TITLE: break my cage and spread my wings

SUMMARY: Everyone called the Titanic the 'Ship of Dreams', but for Aziraphale, it was the ship of nightmares, carrying her away from her home in England, and her dreams of freedom, and towards the bleak future of her arranged marriage in America. The only spark of light in the darkness is her new and tentative friendship with the boldly intimate Crowley.

AO3 TAGS: Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rose Dewitt Bukater Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Jack Dawson Crowley (Good Omens), Caledon Hockley Gabriel (Good Omens), Ruth Dewitt Bukater Michael (Good Omens), Arranged Marriage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flirting, Teasing, Smooth Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Hand Holding, Dancing, Touching, Neck Kissing, Light Angst, Temporary Break Up, First Kiss, Kissing, Gentle Kissing, Naked Female Clothed Female, Naked Aziraphale (Good Omens), Insecure Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Tribadism, more tags to come (probably), tags only look scary because of all the '(Good Omens)' additives (set by AO3 not me)


Chapter Four: Dining on Your Attention

Chapter Summary: "Or do you just want to know what it's like to be had?"

AN: Good morning.


1912 April 13, Saturday - Day 4 (Part Two)

The weight of her book in her purse was a teasing pull at Aziraphale's wrist, and she desperately wished she could pull it out since no one was paying her any mind anyway, but she knew the second she tried, her mother would remember that she was lingering at the back of their group. They had already circled the room three times, greeting everyone as if they hadn't spent all day with them, as if they hadn't done this some dance the night before.

Her corset was laced almost too tightly, keeping her breaths shallow, and Aziraphale just wanted to sit down so she could eat. So she could finish and retire to her room to reflect on her conversation with Crowley while she brushed her hair. But she knew from experience that dinner was still a little off, could read the way the room was still milling about, high society circling one another like water in a whirlpool. Aziraphale certainly felt dizzy enough from it, faces and names passing her by, the proper etiquette for speaking to that earl and this duchess.

The glitz and glamour of it all only made Aziraphale crave solitude, or even another evening out on the deck, alone with the wind and her thoughts. And Crowley.

Aziraphale shook the thought away. It was dangerous thinking. Hope always was.

"Aziraphale, dear, come meet our guests for the evening."

She couldn't, for the life of her, determine if the voice that had called her had been her mother's or her fiancé's, but it was all the same. How often had Gabriel opened his mouth and Michael's words had fallen out? How many times had she heard her mother speak with Gabriel's tongue? Still, it didn't matter. They were one in the same, to be obeyed the same, and Aziraphale dutifully moved through the small group they'd collected.

"There she is," someone said, and it was such a perfect mix of Michael's polite exasperation and Gabriel's possessiveness that Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to guess its speaker either if she hadn't seen Gabriel's mouth move in sync. He reached out for her, curling his fingers so tightly around her elbow that she wondered if she would bruise under her long gloves. Again. "Aziraphale, this is Duke Hastur and Lady Ashtoreth."

She was practically dragged forward, presented to an elderly man with no hair, too-pale skin, and too-dark eyes. Eyes that lingered lingered uncomfortably first on her face, and then her chest. Unwilling, but unable to escape convention, Aziraphale offered him her hand, and he smirked up at her as he kissed the back of her glove. She fought both the urge to rip off her glove and set it on fire, and the urge to hide behind Gabriel.

"A pleasure," Aziraphale murmured, dipping into a curtsy even as the duke's too-tight fingers refused to let go for too long.

There was a long moment where Aziraphale was stuck in place, unable to move until the duke released her, and then there was movement over the duke's shoulder, someone moving up to his side. Finally, Aziraphale was released, and she turned to the woman who had moved into place at the duke's side and curtsied again.

"The pleasure is all mine, I think," a familiar voice said in a wrong, too-posh accent, and Aziraphale slowly lifted her eyes in disbelief.

Where the Lady Ashtoreth was supposed to be standing on the duke's arm, Crowley stood instead, dressed as lady. A proper, first class… lady. With makeup and jewels, and wavy red hair pinned up and back like Aziraphale's, the shape of their bosom no longer subtlety hidden, but rather, subtly emphasized with a low square collar and a high waist.

Aziraphale… stared, at a complete loss for words and Crowley… Crowley winked at her.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel said warningly under his breath, gripping her elbow so hard that Aziraphale flinched in pain, finally dropping her gaze from the beautiful woman across from her. "You're being rude."

"Not at all," Crowley laughed, voice light, almost musical; flirtatious. Something about it, or perhaps it was the situation itself, sent heat into Aziraphale's cheeks. "I must say it happens all the time, but not usually from someone so darling. Why don't you sit next to me tonight?"

Aziraphale had no response to that, but apparently she didn't need to give one. Long, graceful, black-gloved fingers reached into her field of vision, gently extracting her arm from Gabriel's grip before linking them at the elbows and guiding her through the maze of socialites at their table. Aziraphale almost felt stupid, unable to do anything but stare down at the stark contrast of a black-gloved arm curled around her own white-gloved arm. In fact, Crowley's entire outfit contrasted completely with hers, every piece of clothing a varied but simple shade of black against the pale beiges and blues and whites of Aziraphale's outfit, and suddenly Aziraphale felt shabby at Crowley's side.

The stewards lingering about the room stepped up when Crowley and Aziraphale arrived at their table, pulling out their chairs. Aziraphale couldn't help but watch Crowley as they sat, struck by her companion's feminine grace, and the way it contrasted completely to their masculine mannerisms that morning, and the day before. In fact, if she hadn't heard Crowley's voice, and been winked at, she would have guessed that she was with a completely new person. A twin, perhaps.

She risked a glance sideways and was relieved that Crowley wasn't looking at her, but rather was lighting a cigarette held in place by a delicate silver cigarette holder. Aziraphale had intended only to glance, free to stare without reprimand as long as it took her mother and Gabriel to join them at the table, but Crowley's profile, the line of her jaw, the arch of her neck, the curls so carefully pinned, and she suddenly felt as if she were looking upon an angel.

Or perhaps a devil. She certainly felt tempted.

"A penny for your thoughts?" Crowley asked, eyes sliding towards Aziraphale, the curl of her lips and the tone of her voice amused. And why wouldn't they? she? be? Aziraphale suddenly swallowed the sick feeling, and sharp words, bubbling in her chest, feeling as if she'd been played for a fool.

"You're a woman!" The words burst out of Aziraphale so suddenly and so unexpectedly that they startled her, not just with their surprise, but also the undertone of accusation. She slapped a hand over her mouth, shocked by her own rudeness, and hurriedly looked around for anyone who might have heard, but the rest of their dining companions were still several tables away chatting with acquaintances, and not even the stewards were looking at her. No one was looking at her at all, none save a wickedly-grinning Crowley. Oddly enough, it was that familiar smile that really assured her that the woman she was sitting with was the same person she'd sat with on the deck only an hour ago.

"Very much so," Crowley said with a gracious nod. "Did you have doubts?"

Aziraphale suddenly couldn't look at her any more, her face hot with embarrassment. "I… I wasn't sure," she confessed quietly. "Your dress- That is, your trousers- And you kissed my hand-" She cut off her own stuttering, feeling like she was just making it worse, but Crowley said nothing.

But when Crowley continued to be silent, Aziraphale braved a glance upward and was surprised to find Crowley frowning, almost leaning away from her.

"I don't mean to offend," Aziraphale said thickly, her embarrassment heating quickly towards shame.

"You didn't offend me, Miss Aziraphale," Crowley said slowly, and the unexpectedly formal address felt like a slap to the face.

She jerked back, shocked, hurt curling sharp and painful in her heart. Crowley's frown deepened and Aziraphale looked down again, back into her lap where her fingers were twisting themselves into painful knots.

"Miss Aziraphale-?"

Aziraphale squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could do the same for her ears. "Please-" She swallowed hard and then tried again, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Please don't call me that."

Why did Crowley's sudden propriety sting so much? Why did Crowley affect her at all, much less so strongly? They had only met twice- thrice, now, and they were still practically strangers, for all that Aziraphale's heart had been cracked open at each encounter. It was just that, for the first time in her life, she felt like she had met someone who actually treated her like a person. Like her own person. And for all that she shouldn't, as a well-bred girl, be letting her emotions control her, they were emotions and remained woefully unaffected by reason and logic.

"What would you like me to call you then?" There was no judgement to the question, no emotion - nothing. It felt as impersonal as the empty plate on the table in front of her.

She opened her mouth to answer, but the words were so difficult to push out. It was always difficult to ask for what she wanted, it always had been, once she'd learned how often she was going to be denied. Asking implied hope, but hope hurt. It was dangerous to want because it was dangerous to hope that she would be granted her desire.

