Happy Holidays, Comicgeekery!
Jan. 2nd, 2025 05:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeRecipient: Comicgeekery
Author: Secret!
Verse: Good Omens (TV)
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: T
Warnings: no archive warnings apply
Summary: Written for the request: “Aziraphale helps Crowley learn about himself.” Post-apocalypse, in their new cottage, Aziraphale hopes Crowley will make himself at home. But after a lifetime spent hiding from Hell — who he is, and what he wants — Crowley needs a little extra help to settle in.
Aziraphale knew Crowley — of course he did; far better than he’d known anyone in six thousand years. But even after millennia (plus one non-apocalypse and the sudden blossoming of their affaire de cœur), he found himself often surprised in the week they’d given to “moving in,” the human way.
Of course they had simply miracled the contents of their separate households directly onto the sun porch of the newly-chosen little rose-grown Sussex cottage. Aziraphale had not been about to trust museum-quality medieval volumes and priceless manuscripts to the tender mercies of movers, rattling a poorly turned-out lorry over country roads. As for Crowley, he would certainly find hired help both unstylish and intrusive.
At any rate, Crowley had always been private about his mode of living. He had never asked Aziraphale in, let alone strangers. It had become a sore spot, after they’d settled in London long enough for Aziraphale to see how things would be. Admittedly Crowley had never asked him in before, either, amid all the endless round of caravans, hostels, tents and castles of their nomadic early years. But things had been fragile then.
So after Aziraphale had allowed himself the dangerous joy of settling down in London, and told Crowley he was always welcome at A.Z. Fell’s, he’d hoped for a little more intimacy. He did like having Crowley over to the bookshop. It was a haven for all his enjoyments; of course he was glad to bring his chiefest co-enjoyer into it.
But he’d have liked to have been asked back to Crowley’s, too, some evening after they’d shared a show and a luxurious, very late dining-out. He’d have relished the chance to poke about in Crowley’s cupboards, and to have seen how he kept his tea service and his powder room, and to have examined whatever souvenirs he’d kept of all their earthly centuries. Aziraphale did cherish his curiosity. Crowley understood that. But Crowley had never offered him so much as a glimpse of his flat until the actual end of the world, when there had been very little chance for poking about. So it had been a thrill when he’d realised ‘moving in’ would give him every chance he’d wanted.
Arrived at last, they had begun to spread and sort their bric-à-brac and whatnots. He was startled more than a few delightful times in the process: by Crowley’s Golden Girls DVD collection – by his gentle and rather melancholy taste in vinyls (nothing like the peppy absurdity of the Bentley playlist) – and most of all by Crowley’s modest stack of books.
He might have given his solemn word that Crowley did not read. He’d shown not the slightest interest in any of the estate sales, the museum catalogues, and the private collections up for exclusive auction which were Aziraphale’s pet indulgence. And yet there they were, waiting modestly in the corner of the porch: Crowley’s books. Paper-backed Bond novels; decades of Time-Life, People and Vogue; biographies and memoirs of human rebellions, reinventions, emancipations; and volume after volume of natural history. Most notably (and here a pang), a remarkable range of astrological photography: galaxies, nebulae, pulsars, meta-moons, cascades and pools and sparkling fantasies of stars.
And other books of imagery: glossy, full-colour portraiture of colorful fungi; animalcules and their viscous environments; small songbirds; the wind-twisted resilient furze and blossoms of the wild northern moors. Aziraphale found himself humming ‘All creatures great and small’ as he’d looked. He felt he held in his hands the keys to hidden avenues of the mind, which they might explore for ages. True, Crowley’s tastes ranged far from his. There was not one novel in the lot, nor any prophecy; nothing fictional, nor particularly theological; not even a spellbook or an alchemist’s record over which they might debate. Still, there was plenty of material for conversation.
He wanted very much to learn what Crowley loved, what had occupied his hours apart. He thought now he might ask Crowley about the societal habits of bees, or the intelligence of mushrooms, as they walked about the garden. He might comment on the Pleiades visible through the back windows at night, and ask whether Crowley had had a hand in them. He might bring up the emotional life of the domestic dog. Their neighboring house appeared to have several: noisy little things, but brave-hearted as the wild, proud creatures he had first watched Adam name, in ancient innocence.
He left Crowley’s books beside the still-empty shelves in the library. The idea of the room was taking shape, at least. The lion’s share of the shelving would go to Aziraphale’s books, and the beautiful oaken work-desk stood ready for him. The reading lamp had been set beside his favourite chair. He wondered now whether Crowley meant to read there. As it stood, the room rather looked as though it would become Aziraphale’s alone. He hoped it wouldn’t stay so. He really ought to find Crowley something to sit in, hopefully at his side, while they worked or wrote or read through a long warm evening.
