[Fic:] Eden (The Naming of Things Remix) Good Omens, Aziraphale/Crowley, Hard R
Title: Eden (The Naming of Things Remix)
Summary: There are some things angels and demons simply can't do.
Rating: Hard R/NC-17, Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Notes: Remix of this lovely drabble by melandry. Additional notes after the story.
Eden (The Naming of Things Remix)
When Crowley disappeared, Aziraphale didn't worry, not at first. He just assumed Crowley had gone Below to take care of some personal demon-business, which would hopefully cause Crowley neither an overabundance of discomfort nor make him miss Warlock's birthday. (Even if he had turned out not to be the Antichrist after all, a visit on his birthday had become a tradition of sorts and Aziraphale would be dam- bles- buggered if he would endure America all by himself.)
But weeks passed with nary a hiss nor hint of wile, and Aziraphale felt all out of sorts. He considered ringing up Heaven and asking their help finding the wayward demon, but that might lead to all sorts of undesirable questions. He was, after all, supposed to be busy keeping an eye on Crowley, and if Crowley wasn't around, there wasn't much of anything for him to thwart.
He'd dutifully tried to pass the time with a few Good Works, but his heart hadn't really been in it. True, the pigeons in the park were well fed to the point of obesity, and Crowley's house plants were thriving nicely (although not nearly as verdantly or enthusiastically as they had in Crowley's care, which he found both mystifying and mildly aggravating), but somehow he doubted that would prevent Heaven giving him a reprimand for slacking on the job.
So Heaven was out. And Hell… Well, if Crowley were Below, Aziraphale showing up and knocking at the Gates of Hell would only make things worse. And anyway, Aziraphale didn't think Crowley would have gone without saying something, or allowed himself to become inconveniently discorporated without at least sending back a message via a little benign demonic possession. Crowley was a fairly decent sort, for a demon.
Which meant Crowley was still on Earth. Except that Aziraphale couldn't sense Crowley's presence anywhere. He considered where he, Aziraphale, would go if he wanted a little quiet time. Somewhere off the radar, he thought in a burst of technological savvy.
And then it hit him. He stood up, straightened his bow-tie (though it hadn't been crooked), and disappeared.
*
The angel of the Eastern Gate found the serpent in Eden. Crowley was in human form, sitting in the mud, his back to the world and looking over the garden. His sunglasses were nowhere to be seen, but he had a bottle tucked securely in the crook of his arm.
"There's a storm coming," Crowley said. He laughed a little, and something about the sound twisted inside Aziraphale, confused him. It was true that clouds were blowing in rapidly from the East, but the two of them had weathered Eden's storms before.
Aziraphale sat down, in the mud, and Crowley wordlessly passed him the bottle. The label said Perrier, but the liquid burned pleasantly as it bubbled down his throat. It was a rare mood in which the demon miracled pure-grain alcohol into anything, but all the more potent when he did.
"Hasn't changed much here," he commented, passing the bottle back to Crowley. And it hadn't. Lush and verdant, the air was alive with the joy of birth, pure and untainted. Clear streams tinkled merrily as they wound about over the land; bright flowers grew from every secret, hidden corner; trees could barely keep their branches held up for all their heavy, succulent fruit.
The Tree still grew in the center of it all, its apples much, much too red for the world, hanging bright and gaudy, advertising sin like high-heeled shoes on a whore. Leaves rustled as the breeze picked up, whispering temptations though the serpent had long gone.
"Hasn't changed at all," Crowley said. He passed the bottle back. "Nothing’s changed. Not Heaven, not Hell, not people. Do you know what I saw last month?"
Aziraphale accepted the bottle, drinking down a generous swallow and handing it back. He’d missed this so much. Missed agreeing with Crowley, arguing with Crowley, being tempted by Crowley. 1 "What did you see?"
"You don’t want to know," Crowley said darkly. He drank for several minutes, though the volume in the bottle did not lower by even so much as an inch. "I got a commendation for it, though."
