G, 499w. Written for SOSH GTA 12, prompt: saints! Hosted by @cassieoh <3

“Oldest secular building in South Bedfordshire, you said,” Crowley reminds him. He looks around the room. “Nice carpeting for the fourteenth century.”

“Don’t be absurd, Crowley, they must have redecorated over the years.”

Aziraphale thinks they’ve done a rather nice job of it, too. Lovely wooden tables and soft-backed chairs and a good deal of natural light; pale blue walls and — oh, he points out delightedly, oh look they’ve got a tartan sofa. Crowley rolls his eyes but hides his smile poorly. It was Aziraphale’s idea to come to the Old Moat House, but it’s only a short trip north of London to Saints and Crowley never could say no to a day out.

So they take their seats, order some food and some wine, and fall into talking about nonsense as is their wont. By the time Aziraphale’s finishing his plate, Crowley is insisting that Hell was created before Heaven, and Aziraphale is having none of this.

“Can’t have been first,” Crowley says. “What’s the— the point of good if there isn’t any bad to be against?”

“Don’t be absurd. Demons are fallen angels; you can’t have been around for longer.”

Crowley grins, secure in his position as devil’s advocate even or perhaps especially when the devil is clearly operating under faulty assumptions. “Prove it, then.”

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“I told you, you’ve got nothing to–”

“Actually, my dear, you told me you’d let me speak without interruption.”

“Fair point. Sorry, go on.”

“I’m sorry– I’m sorry for pushing you away, I’m sorry for making you wait so long for me, I’m sorry you loved me so much longer than I loved you, I’m… I’m sorry that you Fell, and that you thought that mattered to me, and I’m so very terribly sorry that there was ever a moment you felt unworthy or unloved, and I’m sorry for every moment I wasn’t holding you like this.”

“…Finished?”

“…I think so.”

“My turn then, angel– I’m sorry for pushing you before you were ready, I’m sorry you had to be scared and trapped and I’m sorry for ever making that feel worse, I’m sorry you think you need to apologise, and I’m especially very fucking sorry you think there’s anything in the world you could do that would make me not want to hold you, but I’m not sorry for loving you, not ever.”

“You didn’t make me feel worse.”

“And you didn’t make me wait.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I chose to wait, angel. Of my own accord, ‘cause I knew you’d be worth it.”

“If I ever came around, you mean.”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty irresistible.”

“You’re obnoxious is what you are.”

“You like it.”

“I do. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before.”

“S'alright, I could tell.”

“Well, I can tell you now. I love you, in all your irritating glory, you wonderful serpent, you beautiful demon, I love you even when you get full of yourself.”

“Aww. I love you even when you get mean.”

“I’m not mean!”

“I saw how you spoke to that customer the other day.”

“Well, really! She was handling a first edition without so much as a pair of gloves.”

“Horrible angel… Mean angel… Kiss me and I won’t bring it up again.”

“Is this blackmail or bribery?”

“Hm. Little bit of both?”

“Treacherous snake.”

“You love me.”

(Written for SOSH GTA 11, rated T, 500 words.)

Crowley couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You want to—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Yes, Crowley. Very much.”

“But—” Crowley sputtered. “But you’re… You, you haven’t…?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I don’t see what you’re so surprised by,” he huffed. “It’s perfectly normal.”

Not for us! thought Crowley, feeling mildly panicked. His face flamed. “For humans, maybe.”

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“Darling. I know full well it was you who put them up to it,” says Aziraphale, who’s settled rather cosily into his armchair, and contrives to continue with his book despite the best efforts of both fireworks and demon to distract him from it.

“Angel,” says Crowley, exasperated. He stands behind Aziraphale and drapes his arms over the back of the chair to rest his hands on broad shoulders. The jumper’s soft beneath his fingertips and he leans into the warmth, the solidity of Aziraphale. “Mm.” On second thought, he decides, better to tackle this head on; he slithers around to the front of the chair and takes a seat in Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale flips the page.

Crowley pouts. “What’s the use of getting all dressed up for the occasion if you won’t even look at me?”

