Home is where the heart is
Title: Home is where the heart is (yes I know the title's already been used, but in the context, it's appropriate)
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale and Crowley
Rating: G! Holy crap! There's a first for everything. There isn't even any swearing.
A/N: 1. Wrote most of this on an old piece of paper, in metallic pen, buck naked in my wardrobe.
2. First ever completed GO fic. Con-crit is appreciated.
They’d helped avert the apocalypse.
Crowley and Aziraphale returned to their old routine. Mornings were filled with tea and scones. Days spent feeding ducks, with the occasional temptation or thwart. Crowley liked the nights the best. It was easier to forget that all they were doing was just biding their time until their castigation came knocking at either of their doors when you were blindingly drunk on The Widow Cliquot.
He wasn’t terribly surprised one night around three months after the non-apocalypse, when Aziraphale announced he’d been visited by Gabriel. They were still only on their first bottle, and by their standards, were both still quite sober.
“God’s given me a reprieve. I am to relinquish my post here on Earth and return to Heaven, permanently.” He looked thoughtfully at the bottle’s label, as if memorising every tiny detail.
“When?” Calm.
“Tomorrow, midnight.”
“That’s a reprieve?” Crowley leaned forward. “What about your bookshop? What about London, your home?”
“Crowley, London is my lover. Heaven is my home.” said the angel softly.
Crowley’s eyes narrowed behind his Gucci sunglasses, unseen. He opened the second bottle which suddenly materialised in his open hand, and proceeded to redefine the term ‘inebriated’. A human would have died three times over from the amount of alcohol he’d ingested.
***
Crowley was silent, the entire following day. Words simply failed him in their insufficiency. His last day with Aziraphale, and he couldn’t even bring himself to greet the angel when he opened the bookshop door.
Aziraphale did his best to fill the silence. He even made jokes about turning into a pumpkin as soon as the clock struck twelve. Crowley just sipped his tea, face neutral.
***
Eleven fifty-seven came.
“I’m going now, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s breath hitched. His bright grey eyes shone with unshed tears and he opened his arms wide in the universal gesture for an embrace.
Crowley had meant to say, “Aziraphale, you’re my home,” and kiss the angel with every ounce of passion he’d harboured for his once-sworn enemy. Passion he’d only recently been forced to acknowledge to himself.
Instead, he extended a shaking hand for a detached hand-shake, and said, “ciao.”
Aziraphale’s face crumpled and tears spilled. Crowley was spared looking at his angel’s distress for too long before a blinding white light enveloped Aziraphale and he vanished.
A split-second before he disappeared, Crowley glimpsed Aziraphale in his true Heavenly form. Crowley did have a heart, and it broke upon seeing the angel’s unutterable beauty for the last time ever in his entire, miserable existence.
No torture devised by hell could compare with Crowley’s own remorse at not revealing the depth of his feeling for Aziraphale. Remorse at opportunities now lost permanently. All because of himself. His own stupid pride.
He fixed himself a cup of tea - the human way - in Aziraphale’s favourite teacup, and stood in the middle of the dark Soho bookshop for an incalculable amount of time.
At least he could stop worrying about when his day of retribution would come. It was already here.
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale and Crowley
Rating: G! Holy crap! There's a first for everything. There isn't even any swearing.
A/N: 1. Wrote most of this on an old piece of paper, in metallic pen, buck naked in my wardrobe.
2. First ever completed GO fic. Con-crit is appreciated.
They’d helped avert the apocalypse.
Crowley and Aziraphale returned to their old routine. Mornings were filled with tea and scones. Days spent feeding ducks, with the occasional temptation or thwart. Crowley liked the nights the best. It was easier to forget that all they were doing was just biding their time until their castigation came knocking at either of their doors when you were blindingly drunk on The Widow Cliquot.
He wasn’t terribly surprised one night around three months after the non-apocalypse, when Aziraphale announced he’d been visited by Gabriel. They were still only on their first bottle, and by their standards, were both still quite sober.
“God’s given me a reprieve. I am to relinquish my post here on Earth and return to Heaven, permanently.” He looked thoughtfully at the bottle’s label, as if memorising every tiny detail.
“When?” Calm.
“Tomorrow, midnight.”
“That’s a reprieve?” Crowley leaned forward. “What about your bookshop? What about London, your home?”
“Crowley, London is my lover. Heaven is my home.” said the angel softly.
Crowley’s eyes narrowed behind his Gucci sunglasses, unseen. He opened the second bottle which suddenly materialised in his open hand, and proceeded to redefine the term ‘inebriated’. A human would have died three times over from the amount of alcohol he’d ingested.
***
Crowley was silent, the entire following day. Words simply failed him in their insufficiency. His last day with Aziraphale, and he couldn’t even bring himself to greet the angel when he opened the bookshop door.
Aziraphale did his best to fill the silence. He even made jokes about turning into a pumpkin as soon as the clock struck twelve. Crowley just sipped his tea, face neutral.
***
Eleven fifty-seven came.
“I’m going now, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s breath hitched. His bright grey eyes shone with unshed tears and he opened his arms wide in the universal gesture for an embrace.
Crowley had meant to say, “Aziraphale, you’re my home,” and kiss the angel with every ounce of passion he’d harboured for his once-sworn enemy. Passion he’d only recently been forced to acknowledge to himself.
Instead, he extended a shaking hand for a detached hand-shake, and said, “ciao.”
Aziraphale’s face crumpled and tears spilled. Crowley was spared looking at his angel’s distress for too long before a blinding white light enveloped Aziraphale and he vanished.
A split-second before he disappeared, Crowley glimpsed Aziraphale in his true Heavenly form. Crowley did have a heart, and it broke upon seeing the angel’s unutterable beauty for the last time ever in his entire, miserable existence.
No torture devised by hell could compare with Crowley’s own remorse at not revealing the depth of his feeling for Aziraphale. Remorse at opportunities now lost permanently. All because of himself. His own stupid pride.
He fixed himself a cup of tea - the human way - in Aziraphale’s favourite teacup, and stood in the middle of the dark Soho bookshop for an incalculable amount of time.
At least he could stop worrying about when his day of retribution would come. It was already here.