"So now you think it was a mistake, saving the world?"
"Do you?" Crowley asked, unexpectedly.
Aziraphale thought it over carefully. "Absolutely not. It was the right thing to do, or else it wouldn't have worked."
"But that's just it, angel. I can't do the right thing. It's down to my basic nature, remember?"
Aziraphale frowned, "Are you saying that you think it was the wrong thing to do, dear?" He held out his hand, and Crowley passed him the bottle.
"It can't be the wrong thing," Crowley frowned. "You helped."
"Well either it was the wrong thing to do, in which case I shouldn't have done it, or it was the right thing to do, in which case you shouldn't." Something sounded a little off about that, and he had the strangest feeling they'd discussed this before. But Aziraphale's head was beginning to buzz pleasantly, so he didn't let it bother him.
"Exactly." Crowley fell silent. "Troubling, don't you think?"
Aziraphale found himself turning the question over in his thoughts. Both he and Crowley had chosen to side with the humans. Which, by definition, was the one thing that angels (and demons) could not do; humans were the only living creatures who were given free will.
It was ineffability again, messin' people about. And there, just for a moment, he again had the fleeting sense of having forgotten something, something important, before the sensation left him and the peace of the Garden filled his mind.
The first few raindrops fell into their silence, and Crowley spread his wings out to shield himself (and the alcohol) from the water. Aziraphale paused, thinking he should stretch out similarly, but their wings were large and it would take him too far from Crowley. There was something about this closeness that he needed, had come from around the world to find, and he wasn't ready to give it up again yet. In his pleasantly buzzing thoughts it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do, to glide over and slip beneath Crowley's wing, closer to his friend's heat.
The physical contact felt good, very good, and that was new.
It was then Aziraphale realized what he should have known all along, that things hadn't gone back to the way they'd been before, not really. They might, he thought, have gotten better. He rested his head on Crowley's shoulder.
The rain pattered down steadily on Crowley's outstretched wings, so exactly, comfortingly like Aziraphale's own, and the still air in the warm space between them smelled like wet feathers and Crowley, flash, expensive cologne, leather, and just a hint of brimstone. 2 It was more comforting than a good dinner at the Ritz, and more enticing than the smell of old books.
Crowley's body was moving beneath him, and Aziraphale had the sudden unfocused desire to have him move closer still.
"I think the Perrier's gone to your head, angel." The bottle had been set down, within reach but out of immediate danger of being knocked over.
"Nonsense," he answered, and couldn't keep the smile from his face. "It's just a little bit of fizzy water."
Crowley didn't acknowledge the joke. "Well, something's obviously wrong with you. How else do you explain this?" He tried to gesture, inadvertently pressing them closer together and fluttering his wings so that a shiver of bright raindrops fell upon them.
"What is wrong with this? It's cozy."
"We're - we're touching," Crowley answered, and from the tone of his voice you'd think he'd been caught giving candy to babies or helping the elderly across the street.
Aziraphale stiffened as an odd pain suffused his body, a tearing feeling that started in his heart and made him worry that he might be accidentally discorporated well in advance of his scheduled time.
Carefully, he began to move away, still feeling that sharpness, pangs which he finally recognized as rejection even though he'd thought that was solely the province of mortals. He wondered about the centuries ahead, whether they would be endurable, or if this was his own little Hell, Heaven’s delayed punishment for his part in stopping their fun.
Crowley was trembling, and a few more silver raindrops fell in upon them as his wings quivered, parting to reveal slivers of the dark sky. Aziraphale cleared his throat, trying to find his voice so that he could politely excuse himself and head back to England, when Crowley's arms tightened, pulling him back in even closer than before.
Aziraphale barely had a moment to understand his own relief at knowing that he perhaps wasn't alone in this strangeness after all, before there was a touch, soft and uncertain on his lips and Crowley's lips were still right there, hovering just above his own.
