MineGeorgi: Hey there. This is my first Good Omens fic that I began on a whim, really because I felt like describing the feeling in the first couple of paragraphs. That great, 'I've just woken up and really want to stay here' feeling. But anyway. I'm one half of this amazing writing duo called the DigitalArtists, and my cowriter, LookitDom should hopefully be joining in the writing of this story in later chapters. I hope you like it! Oh, and don't forget the sacred mantra:
Please Read and Review, Read and Review, Read and Review!
The world was warm, soft. It smelled faintly of lavender, and fresh linen. From somewhere the scent of cut grass drifted by. The world rustled as he shifted; giving him the impression he was surrounded by an abundance of leaves. It felt very much like being wrapped up in a duvet.
Aziraphale opened one eye lazily. The morning sunlight filtered through closed drapes to gently embrace the room with its glimmering radiance, the warmth dancing across Aziraphale's face as he blearily took in his surroundings.
The room exuded an air of irrepressible comfort. The high ceiling was bare, but hardly plain, its creamy colour setting the tone for the furniture: two deep, cushy armchairs that rested on either side of the bed – for surely it must be a bed he was lying in – a rich mahogany desk just visible at the end of the room, a wardrobe of matching wood resting but a few feet away, and the curtains just beginning to flutter in an early morning breeze that was creeping in through the partly opened window.
The open, airy nature of the room had a homely feel to Aziraphale, and was lulling him further towards the sleep he had just left.
He snuggled back under the duvet and tuned on his side, noticing in a vague sort of way that there was someone else sleeping in this bed too. The figure was turned away from him so all Aziraphale could make out was the dark mess of hair that lounged on the pillow, as if the hair believed itself to carry the personal traits of its owner. That thought struck Aziraphale as silly, so he giggled quietly.
Realising he had giggled caused him to blush, but also woke him up a bit. It finally crossed his mind that he wasn't quite sure where he was, or even how he got there.
Sitting up, he realised just how odd the situation was. He never slept. Never. It encouraged slothfulness, which was a sin, and besides it was more Crowley's thing anyway. And even if he did, he certainly wouldn't be sleeping next to someone else because such an act would have connotations with lust. So what on Earth was this human doing here?
A glance at the sleeping stranger told him it was male, and looked a bit like Crowley. Aziraphale shook his head. That was another silly thing to have thought. He looked nothing like Crowley.
He pondered the possible ways he could have ended up here. Maybe he'd found this man in the street, dying perhaps? Cold and hungry? In need of comfort in his final hours?
No. He looked well-fed, and something about him suggested to Aziraphale that he owned this place. So maybe he'd tricked Aziraphale into coming here? No, angels were not fools. No mortal could trick Aziraphale into doing something against his will, and definitely not when it involved ending up in bed with someone.
He leaned forward to inspect the man's face, and found he was disturbed by what he saw. It hadn't been a silly thought after all. In retrospect, he really did look like Crowley. A great deal. Almost indistinguishable, in fact. But most certainly human.
Aziraphale reached out a hand to rest against his cheek. The figure stirred, mumbled something incoherent as Aziraphale pulled away, and opened his eyes.
". . . mmm mshiffflefsh . . .?"
"Er," said Aziraphale. "Hello."
The Crowley look-alike smacked him lightly on the arm, which greatly confused the angel. "Go back to sleep 'Zira. We've got ages yet."
Aziraphale's eyes widened. He knew that voice! He'd heard it mock him, console him, and rage at him drunkenly long enough to know who it belonged to.
"C-Crowley?"
The other rolled onto his front and buried his face in the pillow, scrunching it up in his fists as he seemed to try and push himself further in.
"S'Anthony, you prat," Aziraphale heard from the pillow. "Now go back to sleep. And shut the window, would you?"
Aziraphale made no move to do any such thing. He merely stared.
'Anthony' turned back to face him and sighed in exasperation. "What have I done now? If it's about the dishwasher I swear I wasn't anywhere near it when it broke."
"Um, Crowley, I'm not sure what's going on or what you mean by doing this but I would like you to stop. Now, please."
He received an odd look from Crowley. A hand was waved in front of his face.
"You alright, Azira?"
"Look, I'm afraid I really don't get the joke." Aziraphale backed away and nearly fell off the end of the bed. He clasped the bed sheets in his hands and fidgeted with them worriedly. Crowley had played pranks on him before, but he'd never done anything like this. "Uh, please, Crowley. I am a bit bothered by the fact that you somehow put me to sleep and also dressed me in pyjamas, but I won't mind listening to you gloat about it over a glass of wine. So how about we go and have a drink, my dear?"
Crowley moved forward so that his nose was an inch away from Aziraphale's. He narrowed his eyes as the angel squirmed under his gaze. "You know," he began, "I told you that soup last night was a bad idea." He pulled away from Aziraphale, shaking his head. "C'mon then. I guess we better get it over with."
"Get what over with?" asked Aziraphale hopefully, brightening as he thought he saw a light appearing at the end of this long, dark and rather worrying tunnel.
"Meeting my family for lunch. Don't tell me you forgot about it again?"
The light disappeared and suddenly Aziraphale wasn't quite so sure of himself. This was Crowley, yes? Yes. But he was human. Which was wrong in every book Aziraphale owned. They were in a place Crowley seemed to live in. But it was not his flat. In fact, Aziraphale began to wonder if they were even in London. The lack of noise and car fumes in the air suggested they weren't.
He realised Crowley was beginning to unabashedly strip of his night clothes in front of him, and forced his gaze to remain in his lap, reminding himself that if Crowley was human he'd want privacy.
A hand lifted his chin up, forcing his eyes to fix on Crowley's.
"Seriously, are you ok?" came the question.
"No, I rather think not," was Aziraphale's weak reply.
Beyond Crowley he saw a door. A door that was slightly ajar. He ducked under Crowley's arm and made for it, wrenching it almost off the hinges in a panic to get out. He dashed through what could have been a living room and then a hallway and then a door and at last came out into the street.
Dear God, what was going on?