”  

Aziraphale shook his head. “That young woman with the book, who you hit with your car, Anathema.”  

Crowley stuck blew a raspberry. “ She  hit  me ,”  he  said, and if his voice was a little petulant then that was his business.   

His complaint went ignored as Aziraphale collected his coat from where he’d  just  hung it up and gestured to Crowley to get up.   

“Angel-”  

“Come on, Crowley. It’s rude to leave her waiting.”  

“But we have  plans .”  

“We can drink together every night of the week if we so desire,” Aziraphale pointed out primly. “It’s not every day we get the chance to meet a descendant of an esteemed a witch as Agnes  Nutter .”   

“But we’ve already  met  her!” Crowley whined, dragging himself upright and sulking after his friend. “We’ve met her  twice !”  

Aziraphale held the door open for Crowley and shooed him out of the bookshop before closing and locking it behind them. “Well yes, my boy, but now we can actually  talk  to her.”  

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets as they made their way to the Bently. “I bet  she’s  going to be talking to  us ,” he muttered.   

It wasn’t that he really minded going to dinner with someone, but really... he did. There was a reason they avoided extended associations with humans – beyond the business association each of them apparently had with Shadwell, who Crowley had come to find out what  scamming  him and  really  he ought to make all of his shoelaces disappear for that. No, they avoided friendships with humans because they always went sour. Humans aged and died, and had a nasty habit of noticing when angels and demons  didn’t  age, and sometimes they got very burn-at-the-stake-y.   

Which Crowley knew from experience. A very,  very  unpleasant experience. Fortunately, Aziraphale had made a timely arrival and engineered a distraction to get Crowley down.  

But back to the point.   

Humans were unpredictable, as the last week should have shown. Humans with supernatural powers were even more suspect, and ones that at the very least  suspected , and at worst  knew , what they were...   

Disaster waiting to happen, in Crowley’s opinion.   

Never the less, he drove them to Jasmine Cottage with his usual pedal-to-the-metal attitude and satisfied himself with enjoying Aziraphale’s usual complaints.   

The girl – Anathema, Aziraphale reminded him – met them outside and greeted them with a warm, if somewhat cautious, smile.   

Crowley halted before the porch and glowered.   

“Whatever is the matter my dear?” Aziraphale asked from the doorway.  

“Can’t come in.”  

“Whyever not?”  

Crowley pointed at the horseshoe over the door.   

“Ah,” Aziraphale said with a small wince, then glanced guiltily at Anathema.  

“I can take it down for now,” she said, albeit reluctantly, and stepped inside to retrieve a hammer and stool. Crowley wished she’d insisted on leaving it so he’d have an excuse to wait in the car. Or, better yet, go home and make Aziraphale catch the bus or a cab, since he’d insisted on  coming out  here anyway.   

“Thank you, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said warmly as Anathema stepped down and placed the horseshoe aside. He looked meaningfully at Crowley, who also mumbled a thank you and followed them inside.   

An awkward-looking man was in the kitchen. He looked up and stuttered a greeting. “I’m Newt,” he said as he shook their hands. “I was at the airbase with Anathema when-” his brow furrowed.  

“He has a hard time remembering it,” Anathema explained. “I think Adam did something.”  

“Hardly difficult to believe,” Aziraphale said. “There are just some things the human mind cannot comprehend. Would you like a hand with dinner?”  

Crowley groaned and slunk off to the side to let them finish setting the table.   

Dinner itself was mostly uneventful, but Crowley was pleased to find that he was right and Anathema was peppering them with questions about Heaven and Hell and all the things they weren’t supposed to talk about with humans.   

Aziraphale, of course, was answering evasively, but still giving her more information than he should have.  Crowley, for his part, sat there with his arms folded on the table and tried to keep Aziraphale from wandering too far off topic.  

Finally, as midnight drew close, Newt excused himself to bed and the conversation began to wind down.   

“So...” Anathema rested her chin on her palm. “Are you two like, y’know...”  

Crowley, who had previously been leaned back in his chair, sat up and raised a palm. “No, we’re not ‘together,’” he said before Aziraphale could answer.  He didn’t need his best friend feeling awkward after the madness that had been the last week.   

“Whatever do you mean, dear?”   

