"Ngk," Satan had blessed their wedding, dressed as a priest.
CHAPTER 50 Hurt
In the immaculate office, Aziraphale rose from the polished light grey concrete floors beneath him. Slowly standing up, he smiled at Crowley, a mixture of conflicting emotions dancing in his eyes. A smile tugged at Aziraphale's lips as Crowley returned, but beneath the surface, his eyes betrayed a dance of conflicting emotions – a joyous reunion shadowed by the fear that his demon might not share the same enthusiasm for their newfound connection, now married to an angel who had seemingly left him behind.
The recent tender moments, once cherished, now cast a shadow of doubt, a haunting possibility that Crowley might feel betrayed. Aziraphale grappled with the fear that these shared moments might have inflicted wounds yet to be discovered. Despite the internal turmoil, Aziraphale felt a swell of pride as he observed how quickly Crowley had regained his nonchalance—the very essence that made him ineffably Crowley.
Crowley stood before Aziraphale, memories intact, and shoulders squared. The air crackled with the silent weight of the years they had spent without their memories, now condensed into this singular moment of reunion. It had taken Aziraphale almost two days to put his feelings and thoughts in order.
Once again, Aziraphale extended the black box—a container of the symbol of their shared history. "We should go back home, to the bookshop, I mean," he suggested with a gentle smile. "We could talk there over tea."
Crowley raised his hand, taking a deep, shaky breath. The brightness of Aziraphale's smile faltered. Subtle tendrils of smoke began to escape from Crowley's ears, a silent indicator of the turmoil within. "I'm having a moment here," the demon whispered with gritted teeth.
Like a sudden storm, the revelation hit Aziraphale, concern etching lines on his face. Crowley was not okay. Trying to keep his composure despite the ache in his heart, "I could drive if you are too..."
"Leave me be, Aziraphale," Crowley spat, cutting him off, his lean body trembling slightly.
Gripped by a searing pain in his chest, as though an invisible hand had tightened its hold, Aziraphale swallowed hard. The physical ache mirrored the emotional turmoil churning within him. The need to comfort, to hold his husband, surged through him like a tidal wave. His fingers ached to touch Crowley's skin again, to cradle his form until the tendrils of smoke disappeared into nothingness.
The yearning Aziraphale felt surpassed the 6000 years they had spent around each other, unable to display or even acknowledge their feelings openly. Aziraphale barely contained the need to hold the demon, grateful for the grounding weight of the heavy onyx box in his hands.
With a defeated posture, Aziraphale's shoulders slumped, and a sigh escaped his lips as Crowley, with a decisive motion, took the black box from his grasp. The weight of the onyx container exchanged hands, and Crowley harshly placed the feather back, shoved the box on the book inside the safe, closing the door with a decisive turn of the dial. The demon spun on his back heel, casually resting his back onto the safe, right hand waving dismissively.
"Well, angel, you can go your merry way now," Crowley's lips curled into a sneer, each word he uttered dripping with the bitterness and frustration that had taken residence in his voice.
Taking a step back, Aziraphale winced, the words hitting him like a physical blow. "Crowley..." he began, fumbling with his hands, tugging at the hem of his knitted vest. "Crowley, I need... you have to come back home." A step back, the desk's edge pressed against his spine, a solid barrier that mirrored the emotional wall between them.
Observing his shiny black lacquered fingernails, the subtle shake of his head was a nonverbal retort that echoed louder than words. "Home?" Crowley scoffed, his lips curving in a taunting smirk "As you said yourself, nothing lasts forever."
The dagger in Aziraphale's heart twisted further as he resisted the urge to break down. "Crowley, please, let's talk about this."
Crowley scoffed again, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Talk? There's nothing more to say."
Aziraphale's frustration turned to desperation, and Aziraphale struggled to keep his emotions in check. "You were right."
The demon's calm expression flickered, a momentary vulnerability breaking through his tough exterior. However, he quickly masked it with a cynical laugh. "I forgive you."