This garden had been the place where all things were first named, and the name for what Crowley had done hovered about Aziraphale’s thoughts, touching his mind as gently and slightly as the act itself. Angels (and demons) weren’t supposed to feel human desires, not without making an effort, but now Aziraphale did, because he wanted to feel it again.
"Angel?"
It was a breath against his lips, and it made Aziraphale shiver even though he was already saying, "Yes," before Crowley had finished, and he didn't wait, but wrapped his arms around Crowley's neck, feeling the soft brush of feathers against the back of his hand. Then they were kissing, and it felt like the fresh, clean rain was pouring in all over them again, only Aziraphale knew it wasn't because he could hear the soft pattering of the drops as they hit Crowley's wings, which had sealed them in tightly once more.
It had taken Aziraphale six thousand years to learn how to want this, and he wasn't going to waste any more time.
Shyly, he opened his mouth, brushing his tongue slightly against Crowley's lips, and Crowley whimpered. His forked tongue twisted and wrapped itself around Aziraphale's, impossibly serpentine and seductive, tempting Aziraphale to taste still more. Which he did, even though that meant finally pulling away and trailing his lips down Crowley's throat, looking into his slit-pupilled eyes unblinkingly as Crowley gulped and shook and accepted him, still looking unsure even though it had been the demon who'd started it in the first place.
Gently, Aziraphale laid him back, ignoring the rain until the drops had soaked them both. Crowley's wings could not cover them completely from that angle, so Aziraphale extended his own, stretching his body over Crowley's and overlapping his wings to keep them both dry. He could feel the wind picking up against his feathers, but knew they were safe inside.
"Are you all right, my dear?"
Unexpectedly, Crowley laughed. "Yessss," he said, "Jusst don't ssstop." He pulled Aziraphale closer, and kissed him again, and it was better than wine, the taste of Crowley.
Blood thrummed through Aziraphale's veins and he was breathing now, not because he'd thought to, but because his body was suddenly demanding it of him, and he could feel Crowley's body doing the same.
Things had gone out of control, and it was exhilarating and frightening. And it was effortless, as easy as thinking, to make their clothing go away, so Aziraphale - or Crowley, or perhaps the both of them, it didn't matter - banished it so they could lie closer still, the better to touch hot skin, warmth and sensation, after an eternity of isolation. They had so much to feel in each other.
Crowley reached down and took him, took them both in his hand, stroking them at first gently and then harder and faster, kissing away the tears that began to form in Aziraphale's eyes, desperate to please.
And they never stopped kissing, not for a moment, fast and slow, the brush of lips and teeth, their tongues meeting, playing, and tasting each other. Aziraphale heard himself murmuring sweet things, love and endearments against Crowley's lips, calling him beautiful and good and for once, the demon didn't seem to mind.
It felt wonderful, better than wonderful, the way Crowley was touching him, but Aziraphale still thought closer and even more and willed himself ready, his body wet and accepting and he hoped he was doing it right, that he would feel good to Crowley. He raised his hips up, making it impossible for Crowley to keep stroking them.
"Do you want-" Aziraphale began, and he wasn't sure how to say it, "Can you-"
Crowley understood, and his eyes opened wide, "Pleassse," he said softly, and he held himself up, ready to penetrate Aziraphale's body, but he stayed absolutely motionless except for his chest, which rose and fell rapidly from the breaths he normally didn't take. It was Aziraphale who moved, never taking his eyes from Crowley, who stared up at him as though the angel were Redemption.
He went in easily; they fit together perfectly, complete. And when they moved, the pleasure of it was devastating. Angels did not have the words for it, but Crowley did, and he said them over and over, like a prayer, while Aziraphale rode him.
And when Crowley started to touch him once more, Aziraphale fell apart, his entire existence suspended in a single moment of bliss before all of the world rushed back into his senses. He came, an ordinary physical reaction that had more power in it than the entire Angelic chorus to move him. Crowley stilled not long after, his seed spilling inside Aziraphale's body, and it was messy and inconvenient, and so human-like and alive.