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, hand drooping, to find the angel frowning at him. With a jolt Crowley realized what Aziraphale meant and he whipped back around toward Anathema. “I misspoke. We are, in fact, ‘together.’”   

Aziraphale finished his tea with a satisfied smile. “Thank you for dinner, Anathema,” he said, standing. “We really must be getting on, but do call if you’d ever like to get together again. Crowley, dear.”  

Crowley gave a half-hearted wave to Anathema and followed Aziraphale outside, stomach fluttering and face warm.   

Together.  

“ Honestly, my dear,” Aziraphale said with an exasperated sigh as they pulled into the street. “Six thousand years and you still don’t think...?”  

Crowley shrugged. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”  

Aziraphale huffed and took one of Crowley’s hands off the steering wheel to lace their fingers together. “Oh, Crowley.”  

It really didn’t feel that out of place, now that Crowley was thinking about it. Quite obvious, really. He felt a little silly. “Yeah, well...” he grinned at Aziraphale and hit the gas.  

“Both hands on the wheel!” Aziraphale flung Crowley’s hand back at him and grasped at the seat, eyes clenched shut but a small smile on his face.  

Crowley cackled as he accelerated. Something inside him was warm.  

Together.  

Notes:

If you liked this chapter, please drop a comment! Comments give me life.

 

If you didn't like this chapter, please leave me some constructive criticism so I can improve!

 

Please come visit me on tumblr and twitter!

Chapter 6: Mercy or Murder

Summary:

Good Omens

Set in the 1800s, when Crowley is in a hurry and gets himself discorporatedly wounded in the process.

Notes:

So apparently I have this strong headcanon that even though angels and demons are made of the same stock, holy power burns demons, so if Aziraphale were to ever try to use a miracle on Crowley himself it would hurt like a mofo. I've noticed this tends to continue popping up in my writing.

Anyway.

I wrote this forever ago and found it again so now I'm sharing.

Warning for gore.

Crowley had been discorporated before, but never like this.

Those times had all been fast – hanged for witchcraft, drowned, neck broken in battle – unfortunate accidents, but quick. He’d been killed by an angel exactly once, and they’d decided never to do it again; Aziraphale had pushed Crowley off a cliff (because Falling once hadn’t been traumatizing enough, apparently) to prevent another angel from smiting him, which would have destroyed Crowley as completely as a bath in a church.

Yes, he’d experienced death before, but never slowly.

Unlike humans, Crowley knew what was coming next and that he’d be back in a few years, so really he had no reason to be afraid. Then again, he knew what was coming next and Hell’s punishments for losing a corporation were… severe.

So okay. Fear was rational.

The day had started off so well, too. He and Aziraphale met for breakfast and were walking to the park when the angel suddenly half-tossed him into an alley and told him to run. Crowley hesitated just long enough to smell ozone as another angel materialized before scrambling away. He sprinted through narrow cobblestone streets, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the holy beings. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being followed as he rounded a corner and tripped. He tumbled down a set of steps, bounced off a stone wall and flew down a second set toward a tunnel being dug under the river-

And he was impaled on a pair of metal spikes jutting from the wall at an angle. The tunnel was still under construction so he could only assume they were meant to become torch holders.

The bars entered his back and poked through the front of his shirt, just beneath his ribs and the other a bit lower, suspending him at an angle. The only noise Crowley made was a gurgling noise, as the air was forced from his lungs from the impact with the first wall.

Crowley knew such an injury would discorporate him so he didn’t make an effort to free himself; it would only hurt more. So he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Darkness fell. Fear began to set in, now that he had the time to think. Crowley understood why humans fought so hard to live. He didn’t want to die. More than that, he didn’t want to die alone. He wished Aziraphale were here; maybe the angel could even help him, patch him up and nurse him back to health so he didn’t discorporate at all. It would be a slow, human recovery, but it beat what he faced the next few years while waiting for Hell to construct him a new body and finish the paperwork.

It was a nice fantasy.

Crowley swallowed, throat dry. He needed to go find the angel; at least make sure he knew where he was and he’d be back, that the other angel that had appeared didn’t find him. He took as deep a breath as he could muster, braced his hands against the wall behind him, and tried to lift himself off the metal beams impaling him.

