Note 11/11/11: So, after originally posting this story, back in September, I suddenly found myself with a beta, Sister-to-the-Queen, I'm not sure how it happened but man, am I ever grateful. After some helpful back and forth, I have finally earned her Big Button that says "Finicky's Seal of Quality: Thumbs Up," hence my re-post. *grins* Also, thank you to Penmaron, who also pointed out the Dollars vs. Pounds issue. I literally could have kicked myself, I mean, I went through all the trouble of finding the British words for clothing and then mess up something as obvious as that! In any case, thanks again to all my readers and reviewers, and especially my miraculously-appearing beta, Sister-to-the-Queen! Any lingering errors are entirely my own…damn it.
~xXx~
Existentialism on the Night After
By Herme23
Crowley stood up, a little unsteadily. He reached a hand down to Aziraphale.
"Come on," he said. "I'll drive us back to London."
He took a Jeep. No one stopped them.
It had a cassette player. This isn't general issue, even for American military vehicles, but Crowley automatically assumed that all vehicles he drove would have cassette players and therefore this one did, within seconds of his getting in.
The cassette that he put on as he drove was marked Handel's Water Music, and it stayed Handel's Water Music all the way home.
~xXx~
He parked the Jeep that they'd commandeered right in front of Aziraphale's shop, not too long ago completely ablaze but now miraculously whole and untouched, and let the car idle. They sat in silence for a few minutes, but then Aziraphale reached over and moved the gear shift into park. Then he reached over and turned the key until the car switched off. All the while, Crowley kept silent, staring forward out into the relative darkness, too tired to protest.
He did, however, meet Aziraphale's eyes when he felt a soft, exquisitely manicured hand gently turn his head. He watched as Aziraphale shifted his free hand, bracing himself on the seat between them before he leaned over and kissed at Crowley's lips. It was the softest of kisses, a barely-there whisper; as was Aziraphale's voice as he said, "Come on."
Then Aziraphale shifted out of the car and began to walk across the pavement. Crowley didn't even need to think twice before he followed. Aziraphale had the door open and Crowley dutifully followed. Once inside, Crowley closed the door behind them and followed Aziraphale into the little back room.
Crowley thought, suddenly, of Adam Young. Born to be one thing, but grew into another. Fate had nothing to do with anything, it seemed, almost as if there was no predetermined nature that forced one to become any one thing, or even to decide what one valued. He glanced down at the angel who had come to a stop right in front of Crowley.
Gaze carefully averted, Aziraphale reached across and unbuttoned the front of Crowley's suit jacket, slowly, as if giving the demon a chance to protest.
That was just it, wasn't it though? Not just an Angel, not just a Demon, the two had become something Other. They were able to act independently, without outside influences.
Seeing as Crowley remained silent, Aziraphale slid his hands inside the jacket, palms curving around the other man's ribs for a moment before languidly sliding up to Crowley's shoulders. He smoothed the jacket back and then down Crowley's arms with ease, allowing it to fall to the floor. Crowley didn't even bat an eye at the rough treatment of his thousand Pound suit; instead, he moved his hands to Aziraphale's cardigan and began tugging it off Aziraphale's shoulders even as Aziraphale was unbuttoning the demon's trousers.
It was then that Aziraphale leaned forward and once more applied his soft and delicate lips against Crowley's. Crowley couldn't help the muted sigh he emitted at the feeling of the angel's lips upon his. And being without a set course, his mind continued, no one telling us what to do, able to make our own decisions, we two could create our own natures.
They were no longer beholden to Heaven or Hell, but to their own selves. To each other. He would gladly have gone to hell all over again, he would have fought the Devil himself, he would have killed for this. Just this. Just the feel of Aziraphale laying soft butterfly kisses to against his lips, his jaw, his nose, his neck, his forehead.
The cardigan came off just as the trousers fell to the floor. Crowley worked at Aziraphale's belt as the angel began unbuttoning his dress shirt. As Aziraphale spread the shirt open, he kissed at the spot behind the demon's ear, eyes falling closed as he felt, rather than heard, Crowley sigh again.
They parted for a moment when Aziraphale slid his own button-up over his head, and Crowley took the opportunity to toe off his shoes and kick away his trousers. Aziraphale did the same, smiling as he watched Crowley bend down to tug off his socks.
When at long last the two stood in just their undershirts and boxer-briefs, Aziraphale finally reached up and pulled away Crowley's sunglasses. Crowley knew his eyes would give too much away, but he also knew they were far past secrets, and indeed, Aziraphale smiled as he read the truth in the uncharacteristic softness of the demon's yellow eyes.
Aziraphale placed two more kisses, this time to Crowley's eyelids, and then led him to the bed. He gently pushed Crowley back onto the comforter (downy soft and warm though Aziraphale had never used it before) and then stretched out beside him. Crowley's hand immediately found purchase on Aziraphale's hip and he pulled the angel towards him.
They also fashioned their own morals through these preferences, which was good because no matter what any others thought on the subject, this, This, was Right. Aziraphale fit into him like the ocean along the shoreline and the demon allowed an exhausted smile to grace his face while lazily returning the kisses that Aziraphale was plying him with, still as soft as moth's wings.
After what felt like eternity but was probably only a few minutes, Aziraphale pushed his nose into the space between Crowley's shoulder and neck, and Crowley heard a muffled "Goodnight, Crowley" a second later.
"Goodnight, angel," he whispered. Then he shifted so his chin rested on Aziraphale's mop of hair and inhaled deeply as sleep overtook him. Aziraphale's warm body and warm scent, the tones of early autumn and apple harvests, the last things he knew; and in that moment, sunk inside their blankets, he was strangely confident that they were free. He let his breath out slowly.
Crowley, Aziraphale, every single thing out there had been simply tossed into existence, no questions asked, no questions answered, and only later did anyone begin to define their own nature, and this through the way they lived their lives.
Crowley squeezed Aziraphale closer to him and nodded, though no one could see him.
From now on, they would create their own nature.
~xXx~
Author's Note: Well, it started off really simple when I wrote it in my journal, and then as I typed it up, it suddenly became all philosophical...I guess that's what happens when you put "Existentialism on Prom Night" on repeat and write. Incidentally, that is where the title came from. All my research on the "existentialism," can be found at www . anselm . edu / homepage / dbanach / sartreol . htm. Beginning text taken directly from novel Good Omens by N.G. & T.P. Thanks for reading! ~h
Author's Note (Take 2) .13: Whenever I talk about this book in real life and mention the authors, the first response I get is always "Neil DIAMOND?!" to which I have to reply, "No, not Diamond, Gaiman!" Well, it came to my attention this morning that this time, I, myself, am the perpetrator. I miswrote Gaiman's initials in my first AN as N.D. . Thanks very much to Rainfall SopranaofIreland for helping me to correct my mistake! Always much obliged! ~h