He moved over, reluctantly releasing Crowley from his body, and shifted his weight slightly to the side. They held each other and did not move until the pattering of the rain slowed down. Only when it had stopped entirely did Aziraphale pull away.
"It's time to get up, dear."
Crowley grumbled, but let him go.
He refused to wonder just yet what exactly they were, neither angel nor demon nor human, and instead brought his lips back to Crowley’s, touched them with more than camaraderie, and more even than the friendship they’d shared the last century or more, and there was no need for the angel to name the feeling out loud.
He folded back his wings, and looked around. It had been a very bad storm. The Garden was cluttered with debris: the tinkling streams were muddied; the flowers soggy with water; whole branches had been torn off and were lying broken on the ground.
The Tree had been struck by lightning, split right down the middle. Already its branches were curling in on itself, dying.
"It's gone," Aziraphale said in wonder.
"Good job of it, too." Crowley smiled, and he sat up and took Aziraphale's hand in his own.
*
1 Not that he ever had been tempted, of course. Not even that one night in the fifteenth century. (BACK)
2 At least, that was Aziraphale's impression of Crowley's scent. One memorable trip to America, both the angel and demon had been accosted by a young lady and sniffed thoroughly in a most alarming manner. She had apologized, saying something about perfume and orangutans (which hadn't made any sense) and promised to send them samples. (BACK)
Not Like Those Other, Silly Footnotes
Thank you to melandry, for providing such an absolutely adorable source! Or two - I grabbed a reference from Pennies From Heaven (Pound Notes From Hell) also. :)
Enormous thanks and love to amchara and shaggydogstail for the timely and fantastic beta. Any errors remaining are entirely due to my inability to leave well enough alone.
Originally posted here for the 2007 Remix.
I very much encourage everyone to check the fantastic Remixes made from my stories, Never Alone in the Dark (The Night Shift Remix), which was written by the very lovely kyasuriin and Waiting for the Day (Countdown to Zero Remix), which was written by kanella.
Summary: There are some things angels and demons simply can't do.
Rating: Hard R/NC-17, Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Notes: Remix of this lovely drabble by melandry. Additional notes after the story.
Eden (The Naming of Things Remix)
When Crowley disappeared, Aziraphale didn't worry, not at first. He just assumed Crowley had gone Below to take care of some personal demon-business, which would hopefully cause Crowley neither an overabundance of discomfort nor make him miss Warlock's birthday. (Even if he had turned out not to be the Antichrist after all, a visit on his birthday had become a tradition of sorts and Aziraphale would be dam- bles- buggered if he would endure America all by himself.)
But weeks passed with nary a hiss nor hint of wile, and Aziraphale felt all out of sorts. He considered ringing up Heaven and asking their help finding the wayward demon, but that might lead to all sorts of undesirable questions. He was, after all, supposed to be busy keeping an eye on Crowley, and if Crowley wasn't around, there wasn't much of anything for him to thwart.
He'd dutifully tried to pass the time with a few Good Works, but his heart hadn't really been in it. True, the pigeons in the park were well fed to the point of obesity, and Crowley's house plants were thriving nicely (although not nearly as verdantly or enthusiastically as they had in Crowley's care, which he found both mystifying and mildly aggravating), but somehow he doubted that would prevent Heaven giving him a reprimand for slacking on the job.
So Heaven was out. And Hell… Well, if Crowley were Below, Aziraphale showing up and knocking at the Gates of Hell would only make things worse. And anyway, Aziraphale didn't think Crowley would have gone without saying something, or allowed himself to become inconveniently discorporated without at least sending back a message via a little benign demonic possession. Crowley was a fairly decent sort, for a demon.
Which meant Crowley was still on Earth. Except that Aziraphale couldn't sense Crowley's presence anywhere. He considered where he, Aziraphale, would go if he wanted a little quiet time. Somewhere off the radar, he thought in a burst of technological savvy.
