A/N: Welcome back everybody :) I have nothing in the way of a Good Omen's-ervation to supply to you today, gentle readers; simply a continuation on of the story! Thanks as always to all you wonderful human beings for sharing this journey with me; for the reviews, the follows, the favourites, the time spent reading what I put out there! I hope you enjoy the updates (those of you who are newer readers) and to those of you guys still waiting on the new stuff, all I can say is that I am writing it and by the time the subdividing is done, it should be all geared to be posted!


~X~

~Tuesday, April 9th - 2019~

The Grange Estate Nursing home - London Suburbia

Aziraphale had once set fire to Crowley's induction cook top trying to make an omelette.

It had been the morning following the Armage-Don't-even-bother. He and Crowley had, by that stage, already effected a successful body switch and the latter had left to check on matters at the assumed to be gutted bookshop. Aziraphale, in rather the poorer state of mind pertaining to aforementioned nihilistic annihilation of what little he held dear, hadn't bothered with the banal task of sobering up the night before and was forced then to nurse the consequences.

He was headachy and peckish. Nothing like a full stomach (Well, Crowley's full stomach) to take the edge off of hangovers and tumultuous heartbreaks alike.

He had gotten distracted. He had been in Crowley's body, after all. There had been quite a bit to be distracted by. The ridiculous length of the legs, the altered centre of gravity, the equally absurd tightness of the pants. The...design of the body, overall. Crowley's organs would interject on occasion with some well rather worrying noises. His kidneys in particular seemed to complain more than an elderly woman waiting in line for her prescription at the discount drug store. Silly demon didn't sober up enough obviously, and now his human body was starting to wear some of the long term side effects.

Aziraphale remembered spending far too long with what you would suppose to be more innocuous observations. Gazing at Crowley's nails, the length and shape of his long fingers, the slender intonation of his wrists. He caressed the knuckles, the backs of each hand. Examined his jaw line, noting how much more definition it possessed whence compared to his own.

He might have admired further still, if not for the scent of burned egg reaching his now the far more sensitive nose and that of the even more sensitive vent of the kitchen adjacent smoke detector.

Delicately put; Aziraphale was not a good cook. Neither, for that matter, was Crowley. They were the sorts of creatures who, over their vast centuries spent on earth, preferred for their food to be prepared for them; giving time over instead for the predominant focus of enjoyment and conversation. One of them might in fact have been a good cook with some practice; who's to say? Neither seemed particularly fussed with attempting to find out.

Aziraphale, such as with most things, preferred to hand over control of his meals to the professionals; so as to ensure he would have the most venerable experience possible whence dining. And Crowley was hardly what you might call domicile. A kitchen, to him, was a place where one went to fetch a glass and pour whatever was chilling from the fridge into said glass. Not to hang around flicking spices into bubbling cauldron's, spin a whisk about some dooey concoction and fluff oven fumes into your nostrils whilst espousing your fingertips to your lips and 'mwaa-ing' your pretentious, culinary prowess.

In so saying, when Aziraphale emerged from the laundry room, partway draped in the ever more brittle version of the Grange Estate's cooks uniform, he could not have looked more the disturbed than if he were on the verge of an unscheduled and entirely unappreciated proctology exam. He expressed such concerns to Crowley, misaligning his buttons a number of times in the process of doing so.

"There's a lot riding on this. This is your workplace and your colleagues clearly think highly of you and I shouldn't want to let you down. Even by association."

"Oh, shush, you couldn't let me down if you tried." Crowley said softly, smiling to see the angel in such a considerately flustered state. "Even if you poisoned them I should think it a remarkable achievement."

"Well, that's precisely what I will be trying to avoid, thank you!" Aziraphale blurted, taking note of the mess he'd made of his jacket and just about ripping all the buttons out from the cheaply stitched seams as he fussily separated the halves. Crowley caught a brief glimpse of pristine white singlet ensconced across a broad chest and round belly and allowed himself room in which to enjoy it. What the fuck, he was obviously allowed now.

"You could just miracle up the food to something of a substandard level. That's what I've been doing."

Aziraphale paused a moment, four buttons in and enjoying somewhat more success in fitting them where they did in fact require fitting. "You've been using magic to improve the residents meals?" He asked.