Aziraphale's patience waned; the demon was now making fun of him. Frustration bubbled to the surface, anger flaring within the angel, "Don't bother," he snapped.
This time it was Crowley who grimaced at the words. The demon pushed himself from the wall, his skin glowing red, stepping away from the safe and crowding the angel against the desk, leaning forwards until their noses almost brushed against each other. The sudden proximity sent a wave of heat through Aziraphale's body, and he felt his heart race.
For a heartbeat, Aziraphale thought Crowley was going to kiss him, desired it maybe, wished. The air thickened with anticipation, the room feeling smaller as Crowley's presence pressed against him. The subtle scent of molten iron, burning coals, and animalistic musk lingered between them. But instead of the tender touch Aziraphale yearned for, a threatening hiss escaped the demon's lips. Crowley's expression hardened.
"I won't play this game with you," Crowley growled, his voice a low, menacing murmur that sent shivers down Aziraphale's spine. The sudden change in dynamics left Aziraphale breathless, a mixture of confusion and unspoken desire lingering in the charged air.
Crowley moved back with a growl, leaving Aziraphale leaning against the desk for support. The weight of the encounter settled in the pit of Aziraphale's stomach, a visceral reminder of the tumultuous emotions coursing through both of them. The polished surface of the desk felt cold and unyielding beneath his trembling fingertips. Aziraphale stood there, catching his breath. The physical closeness had left an indelible mark, a bruise on the edges of Aziraphale's composure.
As Crowley strolled out of the office, Aziraphale's eyes followed his retreating form, a mix of hurt and desperation in his gaze. "You started it, Crowley," he called after him, his voice breaking as he quickened his pace to catch up along the corridor, heading toward the kitchen. The tension in the air was palpable, the hurtful words they had thrown at each other hanging heavy between them.
The statue at the end of the corridor seemed to capture the essence of their struggle. Wrestling, an angel and a demon frozen in time mirrored the internal turmoil they faced. Aziraphale grappled with the urgent need to find a reason for them to stay together, to find a solution, a way to preserve what they had. "Heaven and Hell are watching us; we can't change our behavior," Aziraphale implored, reaching out for a connection that seemed to be slipping away with every step Crowley took.
The sentence had its effect as the demon stopped mid-stride, his back turned to Aziraphale. Resting his weight on his right leg, the other stomped next to it. "I know! I will go back," Crowley growled, balling his fists at his sides. "Leave me alone now, Aziraphale." The words augmented by the echo of the corridor. The voice bouncing off the cold, empty cement walls without the life of the potted plants. The demon resumed his march toward the kitchen in long strides, disappearing inside.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Aziraphale chased after Crowley, the desperation to salvage something palpable in his every step. Spacious and modern with white and black cabinets, the kitchen felt colder than usual, and the atmosphere crackled with tension as Aziraphale, trying to keep his composure, insisted, "Crowley, please, we can't let it all fall apart." He reached out, trembling fingers lingering on the edge of the cold countertop, searching for a connection that seemed to slip away with each passing moment.
Crowley, now leaning against the kitchen counter, poured himself a glass of red wine. The rich, crimson liquid filled the glass, a stark contrast to the pallor of Crowley's face, his sunglasses hiding the storm brewing in his eyes, smoke still slowly rising in rivulets around him. "I know your priority is saving this damn planet, but I can't right now," Crowley scoffed, the bitterness in his tone cutting through the air like a knife.
Aziraphale winced, the words landing like physical blows on his already battered emotions, "No, that's not…," what I mean.
Scoffing, Crowley's expression hardened as he took a sip of his wine. "I will go to the bookshop, eventually."
Aziraphale's eyes brimmed with tears as he struggled to find the right words, his voice breaking in the quiet kitchen. "Crowley, please..."
"Leave. Me. Alone." Crowley declared with a finality that echoed in the silence. The room stood still, the only movement the slow rise of smoke and the steady pour of wine.
