Fandom: Good Omens
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley in spirit.
Words: 645
Notes: I'm stupid, and this was written while I was easing into the fandom, for fifteen minute ficlets. Please forgive me.
- - -
For the first thousand years, Aziraphale was proud to say, he had had as little to do with the demon, Crawly, as angelically possible - being, as they were, in opposition, it was only natural that they would be forced to encounter and interact with one another, at least on a purely Mortal Enemies-level.
After the fist thousand years, it suddenly seemed to get a lot more difficult. Crawly was Crowley, then, with a human form and a simply astonishing tongue, and the first time Crowley raised a flask excitedly and said, "Oi! Angel! You have to sit down and have a taste of this!" Aziraphale had no idea what it was he would be tasting, nor that the effects would be so... so...
Well, he didn't like to recall. It was embarrassing, really. As though being a Principality wasn't bad enough, he remembered thinking miserably at the time. (This had been immediately followed by a series of hasty mental adjustments to his complaint, so that the Lord knew he had no real issues with the matter whatsoever.)
In any case, before Aziraphale knew it, he was meeting regularly with Crowley - whether intentionally or merely coincidentally, he could never quite tell. At first they merely traded cool, even glances, and biting sarcasm (which Crowley always pulled off much better than Aziraphale; only made sense, the angel mused, when you considered all the experience he must have had with the biting) but it didn't take long for the flask to become commonplace, for a meal to accompany it, and for passionate conversation to ricochet between them like a ping-pong ball.
(Not that either of them knew what a ping-pong ball was just yet, but ineffable wisdom had a way of inserting comparisons, even as early as this.)
It was almost as though - and Aziraphale's perception of this ranged from amused to horrified dependant upon the occasion - he completely forgot that Crowley was a demon.
At first, he'd fret about it. Was the demon trying to bring about his Fall? Distracting him while swaying the masses to Crowley's master's will? But that made no sense; Aziraphale paid a great deal of attention to Crowley, even when drunk, and it was blatantly obvious when the demon used his considerable persuasive skill on a human, let alone Aziraphale himself.
And then he'd think, what's the harm? Surely a demon needs a helping hand every now and again. Aziraphale wasn't one to pass by, and after all, it was terribly lonely here on Earth, without the other angels to commune with. Perhaps Crowley longed for Hell.
(It was much later that Aziraphale learned that there were many things Crowley would rather do than return to Hell. Many, many things.)
The thing, though, the thing was, it was terribly easy to forget that Crowley was a demon. Ultimately - and it took Aziraphale a long time, and a lot of independant thought to realise this - ultimately they were of the same mould, of the same thought. They each were just doing their jobs. Certainly, Aziraphale performed his duties with a considerable amount of joy and fulfillment, but given the choice between enlightening and having a nice night to themselves--
Aziraphale knew, well and thoroughly, that Crowley was a demon. Evil and greedy and grasping, murderous and lustful to his final gleaming fang.
And yet...
And yet...
There was a certain something in the way he raised his glass, in the twinkle in golden eyes when they would catch sight of the angel. There was an edge to the laughter and a twist to his lips, and, captivated by the serpentine curling of a tongue, Aziraphale found that what he could never remember was what he could never afford to forget...
...but he had. Damn. He knew that last tequila had been a bad idea.
- - -