And then it hit him. He stood up, straightened his bow-tie (though it hadn't been crooked), and disappeared.
*
The angel of the Eastern Gate found the serpent in Eden. Crowley was in human form, sitting in the mud, his back to the world and looking over the garden. His sunglasses were nowhere to be seen, but he had a bottle tucked securely in the crook of his arm.
"There's a storm coming," Crowley said. He laughed a little, and something about the sound twisted inside Aziraphale, confused him. It was true that clouds were blowing in rapidly from the East, but the two of them had weathered Eden's storms before.
Aziraphale sat down, in the mud, and Crowley wordlessly passed him the bottle. The label said Perrier, but the liquid burned pleasantly as it bubbled down his throat. It was a rare mood in which the demon miracled pure-grain alcohol into anything, but all the more potent when he did.
"Hasn't changed much here," he commented, passing the bottle back to Crowley. And it hadn't. Lush and verdant, the air was alive with the joy of birth, pure and untainted. Clear streams tinkled merrily as they wound about over the land; bright flowers grew from every secret, hidden corner; trees could barely keep their branches held up for all their heavy, succulent fruit.
The Tree still grew in the center of it all, its apples much, much too red for the world, hanging bright and gaudy, advertising sin like high-heeled shoes on a whore. Leaves rustled as the breeze picked up, whispering temptations though the serpent had long gone.
"Hasn't changed at all," Crowley said. He passed the bottle back. "Nothing’s changed. Not Heaven, not Hell, not people. Do you know what I saw last month?"
Aziraphale accepted the bottle, drinking down a generous swallow and handing it back. He’d missed this so much. Missed agreeing with Crowley, arguing with Crowley, being tempted by Crowley. 1 "What did you see?"
"You don’t want to know," Crowley said darkly. He drank for several minutes, though the volume in the bottle did not lower by even so much as an inch. "I got a commendation for it, though."
"So now you think it was a mistake, saving the world?"
"Do you?" Crowley asked, unexpectedly.
Aziraphale thought it over carefully. "Absolutely not. It was the right thing to do, or else it wouldn't have worked."
"But that's just it, angel. I can't do the right thing. It's down to my basic nature, remember?"
Aziraphale frowned, "Are you saying that you think it was the wrong thing to do, dear?" He held out his hand, and Crowley passed him the bottle.
"It can't be the wrong thing," Crowley frowned. "You helped."
"Well either it was the wrong thing to do, in which case I shouldn't have done it, or it was the right thing to do, in which case you shouldn't." Something sounded a little off about that, and he had the strangest feeling they'd discussed this before. But Aziraphale's head was beginning to buzz pleasantly, so he didn't let it bother him.
"Exactly." Crowley fell silent. "Troubling, don't you think?"
Aziraphale found himself turning the question over in his thoughts. Both he and Crowley had chosen to side with the humans. Which, by definition, was the one thing that angels (and demons) could not do; humans were the only living creatures who were given free will.
It was ineffability again, messin' people about. And there, just for a moment, he again had the fleeting sense of having forgotten something, something important, before the sensation left him and the peace of the Garden filled his mind.
The first few raindrops fell into their silence, and Crowley spread his wings out to shield himself (and the alcohol) from the water. Aziraphale paused, thinking he should stretch out similarly, but their wings were large and it would take him too far from Crowley. There was something about this closeness that he needed, had come from around the world to find, and he wasn't ready to give it up again yet. In his pleasantly buzzing thoughts it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do, to glide over and slip beneath Crowley's wing, closer to his friend's heat.
The physical contact felt good, very good, and that was new.
It was then Aziraphale realized what he should have known all along, that things hadn't gone back to the way they'd been before, not really. They might, he thought, have gotten better. He rested his head on Crowley's shoulder.