The room fell silent, the angry dismissal from Crowley cut deep into his heart, and Aziraphale couldn't escape the realization that their connection was slipping away, maybe it wasn't even there anymore. Eyes filling with tears, Aziraphale nodded, his eyes fixed on the demon that was already pouring himself a glass of red wine. "Fine, I will be at the bookshop." With a heavy heart, Aziraphale turned and walked away from the kitchen, leaving Crowley alone with his thoughts. As he walked, he couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness wash over him. Aziraphale's heart ached with the realization that he might have already lost Crowley, the demon he had spent millennia with, his friend, his husband.
Pausing at the door, Aziraphale was unsure of his next move. Should he try to talk to Crowley again, or should he give up and walk away? In the end, he decided to leave, hoping that some space would help clear his head and allow him to think more clearly. For now, he knew he had to focus on the task at hand - saving the world - but he didn't know what to do, how to move forward. All he knew was that he couldn't let go of Crowley, not yet - he wouldn't give up on Crowley that easily.
The soft glow of the room cast a serene ambiance, the blue hues of the minimalist decor accentuating the intimate space. The subtle scent of sea, sweat, and lingering passion hung in the air, creating an atmosphere pregnant with unspoken emotions.
On the spartan bed frame's edge sat Michael, their grey suit a stark contrast to the almost white bedding. The dark curls of their hair framed a face adorned with the regal touch of mascara and bold, red lip color. Dagon, still naked, with shark-like teeth and luminous blue eyes, moved over the unmade bed with the grace of a creature submerged in the ocean depths.
Enjoying the warmth of the moment, Dagon rested her head on Michael's lap without disturbing the archangel. Glancing sideways, the archangel took in, for the umpteenth time, the hourglass figure accentuated by the white bedding, bluish scales peppering the demon's abdomen.
Shifting from her teasing smile, Dagon addressed Michael seriously. "So, about Crowley's memories... Do you truly intend to erase them once he has helped us? It feels... cruel, even for us."
Meeting Dagon's gaze, Michael's eyes held a hint of mischief. "I was thinking being cruel is more in your alley. You know, the kind you excel at."
Dagon chuckled, the wet undertones in her voice adding a subtle layer of otherworldliness. "Well, aren't you the true tormenter?" Reaching up, bluish fingers played with the lace cuffs of Michael's blouse, her gaze lingering on the intricate details of Michael's suit. "You look stunning, as always."
A playful grin curved Michael's lips. "Flattery will get you everywhere, demon."
Almost immediately, Michael fixed their gaze on the window, observing the bustling cobbled street outside, still peppered with people walking up and down the street. The weight of recent revelations hung in the room, a looming meteorite threatening to shatter their world. Yet, in this moment, vulnerability replaced the usual rigidity of Michael's posture.
"Dagon," Michael's voice, usually cold and commanding, softened with a touch of uncertainty as they asked, "What if we can't stop it?"
Dagon's expression shifted, her teasing demeanor giving way to genuine concern. Cupping Michael's face, her touch was surprisingly gentle. "Crowley'll find a way. He always does." Fingers trailed along Michael's shoulder, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. The physical mark she had left on Michael pulsed with a hidden connection, a silent communicator of emotions. This time Michael felt the Demon was… displeased, disgusted, despite the base layer of caring and love.
Leaning into Dagon's touch, Michael's vulnerability surfaced. "What's wrong?" they whispered, their eyes lowering to see the demon's expression, concern evident in their voice.
"The plan about Crowley," Dagon began, closing her eyes. "It's cruel even for me, the Master of Torments."
Chuckling, Michael finally leaned back until their head was resting on the rumpled blue bedspread. "You are going soft," they remarked with a playful tone.
Fast, faster than any human could, Dagon moved, sliding over Michael's form until she was pinning Michael to the bed, blue eyes shining bright. "Making him remember the fall again," The demon declared, baring her teeth at the thoughts, and Michael could feel the chill of discomfort through the mark that united them, "Then letting him realize he's happy, and married. Despite being a demon!" Michael was dumbfounded at the display of emotions. "Then we threaten to harm Aziraphale, and you know as well as I do how much they adore each other."