“Yes, you look very nice.”

“You haven’t moved.”

Aziraphale turns to him and beams. “You look very nice,” he says, with a sincerity that sets Crowley’s chest to aching. “And I’d very much like to kiss you, wily serpent that you are.”

This sounds like an excellent plan to Crowley, who leans in and is bitterly disappointed to find a finger at his chest stopping his forward movement. “Wh–”

“It’s not for hours yet,” Aziraphale says, smiling a bastard’s smile.

“Could get a head start,” Crowley suggests quickly. “End the year right.”

For a moment, Aziraphale considers this idea. Crowley watches him turn it over in his mind, gazes at the little creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, loves the genuine thoughtfulness in his expression; Aziraphale has never been one to take things lightly. Crowley waits, which he’s used to, but it’s not like before, because now he knows he’ll have an answer. He can ask his questions aloud. He can be heard.

“No, I think not,” Aziraphale concludes, and Crowley groans. “Oh hush. It’s only a little while longer and think how much more it will mean.”

Crowley’s protests are futile. He sulks, but not in any way that requires vacating Aziraphale’s lap. He waits. He checks his watch. He resynchronises it with the best satellite technology available to mankind. He waits. He stares at the wall. He steals glances at Aziraphale, who pinkens and pretends to ignore him. He updates his watch again. He waits. He waits. He waits.

Another, louder boom. Aziraphale looks up with interest. “Is it nearly time, then?”

“It’s 11:45 PM and thirteen seconds,” says Crowley, without consulting his watch.

“I see,” says Aziraphale, and resumes giving all his attention to his book.

Crowley frowns. “Gonna miss it,” he warns. “You’ll be so into that thing you’ll forget and then where will we be?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “I imagine we’ll be right here. Still perfectly capable of kissing one another.”

Really he is absolutely impossible. It’s not about that! It’s the principle of the thing! Crowley folds his arms. “It’s traditional,” he says.

It’s a very human thing, all things considered. Celebrating a particular time of a particular day in a particular way. The ritualization of an unremarkable celestial happenstance, based entirely on an abstract manmade system erected around the limited view of the universe from the perspective of a single floating rock. Nothing concrete separates a year from the next; at some point, one society decided to start counting from this position in space, and now here they are. Arguing over New Year’s Eve midnight kisses.

11:56 and forty-seven seconds and counting. “Aziraphale,” says Crowley.

“Yes, dear.”

Another boom. “Are you sure we can’t get started?”

“Oh yes.”

Back to sulking. Back to checking his watch.

11:58 and twenty-six seconds. “Now?”

Aziraphale sighs and sets down his book. “Crowley,” he says, in a tone that means he’s beginning some kind of lecture. “Dearest.”

Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek in one hand. “Mmyeah.”

Tragically, Aziraphale does not give in to the temptation to kiss Crowley’s palm. He says slowly, “I think we’ve had enough of waiting, don’t you?”

Ngk! So there will be normal edition of Aziraphale and Crowley, the chase edition of them and then special 2 pack with wings!

I didn’t see yet any european shop with the winged version - does anyone know one? Or one from US or other that doesn’t have shipping cost many times the pops… :)

The US ones having all editions (though be quick):

bigapplecollectibles

themightyhobby

Europe (basic only)

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“Crowley. There’s people staring.”

“And?” Crowley kisses him again. “M’not doing anything wrong, am I? Can’t a bloke kiss his fella in the park?”

“His fella?” Aziraphale repeats, delighted.

Crowley hums. “Thought you’d like that. Suits you, y’know. Old-fashioned and–” But he cuts off without finishing the sentence, blushing and ducking his head to kiss at Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale leans into the kiss, but he’s not going to let Crowley get away with this. “And what, my dear?”

Whatever Crowley mumbles against his skin cannot be made out. Aziraphale takes gentle hold of Crowley’s jaw and tips his head up. He lifts an eyebrow and waits.

“And cute,” Crowley says, as though exasperated, like he isn’t bright pink in the cheeks.

Aziraphale beams. “You think I’m cute?”