His scream echoed off the cobblestone and his arms gave out, settling Crowley back down on the bars. He panted and trembled, trying to catch his breath around the sobs shaking him. Crying only made it hurt so much worse.

No angel, then.

Black tinged the edges of Crowley’s vision, though if it was from pain or blood loss he did not know. A small pool had already formed under him. It couldn’t be long now, right?

“Hello?” a voice called from the bridge above. He was out of sight, but Crowley would know that voice anywhere.

“Aziraphale?” he croaked, hoping the angel would be able to hear him.

Footsteps started down the stairs. “Crowley?”

The angel appeared around the corner on the stairs and froze when he saw him. “Crowley!” he rushed to his side. “Whatever happened?”

“Tripped,” Crowley groaned as Aziraphale examined him. “Can’t get off. Tried.”

Worried blue eyes flicked up to his. “I heard a scream. Was-”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale looked down. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he said quietly.

“Been here a while,” Crowley said. “Gonna die, probably soon.”

“How long?” Aziraphale asked, face twisting.

“All day.”

The angel paled. “I’m so sorry, I would have looked sooner, but-”

“’ss okay, angel,” Crowley sighed. Cold was creeping into his limbs now. “’m jussst glad you’re here.” His eyelids drooped. Not long now.

“Crowley, hold on. You’re not going to die, okay?” Aziraphale said, tapping his cheek.

“I’ve been here too long,” Crowley mumbled, then squinted as the angel moved. “What’re you… Wait! Wait-”

Aziraphale grasped him by the shoulder and hip and lifted him. Crowley shrieked as the metal bars tore free of his body. Aziraphale lowered him gently to the cold cobblestone ground, where the demon sucked in great shudderi

ng breaths; he didn’t have the strength to sob – not now.

“Sh, sh, I’m sorry,” the angel whispered, cupping Crowley’s face and wiping tears from his cheeks.

“Just- just make it fast, please. Don’t- don’t let me linger,” Crowley pleaded. “It hurtsss.”

A pained look crossed Aziraphale’s face. “I don’t like killing you.”

“I don’t like dying. But drawing it out… isss worssse.”

A look of determination came into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I told you you’re not going to die,” he said with a sharp inhale. “Take a deep breath.” He placed a hand over each of the gaping holes in the demon’s abdomen.

“What-” Crowley’s eyes widened as he realized what Aziraphale was about to do. He started hyperventilating. “No no no, angel, angel please, pleasssse don’t, no-”

Holy power surged from Aziraphale’s glowing hands and searing pain comparable to the Fall poured into Crowley.

He wailed.

Notes:

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Chapter 7: The Human Way

Summary:

Good Omens

Follow up to "Mercy or Murder", as requested by Tumblr user Twilight--trix.

Notes:

This takes place modern-day, so roughly two hundred years after Mercy or Murder.

Crowley hated winter. It was cold and blustery and wet, and as if walking weren't hard enough, the almighty had to put ice on the ground.

 

Specifically in nonsensical places like sidewalks. 

 

Where people (read: Crowley) walked. 

 

Instead of using a miracle to steady himself as he fell, Crowley cursed whoever failed to salt the walk to have loose shoelaces for the entirety of the next year. He landed with a crack and pain lanced up his right arm. Crowley blessed under his breath and hauled himself to his feet, cradling his arm, and very nearly went down again as his ankle gave out. 

 

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered as he limped the last two feet to the bookshop door and pushed inside. "Angel? You have a splint handy?" 

 

"Whatever for? Did you hit-" Aziraphale halted as he came around the corner and stared at Crowley making his ungraceful way toward the back and, by extension, the settee. "What happened?"

 

Crowley felt his face heating up and was glad for the sanctuary his glasses offered. "Doesn't matter," he mumbled. 

 

Aziraphale followed Crowley into the back. "Well sit down and let me see. I was a medic during the Great Wars, you know."

 

"Working on it," Crowley snapped, "and I know. You've patched me up several times. They're called the World Wars now anyway." He sank gratefully into welcoming cushions and kicked his right leg up, allowing his left to dangle on the floor. 

 

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to get settled before gently looking him over. "A few bumps and bruises, sprained ankle, and a broken wrist." He frowned. "How did you manage all that with a fall?"