Beneath the weight of the demon, Michael felt the press of cool, scaly skin against their body. Running their fingers along Dagon's spine, the touch was a silent reassurance amid the seriousness of their conversation. "It is a necessary cruelty," Michael responded, their voice holding a steely resolve. "We cannot afford to leave any loose ends. Crowley holds crucial information, and we need him to cooperate fully. Aziraphale is the most effective leverage."
Uncomfortably shifting, Dagon let her hand sway with a hint of agitation. "I get the leverage part, but Michael, making him lose his memory all over again?" She closed her eyes tightly, a deep frown forming. "You force him to forget the one he loves, again."
Sighing, Michael's gaze returned to the demon beside them. "My demon, you are overreacting," they whispered, trying to calm Dagon down. "But we need to protect ourselves," their tone firm, "We can't let the Metatron hurt us."
Dagon's expression softened slightly, but her eyes still burned bright with anger. "I know, my dear archangel. But weren't your lot also considering destroying the Metatron?"
Michael nodded, "You're right, Dagon. But we have no clue on how to do it." Michael's gaze lingered on the city street outside, a myriad of people oblivious to the turmoil unfolding within the quiet room. The weight of their decisions hung in the air as they contemplated the fate of Crowley's memories.
"We must find a solution, Michael," she asserted. "Living in constant fear of the Metatron destroying the universe is unsustainable. Our sides should be capable of standing firm."
Michael sighed, their gaze returning to the demon beside them. "I agree, Dagon. We need to work together to find a solution." Michael nodded, understanding the urgency of the situation.
Brightening, Dagon's expression held a glimmer of determination. "Let's begin by talking to Crowley once his memories are back," she proposed with confidence. "Maybe he holds information we haven't considered."
Michael nodded, a determined look on their face. "Yes, let's go speak to him. Perhaps he knows something we don't. They worked together in designing the nebulas; he could shed some light on this situation."
"My demon," Michael retorted, a hint of bitterness in their tone. "Demons don't respond to kindness."
Dagon leaned into Michael's touch, her eyes searching for a deeper understanding, "Are you sure, my archangel? We could find another way, one that doesn't involve tearing down what he cherishes. Letting him know that helping us will keep his angel, his memories."
Michael's expression tightened, contemplating Dagon's suggestion. Their hands moved to her waist, drawing her closer, "It could work, but it's a delicate balance. Too much, and we risk pushing him into a corner where he fights back, exposing our involvement. We can't afford to underestimate Crowley's resourcefulness."
Dagon nodded in agreement, her fingers gently tracing patterns on Michael's suit. "I just... I won't entertain the thought of that happening to us." A deep surge of love flared through the mark that connected them, determination replacing any hint of fear.
"It won't happen," Michael declared, kissing Dagon, a bit too harshly. "Not to us," they added, their voice firm and resolute.
"It happened to Gabriel, now to Crowley." The vulnerability in Dagon's voice resonated with Michael, their resolve waning momentarily.
Michael's hands moved from Dagon's waist to the small of her back, a comforting gesture. "I understand, my demon. But sacrifices are necessary for the greater good. We can't let sentimentality cloud our judgment."
The room fell into a thoughtful silence, the sounds of the city providing a distant hum. Dagon's blue eyes met Michael's gaze, and their lips brushed in a soft kiss, a shared moment of solace amid the turmoil.
Finally, Michael spoke with a firm declaration. "We proceed with the plan. We cannot afford to falter," they asserted. "If, once the threat of the meteor hits and we haven't figured a way to stop the Metatron… Crowley's memories will be the collateral damage in our pursuit of averting the apocalypse."
Dagon nodded reluctantly, her expression a mixture of loyalty and a touch of sorrow. "I'll be by your side, Michael, no matter what."
With a heavy sigh, Michael held Dagon close, "Consequences are a luxury we cannot afford. Now, let's enjoy the hours left until Monday morning."