“Fuck off, you know that.” Crowley pauses. “Did you not know that? Have I not said? Shit. Uh. Yeah, you’re bloody cute, angel.”

“No, I know,” says Aziraphale. Bastard. Oh, Crowley’s so horribly in love. “I simply enjoy hearing you say it. You give compliments so sweetly, darling.”

Crowley hisses. Aziraphale laughs.

Crowley thinks for an instant that he would give anything to bottle this precise moment: his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, joy in Aziraphale’s expression, the crispness of coming winter in the air, the trees tipped with orange and red and slowly depositing leaves to the earth and the pond, everything fiery and golden and perfect. But he doesn’t have to remember to cling to this moment, because there will be more, thousands of instances of holding one another in the world that didn’t end, beautiful and delicate. A moment may be fleeting but if they never stop – if they just keep living these moments, this could last forever, this feeling in his chest.

Still. “Selfie?” he suggests, pulling his phone from his pocket, and Aziraphale pulls a face indicating his disdain for the sleekness of the device but obligingly poses with his chin resting on Crowley’s shoulder from behind. The shutter clicks and yes, there they are: Aziraphale’s wind-ruffled curls like a halo, ugh, he does this on purpose, Crowley just knows it; Crowley’s grin, louder than the wind in the branches above them; the sun, already starting to slide downwards, catching in the pond and sending sparkles across its surface.

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“You’re cheating,” Aziraphale says, but he’s smiling.

“Why would I cheat?” Crowley protests. “Not like the stakes are high enough to be worth it.”

The stakes are not, in fact, very high: only a handful of chocolate coins already going soft in their shiny golden wrappings. Aziraphale lays a protective hand over his scant winnings. “Well. Perhaps it’s simply in your nature.”

Crowley crosses his arms as though he has been deeply offended. “You think I’m incapable of playing an honest game?”

Aziraphale touches his shoulder. “Of course not, my dear,” he says, and Crowley smiles until he adds, “I’m merely suggesting that you don’t want to play fair.”

“Pffft,” says Crowley, who has been miracling his spins to land on gimmel about half the time, “where’s the fun in a rigged game?”

Aziraphale attempts a frown. It goes poorly, and Crowley laughs until Aziraphale does too. “I suppose you would have to tell me that, really,” he says. “Is it really so enjoyable to deprive me of my chocolates?”

“Ohhh,” says Crowley, tipping his head. “I wouldn’t say I’m planning on depriving you of them, y’know. Never been much for sweets myself.”

“Then–” Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “What is your devious plan, serpent?”

Crowley grins, a sharp and wicked thing, and Aziraphale kisses his cheek. “I have been doing a fair bit of thinking,” Crowley says, and nods solemnly as Aziraphale pretends to be shocked at this news. “I know, I know, dangerous activity. But I was thinking what I’d do with all this chocolate I’ll have won, and it seems to me, y’see, there’s really just one thing for it.”

“And what’s that?”

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and brings it to his lips. “It occurs to me,” he says, “that I may know someone who enjoys chocolates far more than I do.”

Aziraphale smiles, a soft thing, happiness bright in his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Mhm. So if you’ll take your turn, angel, I think it’ll only be a few more rounds before I’ve got all the coins and we can set this plan into motion.”

EDIT: now on AO3 here!

It’s silly, maybe. To get so excited over what amounts to low-level arson, just setting something on fire and then having pastries about it. But tradition is tradition and Crowley likes that Aziraphale likes it. The ritual of it, the celebration. Something about the symbolism of light in darkness, tiny flames against the winter cold. (He’ll never admit he likes it too. He’s just here for the food, and never mind that he doesn’t even like jelly.)

Aziraphale holds the tip of the candle out to him and Crowley flicks it into fire, nothing profane about it, just a chemical reaction of oxygen and carbon. “Thank you,” Aziraphale says quietly, smiling, and begins the blessing. “Baruch atah…”

The room brightens. An angel’s blessing is no small thing. Crowley’s feet should be aching; it shouldn’t be this easy for him to stay here, so close, and to hear these words. But he is welcome here. This is something he can have, holy though it is, because they promised this place would be their home, and so it is his. There is no scorching heat, only a gentleness, a soft warmth in his chest.