"Just... improve the taste, make it a little richer, that sort of thing." Said Crowley, differentially. He was still a little distracted by that earlier glimpse. A glimpse that was helping in formulating a number of tentative future focused fantasies which would serve to keep him occupied in his otherwise more reflective of moments. "Oldies have been loving life since I've been here, I can tell you that."

"Well... well, it's a very kind thought, darling," Aziraphale said, doing up the last of his buttons and straightening his collar. He failed to witness Crowley's face all about melting into his shoulder at being referred to as 'darling'. "But I think you had best stop."

The demon could not have looked more the confused then if he had been asked fashion a fighter jet out of instant custard. "Why?"

"There's a reason as to why food is blander in places such as this." Aziraphale explained, straightening out his sleeves and adjusting what aspects of his 'uniform' required adjusting. "Elderly humans have specific health related concerns, dietary requirements. Aged organs, high blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes, heart conditions, so on and so forth. Rich food could potentially exacerbate any number of those things. "

"Oh. I didn't even think about that..." Crowley appeared genuinely concerned for the degree of harm he might have, for the once, unintentionally perpetuated. Aziraphale looked at him sympathetically, understanding full well that for perhaps the first time in his life, Crowley had set out to try and do something kind in the service of humanity, only to have it seemingly thrown back in his face.

He took the demon's hand up between his own and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Perhaps just leave the food alone for now." He offered a loving smile, warming the further still at the look of pained consternation crossing Crowley's face.

"But they must've gotten used to the food tasting better..."

"Well, they'll be in for a very rude awakening once I'm set to work in that dreadful closeted little kitchen." Aziraphale groaned, rolling his eyes back in his head. "The stupid situations I land myself in-"

"-never cease to amaze, angel." Crowley rounded off, keeping a hold of Aziraphale's hand still. He passed his thumb over one of the knuckles; much as he had that night so many months back when he had been grooming the angel's wings. Geez, to think what condition they must have been after going so long without attention. "I'm starting to think myself properly flattered to see what effort you've gone to, just to have a conversation with me. You could have dropped in the sandwich and bailed me up in the hall, rather than Miracling a stomach bug into the poor cook and spending the rest of the day poisoning pensioners."

"Well I knew that if I was assigned to work here that I'd be on site all day and you would be hard pressed to avoid me." Aziraphale gave a somewhat guilty glance off to the side. "If I had known we might have resolved our concerns so quickly, perhaps I wouldn't have bothered."

"This is hardly the Bastille. And you're hardly beholden to Heaven, anymore. You could just use another miracle. Have the cook show back up and take your leave." Crowley pouted his lips in what the angel took to be a provocatively teasing manner, neither of them the least aware of the aforementioned cook currently being hooked up to a drip and in no fit state to do anything other than pray for a quick and merciful death. "Promise I won't get crabby with you between now and close of business."

"As you said, we don't quite know how much magic we may have left to us, Crowley. I don't want to be wasting it on things that... may not be one hundred percent life or death." He passed his hand briefly down the length of the demons arm. It was getting easier by the moment, the touching. It did in fact make him feel a fool for having waited so long. "Besides... you were brave enough to join up with an unknown work place and put yourself out of your comfort zone. Surely I am capable of giving it at least one day." He took Crowley's fingers between his own. Gave them a squeeze which rent more pleasure through him than barbs. "And I could hardly abandon you. Not when you're waiting on news of your dear Gretchen."

"Good timing on your part." Said Crowley ironically, slipping his hand out of Aziraphale's and using both then to straighten the halves of the angel's shirt. The shirt was as straight as it really rather needed to be, but that meant nothing to a demon what needed to be close and needed still an excuse for being so. "It's all right. The cooking stuff, I mean. We'll work it out."

"You'll help?"

"Of course I'll help. Can't have you killing off all my oldies, after all. I'd have to find another job." Crowley made use of the shirt halves as something of a winch, easing himself in, head down until the very last moment in which he lifted his chin and glanced his lips quickly against Aziraphale's. He went a little red still, which amused an angel who, in spite of the stinging of those terrible ethereal nettles, felt somewhat the more at earthly peace with the act. "Still... trying to get used to that."