Crowley perched on a bar stool, the vast expanse of his sterile penthouse kitchen surrounding him with a clinical ambiance. The modern fixtures, the sleek black table, and the contrasting white and black cabinets painted an emotionless backdrop that clashed violently with the turmoil brewing within Crowley. His fingers closed around the bottle's neck, seeking solace in its cool surface—a feeble attempt to find comfort as the tempest of emotions surged through his veins. He twisted the bottle, observing the deep burgundy liquid within, its rich aroma wafting through the air—a desperate endeavor to drown the emotional tempest within him.
As he swirled the wine within the bottle, the memories of Aziraphale's rejections played like a haunting melody in Crowley's mind. The echoes of 'I don't even like you' and 'Oh Crowley, nothing lasts forever' reverberated, each word carving a deeper wound in his already battered soul. The pain of never being enough for Aziraphale, forever relegated to the role of the 'bad guy,' weighed heavily on him.
In a fit of frustration, he unscrewed the cap of the bottle, the sharp pop breaking the oppressive silence, and poured the wine into a glass. The liquid cascaded, a deep red river mirroring the emotional turmoil that threatened to engulf him. Crowley had thought that the recent events involving Gabriel and Beelzebub might change their dynamics. Misreading the signals, he had kissed Aziraphale, hoping to make him see, only to witness the angel choosing Heaven over him.
The latest rejection, the casual proclamation that 'everything has already changed,' fueled a profound sense of loss and despair, leaving Crowley shattered. With every sip, the bitter taste of heartbreak and betrayal clung to his palate, refusing to dissipate. The rhythmic clink of the glass meeting the countertop punctuated Crowley's thoughts. He knocked back the wine, its bitter taste a bitter reflection of his emotions.
With each swallow, he tried to swallow the pain, but it persisted. The cherished memories of their shared happiness, the kisses, cuddling, strolls through favorite places, holding hands, hugs, waking up next to his angel—all of it made the rejection more devastating. Desperation gripped him as he emptied the glass, the wine pouring like a cascade of despair into the pit of his stomach, a futile escape from the harsh reality.
Crowley had allowed himself to be vulnerable, to open up to love, only to be rejected as soon as Aziraphale remembered his demonic nature. The happiness of the recent period they shared seemed like a fleeting dream, and now, they were back to being nothing more than an angel and a demon. The cherished memories of their shared happiness, the kisses, cuddling, strolls through favorite places, holding hands, hugs, waking up next to his angel—all of it made the rejection more devastating.
The bottle beckoned him, and he uncorked another, a sense of urgency driving him to seek solace in the crimson liquid. Crowley felt an odd gratitude for the recent blissful period they shared. The memories of their happy life together reaffirmed his love for Aziraphale and deepened his appreciation for the time they spent without the weight of their celestial past, despite now that their memories were back they were on opposite sides they were again ad odds.
As the vast expanse of the room magnified the void within him, each corner echoing the emptiness that consumed him, Crowley's gaze shifted to his hands, where the engagement and wedding rings rested. The principality's signet and the plain gold band, tangible symbols of their union; the sight of the rings reminded him—they were married.
Empty bottles accumulated, forming a silent testament to Crowley's inner turmoil. He drank, not to forget, but to drown the anguish that clung to him like a relentless shadow, each gulp an attempt to silence the haunting echoes within. The kitchen air thickened with the intertwining scents of alcohol and heartache as he sought refuge in the bottles.
They married. His hands clutched both rings, trembling as he tugged, attempting to free himself. The gold band was embedded in his skin, seemingly impossible to remove. He twisted and turned the ring, pulling at it with all his strength, but nothing budged.
Beads of sweat trickled down Crowley's forehead, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wrestled with the stubborn ring, each futile attempt etching frustration onto his face. Fingers fumbling on the cool metal, he lost his grip, the stool teetering precariously as he fought to maintain balance, a desperate dance on the edge of almost-toppling. They married. He pictured the moment when Aziraphale had slid the ring onto his finger, and then the memory was clear. The priest's face was still vivid in his mind. The priest was his boss, Satan, his face the same he had sported when he was still Lucifer. Panic set in as he realized he was trapped, unable to take off the ring. "Ohshitohshitohshit," he muttered under his breath.