The second blessing comes to an end, ba’zman hazeh, and in this time everything is golden as Aziraphale touches the flame to each wick and they watch it reach hungrily for the oil; Crowley whispers, “Amen,” and oh, it tastes right on his tongue, isn’t that something?

“C’mon,” he says, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder when the correct number of branches for tonight have been lit. “We’ve still got doughnuts from last night, haven’t we?”

“Ooh, yes,” says Aziraphale, wiggling. He beams. “Don’t think I didn’t see you put yours back untouched, by the way.”

Crowley pokes out his tongue. “Sufganiyot. Sticky,” he says, as though that explains everything, and leads Aziraphale away from the table and towards the kitchen. “Are you going to sing again?”

“You know the words as well as I do, and don’t even try to pretend otherwise.” Aziraphale prods his arm. “Sing with me?”

He does know the words. He ought to, as resident tzar ham’nabeach, as audience to a divine shir mizmor; Crowley can recall the events of Maoz Tzur as clearly as Aziraphale can, and so the lyrics aren’t difficult to call to mind. But he likes to hear Aziraphale sing it. “You do it better,” he says, “all that heavenly choir practice.”

Aziraphale hides a smile unsuccessfully. “Tomorrow night, then,” he decides, and begins to sing as he fetches the doughnuts and dreidels, as the chanukiah flickers familiar shadows on the wall, spilling light into the street through the window, proclaiming: A great miracle happened here. Here and now and then and there, in those times as in these, for us as well as them. Every year past the end of the world is a miracle. Every day spent together is a miracle.

Not all miracles are flashy: small jugs outlasting all hope, seas splitting open, columns of flame in the desert night. Sometimes a miracle is something quieter. An unexpected victory against unassailable odds. One hand in another. The promise of tomorrow.

G, 500 words. Written for SOSH GTA 9, prompt: game, hosted by yours truly :D

“That’s not a word.”

“Course it is.”

“It really isn’t. I thought we agreed this round was English-only.”

“Oh, it’s English.”

“For— it’s not bloody Old English again, is it? Eugh.”

“Dunno why you’re complaining, you’re always banging on about how things should stop changing.”

“With fashion! With book prices! Not with language, you miserable serpent.”

“Mm. M’not the miserable one tonight, I think.”

“Hmph.”

“Just ’cause you’re losing.”

“I maintain that you’re cheating.”

“Your objections are duly noted.”

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Written for SOSH GTA 8, prompt: dream, as hosted by @lyricwritesprose!

Crowley was dreaming.

He knew this because he was warm. Because he was safe. Because there was a gentle hand in his hair, holding him close, and a voice in his ear, murmuring sweet nothings. He knew this was a dream because it was a voice he recognized.

Crowley didn’t care if it wasn’t real. He leaned into the touch. It wasn’t the first time; it wouldn’t be the last. If he couldn’t have this waking, he’d take this, the desperation of unconsciousness and the half-guilty ease of accepting what he’d wanted for so long. It wouldn’t change anything when he woke up. It never did.

But in the meantime, Aziraphale was pressing brief kisses to the corner of his mouth, and Crowley allowed himself this. Another stolen, impossible moment. Another example of how self-deluded he was, even asleep. If he were more fully in control at the moment, he might have been angry with himself for telling such lies— lies most unbecoming of a demon. Demonic falsehoods were meant to confound the innocent and mislead the pure. Crowley hadn’t been either of those things in a very long time.

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“Mmmmph… Come back to bed.”

“You know the shop opens in fifteen minutes, dear.”

Crowley groans. “Doesn’t have to. You don’t even want to.”

Aziraphale makes a noise like tsk and leans to press a quick kiss to the back of Crowley’s head. “Always with the tempting,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too put out about this.