"I know." Said Aziraphale, absolving himself somewhat of his earlier urges by glancing his hand to the curve of Crowley's hip. It might well have been a bad idea. The predominantly tender touch beckoned ever closer a more primitive desire; one which urged him to ease that hand about, take more than just that hip in the clutch of his palm and fingers. To take and to squeeze...

Aziraphale shook the thought away. "Though I do find I'm rather not... opposed to it."

"Small mercy, that." Crowley looked much as though he might have sensed to where the angels' mind had briefly strayed but chose not to play into it. He stepped back, glanced his eyes up and down Aziraphale's crisply smocked body and snickered indulgently to himself. "You look like one of those little cartoon chef's they make kitchen ornaments out of. Just need that moustache you pencil on for your magic tricks."

"You are so not worth it." Aziraphale grumbled, aware that even in the midst of all that grumbling, that he was sincerely in one of the least irritated moods in which he had cause to find himself. The situation was ludicrous, as were so many of the situations in which he had inevitably landed himself. But something altogether wondrous had come of this particular ridiculous situation. A shifting forwards of circumstances, an encapsulation of feelings and of opportunities what had been held at bay for many thousands of years. It was all very new and very frightening and very much needed.

"I am." Crowley drawled, smirking as he smacked his hand to Aziraphale's rump and sauntered off back towards the kitchen area. "Come on. Let's get your paperwork sorted and shift your butt into the kitchen."

Aziraphale followed, rubbing at his buttocks for what was the second time in a so far short a morning. He hadn't minded the smack from Crowley, however. Certainly a great deal nicer (and less violent) than the one he had received from Josie.


A dank office somewhere in the bowels of Hell...

Hastur was a demon of relatively simple needs and wants.

That was one of the things he liked so much about the fourteenth century. Any century, in fact, before the invention of that old bugaboo; electricity. Everything had gotten so much more needlessly complicated after that.

Live wires. Cars. Telephones. Internet. Indoor plumbing. Humans, it seemed, were just never satisfied with letting sleeping dogs lie. They always had to go and throw a spanner in the works.

Just when you thought you had gone and gotten your head around one new development, the sneaky bastards would go and trot out another, ever the more convoluted one. It was hard not to take it personally.

Hastur had his intermittent missions to earth, sowing discord and malcontent where required. He felt he took rather a more hands on approach then Crowley, which was hardly a surprise given recent developments. He had never lingered long; perhaps only to throw back a celebratory drink or buy a pouch of tobacco. Two of the human inventions he could actually get behind.

Hastur's needs were simple. Life, such as it was, was easier that way.

If there was a job needed doing, you did it. He took pleasure in the work that he did. If Crowley was a demon what derived pleasure from acts of mischief and quiet subterfuge, Hastur took enormous delight in the malignant, the cruel and the oft times dramatic.

There were so few pleasures in Hell. It was home. But it was still the veritable arsehole in the wider tableau of the collective body of the universe. Every tiny aspect of Hell was marked by some infinitesimal degree of frustration. Pipes only just repaired would split and take once more to viscous oozing. Vitamin D levels were always in decline. The halls were always more crowded than a shopping mall the weekend before Christmas. There was even the same ratio of prams: only in Hell they were filled with empty, tetanus laden tin cans and balls of tangled yarn. All of which squealed like frustrated infants overdue a bottle feed and would sometimes randomly upend themselves, so that you would trip on an rogue can on an escape mission and end up hurtling arse over tit and busting out an otherwise useful vertebrae.

This was the way it had always been. And Hastur had always been irritated by it. But that even of itself was quite simply the norm. You found your means to get by. You griped, you hissed, you took it out on a convenient Disposable were one within arms reach.

You got by.

Hastur was finding it difficult lately, to get by.

Too much time up top. It was the comparative factor what got you at days end. Grass is always greener, and all that.

Thing is, if you didn't bother with going and taking a look at said grass, you wouldn't know any better.

And Hastur would be the very last to admit it, but he found that he had rather enjoyed the past few months. The back and the forth from earth. The reconnaissance.

Even the angels.

