DISCLAIMER: I do not own GoodOmens, or the characters therein. This was written for entertainment purposes only, and I make no profit. All rights belong to Neil Gaiman, and Terry Pratchett, literary gods, both of them.
WARNINGS: A/C SLASH. Little bit of language.
A/N: My first GO fic, so please R&R.
Many things had changed in the ten years since the Almost-Apocalypse. The world had seen hundreds of small wars (and one or two large ones), more deaths than any one could count1, and quite a few political upheavals.
None of this mattered to Crowley. After six thousand years, he'd seen things that would make any mortal creature go insane. Or, at least want to. Indeed, the decade between then and now would have gone almost completely unnoticed by the demon, except for one small, infinitesimal, almost non-existent thing. Somewhere in there, he'd quit thinking of Aziraphale as the angel, and started thinking of him as his angel. It was the kind of small, unimportant thing that can bring an empire to its knees.
It didn't bother Crowley as much as it could have. Contrary to popular belief, demons are almost always honest2, and Crowley was more so than most. Especially with himself. He wasn't bothered by it, because it was true. Aziraphale was his, the way anybody belonged to someone else. The way he belonged to the angel.
It was all in the way Crowley would never let anybody hurt Aziraphale, unless he was the one doing it. It was in the way the angel could hurt him with a word, could find just the right phrase to rip him into shreds, could make him die a little with every sharp syllable, and Crowley would still go home feeling like he'd had a pretty good day. It was in the way Crowley wanted to (and did) make the angel laugh, and smile and feel good. It was in every wound, every embrace and every gesture that they made.
If they ever talked about it, Crowley was sure, Aziraphale would simply say it was ineffable, and for once, Crowley would agree with his use of the term. But, they never did speak of it, dodging the subject like gymnasts when it even came close to being brought up.
The Arrangement was one thing, but this was another completely. Talking about feelings might lead to actual feeling, and that was the sort of thing that Simply Was Not Done in Azi's world. In Crowley's, it was the kind of thing that was done with vigor, repeatedly if possible. He'd probably get a condemnation for defiling an angel. Hell would talk about it for centauries. Crowley wasn't willing to take that chance. Anything the two of them did that landed one of them praise would very likely land the other in the hot seat. Literally.
So, it went unsaid, but not unnoticed. That isn't to say that it was the only thing occupying Crowley's thoughts, because that would be untrue. He honestly hadn't thought much about it at all, until the Incident. It was just a small, natural side effect of having a human body, and he dismissed it out of hand.
Then, one night, Crowley had awoken suddenly, with unabashed terror crawling across his skin. Aziraphale was in trouble; he could feel it, because that trouble was another demon. A new demon3, who was unaware of the rules, especially the one where you did not fuck with Crowley's angel.
He climbed out of bed and stormed towards the door, materializing a meticulous Armani suit on the way. This happened from time to time. Hell was always sending new demons up to test their skills, and some of them tried to make a name for themselves by killing one of Heaven's envoys. It rarely ever worked, and Azi could certainly take care of himself, but when Crowley reached the Bentley, he took off at 110 mph anyway.
xxXXxx
He reached Soho about three minutes later, and zoned in on the wayward demon almost immediately. He was only a block from Aziraphale's shop, and Crowley could feel his every thought and intention. 'Get a condemnation for this' he was thinking, 'Take out this bugger, it'll be weeks before he gets a new body. I could destroy London before he gets back. Hell, without opposition the whole of England could be mine.'
Crowley growled, and swung the Bentley into an available parking space, where a little red Ford had been just seconds before. He was angry, and not because Aziraphale was in physical danger, but because what the demon was thinking was true. Azi would come back, but the havoc that ensued in his absence would be total. Without an angelic counterpoint, this newbie could tempt and wile unfettered, without style or finesse. Crowley was determined not to let that happen. It went against the Arrangement, and Godbless it, Aziraphale was his, England was his, and Crowley was nothing if not territorial.
He allowed himself to slip into a pleasurable rage, and advanced on That Bastard, starting a fight to the inconvenient discorperation.
xxXXxx
Aziraphale sat inside his bookshop, completely engrossed in a new first edition. He'd managed to shut out all noise, all feeling, and all supernatural communication, except, of course, for Crowley. He had noticed recently that a small part of him was always in tune with the demon. It wasn't something he wanted, but something that was nevertheless there. It worried Aziraphale quite a bit. As an angel, he was never supposed to love one person, or thing, more than anything else. When he thought about it, it made him vaguely uneasy.
None of this was on his mind that night, however. The book he was reading was very rare, very intellectual, very deep, and very boring. Reading it was like trying to wade through a pool of super-glue. It took all of Aziraphale's concentration to keep his eyes moving from one word to the next. He was almost at the point of not reading it, and just saying he had4.
These were the thoughts tripping idly through his head when he heard Crowley's voice raised in an inarticulate howl of rage and pain.