 

"Who said I fell?"

 

He was met with an unimpressed look from Aziraphale before the angel turned back to Crowley's wrist. "It'll take a while to heal; at least six weeks. I could always-"

 

"Ngk!" Crowley ripped his hand out of Aziraphale's (ow) and scrambled off the couch and away from him. "No no no, don't you dare," he said, hastily and clumsily putting the settee between them as Aziraphale stood up. "I'll take a splint and a nap and leave it at that."

 

"Crowley, dear, be reasonable," Aziraphale said, following. 

 

"You stay away from me," Crowley warned as he hobbled backwards, broken wrist tight against his stomach and left hand extended forward in an accusing point. "Stay back."

 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said in exasperation as the demon nearly tripped over a stack of books. "Don't be so dramatic. It will only take a moment!"

 

"No!"

 

"Really, dear, it's not trouble; just a small miracle-"

 

"I'm warning you, Angel," Crowley said, bristling when he realized he'd backed into a corner. He looked wildly around for an escape as Aziraphale closed in. "Last time you healed me I thought I was going to die for good!"

 

"Why must you be so dramatic?" Aziraphale reached for him and Crowley ducked under his arm, hobbling away as fast as he could on a burning ankle while turning to keep the pursuing angel in sight. "You'd been impaled. What else was I supposed to do?"

 

"Let me discorporate, for Satan's sake! That's what I asked you for!"

 

"But then you'd have to go through all that paperwork, you silly thing, and I know Hell is awful to you, and I kept you from dying-"

 

"But I wanted to after that!" Crowley finally lost his balance and toppled over backwards. He cried out and curled protectively around his broken wrist as he landed. His glasses clattered across the floor. 

 

"Crowley!"

 

"Stop it Aziraphale!" Crowley slapped Aziraphale's hand away. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes. "I mean it!"

 

Aziraphale finally stopped, looking hurt. "Was it really that bad?" 

 

"Yes!" Crowley glared up at him. "I was dying. Slowly, and nasty, sure, but it was just a discorporation. We've both done it before. Then you had to go and flood me with holy energy and it burned, Aziraphale! I was on fire. And then I woke up in bed two months later and still had to go through human recovery." And sure, he'd entertained that idea while he'd been hanging on those bars, but it hadn't been pleasant. He'd gotten to spend time with Aziraphale, who'd taken it upon himself to care for the downed demon until he was back in dorm, but it had been difficult and painful. 

 

Aziraphale stood dumbstruck. "I didn't realize…" he swallowed. "You hate Hell so much, and I know how they treat you, so I thought it would be better…"

 

Crowley sighed. "I really don't know which would be worse," he said. Aziraphale grimaced and offered Crowley a hand, which the demon accepted. "Will you just help me do this the human way?"

 

Aziraphale looked torn, but nodded and without warning scooped Crowley into a bridal carry. 

 

"Hey! Angel!"

 

"You've already walked on that ankle more than you should have," Aziraphale said primly, organizing Crowley into a half-ball cradled in one arm. He snapped and the table was suddenly full of medical supplies, which he began picking through with his free hand.

 

Crowley's face warmed. "You, err… can set me down now."

 

"I could," Aziraphale agreed, "but you would just get into trouble, so I'm going to hold onto you."

 

Crowley opened his mouth to protest. "Gnn," he said. 

 

Well, his wrist was burning terribly, and his ankle had swollen magnificently and was throbbing, and it was comfortable in Aziraphale's arms, so really, what was the harm? 

 

Aziraphale took his time finding what he needed, then gave Crowley some pain meds, gently deposited him on the settee, and got to work. The worst part was making sure the fracture was properly lined up, but after that it wasn't so bad. 

 

Crowley was just starting to doze off when Aziraphale finally finished with his ankle. "There you go, my dear. Don't get up for a while." He turned to go. 

 

"Angel…?" Crowley slurred in his semi-conscious state. 

 

"Yes."

 

"Thank you," he mumbled, "for this and… for last time. Even though it hurt."

 

Aziraphale smiled. "Of course. Now, get some rest and I'll make tea when you wake up."

 

Crowley didn't need to be told twice. 

 

 

 

Notes:

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