“M’right,” says Crowley into the pillow. “You’d rather be here than fending off customers… No reason to put yourself through all that… Bed’s still warm…”

It is, too, mostly because Crowley wants it to be: cosy and comfy and perfectly, tantalizingly warm. The blankets are thick, the pillows are fluffed, and really this is a completely unreasonable time of the morning for any angel to leave his demon alone. When Crowley says as much, Aziraphale is heartless enough to laugh.

“You could come down to the shop if you mind so much,” he says, to which Crowley makes a noncommittal noise that means I will, because you want me to, but I’ll complain the entire time.

It’s nice, this game they play now. Where Aziraphale pretends the shop has actual hours of business and Crowley grumbles about things that don’t matter and they both can take full breaths of the late-morning air. This is what days look like now, since, after. A growing familiarity with okayness. With happiness. They’re learning quickly, together.

“Could make breakfast,” Crowley offers, rolling onto his back to see Aziraphale’s reaction to this declaration of love. “Bring it down to you.”

“Ooh, yes,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and then consults his pocket watch, because he still has a pocket watch, and oh, Crowley loves him. “Only it might be an early lunch rather.”

“Mm. Keep that in mind when I’m coming up with the menu, I s’pose.” Crowley grins lazily, watching Aziraphale pat at his pockets to confirm he’s ready to leave the bedroom, all set to open for business. “Wait, wait, before you go–!”

Dutifully, Aziraphale approaches as Crowley manages to get himself upright in bed for a kiss. “I really have to be going, my dear, I’ll be late.”

“You want to be late. One more.”

This is what mornings look like: tangled blankets and sleep-mussed hair and silly flirtations. Finding slippers and filling the flat with the smell of baking and frightening off customers because it’s our lunch break, honestly, read the sign please, no it’s very plainly written out right there, I can’t help it if you didn’t see, but we’re very busy and please come back another time, or don’t, I doubt we have what you’re looking for in any case. Stolen kisses behind the counter and interlocked fingers between the bookshelves and smiles that speak of a shared secret which doesn’t have to be kept quiet any longer.

Written for SOSH GTA 7, prompt: “Big spooky fan, me,” as hosted by Euterpein! Full author list in @aethelflaedladyofmercia’s post here.

Crowley was a thing of tension getting into bed. Curled his whole body into a tight ball, locked his limbs, and squeezed his eyes shut. Now, though, he is asleep. Loose; sprawled out. Unguarded.

Unguarded. The word sets Aziraphale on edge, sets him to pacing the room. Then he wonders whether his movement might not wake Crowley, so he tiptoes downstairs instead, hands twisting in front of him, waiting— but for what, he dares not name.

Please let him be safe, he thinks; when he realizes this comes dangerously close to prayer, he slams the brakes on that line of thought and thinks instead, I will keep him safe.

The night passes like this, in incremental moments of bated breath. In the tremor of his fingertips. In the unsteadiness of a heartbeat. It is a night like all that have passed. It passes; he passes through it. The sunrise comes. Aziraphale watches as its light climbs through the bookshop windows, catches on the dust motes, sets the merchandise to glowing. Another night survived.

The door rattles. Aziraphale freezes.

“Open up,” someone says. Immediately, Aziraphale releases his wings. Seizes at a power deep within his core; prepares to do battle with forces ancient and eldritch.

“You are not welcome here,” he thunders, voice slipping past vocal registers and shaking the shelves. He is gathering light, pulling sunshine into his orbit, burning brightly enough to produce a hum. “You should not be here.”

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Aziraphale sniffed. “I shouldn’t speak ill of other angels,” he said, delicately and disapprovingly, but he was already fetching the wineglasses and they’d only just gotten in from dinner.

“Oh, come on,” said Crowley, who was not above a bit of wheedling and who knew exactly how much Aziraphale enjoyed reveling in a good complaining session. “I know Gabriel’s a twat.”

Aziraphale poured the wine in silence. Then he said, “Well. You said it, not me.”

Crowley grinned. There was nobody like Aziraphale for finding loopholes. Half the contracts in the corporate world had been drafted as collaborations in this very room. Arguing over legal tedium was even better entertainment than the old do-dogs-have-souls chestnut. This was familiar ground. “How’s Michael doing, then?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Has she still got the biggest stick up her–”

“I’m going to stop you there,” said Aziraphale warningly.