Aziraphale did not freeze. He simply dropped the book5, and (almost literally) flew out the shop.
He saw Crowley immediately, less than a block from his door. The demon, his demon, was locked in battle with another, whom Aziraphale didn't know.
The other demon had his teeth buried in Crowley's shoulder, while Crowley kicked and clawed.
Aziraphale didn't think. He reacted solely on instinct. He may have been an angel, and a rather prissy one at that, but in Heaven he'd been a guardian and a warrior. He advanced upon the two, as quietly as only an angel can manage, and, wings spread out behind him, wrenched the new demon away from Crowley by the throat.
The demon flailed out, striking Aziraphale in the face, and the angel, with the clean ease of a professional, snapped his neck.
The nameless demon made a strangled gow sound, and then simply faded away.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, staring at the empty demon-shaped space. "Oh, my. Crowley, are you all right?"
"I would've had him," Crowley grumbled. "You didn't have to rescue me. I have m' pride ya' know."
Aziraphale stared at him blankly, then straightened his hair and folded in his wings. "Right" he said. "I do suppose a 'Thank you, Aziraphale, for removing that demon that was causing me considerable pain', would be just outside of your manners. It isn't as if I've drawn undo attention to myself by dispatching him6. It isn't as if I've ruined a perfectly good, and might I add expensive, shirt in the process. I mean, look at it. It's all in tatters."
Crowley smirked, and straightened his sunglasses. "It isn't as if you had to release your wings," he pointed out. "That was blatant showing off, that was."
"Oh, really, dear." Aziraphale said, his eyes turning icy.
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Crowley smiled.
"Thank you, Azi," he finally conceded. "It was dead painful when that bugger bit me."
Aziraphale smiled thinly, and healed the wound on Crowley's shoulder. "Don't call me that," he said, "it's rather undignified. What was that all about, anyway? You're a long way from home, aren't you?"
Crowley just shrugged, and touched Aziraphale's face in a way that made the angel shiver. The demon could be very annoying, and he was without question evil, but he could be so gentle at times. Aziraphale found himself leaning into the touch, and then pulled away sharply.
"Really, dear. That kind of behavior is quite inappropriate. What has gotten into you?"
Crowley shrugged again, and then smiled wryly. "Nothing," he said. "Just picked up his smell, felt in the mood for a good fight. Haven't had one since Hastur, during the Apocalypse. Good times, eh?" he laughed mirthlessly, and clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. "We should get together for lunch tomorrow. We could hit the Ritz, go to the park after. It won't be like last time, I promise. What do you say? I'll pick you up around noon, shall I?"
Aziraphale nodded dumbly, and watched as Crowley hurried back to his car, and then took off like he'd just remembered he'd left the gas on. Odd, that. The entire night had been odd, really.
Aziraphale watched until the Bentley's taillights rounded the corner, and then headed back to his shop. What he found waiting for him promised to make his night even less pleasant.
xxXXxx
Crowley slowed once he was out of sight, and let the car drive itself7. He hadn't known how to explain the night's events to Aziraphale, without bringing up the Subject, and he was cur- blessing himself for how he'd handled it. The angel was anything but stupid, and tomorrow he would want answers.
Crowley thought of blowing off the lunch date he'd stupidly made, but dismissed the thought immediately. His palm still tingled from where it had rested on Azi's face, and his heart was still in his throat from the implications of the unconscious gesture. For some reason, the two combined left him feeling better than he had since he'd invented Scientology.
Crowley smiled, despite his uneasiness, and decided to take whatever was to come.
1 Although, there's always the deranged few who try, like statisticians, or some peoples Grandma.
2 They just have a tendency to leave out important bits. Like, 'because he'll be hit by a truck,' when telling temptable young ladies 'Your husbands about to leave you.'
3 Circa 1783, but just out of training. Long, boring, essentially pointless training programs that taught you absolutely nothing useful about your new job, had been a point of triumph* for Crowley. Hell might have taken it a bit far, though.
* Another great point had been assigning trainers who'd never held the position themselves, but they had read about it, or at least heard of it. They definitely know what all the words mean, anyway, and if they ever figure out what you'll actually be doing, they'll certainly send you a memo.
4 Also contrary to popular belief, angels can lie, and frequently do. Really, if every angel told every person they met nothing but the complete, God's honest truth, they'd leave nothing but chaos and destruction in their wake.
5 Which floated gently to the floor, a silk ribbon marking the angel's place. If part of him was always in tune with Crowley, another part was always in tune with his books.
6 Not for the actual dispatching, but for the reason behind the dispatching. Heaven would surely want to know, and they had a knack for getting the truth. Several knacks, in fact, each a bit more cringe inducing than the last.
7 This is something he rarely did, because he knew machines could develop personalities over time, if you let them. The last thing he needed was a cocky car that didn't do as it was told.