"You... feelin any different, ya think?" He asked Dagon, having found himself begrudgingly stationed with a bucket beneath yet another dripping pipe. She glanced up from the perpetually misaligned In-Tray on her desk; papers having been shoved in sideways, upside down and improperly filled out.

"After what?" She flicked her head vaguely towards the ceiling. "Bein' up there, you mean?"

Hastur grunted, because really, what more a confirmation was needed?

Dagon thought on it a while, rolling her shoulder about and listening to the ball joint crackle like a seashell being crushed under the heel of a boot.

"Feels... a bit claustrophobic, all of a sudden." She admitted, as another of the Ever-Void bumped against the corner of her desk and set her snow globe to dangerously wobbling. It never worked when she shook it, but she was fond of it all the same. A memento from a job in Portugal that she had rather enjoyed. It had worked then. Hell had seen fit to stall its inner workings before too long. Much as it degraded everything it touched. "Like being able to flex my elbows occasionally without bumping them into any of these twits."

She gave the Ever-Void a boot what sent them off in some other meaningless direction. They were a nuisance and a terrifying reminder as to how close some of them had been to have never regained their faculties at all. But you put up with them because, well, they were still family.

Hastur moved the bucket a near infinitesimal inch and was rewarded for his efforts with the contents of the ceiling mounted pipe expunging muck over the majority of the desk he had been attempting to protect. It was enough to make him want to rip the symbiotic toad clean out of his own skull. If he wasn't half convinced that doing so would have devastated most of his brain in the process.

"Mother of...!" He swept most of the indistinguishable goop free with his ratty trench coat sleeve, adjusting the angle of the bucket so it sat in just the right spot. "Never thought much of the place, be honest." He said, in reference to the human world. It was strange in and of itself; the want to talk about it. Stranger still to speak about it with anyone other than Ligur. They were a pair what had shared a mutual appreciation for malice and this was about as solid a foundation for a relationship what you might otherwise find in Hell. "But compared to here..." He sneered, giving his sleeve a shake and sending stinking droplets flinging to every far corner of the room. They splattered off of Ever-Void alike, who paid them about as much mind as a passing cool breeze. "Least they got something decent to drink up there."

"True." Dagon remarked, pretending, as demons were so prone to doing, not to care. She herself was thinking much the same thing, however. And something worse still. A... feeling that for a few precious moments she had come in out of the cold and had been standing by a warm fire. Only to have the fire snuffed out.

It was the angels, she had realized. They were awful and pompous and detestable, but their Heavenly presence brought with them that ephemeral warmth, which was softer and kinder. It had quenched something in her that felt ever so much in desperate need of nourishment. A tiny part of her, a part which she was quickly growing to loathe, was anxious to return up top and breathe in a little more of that addictive aura of their celestial counterparts.

It was like those terrible human cravings. Dagon could understand how such a thing could take hold. The aching, clawing need for just a sliver of that easement superseded all else; such that she was finding it more the difficult to sort what was already unnecessarily complicated piles of putrid smelling, seeping and sometimes spontaneously combusting paperwork.

Hastur took an indolent sniff of his unsullied jacket sleeve. He never washed it and he wasn't much one to bathe if he could help it. The cloying sent of that stupid Seraphim's cologne lingered in the threads of eviscerated material.

When he sniffed, he'd discovered, the small ache what he had developed in his chest went away. He saw a picture in his very unimaginative mind; a picture of the Earth, of the bar and of a good tasting drink. Of cigarette smoke and joint custody of already too small seat cushions and air that was sometimes fresh and streets in which you could walk on occasion without someone bumping up into you.

Of not needing to march from pillar to post with a blessed bucket out in front of you all the time.

He took another sniff. And quietly wondered to himself what Lord Beelzebub's next instructions would be.

Eternity was a long time to spend in Hell.

And even a demon with needs quite as simple as Hastur's, wasn't sure just how much more of it he could take.

~X~


A/N: I love fleshing out these characters :) Particularly Hastur, who I have such a overwhelming soft spot for. I think it was the wondrous shrieking he emitted when Ligur was killed, which cemented my undying love for eternity. Still makes me laugh every time I see that scene!

Feel as free to pop on over to the next update, dear readers! I hope to see you there! :)