Crowley had had a chair, singular, in rather overdramatic style, but he appeared to have left it in London. He had left behind the suggestive statuary, too, and the eagle-adorned lectern, and his unreasonably broad and weighty desk (admittedly none of which would have suited the cottage). He’d brought his lovely plants – they were tucked about in various corners, brightening the room – but no furnishings at all, so far as Aziraphale could see.
In fact, as Aziraphale left the library and walked through the cottage in the rosy evenglow, the slowly growing familiarity of it all turned worrying. The place was new and yet not new. Everywhere he looked, most of what he saw was his own.
Settling in London had felt bold enough, before. He had never expected to go further – not to actually take a stand against the End, and make his fragile earthly peace permanent. But now it seemed that had been inevitable from the moment he had chosen a place to be his, only his, even if he had called it an outpost of Heaven when they came calling.
Now the cottage had shed the pretense. It was unequivocally of Earth. And it was meant to be their own, together. Aziraphale, standing in the little kitchen surrounded by his own Georgian crockery and Victorian silver-plate, his angel-wing mugs in a neat little row on the shelf – Aziraphale saw what was missing, and began to wonder exactly how much Crowley meant to make himself at home.
Crowley had been poking about somewhere in the little overgrown back orchard – had promised to set it to rights and vanished into it hours ago. Now he was coming in the side door, smiling, evening-scented, loose-limbed and less frightened than Aziraphale had seen him in some time. Contented, in fact. That was the word for the light in his unguarded golden eyes. Aziraphale really ought to let him be, and he knew it, and yet –
“This is all wrong,” he said, “this house,” and saw Crowley stiffen, saw his glow fade, and cursed himself silently.
“Wha – Angel. What’s the matter with it?” Eager, anxious. So generous, always. So sweet beneath the habitual sharpness.
“It’s got too much of me in it,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley stared.
“No such thing,” he said quickly, and clearly meant it.
“No, I mean — it’s not got enough of you.” Maddening how his facility for words went clean out the window when he really meant it, but there you were: no dignity in love.
“All my stuff is here,” Crowley objected, audibly mystified. “I’m here,” he added, clearly finding this conclusive.
“Yes, dear boy. But — it still looks like mine. Your flat, it was — it was not at all — ”
“Not at all like this, no,” said Crowley, and now he looked to be arriving at the point, and Aziraphale exhaled in relief; until Crowley added, “I’m pretty glad of that.”
“Well, I’m not!” He hadn’t meant to be testy. He wheeled about, feeling that perhaps he didn’t need to see the way Crowley was looking at him. He needed something to do with his hands. Tea — he could make tea. He lit the stove, shook out the match. Silence reigned behind him. “I didn’t want to go on just the same as we were,” he added, when the quiet grew too difficult. “You’re not my guest now. I wanted to know how you live, Crowley.”
“You knew already,” said Crowley, and that was maddening enough that Aziraphale’s hands shook as he held the kettle under the faucet, letting its weight keep him from flinging back around and saying something silly. He kept himself silent until Crowley added, “I didn’t do much of my living in the flat. It was hardly a home. Not like yours was, Angel.”
Aziraphale set the kettle on the flame and turned around, finally, to meet Crowley’s look — earnest, and so sincerely uncomprehending.
“Well, then. What do you want?” And as Crowley took a breath, “Don’t say ‘This.’ We’ve had this already, in the bookshop, and it’s been wonderful. But you were only sharing what was mine. This place is yours, too. What do you want?”
Crowley blinked, and blinked again. Helplessness was creeping up in his expression. It had been some time since he’d had that look. Crowley had seemed so happy and so sure since Aziraphale had chosen their side. Aziraphale hadn’t thought he could give anyone such happiness, in fact, and now that he had he never wanted to disturb it. But Crowley was wide-eyed, wordless, his hand going up automatically to settle sunglasses that weren’t there; they’d been left off since they’d arrived.
“Why do I have to want anything more?” Crowley tried, and Aziraphale couldn’t let him have it.
“Because I saved the world for you, too. You’re telling me you’ve never felt at home. I’m asking you to make a home here. Please,” and he hadn’t meant to plead, but he was, “please, let me see you make it yours.”
The kettle was beginning to whistle. Because he could do nothing else, he set about making the tea. He could hear Crowley behind him taking little breaths as though he was about to say something, and then letting them out again, as though he’d thought better of it. Crowley still hadn’t found his words when Aziraphale had laid the tray and brought it to the table, but he sat down and took the cup he was offered in both hands. Behind him the window opened on the blue evening; the first starlight limned the slender lines of his shoulders, the radiance of his hair as he dipped his head to sip. They drank together in silence.
Since they had arrived, the quiet of the country nights had settled over Aziraphale with the lovely half-grief of memory. He had had centuries of London life, by then — the shouts and singing of strangers outside his walls, the hum of the electric street lamps, the ebb and flow of traffic all through the hours.
Now there was stillness. Outside, only the sound of the wind in the trees, the movement of a field-mouse beneath the window, the distant voice of an owl. It was as quiet as it had been long ago, when humans were few and only wild things kept him company through the watches of the night. The silence outside made him feel strange, almost as young as he had never been.
When Crowley finished his cup and stood, Aziraphale stretched out a hand to him. Crowley took and kissed it, a quick, soft press. While the kissing was still new and remarkable, the awkward gallantry of it was so familiar Aziraphale could have cried. He watched him set his cup beside the sink and open the door to the night. The door closed behind him gently.
Aziraphale went into the library, and turned on the lamp, and set Saint-Saens on the Victrola. He could feel Crowley still, out there beyond the walls; he wasn’t far. With part of his mind, he followed the warmth of him out through the garden. With the rest he turned to the grand old work-desk and the task of sorting out several hundred years’ accumulated manuscripts and letters.
Hours passed; the slowly turning earth made its sure progression through the darkness. The breeze had risen and birds were singing sun-songs when Aziraphale felt Crowley’s unseen presence approaching at last. He drew a breath, releasing his long hours’ attention with it; put papers and tools in their cubbies and nooks, smoothed his waistcoat, and turned down the lamp; turned about just in time to see Crowley step into the room.
Crowley said, sounding weary, “I don’t like wanting things.”
Slowly, he sat down in his chair and regarded Crowley. “I would never have thought you felt that way. You taught me all about it.”
“It was easy enough to want you to want things. You enjoyed them so much. But for me, wanting — ” He stammered, stopped and started again. “They were watching. They might see if I kept anything good. They might — they might come when they liked, and take what I had.”
“You never tried to keep from them one real want?”
“I did,” said Crowley, and his solemn eyes made Aziraphale understand.
“Oh,” he said, feeling his face warm. “Me.”
“And they did try to take you, didn’t they?”
“Well — ” Words had fled, a bit. He made an effort to gather them. “They did try. But they didn’t do it. We’re still here.”
Crowley crossed the room, and with a little hesitation, dropped down beside the chair. “We are,” he murmured, and Aziraphale reached out; drew his drooping head down to rest against his knee, stroked the glowing hair.
“I guess,” said Crowley, muffled, into his trouser leg, “I might have a look around the shops here.”
“Yes,” said Aziraphale.
“I might like a new chair. For sitting about with you.”
“Yes,” said Aziraphale again, not restraining his smile. Crowley straightened up.
“I might get some tools for the garden.”
“Ooh, and seeds.”
“Once I know what we have out there. And — an espresso machine.”
“Really?” He didn’t know there were any machines of the sort, but he knew espresso. Crowley had always liked a dark little demi-tasse.
“Yes, really. A shiny one with all the bells and whistles. And a painting!” He clambered to his feet, eyes bright.
“A painting.”
“Something modern, tall as I am. Put it in the front hall for the guests to gawp at.”
“Good lord.” Aziraphale was beginning to feel a bit breathless, but now Crowley let slip a laugh, and he realised. “Oh, Crowley. Must you?”
“Oh, I must,” said Crowley, brazen; extending his hands, a peace offering. Aziraphale took them and was pulled up into a kiss, deep and warm.
“Darling,” he said, when it broke. Crowley laughed again.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s go see the town.”
They went out together into the bright new morning.
Sweet
Date: 2025-01-02 04:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2025-01-03 12:06 am (UTC)"Now he was coming in the side door, smiling, evening-scented, loose-limbed and less frightened than Aziraphale had seen him in some time." - absolutely lovely.
I love Aziraphale's reflection on the silence, and how it makes him feel young again. An amazing idea and very poignant.
"“Good lord.” Aziraphale was beginning to feel a bit breathless, but now Crowley let slip a laugh, and he realised. “Oh, Crowley. Must you?”
“Oh, I must,” said Crowley, brazen; extending his hands, a peace offering." - this exchange was funny and adorable. And the ending is so lovely and sweet and hopeful.
I really enjoyed this story! Thanks for sharing.
Comicgeekery
Date: 2025-01-03 06:54 am (UTC)Thank you for this wonderful, touching story. You've made this a great exchange for me!
They’re talking about it!
Date: 2025-01-04 02:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2025-01-04 03:14 pm (UTC)This line in particular:
"Since they had arrived, the quiet of the country nights had settled over Aziraphale with the lovely half-grief of memory."
I read it over and over...what a beautiful description!
(no subject)
Date: 2025-01-08 06:46 am (UTC)