absolute nightmare

It was the first day of Spring. Crowley hadn’t even had to see a calendar, she’d felt it down to her core. If she were truly committed to her shop, Crowley would have woken up early to arrange fresh bouquets of spring wildflowers. She was far more interested in the greenhouse, teeming with life. Flowers bloomed with every footstep, if not where she intended to go, but in the trees lining the boulevard and fields of suburbia miles from London proper. 

By the time she heard his voice, the hothouse was fragrant with fresh greenery and her fingers sticky with pollen and sap. She didn’t remember dressing but became suddenly quite aware of her body and how delicate gossamer silk draped against coppery skin. Crowley’s lips parted when Aziraphale appeared, and she moved toward him. She felt powerful, like she could change the world with a sigh, but the flowering seasons tended to imbue her with such delusions of grandeur.

One look at her and he knew—the barren lands of his soul was not immune to her spring. Things took root and grow. Aziraphale smiled, the sound of his name on her lips buoyed him like dandelion seeds blown by a gentle breeze. His thumb grazed the flower she put on his jacket as he followed her around as though in a trance. A poisonous, beautiful plant—love despite failings.

"It is traditional to offer libation to my goddess of spring," he said, taking in the extraordinary beauty of her curves barely hidden by the silk she wore. In these moods she would be inventing, creating life and splicing genes. Her hands would take the sharp scents of leaves and her smile alone would nourish a withered sap. Aziraphale would watch and hold her, occasionally spending the entire season by her side like the devoted hound he was. The pull was stronger than ever.

Crowley had been a fixture at the Ritz for months, even more so than before Aziraphale ascended to his new station in Heaven. In fact he was renting a room because money was easy to get, even when he was using minimal miracles in order to keep his paper trail scant in Hell. All he wanted was to be left alone to brood, because what else was there to do now? He’d turned his back on Hell and while he didn’t regret it one bit, it was a lot more lonely without Aziraphale’s companionship. 

And for what? The romantic ideal of setting things right? Whatever that meant.

He knew it was petty, haunting this place, bitter and tired where once it had held happier memories, but a demon had to find his kicks somewhere. There were worse places to call purgatory. It was a week night and the dining room was relatively quiet; he was considering retiring for the evening with a bottle of whiskey and head full of ghosts. Brooding was best done with witnesses, otherwise it was just sulking.

And then it happened. A host lead an achingly familiar figure to sit at a table across the room. Aziraphale. Lord knows how he found the time off after all this time, probably quite literally. He was struck dumb for a moment, unused to seeing the angel anywhere outside his dreams these days. How anyone could possibly mistake him for human was quite beyond Crowley, but the real question was if he should acknowledge the angel at all. Who would blame him if he didn't? For a long moment he considered leaving out the back and doing something reckless. 

But at the end of every day, it was Aziraphale and he’d loved him since before humans started recording time. So he got up and went him after the host left to get a server. 

The bottle of whiskey landed heavily on top of the table, followed by Crowley slouching into the chair across from the angel.

And so, as soon as the host left he dropped his smile and sat so still he might as well be another one of the pillars at the restaurant. Wouldn't that be nice? He only wanted to do good, to be a pillar of support and strength. He stared blankly at the silver-white shine of the cutlery until the emotion wrapped around his corporeal throat begin to strangle him, and he let it because yes, this was where Supreme Archangels sneak off to in order to have a little cry.

A dull thud on his table made him jump. The waitstaff knew to leave him alone and he was about to make a pointed remark when all of a sudden he was eye to eye with Crowley. Crowley, who said something that for the life of him he couldn't hear. Who sat himself across from him like it was any other day in what was supposed to be the rest of their lives.

"What?" Oh no, that was all breath, no words. His voice seemed to have left him. Aziraphale blinked the beginning of tears away and tucked his feelings away.

the reverse kiss: fallen angel, rising star

for my @ineffabildaddy 🩷

we firmly believe that in a reverse au, these idiots would not have taken 6000 years to kiss

Crowley laughed because he couldn't help it. What a ridiculous creature his angel was.

"So? Rich people exist, and let me tell you, no number's too big for that lot. They'll make your life a living hell if they want something you've got."

Not that he really needed to be concerned. Aziraphale, fair and mild-tempered though he was, at the end of the day, he was still a Principality: A guardian and shepherd of mankind. No human could do much more than offend the angel's exacting sensibilities. Crowley was soft for him, though, and didn't like to see him troubled.

"'m not cut out to be a pirate, dear boy. I'm seasick 'n 'm not even at sea." He wanted... he wanted water and the pounding between his physical eyes to go away. Aziraphale shuddered.

Crowley looked at him like he'd sprouted an extra head. it wasn't as though it was an unfathomable prospect. Aziraphale had been obsessed with reading since its invention. If he didn't know better he'd have assumed the angel had inspired the written word.

The dissemination of knowledge and information in written form as a trade was still in its infancy but people all over the world were keen to follow the trend. It was more convenient than attending talks, symposium, or even theatre, and you can lend it to others or carry it around as an accessory with which to signal others of your excellent pedigree. To be well read was to be wreathed in invisible gold.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ Nonsense, everything has a price. This is a shop, is it not? ”  Heavy footsteps continue with his perusal, small round violet sunglasses plucked from his visage and slipped into a coat’s breast pocket, fingertips idly gliding across one of the shelves as if mere touch would garner further information about each volume present. The blond’s gaze narrows with a thread of impatience, the terrible accent always to be expected despite his own neutrality bordering on the favourable when it came to the British, this nation that gave the world the boon of Shakespeare and impeccable tailoring. Listless gait finally draws to a halt.  “ It is to be a gift. Surely one of your discerning tastes can facilitate its purchase, rather than disappoint its recipient. ”  Such placations had the ability to sway mortals, but behind this bright haired figure, well, there was an alternative vigour about him, iridescent eyes scanning the other’s countenance for any hints of his true nature.

The Frenchman had been browsing politely, curious eyes taking in the shelves as he seemed to amuse himself with what he saw, up until he found the volume Crowley had left as a joke, oh, several hundred years ago. That seemed to amuse him greatly and he promptly asked for a price. Aziraphale had twitched a polite smile in return for the man's enthusiastic and suspiciously leonine grin.

no idea about the context for this scene cuz I haven't watched s2 yet but I imagine this is exactly what happened :)

based on this Columbo gem: