A/N: This was a piece written in an hour and eight minutes for a timed
challenge. The whole point is that it is slash. Here's your warning so that
I don't get flames from you anti-slashers later.
But, otherwise, I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Good Omens is not mine, and all characters featured within are the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
*****
The sun was unusually bright as Crowley stomped vaguely through the lush grass. The rakish looking hat he had wished for the occasion didn't have a brim well suited to keeping out the sun's rays, and it was an interesting effort of will keeping the dew from soaking the hem of his trousers. However, he was satisfied that he at least looked presentable.
Five thousand years is a long time for any Arrangement, even among angels.
Aziraphale, true to form, was waiting for him beneath a large, spreading willow tree. With an odd smile, Crowley noted that this particular bit of German countryside was within sight of a large cathedral, the bells tolling midday.
"Tacky as usual, I see," Crowley murmured, poking a dry foot at the large blanket spread on the grass. It was hugely patterned with some questionable looking birds. He plopped down onto the grass instead, enjoying the feel of the turf through his suit. "Don't tell me you stole an altar cloth from that cathedral."
Aziraphale's smile looked hurt, but felt genuine. "Very amusing, Crowley. Did you bring the beverages?"
Crowley's hands retreated behind his back and he looked guilty for a fleeting instant. "Erm..."
"You forgot."
"I did not!" protested Crowley, and when he showed his hands again there was a bottle of Chateau Lafitte, 1865 clutched in them. He winced. He had been hoping for an earlier year. "Well, technically I did. But that doesn't matter, anyway."
Aziraphale sniffed, but patted the blanket next to him. "Well, sit down."
The lunch was particularly good, and Aziraphale had out-gestured himself with cold chicken, devilled eggs, and pickles. Especially the pickles; Crowley's mouth watered and he wondered if he should be worried that Aziraphale knew his weak spot. The angel had forgotten the napkins, though, thought Crowley as he sipped the impromptu wine. It was slightly vinegary.
"Five thousand years, hey what?" said Aziraphale distractedly, and shielded his eyes from the bright glare. He had been trying not to wish things to his will very much lately; no point in drawing attention to yourself when you're lunching with the Enemy. Or one of them.
"Mmm," murmured Crowly sleepily, his flimsy hat over his face as he lay back. He was still on the grass, adamantly refusing to lie on the blanket. "May it always continue. As long as I can stay away from the screams and pull you away from those damnedable celestial harmonies, it's a good old world."
"Don't go to sleep on me," said Aziraphale accusingly, and Crowley flipped his hat up to reveal his eyes.
"Why not? You should try a spot of sleep from time to time. It'll do good for those bags around the eyes."
For a moment Aziraphale's face looked five years younger, but when Crowley blinked the effect was gone. He grinned as the angel had the grace to look a little bit embarrassed, but kept an eye upwards for doves or any other telling signs. "Tch, have I hit a soft spot?"
"Sod off," grumbled Aziraphale. "You wanted to go to sleep, I don't hear you snoring."
The fallen angel chuckled, showing white teeth and shaking dark hair from his eyes. "I stand by what I said. You'd like sleep. It's amazing what dreams can show to these humans. And a good deal of the time, they put them down to divine visions."
Aziraphale's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Crowley even pretending to have a divine vision provoked a disturbing mental image. "What does an angel need dreams like that for?"
"Hmm. You're probably right," conceded Crowley. "But you're an angel who enjoy's the fare of humans. You'd like this...pure relaxation, the most amazing colors, and," Crowley licked his lips, "when you know that you're dreaming, anything can happen."
The angel just stared at him. "That sounds quite a bit like heaven."
"Trust me... as one who's fallen, I can assure you that it's quite different."
Instead of flipping his hat back down, however, Crowley pushed himself back up into a sitting position and brushed the leaves from his coat. Without warning, Crowley bent his head, leaned close, and kissed Aziraphale softly. His gaze remained casual as he stood and began to stomp again over the lush grass.
A few yards down, he turned back. "I owe you for this, Aziraphale. Let's do lunch in Paris sometime."
The angel took it all in as he stared after Crowley's retreating back, dimly noting the leaves brushed from Crowley's coat, the bright sun, the taste of pickles still on his lips, and the feel of earth through his clothes and on his hands. Shaking his head, he decided that he didn't want to sleep, no matter what Crowley said.
Judging from Crowley's idea of a dream, Aziraphale had just had one.
But, otherwise, I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Good Omens is not mine, and all characters featured within are the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
*****
The sun was unusually bright as Crowley stomped vaguely through the lush grass. The rakish looking hat he had wished for the occasion didn't have a brim well suited to keeping out the sun's rays, and it was an interesting effort of will keeping the dew from soaking the hem of his trousers. However, he was satisfied that he at least looked presentable.
Five thousand years is a long time for any Arrangement, even among angels.
Aziraphale, true to form, was waiting for him beneath a large, spreading willow tree. With an odd smile, Crowley noted that this particular bit of German countryside was within sight of a large cathedral, the bells tolling midday.
"Tacky as usual, I see," Crowley murmured, poking a dry foot at the large blanket spread on the grass. It was hugely patterned with some questionable looking birds. He plopped down onto the grass instead, enjoying the feel of the turf through his suit. "Don't tell me you stole an altar cloth from that cathedral."
Aziraphale's smile looked hurt, but felt genuine. "Very amusing, Crowley. Did you bring the beverages?"
Crowley's hands retreated behind his back and he looked guilty for a fleeting instant. "Erm..."
"You forgot."
"I did not!" protested Crowley, and when he showed his hands again there was a bottle of Chateau Lafitte, 1865 clutched in them. He winced. He had been hoping for an earlier year. "Well, technically I did. But that doesn't matter, anyway."
Aziraphale sniffed, but patted the blanket next to him. "Well, sit down."
The lunch was particularly good, and Aziraphale had out-gestured himself with cold chicken, devilled eggs, and pickles. Especially the pickles; Crowley's mouth watered and he wondered if he should be worried that Aziraphale knew his weak spot. The angel had forgotten the napkins, though, thought Crowley as he sipped the impromptu wine. It was slightly vinegary.
"Five thousand years, hey what?" said Aziraphale distractedly, and shielded his eyes from the bright glare. He had been trying not to wish things to his will very much lately; no point in drawing attention to yourself when you're lunching with the Enemy. Or one of them.
"Mmm," murmured Crowly sleepily, his flimsy hat over his face as he lay back. He was still on the grass, adamantly refusing to lie on the blanket. "May it always continue. As long as I can stay away from the screams and pull you away from those damnedable celestial harmonies, it's a good old world."
"Don't go to sleep on me," said Aziraphale accusingly, and Crowley flipped his hat up to reveal his eyes.
"Why not? You should try a spot of sleep from time to time. It'll do good for those bags around the eyes."
For a moment Aziraphale's face looked five years younger, but when Crowley blinked the effect was gone. He grinned as the angel had the grace to look a little bit embarrassed, but kept an eye upwards for doves or any other telling signs. "Tch, have I hit a soft spot?"
"Sod off," grumbled Aziraphale. "You wanted to go to sleep, I don't hear you snoring."
The fallen angel chuckled, showing white teeth and shaking dark hair from his eyes. "I stand by what I said. You'd like sleep. It's amazing what dreams can show to these humans. And a good deal of the time, they put them down to divine visions."
Aziraphale's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Crowley even pretending to have a divine vision provoked a disturbing mental image. "What does an angel need dreams like that for?"
"Hmm. You're probably right," conceded Crowley. "But you're an angel who enjoy's the fare of humans. You'd like this...pure relaxation, the most amazing colors, and," Crowley licked his lips, "when you know that you're dreaming, anything can happen."
The angel just stared at him. "That sounds quite a bit like heaven."
"Trust me... as one who's fallen, I can assure you that it's quite different."
Instead of flipping his hat back down, however, Crowley pushed himself back up into a sitting position and brushed the leaves from his coat. Without warning, Crowley bent his head, leaned close, and kissed Aziraphale softly. His gaze remained casual as he stood and began to stomp again over the lush grass.
A few yards down, he turned back. "I owe you for this, Aziraphale. Let's do lunch in Paris sometime."
The angel took it all in as he stared after Crowley's retreating back, dimly noting the leaves brushed from Crowley's coat, the bright sun, the taste of pickles still on his lips, and the feel of earth through his clothes and on his hands. Shaking his head, he decided that he didn't want to sleep, no matter what Crowley said.
Judging from Crowley's idea of a dream, Aziraphale had just had one.