Jumping off the stool to the floor, desperation consumed him as he attempted to remove the ring. The memories of the wedding flooded his mind. "Fuck," Dagon taking photos, and the archangel Michael had been around too. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to regain control, but the fear overwhelmed him.
"Ngk," Satan had blessed their wedding, dressed as a priest, 'May the bonds you've forged today be as unbreakable as the chains that bind the cosmos. Let love be your guiding star, and may your union withstand the tests of time, for love, once ignited, burns eternal.'
The realization sent waves of panic coursing through his body, and he broke out in a cold sweat. What meant that Satan himself had been there? Was that blessing he gave them a damnation?
The other one, the judge, the woman... he let himself fall onto the floor, his knees buckling beneath him as he collapsed in defeat. Tears streamed down Crowley's face, each drop carrying the weight of truth as it dawned upon him. That woman had the voice of The Almighty, the real one, not the one of the Metatron.
'Marriage means the union of two entities, voluntarily entered into for eternity, to the exclusion of all others.' the judge had said, God had blessed them too.
"For eternity." Heaven and Hell had bonded them. "We are really married." Crowley's eyes fixated on the rings, fingers attempting one final struggle to remove them, he couldn't. "We are really married." he uttered, the repetition a mantra of despair, tears tracing the contours of his face.
As he lay there, panting heavily, Crowley couldn't help but feel a sense of despair wash over him. He had always assumed that marriage was a commitment, a promise to stick together through thick and thin. Crowley couldn't deny the love he held for Aziraphale. Even though it meant Aziraphale would be happier without him, Crowley wanted him to be happy, no matter what.
Looking at his rings, he realized that they represented more than just a physical bond—they represented a spiritual connection, a tie that bound him to Aziraphale for all eternity. And while he loved his angel deeply, he couldn't shake the feeling that once Aziraphale realized this connection, the angel would believe they had made a terrible mistake, feel trapped, unable to break free from the ties that bound them.
Finally, Crowley stood up, the sense of despair lingering. He had promised to keep his angel safe, and he wouldn't hesitate to help him save the earth a second time, despite it fueling a deep-seated anger. He willed the alcohol out of his body, the crimson liquid filling again the bottles scattered on the counter. The anger of being abandoned, unworthy, and not being enough for God, and neither for Aziraphale bubbled again.
In the dim light of the kitchen, surrounded by the again full bottles and the remnants of his shattered emotions, Crowley's resolve hardened. With a determined stride, he moved towards the door, leaving the sterile penthouse behind. Aziraphale awaited, and Crowley, despite knowing their marriage was lost, was ready to face him—ready to face the challenges laid ahead. Anger and despair propelled Crowley forward into the night, each step carrying the weight of his pent-up emotions, a silent determination etched into his stride. Aziraphale could feel that everything had changed, that their marriage was just a façade to keep Heaven and Hell at bay, but Crowley knew it would always be real, for eternity. Even from a distance, he would continue to support and help Aziraphale to be happy. With or without him by his side.
Hey Fantastic Readers,
WAHOOO! We made it through the nail-biting uncertainty of whether Good Omens would be graced with a third season! And Neil said Aziraphale and Crowley are not in speaking terms! My heart… my heart… please… save me...
Now, let's talk about this chapter. It's been a rollercoaster to write, let me tell you. Usually, the scenes play out like a movie in my head, and I just have to jot them down. But this time, my imagination decided to fast-forward, leaving me struggling to concentrate on this part. I mean, who wouldn't want Aziraphale and Crowley to be cuddly and nice to each other? I certainly do!
Oh, and guess what? I might have, just maybe, started writing my next fic. Can't stop the ineffable inspiration, right?
I truly hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. Your engagement and support mean everything to me. Thanks for being the absolute best readers in the multiverse!