The rain pattered down steadily on Crowley's outstretched wings, so exactly, comfortingly like Aziraphale's own, and the still air in the warm space between them smelled like wet feathers and Crowley, flash, expensive cologne, leather, and just a hint of brimstone. 2 It was more comforting than a good dinner at the Ritz, and more enticing than the smell of old books.
Crowley's body was moving beneath him, and Aziraphale had the sudden unfocused desire to have him move closer still.
"I think the Perrier's gone to your head, angel." The bottle had been set down, within reach but out of immediate danger of being knocked over.
"Nonsense," he answered, and couldn't keep the smile from his face. "It's just a little bit of fizzy water."
Crowley didn't acknowledge the joke. "Well, something's obviously wrong with you. How else do you explain this?" He tried to gesture, inadvertently pressing them closer together and fluttering his wings so that a shiver of bright raindrops fell upon them.
"What is wrong with this? It's cozy."
"We're - we're touching," Crowley answered, and from the tone of his voice you'd think he'd been caught giving candy to babies or helping the elderly across the street.
Aziraphale stiffened as an odd pain suffused his body, a tearing feeling that started in his heart and made him worry that he might be accidentally discorporated well in advance of his scheduled time.
Carefully, he began to move away, still feeling that sharpness, pangs which he finally recognized as rejection even though he'd thought that was solely the province of mortals. He wondered about the centuries ahead, whether they would be endurable, or if this was his own little Hell, Heaven’s delayed punishment for his part in stopping their fun.
Crowley was trembling, and a few more silver raindrops fell in upon them as his wings quivered, parting to reveal slivers of the dark sky. Aziraphale cleared his throat, trying to find his voice so that he could politely excuse himself and head back to England, when Crowley's arms tightened, pulling him back in even closer than before.
Aziraphale barely had a moment to understand his own relief at knowing that he perhaps wasn't alone in this strangeness after all, before there was a touch, soft and uncertain on his lips and Crowley's lips were still right there, hovering just above his own.
This garden had been the place where all things were first named, and the name for what Crowley had done hovered about Aziraphale’s thoughts, touching his mind as gently and slightly as the act itself. Angels (and demons) weren’t supposed to feel human desires, not without making an effort, but now Aziraphale did, because he wanted to feel it again.
"Angel?"
It was a breath against his lips, and it made Aziraphale shiver even though he was already saying, "Yes," before Crowley had finished, and he didn't wait, but wrapped his arms around Crowley's neck, feeling the soft brush of feathers against the back of his hand. Then they were kissing, and it felt like the fresh, clean rain was pouring in all over them again, only Aziraphale knew it wasn't because he could hear the soft pattering of the drops as they hit Crowley's wings, which had sealed them in tightly once more.
It had taken Aziraphale six thousand years to learn how to want this, and he wasn't going to waste any more time.
Shyly, he opened his mouth, brushing his tongue slightly against Crowley's lips, and Crowley whimpered. His forked tongue twisted and wrapped itself around Aziraphale's, impossibly serpentine and seductive, tempting Aziraphale to taste still more. Which he did, even though that meant finally pulling away and trailing his lips down Crowley's throat, looking into his slit-pupilled eyes unblinkingly as Crowley gulped and shook and accepted him, still looking unsure even though it had been the demon who'd started it in the first place.
Gently, Aziraphale laid him back, ignoring the rain until the drops had soaked them both. Crowley's wings could not cover them completely from that angle, so Aziraphale extended his own, stretching his body over Crowley's and overlapping his wings to keep them both dry. He could feel the wind picking up against his feathers, but knew they were safe inside.
"Are you all right, my dear?"
Unexpectedly, Crowley laughed. "Yessss," he said, "Jusst don't ssstop." He pulled Aziraphale closer, and kissed him again, and it was better than wine, the taste of Crowley.
Blood thrummed through Aziraphale's veins and he was breathing now, not because he'd thought to, but because his body was suddenly demanding it of him, and he could feel Crowley's body doing the same.
