Hi all! I'm back with another "Good Omens" offering. This one will be less smutty and more squishy than most of my past works for this fandom... take that as you will! Still hopefully funny and compelling.

A few things make this story a bit weird:
1. After the first chapter (prologue), it is in SCRIPT format, rather than narrative. The nature of the "game" makes narrative cumbersome.
2. I've already written it for another two characters that I ship, in a different fandom (we all know it's Doctor Who - please see my story The Experiment, if interested). It was so much fun to write, I decided to try it again with my favorite supernatural couple!
3. It's actually based on a scientific study done in 1968 by Dr. Arthur Aron at Stony Brook University, in New York. I don't often base my fanfic on scholarly material. Arguably.

This jumps off from Gaiman's mini-episode "Good Omens: Lockdown," from spring 2020. Just in case you haven't heard it (it's all audio), here's a quick rundown: our favorite angel/demon duo talk on the phone, and Aziraphale announces he's been spending quarantine baking (and eating) like a madman. Crowley wants to come over and watch (squee). But Aziraphale won't break the local lockdown rules, so Crowley decides to go take a nap for a few months, figuring that waking up in July should provide enough time for the pandemic to blow over.

Anyway, enjoy!

Prologue (Narrative):

Well, July had come and gone. More or less – today was the 27th. And when Crowley woke up, it still wasn't over.

He had groaned a long, agonized "fuuuuuuuck!" while watching the news, pouring coffee for himself after a three-month kip, and wondered, along with many humans, just what was so bloody hard about covering up one's nose and mouth, in order to prevent the spread of a disease that could kill you. Or your favourite uncle.

Or Betty White!

He swore to Somebody, if anyone gave this thing to Betty White, there would be great pelts of demonic vengeance coming their way.

He had phoned Aziraphale that afternoon, and found that the angel was still holing up in his shop, seemingly happy as a clam, baking his arse off. And he still thought it was breaking all the rules to allow company, even though there was no way either one of them could a) carry the virus, b) spread the virus, c) catch the virus, d) die from the virus. They had both done fine during the Black Plague, as had all angels and demons – why should Covid-19 be any different?

Although, this time, Aziraphale did not have any new stories about young lads trying to break into the shop, so he had ended up eating all of the cakes and pastries himself. He described in detail the process of deciding, from now on, to halve all recipes.

But he also described all of the rich, sugary confections to his demonic counterpart, expounding on how "scrumptious" they were, and "sinful" and "mouthwatering," which caused Crowley to have to cut off the call, in favour of a cold shower.

In August, he rang again, only to find that Aziraphale had moved on to biscuits, as he was trying his hand at different shortbread recipes. That call ended in very much the same way.

Crowley felt like a caged tiger with humanity mostly indoors, wearing masks in public, not gathering, et cetera. And when he went out (which was seldom), just to pick up a pound of coffee or a case of Scotch, he had to wear a mask, too, or else endure tedious glares from passers-by. He didn't know why he cared, but he did.

He wasn't in the temptation business anymore, and really wasn't missing the mischief all that much… he just missed the nightlife, the cafés, bars, and concerts. And it felt incredibly unfair, given the way things had gone the previous summer, that he was not able to be out and about, celebrating the continued existence of the Earth with his best friend.

Well, best friend officially. Unofficially, there were other "forces" at work.

With the thwarting of Armageddon, he had dared to hope that things would go in a different direction for the two of them. Could he, with enough lovely dinners, glasses of wine, and long, luxurious gazes, finally coax his favourite angel into admitting that they were not only friends, but actually longed for each other, and had done for millennia? Well, he thought the odds were good, but he still didn't know for sure… but bloody hell, he had tried! And he had worked himself into a desperation to tell the angel how loved he was. He had almost found the wherewithal, and then fucking lockdown happened. And Aziraphale had insisted on remaining "socially distant," as per the WHO's guidelines.

And now, it felt like they were back to square-one.

But for Crowley, love itself was not back at square-one. He had worked hard to build up a shedload of conscious affection that was now pent up, and in lockdown. It had literally had nowhere to go.

So, in August, he went to bed and slept until Christmas.

Boxing Day he woke with most of Europe, including Britain, and certainly America, still in lockdown, with a new strain of the virus now wandering about in his neighbourhood.

Aziraphale was trying his hand at rolled-out sugar biscuits with piped frosting, not to mention pecan Potica and moulded Marzipan with chocolate drizzle.

At last, the new year came, and an idea occurred to the chronically bored demon: he talked Aziraphale into purchasing an "infernal device" that would allow him to stream material on Netflix. He offered to let the angel pick the show, and to watch it with him – whatever it was. He thought it would be a laugh to talk on the phone while the show played, mock it, debrief, ooh and aah over the twists and cliffhangers.

But Satan help him, Aziraphale chose 'The Great British Baking Show.'

Although, it turned out okay, because for Crowley, the programme would have been mind-numbing, except that he could hear little grunts of pleasure and awe through the phone. He got to pause the screen and listen to excited, almost lustful, commentary from his angelic friend, and the idea of competition in baking seemed to rev Aziraphale's engine in a revelatory way that Crowley had never witnessed before.

And this, alas, was how the demon got his thrills for the next two months. This was how his repressed adoration found its outlet.

He got very good at holding back his ardour until after the call had ended – he didn't reckon it would be sporting to have phone sex with someone who wasn't aware it was happening. There had to be a law against that, didn't there? So, he would see the show through until the end, listening with relish to every torturous comment, squeal, and moan from the angel he loved, and then would politely say good night when the erection became physically painful. He would cut off the call and spend the evening in the throes of fantasy, self-stimulation, and glorious, cake-induced release.

Eventually, though, they ran out of episodes. Aziraphale decided that next they would watch a show called 'Salt Fat Acid Heat,' purportedly the four elements of flavour that combine in infinite ways, to make certain foods delectable and unforgettable. Crowley thought this would be an acceptable next step for them, and was looking forward to a spicy change to the unintentionally pornographic narrative he'd been enjoying since the start of the year.

And then, by accident, he ran across something that became, as they say, a game-changer.

He'd got curious about 'The Love Connection,' a show that he had tempted a U.S. television producer into making, and then had enjoyed the hell out of it for its entire run. What had happened to it? Was anyone thinking of remaking it? (Of course they were.) Had any of its participants got married? (Yes, 29 couples.) What about its descendants, shows like 'The Bachelor,' 'The Bachelorette,' 'Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire' – did they credit 'The Love Connection' for their success?

And then he fell into a clickhole.

This led to reading a semi-scholarly article on the evolution of dating-on-display, then a psychological magazine analysis about finding love in the public eye, another on the science of attraction…

…and then he found it.

A study at Berkeley/Stony Brook in 1968 by a man named Arthur Aron.

Crowley decided to hang all this TV baking nonsense, and bookmarked the webpage. This was precisely the sort of thing he needed to move the literal and metaphorical lockdown forward.

Thoughts? Leave a review with some words of wisdom! Thanks for reading!