A hand slowly, gently, landed on her knee, the black glove encasing it a stark contrast to her pale skirts. Still, it gave her a measure of courage - it told her that, for once, it might not be so dangerous to hope. She might be granted what she wanted. She might even be given it freely.

"I liked when you called me- a-angel," she choked out, wringing her hands.

"Is that all you liked that I did?" Crowley's voice was comfortingly warm again, her breath near the side of Aziraphale's face warmer. But it was the memories of what Crowley had done to her - kissing her hand and brazenly touching her hair, the way she looked at her, spoke to her - that really set Aziraphale aflame.

Aziraphale shook her head, almost frantically, wishing for wings for the first time in her life for a completely different reason. Oh, the ultimate goal of it was to escape, but she'd never wanted to escape from actually being paid attention to before. She'd never really had attention paid to her before.

"I do so hope my fiancée hasn't been chatting your ear off, Lady Ashtoreth," Gabriel said from Aziraphale's other side, nearly making her jump out of her skin.

She had been so caught up in Crowley that she hadn't noticed the rest of the guests arriving to their table and beginning to take their seats. Gabriel stepped up to the chair two away from Aziraphale, and pulled it out for Michael to sit in, and then sat himself in the chair between them. It was the moment that Aziraphale would typically feel her cage constricting around her, but for once, the seat Michael typically occupied at Aziraphale's left was taken up by Crowley. By a friend.

Her cage was shrinking, but for the first time, the door was open.

"On the contrary," Crowley said from around her, sounding the very picture of a high class lady. "I dare say she's been indulging me. She's delightfully shy, isn't she?"

Crowley's hand squeezed her knee, gentle and almost teasing, but in the same moment, a larger, more familiar hand landed possessively on her other thigh, and Aziraphale wasn't sure which touch startled her more. While Crowley's touch was unexpected but welcome, Gabriel's touch was expected but unwelcome. The too-warm, too-heavy weight of his touch was too high on her thigh, too high to even feign propriety, if it was proper at all, and it was making her stomach tie itself into knots. Even the prospect of dinner suddenly held no appeal to her.

"A little too shy at times, I think," Gabriel replied, leaning in close with a leer, his fingers squeezing her thigh, sending tension into every one of her muscles. If her skirt hadn't been stretched over her lap, she was afraid they would have tried to crawl right between her legs.

She looked beseechingly towards her mother, but Michael just smiled at her, eyes glittering darkly, and Aziraphale had to look away again. She didn't know why she'd even tried - her attempts to talk her mother out of the marriage arrangement, both during its conception and after its finalization, had already failed. Many times over. Aziraphale straightened with a small, stiff nod, and fixed her gaze on some distant point as she pulled her gloves off to lay in her lap.

Crowley's hand squeezed her knee again, touch lingering, questioning, but Aziraphale couldn't bear to look at her, or else she'd surely see Aziraphale's shame. After a moment, Crowley's hand slowly pulled away, leaving Aziraphale's knee strangely cold and her chest strangely empty. Thankfully, Gabriel's hand pulled away as well at the approach of waiters with serving bowls of caviar, though his touch lingered far longer, and its absence only left Aziraphale with a sense of relief.

Conversations started up around her as caviar was scooped out onto her plate, but none of them seemed willing to include her. Even Crowley was silent. So as Aziraphale took her first bite, she curled the fingers of her free hand tight around the gloves in her lap, undoubtedly wrinkling the silk, but at least the nails digging into her palm helped to keep her from screaming out.

To her surprise, a bare, calloused hand curled gently over hers, long fingers worming into her palm and forcing her nails from her skin. She very carefully did her best not to react to the unexpected contact, but she did risk a glance sideways and was further surprised to see Crowley eating with her left hand, something that had been beaten out of every left-handed girl Aziraphale had ever known at finishing school. She was glad it hadn't been beaten out of Crowley, or else Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to hold her hand as they ate. Although, when she thought about it, Aziraphale wasn't actually sure that Crowley was a real, proper lady. She hoped she would get the chance to ask.

Crowley caught her looking and winked, and Aziraphale looked away, her face feeling too warm.

Through the first several courses, Aziraphale held onto the hand in hers far too tightly, on edge, waiting for the moment that Crowley was going to pull away. But by the halfway point in the meal, with no sign that Crowley had any intention of releasing her, Aziraphale finally started to relax. Crowley squeezed her hand gently, once, shot her a warm smile, and for the first time in a long time, Aziraphale thought she could taste contentedness.

TBC


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