Things had gone out of control, and it was exhilarating and frightening. And it was effortless, as easy as thinking, to make their clothing go away, so Aziraphale - or Crowley, or perhaps the both of them, it didn't matter - banished it so they could lie closer still, the better to touch hot skin, warmth and sensation, after an eternity of isolation. They had so much to feel in each other.
Crowley reached down and took him, took them both in his hand, stroking them at first gently and then harder and faster, kissing away the tears that began to form in Aziraphale's eyes, desperate to please.
And they never stopped kissing, not for a moment, fast and slow, the brush of lips and teeth, their tongues meeting, playing, and tasting each other. Aziraphale heard himself murmuring sweet things, love and endearments against Crowley's lips, calling him beautiful and good and for once, the demon didn't seem to mind.
It felt wonderful, better than wonderful, the way Crowley was touching him, but Aziraphale still thought closer and even more and willed himself ready, his body wet and accepting and he hoped he was doing it right, that he would feel good to Crowley. He raised his hips up, making it impossible for Crowley to keep stroking them.
"Do you want-" Aziraphale began, and he wasn't sure how to say it, "Can you-"
Crowley understood, and his eyes opened wide, "Pleassse," he said softly, and he held himself up, ready to penetrate Aziraphale's body, but he stayed absolutely motionless except for his chest, which rose and fell rapidly from the breaths he normally didn't take. It was Aziraphale who moved, never taking his eyes from Crowley, who stared up at him as though the angel were Redemption.
He went in easily; they fit together perfectly, complete. And when they moved, the pleasure of it was devastating. Angels did not have the words for it, but Crowley did, and he said them over and over, like a prayer, while Aziraphale rode him.
And when Crowley started to touch him once more, Aziraphale fell apart, his entire existence suspended in a single moment of bliss before all of the world rushed back into his senses. He came, an ordinary physical reaction that had more power in it than the entire Angelic chorus to move him. Crowley stilled not long after, his seed spilling inside Aziraphale's body, and it was messy and inconvenient, and so human-like and alive.
He moved over, reluctantly releasing Crowley from his body, and shifted his weight slightly to the side. They held each other and did not move until the pattering of the rain slowed down. Only when it had stopped entirely did Aziraphale pull away.
"It's time to get up, dear."
Crowley grumbled, but let him go.
He refused to wonder just yet what exactly they were, neither angel nor demon nor human, and instead brought his lips back to Crowley’s, touched them with more than camaraderie, and more even than the friendship they’d shared the last century or more, and there was no need for the angel to name the feeling out loud.
He folded back his wings, and looked around. It had been a very bad storm. The Garden was cluttered with debris: the tinkling streams were muddied; the flowers soggy with water; whole branches had been torn off and were lying broken on the ground.
The Tree had been struck by lightning, split right down the middle. Already its branches were curling in on itself, dying.
"It's gone," Aziraphale said in wonder.
"Good job of it, too." Crowley smiled, and he sat up and took Aziraphale's hand in his own.
*
1 Not that he ever had been tempted, of course. Not even that one night in the fifteenth century. (BACK)
2 At least, that was Aziraphale's impression of Crowley's scent. One memorable trip to America, both the angel and demon had been accosted by a young lady and sniffed thoroughly in a most alarming manner. She had apologized, saying something about perfume and orangutans (which hadn't made any sense) and promised to send them samples. (BACK)
Not Like Those Other, Silly Footnotes
Thank you to melandry, for providing such an absolutely adorable source! Or two - I grabbed a reference from Pennies From Heaven (Pound Notes From Hell) also. :)
Enormous thanks and love to amchara and shaggydogstail for the timely and fantastic beta. Any errors remaining are entirely due to my inability to leave well enough alone.
Originally posted here for the 2007 Remix.
I very much encourage everyone to check the fantastic Remixes made from my stories, Never Alone in the Dark (The Night Shift Remix), which was written by the very lovely kyasuriin and Waiting for the Day (Countdown to Zero Remix), which was written by kanella.