“So that’s a yes.”

A meaningful pause. “I wouldn’t say it was a no.”

There was a particular kind of laugh only Aziraphale could draw out of Crowley. Not that he knew it himself, of course. Crowley laughed now, an exclamation mark of joyous sound, and wriggled around on the sofa until he was seated enough to accept a glass. “To horrible coworkers,” he said, extending it to wait for Aziraphale’s corresponding clink! But it didn’t come.

Crowley drew down the sunglasses to get a better look. Aziraphale was twisting the ring on his smallest finger, almost in danger of spilling his own wine, and so Crowley threw out a careful little miracle to prevent it. Just in case, and for self-preservation of course, just to avoid getting splashed. No point getting messy. “Angel?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, blinking. “Erm. To- to terrible friends.”

It was exactly this sort of thing that made Crowley lie awake at night. (Demonic insomnia notwithstanding.) Friends was a nice word– too nice by far, stinging somewhere deep in Crowley’s chest– but tempered with terrible. They both knew to avoid descriptions which gave demons hives.

anyway. so. here it is.

so, we all know crowley is capable of massive feats, in terms of miracles. he can stop time on a whim. he can make a car make it through a ring of whatever the fuck kind of flame surrounded london via the m25, and then have it continue to function for several hours after that. he can pull two other entities (including the fucking antichrist) into what i can only assume to be a pocket dimension or something similar outside of time when one of the most powerful entities in the goddamn universe was approaching their location. and we also know why he is capable of the things he does: his imagination. crowley’s creativity and imagination are one of the most powerful forces in the goddamn universe and that’s not even an exaggeration. now, the other thing. aziraphale. he’s smart, and cunning, and the biggest thing working against him is his lack of confidence in his abilities. he deciphered a large portion of agnes nutter’s notoriously fucky riddles in one night. he figured out how to possess someone, despite no angel having done it before. and the reason he isn’t higher in the pecking order in heaven is because he’s kind, and loves the way angels should; and he is told for six millenia that he is not a good angel, which feeds into the lack of self confidence. but after ain'tmaggedon, he’s free of heaven’s influence. in fact, the only influence he really has now is crowley. and crowley’s loved him for that six millenia, and probably sings his praises as often as he can now that crowley is likewise free of hell’s influence, because he is a dumbstruck loveass. so aziraphale is more confident in his own abilities and traits, now. and aziraphale is intelligent. agnes nutter’s final prophecy got them out of heaven and hell’s line of view, and gave them time. but they won’t stay away forever; crowley acknowledged that, right after the switch back in the garden. and aziraphale knows that it’s only a matter of time before someone notices some discrepency, and they get caught (there’s ten million angels and ten million demons, after all. someone’s going to notice). so aziraphale begins to plan.

But when we see them on the bus After Everything, they got on together. Crowley’s the first to sit down, and he takes the window seat, leaving the aisle open. An opportunity, a question he doesn’t ask out loud. You can sit next to me. If you want, if you’re ready.

(Written for SOSH GTA 6, hosted by the fabulous @luritto!)

Aziraphale wields a spatula like no one else. Crowley watches him fold the egg whites into the rest of the batter with an intense look of concentration and cannot resist giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Thank you,” says Aziraphale automatically, and then frowns. “Only must you interrupt, dear? I’m undertaking a rather delicate procedure.”

“Mm, by all means, don’t let me stop you.” Crowley settles into a seat at the table, chin in hands, content to observe. The pinch of Aziraphale’s forehead, the steadiness of his hands, the way the sun coming through the kitchen window sets his hair aglow: it’s all Crowley can do to think, Beautiful, and hope it doesn’t slip out. Embarrassing, really. Wouldn’t be the first time, either.

Aziraphale lifts his bowl to pour the contents into a pan and slide that into the preheated oven, and then he turns to Crowley. “How shall we fill the next 20 minutes?”

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